Empty Nest Envy Syndrome

Wait, wasn't I supposed to be sipping a demitasse at a Paris cafe this morning?

I checked my schedule and, indeed, my children were supposed to be gone already. Well, one of them. The other one is never here anyway so it doesn't matter. But the 20 year old? She's still sleeping in her room which, in French, is pronounced My Office.

But she has a job and she's going to go to school. I think. She said she was. I'm not sure which school she's going to. Maybe she's going to the school of sleep-all-day-go-out-all night and wear that one dress that makes me want to drape a blanket over her.

I willingly gave up my hip years to raise kids. I could've been a slightly bearded wordsman waiting tables in a boutique pork shop while spending all night smoking Gitanes, drinking coffee, writing 700 page oubliettes while never using the letter e.  But no, I was hip deep in dirty laundry, spent Pampers, and old pizza boxes. Instead of chilling out to jazz in Prague, I was learning all the words to the Sponge Bob theme song.

Which is all fine, because of the unspoken contract between I and my progeny in which, pursuant to page 89, paragraph 16, sub section MN, which states: "you will leapt from the premises as you turn 18 with a job in one hand and apartment keys in the other, forsooth."

Hasn't happened yet.

My friend's nest is empty as a Church on Saturday. He's renovated his daughter's room into a den and turned the other kid's room into a mancave. His empty nest is like a lair. He's currently teaching his dog how to open a beer.

 

This is how the world ends

If the world were ending on, say, Saturday, around 3:21 pm or so, would there be some kind of catastrophic leading indicators? And if so, would we be smart enough to notice? I'm only asking because, as your resident brainiac, I have to tell you, I'm seeing some pretty disturbing stuff out on the rough seas of the internet. In fact, I think I'm starting to see things, anomalies, virtual ghosts, bandwidth banshees. I'm seeing the kind of things you read about after the disaster happens and someones just happens to mention that all the dogs and cats ran away just before the volcano blew or 300 surfers mysteriously showed up the day before the tidal wave struck. Stuff like that.

The clearest leading indicator of our Apocalypse is the proliferation of Brit Lit. No, I don't mean all those Percy Bysh Shelley blogs. I mean literature regarding the imminent decline of Our Lady of Trailer Trash, Britney Spears.

This brief article will be the most attention I've ever given Spears during my adult life. She don't register. My mind is trained to edit my reality with excruciating prejudice. In th course of a day there are countless boneheaded micro-catastrophes it just blithely deletes. I never know they're there. It's like my inner child grew up to be a curmudgeonly aesthete and barely has the time of day for me much less the sheer billions of jaggoffs that walk among us, her calamitousness being one of them, being in fact, their queen. It's a gift from God.

But deep in the bowels of Death By Children's secret underground complex, the internet churns and wails and occasionally I have to go down and poke it with a fork and today when I poked it, it said "The end is near--Chart Britney's period."

We all know Spears went crazy when she married Kevin Federline. It's simple math: trailer trash + trailer trash = "Cops". And we're all guilty of paying attention to her mostly because we know she's bound to set herself on fire any day now and we want to be the first person in our Five to make the emergency conference "Dude" call and put the YouTube immolation video on our blog. Same reason we go to NASCAR. It's not the race that's exciting, it's the crash.

The thing is, Britney's crash is so inevitable that I can't see how it's interesting to anyone. In fact, I think her crash is long over but she's milking it. Or worse, it's all orchestrated by her Svengalian manager to drum up sympathy and support for a massive comeback to coincide with a new album and hit song. I don't know if it's better that I'm right about that or wrong. And I don't care that much. I'm just saying that she's one of the leading indicators of impending planetary destruction. She's THE indicator. In a bazillion years, they'll be referring to her and Nostradamus in the same breath.

How do I know? This is how I know. Celebrity gossip hounds have sunken pretty much as far as they can in finding Britnephalia to coat the empty insides of their blogs. It's not enough that she's just %$#@!ing crazy. That's not simple enough. And it's not enough that she's bipolar, or suffering from post-partum depression, or exhausted, or any of the ten thousand other afflictions that might explain the source of her ludicrous behavior (she makes Ludicris look like a Lutheran). NO, for the leading indicator of global deletion, Britney must suffer from something both noble and mundane, both ridiculous and rare, something divine yet disturbing.

She's on the rag.

But when Britney is visited by her leel frin it's she can't just be a little crabby. Her orc horde switches on her bipolarity, her post-partumality, and her panty-less-shopping-ism. Because she isn't human. She's a leading indicator and she dances on the upturned faces of her worshipful bloggists, people who watch her every move and would, could they afford the air fare, gleefully root through her garbage like feral pigs stumbling out of the forest into the grease trap at Arby's. People like this guy, who actually CHART HER PERIOD TO SEE WHEN SHE' GOING TO FREAK OUT NEXT! Gaze, as the planet teeters on the brink of disaster, on the wonder that i the menstrual cycle of Our Lady of Holy Sh--


(Red indicates . . . uh . . . that her "Cousin Red's" in town t help her with her "Grammar" . . . )

Dinner and a Booby

We run a tight ship around here at Casa de Death. No cussin. No runnin' with scissors. No mixing metaphors. Also, we're dead set against public nudity. This is not true of everyone in our neighborhood.

There's a fantastic Mexican/Guatemalan restaurant a couple of blocks away. We love it. Eat there all the time. In fact, we don't even call it by its actual name (because we'd get sued). We call it by the name of the exuberant owner. We call it Juan's. Some families order Chinese. We say, let's eat at Juan's. And so there we were the other night, peacefully crunching through some lomo de Res con nopalitos, chicken flautas, and steak quesadillas when I casually glance across the street and notice a light come on in a second story window. Oh, how nice, I think. I didn't know anyone lived over those nondescript businesses. Someone lives there. That's where they live. There.


I'm bringing a forkful of lomo and nopalitas (steak and baby cactus) to my mouth when the person who lives there steps into view and proves beyond a shadow of a doubt they not only live there, they also poop there.

Most bathroom windows are made from frosted or pebbled glass. Not this one. This one was carved from pure gas plasma high definition glass. As I stared, agog, through the remarkably clear possibly magnifying unfrosted pane, an elderly woman removed her robe and sat on what I could only assume was a pissoir and opened what I could only assume was a magazine (Exhibitionist Monthly?) I watched in horror, steak and baby cactus dangling before my gaping mouth, as she thrust out her chin the tiniest little bit and, I assume, strained, ever so slightly.

[My Attorney]: What?
Me: Man, these tacos are scrumptious.
[My Attorney]: (not fooled for a minute) What.
My son: Dad? Why do you look scared?
Me: How's your chicken oh my god!

The horror show across the street has gotten measurably worse. I will never be able to wipe it from my memory. As hard as I try now to wipe it from my mind, I cannot. I can't wipe that image clear. It remains there where I can't wipe it. Wipe. Wipe. Wipe.

Following my stricken countenance, [My Attoryney] and innocent child glance behind them and spit their flautas across the table. A flurry of Oh My Gods are whispered through fingers as we clamp our hands across our faces to wipe the horror from our horror wiped faces. Wipe.

Now we're trying to finish our meal without calling attention to the free show happening across the street. [My Attorney] is facing mostly away and the boy child, so innocent, so pure, has his back to the window. Well, his chair has its back to the window. My kid is practicing yoga so he can eat while accidentally glancing out the window into the window.

Our waiter stops by, follows our glance across the street into the red light district, and pours cold water all over the guacamole. He tries to clean up but he keeps staring at our new friend who is now standing and putting on a shower cap. She does some sort of . . . examination? We're not sure. All we know is the waiter poured water in the guac, the flautas, our empty margarita glasses, and onto the floor.

We figured she'd have to finish her ablutions and turn off the light but she did not. She continued to disappear and reappear, nekkid as all get out, as we finished our desert, politely refused to have our empty salsa cups refilled with coffee, and paid our check. She was doing some kind of pit maintenance as we drove away.

Two weeks later, we're at a neighborhood party and mention this, purely out of an altruistic effort to perhaps communicate to this woman that her glass, she is not frosted. We mention it because a person at the party works in the building beneath the glaze de l'boudoir and we felt we had to tell her. Turns out the woman is not entirely shy and may not give a rats ass if people can see her flaunting her flab over their flautas.

I guess we'll have to start requesting a table that faces the wall or perhaps only eat there in the daytime.

Alternate titles for this post:

"Rear Window"
"Room with a View"

How to Not Get Hired: Part 1

I posted my resume on an online job board because another freelancer convinced me you can get work that way. I haven't gotten a single contract from it but boy if I wanted to go into door-to-door knife sales or insurance franchising, I'm in the money. I don't know if these people can't read or if the job board just doesn't check who's looking at our resumes. So I figured the only thing to do is do what I do best and write back at them. Here's the first one...

Their letter to me:

On Dec 31, 2010, at 2:00 PM, Jennifer Butler wrote:

Dear Christopher,

I’d love to speak with you about your resume.

Despite recent economic conditions, a few industries have experienced success - one of them being the franchise industry.  I have been hired to (hand select) and invite qualified individuals with managerial/leadership backgrounds (to explore franchise opportunities).  Based on your credentials, I feel you may be a good fit.

I work with an enormous network of consultants that represent hundreds of major franchise businesses.  I place qualified individuals in various franchises that fit within the realms of their previous work history and acquired talents ultimately training (and equipping) born entrepreneurs with the necessary tools to take the leap towards owning a business and taking control of their futures.

This is a unique opportunity that would allow you to apply your experience towards a business of your own, increasing your earning potential and allowing you some much deserved flexibility in your career.

Please visit our website at:  www.explorefranchise.com and just take a look around.  Once there, fill out the "Get Started Today" form.  When I receive your information, I’ll give you a call within 48 hours to discuss the next steps.

Best regards,

Jennifer Butler

Franchising Coordinator

jennifer@explorefranchise.com

www.explorefranchise.com

26035 Acero Suite 200

Mission Viejo, California 92691

http://app.streamsend.com/private/PKHj/UYK/dL0tU8T/unsubscribe/13169603

My Response:

Dear Jennifer;

What a fantastic idea. I am totally on board. What I'm most interested in is a franchise involving importation. I think that's a great bet considering the economy and how it looks going forward into the second term of the current GOP.

Specifically, I'm looking at a franchise importing the rare New Guinean Tufted  Ocelot. These are beautiful, naturally miniature versions of the common ocelot we all know and love. They'll fit in the palm of your hand when they're still six months old so importation through standard customs will be no trouble.

My method of importation is highly advanced, yards ahed of that guy from Brazil who stuffed endangered bearded tiger monkeys down his pants and expected to make it through Miami Nat. Classic, right? No, my method involves a certain amount of salesmanship and believe me, I am the right guy for the job.

First, my friend Fiornio who is a "Doctor" in Ecuador, admits me to his specialty oncology lab in Quito. There I am fitted with a full body stasis wrap under which the Ocelots, drugged of course, are packed pretty tight. Fiornio then slaps a couple contagion stickers on a flatbed rig and hooks me up to a fake IV and we get on a direct flight to Homassasa Springs.

Understand I won't have bathed or brushed my teeth for at least three weeks so I'm not what you'd call pleasant. Also, this covers up the natural musk of the Ocelots. The Ocelots themselves will be hibernating due to the massive doses of neambutol administered by Fiornio. If anyone asks, Fiornio will tell them they're tumeritic bulbues and we're on our way to a lab where they'll laser them off for study. If one moves, so much the better. I'm betting no one's going to come close to us.

In Homassassa, we unload with medical priority directly into a waiting ambulance and bingo bango bongo, we're in business. I meet with a couple of dealers I know and unload the product that's still alive (we're working on percentages here--neambutol is pretty strong stuff).

I'm so happy you picked my resume out of the pile you must certainly receive regularly and even happier you saw through my disguise as a"creative writer" right. Whatever.

So, when can we get this shindig started? Soledad's got about 20 cats ready to pop so we're looking at a cool 380 grand here. Can you front the airfare and costume fees as "start up"? I love the franchise cover, by the way. Classic.

Yours;

CG

The Clash

At the movie theater:

"Why is that guy singing, rock the cat box?"

Or maybe not . . .

[My Attorney] told me in no uncertain terms that Death by Children shall not be terminated. Also, it looks like an independent publisher is very interested in turning it into a book in 2012. So, that whole Aztec end of the world thing was actually all about me.

Here's what will happen: The current stories will disappear and be shuttled off to North Korea where a warehouse full of kidney donors will type paginate them prior to publication.

I will continue to write stories and, according to [My Attorney], I will write even more.

All this despite having a book out on the shelves now that I'm co-marketing with my co-author, co-Dave Haynes; AND despite having just started a new intensive project mentioned earlier (which is already going well).

So don't expect much. I will probably write total crap, first draft level, show gazing crap. But it'll be funny.

Penn and Teller

Guest Post by Kevin Bender

 

One of the best shows to ever been seen on satellite TV from directstartv.com is Penn and Teller's show entitled Bullshit. The title may seem a little profane and some people may not watch it based purely on this, of course that is the intention as typically only open minded people are into this particular program.

Penn and Teller are famous magicians that preform in Las Vegas regularly, but very little magic is in the show. They seek out issues that controversial and seek to prove whether or not something is in fact Bullshit. The aforementioned profane word is used to avoid charges of slander, but really helps to set the mood.

Some of their episodes have gone so far as to prove a deserve array of things such as disproving Fung Suei, which is the art of arranging furniture to increase a room's positive energy. This was easily disproved by hiring three so called experts and having them arrange the same room for optimal positive energy. Seeing each expert arrange the room in stark contrast to one another and provide their own reasoning for it, goes so far as to prove beyond a doubt that this not a legitimate thing.

They have had a variety of different topics on the show and seemingly nothing is off limits. This is why so many people are looking forward to new episodes to come.

 

First Snow

The sky finally gave it up and covered our yard with a velvety blanket of snow last night. It's still coming down and I know I don't usually write Hallmarky bull hockey like this but it's really nice.

I think what I like the most baout snow is that my yard finally has a consistent, beautiful appearance--one unbesmirched stretch of alabaster instead of a hodge podge of green grass, brown dead grass, old leaves, dead plants, McDonald's litter, and rusted bikes.

My mom is visiting and I got up to make waffles and bacon and coffee and she got up and had her coffee and decided to take a moment at our big windows and take in the snow. She parts the drapes to gaze out at our beautiful snow white landscape and nearl spit her coffee through her nose because staring back at her was a gossamer draped skeleton and a grinning horrid skull glaring back at her through the falling snow.

I left my halloween decorations piled in a corner of the backyard. I'm thinking of finally putting them away but then, it does make for a unique snowman . . .

Second First Day of School Epic Fail

I woke up (from my night of wondering if I'd ever fall asleep) to the sound of my iPhone sawing through my desk. I heard the front door slam, looked out the window, and saw the boy child getting into his mom's car.

That seemed like a perfect thing. He gets to school on time and I get to go back to sleep. Which I did.

I wake up a few hours later to the sound of my iPhone trying to bury itself in my desk to hide from [My Attorney] who is reaching through the phone and beating me to death. I get up. I drive all the way downtown to pick up the papers I needed yesterday to register the girl. I drive all the way home. I make six calls on the way down there and two on the way back all in the vein of: take a frikkin shower so you're all dressed and ready when I get there. All of these answered with SHUT UP DAD I CAN HANDLE THIS ALRIGHT?!

I walk in the door and she's in her room.

"Hey, you ready?"

"No."

"What? Listen, we've got to get our carcass to that school and get you in."

"I don't have any pants."

I just . . I can't . . . I . . .

How does she not have any pants? She had pants yesterday. She wore them for less than an hour. Where are they now? Did they return to their pant overlords and report on the activities of teen humans?

(Pants: SIR WE TRIED TO OBSERVE THE HU-MAN TEENS BUT THEY NEVER GOT OFF THE COUCH SO THERE'S NOT MUCH TO REPORT UNLESS YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED ON 'ADVENTURE TIME' FOR THE LAST SIX WEEKS.)

I fix this problem. I get her loaded into the car. I get there despite spending all seven minutes fighting for control of the radio. We leap out of the car, race across the field to the office where they tell us they stop registering at 11am, which we missed by an hour and five minutes.

Derp.

I'm so mad. I needed my day of peace and I haven't gotten yet. All the other dads-who-"work"-at-home have called me up trying to explain around the end of their cigar how good their beer tastes while I'm washing bras.

So I threaten her that I'm going to prance across the tennis courts just to embarrass her and she tells me I couldn't prance my way out of a light mist and I swear I can score higher than her on Prance Prance Revolution and we stop there in the middle of the tennis courts at the school she will go to every day but, apparently, never attend, and we shout OH MY GOD THAT WOULD BE AN AWESOME GAME!

I am a 17 year old girl.

Do You Feel Lucky, Punk? Huh, Do You?

’m anti gun. Not for you—-for me. I don’t care who else owns a gun. I assume all the retards, rejects, and reprobates already have one. I assume I’m walking among the armed.

But I put myself on the DO NOT EMPISTOLATE list years ago. I’m too likely be looking for a hammer and settle for a .357 magnum. I still get a kick out of guns, no doubt. With adult supervision, I can shoot.

This summer I helped my father-in-law site a scope. We chugged up the mountain to his private hunting reserve, laid a gorgeous 30-06 across the sighting table and started peeling off high velocity brass jacketed hell-yeahs one after the other.

Meanwhile, a gunfight was brewing in my sister’s basement. She was throwing a party for my nephew and though I knew my son was attending, I didn’t know it was a gun-centric occasion.

The guns in question were a kind of sub-paintball-weapon maximized for safety by firing a soft, resilient pellet that is best described as ‘nerfish’. Shoot somebody from more than a couple feet away and they barely feel a pinch. Closer up and it’s just a wicked sting. Point blank? We’ll get to that.

So we’re all at part a) of the soirée. We’re playing laser tag (did I mention I’m from Alabama? We’d stir our grits with a gun if it didn't rust) and on the way home, my sister—with a van filled to the eaves with 11 year old boys bristling to shoot something and chattering non-stop about barrels and ammo and calibers and my son, my cute little geek son, is practically drooling—she stops at a regional sports store (ammunition dump) so some of the kids can get more nerf-pellets and her son gets a new gun and my son, wiping the drool off his face, knowing full well my position about firearms, he gives me the sad kitten appeal and just pleeeeeads with me. He is relentless. Ardent. Driven. Finally he hits me with the heavy artillery. He says “You were out shooting guns today!” Crap.

I pride myself on parenting with logic and clarity (and threats of maiming and punitive deletion of cherished electronics) so when he points out the obvious I know he’s got me. I buy him the gun.

On one condition.

I get to shoot him.

“But dad! That will HURT!”

“You’re right. It’s dangerous.” I start to put it back on the shelf. The rest of the assassins are watching carefully because if Roon gets a gun that means he gets to play and THAT means he’s a target and they know he's a little slow on his feet. Roon considers his options and agrees.

So we get back to Dodge City Basement and I line the boys up gauntlet style. Roon runs upstairs and puts on three thick t-shirts. I get my older nephew to play a military dirge-march on the drums, pin Connor to the wall and ceremoniously walk back to my place, point, aim, ask him if he has any last words, then shoot the little bastard in the solar plexus.

He didn’t even feel it.

So later. Two of the gunfighters come upstairs and ask that Connor be ejected from the OK corral. Seems he can’t really tell the difference between STOP SHOOTING, PLEASE STOP SHOOTING, OW OW OW DAMMIT STOP! and OK, START SHOOTING AGAIN and the rest of the boys are about to take away his gun by pulling it through his ass. So I go downstairs and, as I’m standing there, Connor puts his finger over the open barrel and pulls the trigger. There is a distinct, surprisingly loud SNAP and Connor looks at me with a big shit-eating grin on his face. For like one second.

Did you ever see the Grinch That Stole Christmas? Remember when his sourpuss morphs slowly into a beatific smile? Imagine that in reverse. Connor’s grin slides backwards into a howl of pain and he THROWS HIS GUN down and runs upstairs.

He was ok later, even laughed about it. But the gun? Well, let’s just say he’s on the same list I am and the gun is safely out of reach.

Radio Free Winnebagoes!

The bra discussion continued on the air:

Why Men Should Watch Sex and the City

So we're on our way back from New Orleans when [My Attorney] whips out her laptop and asks me if I want to watch Sex in the City.

For a little vacation lagniappe, we used some of our miles to bump into first class thinking it could be a great way to top off the trip. A little bubbly. A little movie. Comfort. First class is statussymbolville, rock star level, pole dancer stewardessing luxury. I wanted the optional foot massage and nude kabuki theater. Instead, I got a crabby stewardess who yelled at everyone. The champagne was crap. My seat was broken. There was GRAFITTI on the seatback.

There was no movie. There were no peanuts.

So when my attorney offered to play a rental on her laptop, I jumped at it. So what if it's Sex and the City? None of my friends were there. The seatbacks (covered in gang tags) were pretty high. So I did it.

I know, you guys are throwing your hands in the air asking How Could You, Man!? I was bored. I needed something. So she hits play and the credits come up and I find myself intrigued. The credits are pretty good and I'm surprised that the lead is actually much hotter than I used to think back in the day when SATC was the rage. And I got to give credit where credit is due--the directors really use a lot of slo-mo hair flips which are nothing more than extended gratuitous boob shots. Yay.

So the show starts and I'm all prepped to crack on the crappy writing but instead I'm asking questions and saying dude, (I often refer to My Attorney as Dude--it's unisexual, I swear), that dude's a loser and what's up her crack? And I'm into it, the story is pretty good, pretty well written, and the jokes are funny as hell. I'm realizing that basically this is just a recurring chick flick, like Roman Holiday on endless repeat, and Mr. Big is Cary Grant and all the other chicks are the quintessential American women: the hot slut, the hot professional, the hot girl next door, and the hot brainy lit chick. They're all perfect and exquisite and they have interesting conversations. About sex. For an hour. Now that's pretty cool and tolerable and yes, you will learn something about the mindset of women and yes that will help you understand your [attorney] better.

But that's not why men should watch Sex and the City.

Dude, you should watch Sex and the City because, dude: you get to watch hot naked women have sex--with your [attorney].

I saw more skin in three episodes of SATC than I ever did watching Serena Williams play tennis. It's like the Sopranos only instead of a really satisfying lurid payback assassination, you get one of the women topless. WITH YOUR [ATTORNEY].

So get comfy and plop yourself down on the couch and make occasional comments like yeah, that guy's a turd, or wow, she changed her hair. And every time they have one of the xtra-hot main characters revealing their most bankable options, say Oh that's gratuitous. Say it like you mean it.

13 Bad Headlines for NASA's Admission to Sex Training For Mars Mission

A NASA adviser recently battled the president of Virgin Atlantic for the title of "most purposefully misquoted official" after they discussed how co-ed Mars Mission astronauts---stuck together in tight quarters for three years--- might, um, think about, um . . . probing. Read the whole story here.

1. Astronauts Train For Bumpy Ride!
2. The Eagle Has Landed! (um, that's not my Eagle . . .)
3. NASA Talks to VIRGIN About SEX!
4. Asked to Extend Boom, Astronauts Giggle Uncontrollably.
5. Virgin Atlantic Adds "NOT!" to Logo!
6. Probes No Longer Limited to Aliens!
7. Uranus Begs for Name Change!
8. Cigar Shaped Object Not Cigar!
9. Howard Stern Heads New Apollo Mission!
10. Mile High Club Extended by 100 Miles.
11. Cape Canaveral Worker Fired for T-Shirt: "I Got Yer Right Stuff Hangin!"
    
12. NASA Relocates to Miami Beach, Opens Club.
    
13. New Space Suits Designed by Trojan.
    

13 Things About Swine Flu that (hack-cough-wheeze) Suck!

You try to save. You scrimp. You deprive yourself. You go a day or two without high end sushi. You order a 2004 Chateau Neuf des Papes instead of the Rothschild 1998. You suffer.

Finally, you save up just enough loose change and hedgefund windfall to send your son to computer camp at Lake Forest College, a place that makes Hogwarts look drab, a place where he will hone his burgeoning skills as a World of Warcraft modder to the point where some ten year old kids treat him like a God, a camp that costs more than the GDP of Lichtenstein, and the little snotty fartknocker goes and gets Swine Flu.

And now we're all confined indoors like we've got the consumption. Our neighbors have painted PIG in big red letters on our front door (I'm pretty sure that's related) and guys in forced-air Hazmat suits are staking a perimeter with red tape and bio-hazard signs.

So there's only one thing to do—well, 13 Things! (About Swine Flu That Suck)


1. Having it.
2. The really cool kids all have Bird Flu.
3. Too sick to play Wii, not sick enough to puke on your sister.
4. Sudden aversion to Bacon.
5. There's no medicine so you actually have to stay sick for a week which in modern times is like having your leg amputated with a hack saw.
6. After a few days, Gatorade looks the same going in as it does coming out.
7. Worrying that #4 might last forever.
8. Can't taste your Bacon Double Cheese Burger (without bacon).
9. Snot.
10. Leaving your Xbox at camp because you can't go back to get it until you don't have the flu so you're stuck at home without your game system.
11. Ditto for your Ozzie CD.
12. Friends keep texting you "Oink" and "Bacon".
13. Your dad thinks it's funny so he blogs about it. That ^%$#@!!

13 Reasons Why Real Men Clean Better

1. Real Men sweep with a leaf blower.


2. Real Men don't mop: Real Men hose.


3. Real Men understand the toilet cleaning power of the Water Pik.


4. Real Men know the best music for cleaning house is porno.


5. Real Men know the best way to clean the fridge is to eat your way to the back.


6. Real Men know Vodka cleans anything.


7. Real mens KnOw VDkoa cleams anythings.


8. Real Men dust with a Hoover.


9. When Real Men wash reds with whites, they don't apologize. They just say "pink makes you look ten years younger."


10. Real men consider phone sales an act of war.

I Totally Cheated on My Wife

n response to former Governor Spitzer and sitting Governor Blindguy's recent admission of infidelity, I feel compelled to admit that I have totally cheated on my wife.

More, I have to admit, to expose that it was totally hot and sticky and I spent most of the time moaning and saying 'oh Go, oh God' and I'll probably do it again.


Since going on this damn diet, I have successfully dropped some serious tonnage. My pants are starting to hang off my back end by accident and not design. My old shirts are starting to actually fit me. Even my shoes feel different.

And for the most part, I haven't had the horrible cravings you would think I'd have by giving up dirty martinis and Manchego. I've been just fine. Until yesterday. Yesterday she arrived, waltzed in to our house steamy and hot, and said 'come on, baby, I'm all yours'.

And I caved. I did. I only had a little, just a piece, but it still counts. My poor Attorney was at work, slaving away, and there I was at home, my hands full of the voluptuous, delicious, totally hot Cheese Pizza.

I had a corner, a tragic baked-out postage-stamp-sized sliver with just a spoonful of hot melted cheese and a wad of Italian sausage slumped under it but it was delicious. Made Jenny Craig taste like wheat paste, I swear.

I just ... I had to say something. I wanted there to be full disclosure, just like Spitzer and Blindguy, because I am a man of honor.

Except when faced with cheese pizza.

Huh #115

Son: Dad, I think the dog ate make up.

Dad: What makes you say that?

Son: He smells like lipstick.

[Dad keeps working on the laptop for like 17 seconds then looks up.]

Dad: How do you know what lipstick smells like?

100th Post

Well, here we are--100 moments into the life of a 21st century Dad. Since this blog began I've been hired to write part of a book, started a radio show with a republican, had my kitchen remodeled, and lost 5 pounds. All in all, not a bad start.

My Son has grown 1.4 inches in these 100 posts and now keeps setting off my instinctual alarm bells because I catch a glimpse of him in the corner of my eye and think some dude's walked into the house.

My daughter has joined Superhero High School and gained a laconic boyfriend who is exceedingly polite and apparently plays guitar better than I do.

My niece has moved in to the room we built for her in the basement and added organic flax seed and some kind of soft drink that is actually alive to our repertoire of victuals.

My attorney has entered into her third year and is undergoing the kind of unrelenting thankless grind you hear about sometimes in the same news story that ends with " . . . still don't know where she got the gun."

Only my gay dog hasn't changed. He still waits, poised on the edge of the couch, for someone to go scrounging around under the furniture for the remote, at which point he will strike without warning--and hump them into oblivion, tongue lolling out the side of his snout, big stupid frat boy grin on his face.

December will bring you four great Christmas posts, timeless classics of American family values that will leave you contemplating out-dopting your children or perhaps having yourself neutered. I promise.

Thanks for reading, for a writer, knowing people are digging your work can mean the difference between a single and a triple martini lunch. I genuflect honorably in your general direction.

My New Favorite Website

I predict great things for this upstart, um, anti-social networking site: rottenneighbor.com.

To play, you register, log in, then write about your neighbors. I assume you could write something good but given the title of the business, I think they discourage it. I've seen reports from Chicago titled: "Looney Daughter" (not mine), "Disgusting People" (not us), and "Hates Cats and Women" (Not me). I'm tempted to write completely wacky things about everyone I know, so if you're one of my neighbors, look for these upcoming titles:

"Recently Abducted--Probed"
"Weird Disney Christmas Creche"
"Dog poops in my yard"
"Drives a 1974 Toyota Diesel"
"Sculpts yard waste--political"
"Parking Pirate"
"Hangs lights for every holiday--even St. Patrick's Day. Weirdo."
"Sexy wife and/or housekeeper"
"Walks dog in bikini. Back fat. Fake tan."

When the kid becomes a doctor

My son wants to be a doctor. I'm still shocked about this. He's not talking about a fake video game doctor, but an actual stick your hands elbow deep in blood sawbones. I'm so proud.

I'm happy, too, because I know that when I'm old, he'll be able to give me drugs and somehow stave off the onset of early Alzheimers which I'm pretty sure hasn't happened yet.

I'm happy, too, because I know that when I'm old, he'll be able to give me drugs and somehow stave off the onset of early Alzheimers which I'm pretty sure hasn't happened yet.

When he does become a doctor, I hope he'll wear some decent Scrubs. If you've been to a doctor recently you know that fashion is definitely low on their priority list. Why isn't Nike or Old Navy jumping on this bandwagon? I don't know, but these guys, http://www.blueskyscrubs.com/categories/Scrubs/, might be game changers in the world of men's scrubs design and sales.

Knowing my kid, however, I'm sure he'll show up in baggy pants and a Bob Marley t-shirt.