13 Things About Ten Year Old Boys that Suck

1. Punch Buggy.
2. Jackass (should've never let him watch that).
3. Excellent Vocabulary + Impromptu Parody Songs = Long Talks about Boundaries.
4. Still young enough to hop into my lap without thinking about it even though he's 4'11".
5. Family Guy references ad infinitum.
6. "Look at this," preceding anything.
7. Fart fights.
8. Punch Buggy.
9. Won't. Shut. Up.
10. Ever.
11. Thinks "Dude" is the new "Sir."
12. Can, and will, check everything I tell him on Google.
13. Punch buggy.
    

Picture Day: Jedi Martial Arts School Opens in Chile

[caption id="" align="alignnone" width="512" caption="The kid with the Mohawk is wearing a "Dark Side" t-shirt . . ."][/caption]

Death By I Write Like A Girl Syndrome

I stumbled onto this site, which offers a test of text to determine the gender of the author.

The categories are fiction, non-fiction, and blog entry.

I entered an entire blog entry (Dances with Squirrels), an excerpt, and a few sentences randomly generated from my own head. My kids shouted things to type in and even [My Attorney] played.

Our results? Ok, first of all this test is surely flawed. Despite the rigorous science behind its generation, it's just wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrongity wrong wrong.

[My Attorney] -- Female.

The Girl -- Female.

The Boy -- Male.

Me. The Dad. Your bloggist. A manly man type man of a man. -- Female.

Stanley is 7!

My Bio For Indie Bloggers dot Org

Despite their obvious wisdom and intelligence, the witty women running Indie Blogger have entrusted me to mediate their soon-to-be wildly famous WEEKLY CHALLENGE. I have to give them a picture and a bio and this is my FOURTH attempt. The picture is from one of those days when me and the boy were taking self-portraits of ourselves violently shaking our heads with our toungues hanging out because we're obviously GENIUSES. Enjoy.


Christopher "G" Garlington, 43, Chicago.

Author of the universally acclaimed blog, Death By Children, numerous letters to the editor regarding the incomparable stupidity of American politics, the Bonoprah affair, and the Important Relationship between Opera and Monster Truck Rallies, Mr. Garlington is an unrepentant and relentless smartass of the highest caliber.

Born in Birmingham, AL., to a union plumber and a one of those gorgeous farmer daughter types, Mr. Garlington was raised in the wilds of backwater Florida on a steady diet of country music, hands in the air snake handlin' Jesus freakism, corn festival pig-outs, open pit gun range all night barbecues, and bass fishing.

Mr. Garlington is old enough to have witnessed the public antics of actual hippies . . .

You know what, read the rest of the bio by visiting Weekly Challenge.

Out Loud

At dinner, I actually said the following, out loud:

'Dude! It was BEFORE there was an internet so, it was real.'

The Water Pik Netti Pot Listerine Don't Try This At Home Sinus Irrigation Disaster

(((I selected this post to be featured on Dad Blogs. Please visit the site and vote for my blog!)))

I'm probably not sane. I haven't just come to this conclusion--it's been growing on me for years, a sneaky, furtive suspicion that I ain't raht. It worries me a little, not because I'm afraid of being crazy, but because I don't want to infect the children.

Case in point: Do you believe I found the YouTube video of the guy rinsing his nasal cavity with a teapot:

1. Disgusting


2. Totally hilarious


3. Inspirational

If you picked three, welcome to your favorite blog.

I rarely try things I see on the internet. I don't drop Mentos into diet coke. I don't drift my car. I don't cycle-sleep. But when I saw the Netti pot, I had to give it a shot. How could I avoid it? It hits all the 10 year old entertainment points: boogers, semi-inappropriate irrigation, sticking something up your nose, and laughing hard enough to blow coke through your nose while you're blowing salty water through your nose. Through your nose.

As soon as I saw the video I ransacked the house looking for some device that could stand in for a netti pot--a tea pot, a water bottle, a baby's nose cleaner--anything. But I had nothing.

Then I remembered my water pik.

If necessity is the mother of invention, YouTube is the mother of emergency rooms. I'd like to say I stared long and hard at the Water Pik before I gave in to the imp of the perverse, but I never lie. As soon as I saw the Water Pik, I shoved it up my nose and turned it on. Ok, there was a moment of practical modification--I removed the actual pik--not because I found it indelicate to nostrilize something I often stick into my mouth, but because I only wanted to squirt some water through my sinus canal, not drill a hole through my frontal lobe. And I did rinse the tank out. Once. In hindsight, there are some other practical points I might've added to my pre-hydro-encephaliticizing check-list. I might've:

• considered that my sinuses were blocked


• turned the damn thing down from "Saw Through A Diamond" to "Gentle"


• rinsed the tank THOROUGHLY given that I often fill it with straight Listerine


• used water that was WARM, not BOILING


• Not. Frikken. Done. It.

But I don't blog for myself--I do it for you, dear readers, and to give up merely because there were risks, discomforts, or potential blindness would be cowardly. I pressed on. I pressed the blunted pik into my left nostril, tilted my head 45 degrees to the right, flipped the switch, and blew the top of my skull off.

To say that the initial sensation was one of hot, sharp, piercing agony would be like saying a firecracker is a lot like a nuclear bomb.

A jet of boiling Listerine shot into my sinuses, was rebuffed by a mucal plug like a steel door, then proceeded to abrade the delicate lining of my cranium like a pressure-washer filled with bleach.

I realized right away that this novel use of a Water Pik wasn't going as well as my last attempt and, flailing blindly, as water was shooting out of my nose and spraying all over the mirror, I managed to grab the electrical cord and disconnect.

Now, there are many reasonable people out there who now are saying to themselves, "well, surely he'll give up after that ridiculous stunt." You'd be wrong. Failure is not an option. It's genetic.

I rinse out the tank, turn down the pump, adjust the temperature and try again. Where the trial run felt like I was being stabbed through the brain with a light saber, the second try felt like getting punched in the nose by a very angry, very accurate, dwarf. Clearly I was getting somewhere.

I checked the power and saw I'd not turned it down as far as I could. I tried again and finally reached an acceptable level where it felt merely painful, like when you're at the beach and you come up for air the fourth time you've been nailed and driven under and as soon as your head clears the surface you get punched in the face by a nine foot wave that drives four hundred gallons of salty water into the upper reaches of your sinus cavity with all the grace and consideration of a nail bomb. Like that. Only less gentle.

Unlike in the YouTube video, the water ran out of my nose like I'd left the garden hose on and instead of a gentle cleansing, instead of feeling like all the stuff in my nasal caverns--sand, dog hair, chunks of discarded Maduro cigars, old furniture, and a 38 Chevy--was being sluiced out into the sink, I realized with growing fear that I was packing it all up into the furthest reaches of my skull where it would grow into some kind of mushrooming alien podsack and I knew with terrifying clarity that in a few days, my head was going to give birth to E.T.

And it hurt. Like hell. So I stopped. So, take it from me, the water pik is not a durable substitute for a netti pot. That's my public service announcement for the week. Never say I didn't give you considered advice.

Here's the video:


- - -

Father! Please Refrain From Feeling the Family Jewels!

It’s a man thing. It’s unavoidable. We can’t help it: God designed us so that our hands fall in our lap and, well, since they’re there, we figure we ought to use them for something cause we’re all about practicality and getting her done and, so, sphericum ergo, we scratch.

Sometimes we don’t even itch. In fact, I’d have to say in this day and age of soap and instant hot showers and excellent laundry services and all the other things that separate us from the Amish and the 18th century, we rarely have any real reason to claw the baubles save one: it reasserts our manhood.

My daughter doesn’t buy it, however. In fact, if I scratch myself in front of her one more time she might stab me with her iPod.

It’s not like I plan this. I don’t have an Outlook reminder that says “8:47am Scratch Balls.” It’s unconscious. It’s a tic. But tell that to my daughter. This morning I walked out into the living room where she’s waiting for the limo to take her to school and it’s picture day so she’s dressed like a rock star. I mean she looks stunning: black silk dress, choker, diamond earrings, and an unnaturally prominent display of boobage.

I’m wearing a modified wife-beater T-shirt, Jack Daniels jams, and my head looks like it’s being humped by a drug-addled squirrel. Then I hustle the boys.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaad! God! GOD! What’s your PROBLEM! Do you have to do that in front of me EVERY TIME?!”

“IT’S A REFLEX!”

“I don’t care! Stop it!”

“Ok,” scritch scritch.

“DAD!”

“Doh!”

“Don’t be such a man!”

“Sorry.”

“Now get me my black strapless bra.”

I swear this is verbatim.

My kids are TRYING to be the death of me.

Message to my new readers from [the nest] and Expressive Parents

Howdy and welcome! In case you're wondering, the title of my blog, "Death By Children," refers to the fact that parenting is killing me and my kids are in on it. Proactively.

I won't in the least bit be offended if you email every single person in your contacts list and demand that they subscribe to Death By Children instantly. They really should show the same kind of class and good taste you have displayed in choosing to subscribe to my humble scribblage.

Explore the morgue! Click on the "more . . ." links under the Exhumed heading there on the left. Enjoy!

I Love You, Stinky Oversleeping Teen Sasquatch!

He overslept again. Then he over-showered. I knocked on the door. I yelled. He missed first period.

So I'm pulling up to the school and there's a bunch of kids sitting on the gym steps and he opens the door to get out. I tell him I love him. He slams the door shut.

"Dad, shut up."

"Oh no—are you embarrassed?"

"Look, man. That was funny in grade school but I'm in high school now."

"Who's your favorite possum?"

"Dad, seriously."

"I loooooove you."

"Dad, I will beat you up. You know I can."

He cracks the door a little, then cuts a look. I think, he was daring me. I decided to be the bigger man and I let him go.