Happy Father’s Day, Fellow Pole-Preventers

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there enjoying our day. This is the day our children reaffirm that we are doing the right things to keep them growing in the right direction.

Give ‘em a hug, dads, especially your daughters. I’m sure there is a scientific study somewhere that says if you hug them more they are less likely to become whores and prostitutes.

Or maybe I just listen to the Howard Stern Show too much…

Anywho, I got some nifty – and interesting – stuff from the kids. Let’s start with the cards.

As usual, the kids were given free reign to pick whichever card they want and the results, although highly enjoyable, raised an eyebrow.

Here we see Weirdo went with a slightly religious card. At 6, she isn’t too religious and sort of in that “Jesus is Magic” phase where she doesn’t get it. And church is basically a time to wave at friends and color. Nevertheless, it expresses her thanks for having a great daddy so a solid effort all around. I’m touched.

Now we move on to Crazy. At 3, you’re pretty much guaranteed she’s gonna pick whichever one has the picture she likes most. Probably a kitten or doggy. Maybe a dinosaur like Weirdo’s. Put, as she is crazy (hence “Crazy”), I Get this.

 

…

…

…

She loves the life we’ve built together. Emmm, ok. Sure.  I can get with that, I suppose. The text inside however about the special love we share can probably get me arrested in all but about 3 states, so I’ll just stop here.

Lastly, I got a giant cookie cake from Mrs. Fields. It was designed by Weirdo, I’m told. My big girl knows her daddy well because she wanted it in  green and white, the colors of her daddy’s alma mater, Michigan State.

Thank for another special Father’s Day, kids! Daddy loves you! So much in fact I’m never going to let you near a boy…even the one who declared his crush on Weirdo on the last day of school (another day, folks…)

Happy Father’s Day, Dads! Keep fighting the good fight!

A Personal Story – Guest Blogging on the DIFF Blog

Hi folks.

Sorry I have been away for so long. Hasn’t been for a lack of content but rather for a lack of time. I spoke with several of my “fans” over the past week who are bugging me for an update and I know I owe you one.

I’m guest blogging on the DIFF blog again today (www.WhatsTheDIFF.com), and although it’s not a funny story about the horrors of life that is being a father of girls, it is a deeply personal story that I felt I had to share about someone important in my life who truly has been “the DIFF” in hundreds of others.

If you are so inclined, head on over and check it out, and I promise some tales of hilarity and misery in the very near future: http://kauf.in/795q35.

The Boob Tube

Sad thing is, I know my readers. And chances are pretty good that with the post title alone I garnered a few dozen clicks. I’m going to have a field day with the tags too.

Oh, well. Let’s dive right in, shall we?

So, the wife and I have been waiting patiently – frugally, even – for the broke-ass Super 8 cassette camcorder to keel over and die so we could enter the late last century and upgrade to something that doesn’t weigh 50 pounds, take up

Pretty close to what we were working with, but not with as many nice features.

 it’s own suitcase and run on diesel.

The Good News: It finally died.

The Bad News: It died while at Disney.

Solid. It couldn’t have died during the 100+ hours I have of Weirdo and Crazy lip-synching to Hannah Montana or High School Musical. I have enough tape of that to mummy wrap the cast of The Biggest Loser, seasons 1-4.

Anywho though, off I went to the Buy That is Best and returned with a shiny new handheld video camera that uses memory sticks. It’s so tiny and cute, and I’m so happy with it I won’t even bother side-barring into a four-letter and four-syllable (MFer/MFing, folks. I won’t make you think too hard) laced rant about the moron sales chick that sent me home with a $60 back-up battery that doesn’t fit my camera.

See? I’m over it.

Well, I get the camera home and start showing off all the features to my wife, because that’s what guys do, and she could care less, because that’s what gals do. Nevertheless, I hook it up to the TV in the living room and turn it on.

BAM! Two kids, live on a 42″ plasma. Hannah Montana instantly leaps from the stereo, microphones come out of the woodwork and it’s a freaking Disney dance party right there in the Off the Pole living room.

Until things turned decidedly un-Disney.

Now, at this point it has been well-established that I’m not actually taping any of this. Rather, I’m merely feeding what the camera is focused on directly to the TV. So as I swing the camera from Weirdo and Crazy to my wife who, in an effort to be funny – and God bless her for it - pretends as if she is going to lift her shirt up.

Right on the screen Weirdo and Crazy are paying rapt attention to.

Well, I don’t need to tell you what happened next, but since it’s been on instant reply in my head for the past several weeks, eff it, I’m going to anyway.

Weirdo erupts in giggles and before either the wife or I can begin a hasty lecture on what’s appropriate and what is not, her shirt is yanked up to her chin.

And there it is, folks.

Boobies in 42″ high def.

Awesome. You know, if one of my kids becomes a stripper, that’s one me. But at this point, if they end up in a Girls Gone Wild video, that, my cardiac arrest, stroke and ensuing cirrhosis of the liver are on my wife.

So, you know, boobies are all the rage around my house right now. And unfortunately the subject shines an unforgiving spotlight on my failings as a mature role model for my daughters.

You see, there is this book I sometimes read to Weirdo before bedtime. It’s (ironically) a charming book about being proper and having good manners written by Fergie – the Duchess of York, not the man-faced, no-talent, every-song-rips-its-beat-from-something-I-once-roller-skated-to broad from the Black Eyed Peas. The book is called “Tea for Ruby,” but it is now magically known as “Tea for Boobie,” because every time I go to say “Ruby,” Weirdo shouts out “Boobie.”

And the word “Ruby” appears about 7 million times over the course of about 20 pages.

Now, instead of being a good parent and correcting her, I am reduced to a red-faced, trembling mound of snickers, tears and giggles. Oh, how Weirdo and I lay there in her bed, cackling with glee at the word Boobie.

Unfortunately she’s six and I’m 34.

Tea for Boobie. LOL…

Aren’t “good” things supposed to come in 3’s?

So, the topic of this post was supposed to be completely different than what you will absorb beyond my preamble. I woke up in the middle of the night with the red ass, mind effervescing with profound commentary on the new Spiderman 4 movie, how it had deviated from both cannon and the foundation established by the initial trilogy of films.

Then I realized it was 3:40 in the morning and I was in a sleep-deprived state of delirium. Oh well, that’s what you get when you average 4 hours of sleep a night.

Could have been worse, I reckon. My next dream was that I was on the throne taking a dump. Good thing I regained cognizance in time to realize that it was a dream too.

So instead of me further exposing my dorkitude as I lament the casting of Frodo as a new, shimmery silver clad Spidey (think Terminator 2), or seeking tips on how to bleach out a shit stain – both from sheet and long-term memory – I’ll instead regale you with a trio of tales involving Weirdo, footwear and the makeup.

You see dads, here’s the inherent risk you face every single time your daughter walks out of the house: You gotta analyze their outfit and accessories with the acute attention to microscopic detail of that of a colonic therapist searching for parasites.

Sometimes I catch it. Sometimes I nearly eff up. And sometimes the world effs me over.

Observe…

Absolutely not.
It may just be me, but I doubt it. I think in most cases with those of my persuasion, the shoes can complete an outfit. Pair a hot look with some pumps or boots and you got my attention.

So, imagine my horror when Weirdo came strolling into the room one day in her fancy clothes and wearing a pair of the wife’s red pumps.

You know how when you walk in on the middle of something and there’s this real uncomfortable silence? Inevitably someone throws out the most unnecessary inquiry, “Ummm…what’s going on?” Seems to me when you’re skull fucking a goat in your bath tub, as an example, it’s pretty self-explanatory.

Nevertheless, there I was: “So, ummmm…what’s going on?”

Weirdo replies as innocently as she can muster as a sly smile spreads across her face, “I’m wearing mommy’s shoes,”

(Ask a stupid question…)

“Ummm…why?”

“Because I like them.”

“Uh-huh. Well, um, I don’t think so, sweetie.”

You notice too how she seems to seek me out when she pulls this stuff? I swear she does it because, on some strange level even at age 6, she knows it has a profound affect on me. The GD joke’s not supposed to be on my though, if you recall.

Now, I get that this is cute and girls like to play dress up with mommy’s stuff. Except Weirdo isn’t trying to dress up like mommy. She’s trying to be Hannah Montana, the Cheetah Girls, the cast of High School Musical or some other iteration of jailbait.

Think I’m exaggerating? I implore you to read on, there feller (or missy, for all my female readers).

So Weirdo promptly struts back to the closet – yes, I said strut, because the kid has been walking in heels since about 2 1/2…expertly I might ad – and emerges in knee high leather boots (I suppose they would be thigh high on her).

And not just any boots, knee high “eff me” boots. You know, the kind you buy for your wife with the most salacious of intents.

(Oh don’t get all prude on me now. If you’re reading this you know what the eff is up with this blog.)

Sure. Wait….what did you – NO.
This is where dear ol’ super dad damn near dropped the ball.

One morning as I’m getting ready to travel off to my place of employment – and remind you, 4 hours sleep on average – Weirdo comes walking into my room with her hands over her eyes and mumbled something.

Here’s where I’m going to call myself out. I have no idea what she said. I thought she was asking if she could come in but was covering her eyes in case I was in mid undress.

What I thought I heard: “Can I open my eyes?”

What was actually said: “Can I wear this on my eyes?”

When she did an about face and scurried out of the room with her eyes still covered, I found it odd, seeing as how I said it was ok to open them.

TANGENT: And, no, adawg, I was not granting said permission because I was nude. Love how I have to proof and edit my blog posts to account for your twisted mind…

After a moment my anti-pole instincts kicked in. I tracked her down.

“Wait. What did you say?”

Nary a word need be uttered, for the nefarious deed was evident. There upon her eyelids were the soft shades of electric blue. She was wearing eye shadow, had come to me and asked if it was ok to wear it to school and I almost, almost approved it. I think I have sabotaged my own efforts enough this year, thank you very much.

Apparently Weirdo has entered into a pact with some of the other girls at her school to wear eye shadow to school that day. It’s bad enough I gotta keep the boys away. Now I gotta worry about the girls undermining my will as well? And you know how I feel about pacts among girls…

With merely the authoritative thrust of a finger, back the bathroom she headed to wash it off.

Whew. We barely averted a disaster, until…

What the…? No no no no no. Eff all that B.S.

I come home the other night and I’m talking to the wife about this, that and the other. Suddenly Weirdo comes running into the room.

“Daddy!” (yes, she always runs to greet me when I come home because I am teh awesome and she loves me)

“Hey, kid! How are – “

Pump the GD brakes.

“Are you wearing eye shadow?”

Just like that, folks. A 6-year old at top speed in low lighting coming around a corner and I can pick it out. Something wicked this way comes and it has upset the fabric of the idyllic universe I strive to create (or perhaps liquid medicate myself into believing truly exists).

You see, turns out some of the girls at Weirdo’s school brought makeup to school and they all decided it would be fun to symbolically take a shit on my world  put it on at recess.

You remember recess, right? Swing sets. Jump rope. Tag. Playing with dolls. Applying gobs of makeup.

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?

Did you guess which thing was not like the others?
Did you guess which thing just doesn’t belong?
If you guessed this one is not like the others,
Then you’re absolutely…right!

 

So, yeah. That’s just wonderful. She should be sharing joints after a rough morning of fractions and identifying common denominators at this rate.

There you are. That’s what I’ve been dealing with. On the positive side, at least I get to go bowling tonight. Yes, folks. That’s the positive side of my life right now.

It could be worse however, I suppose. Fucking Frodo as Spiderman…

The Security Guard at My Building Terrifies Me.

I work in Metro Detroit and like most corporate centers found ’round the country, there is in general some level of security in place, whether it be cameras, patrol vehicles, guards at a desk or a combination of these examples. Their sole purpose is to make the people who work and visit there feel safe.

So why does the security guard where I work frighten me?

Because I have been nothing if not brutally honest with the literally several people who tune in, I’ll share with you another little tidbit about yours truly: I like the rap music.

It’s true. I got into hip hop and break dancing around the 4th grade and never looked back. I love it. I love it so much my soul withered and nearly died during the whiny-ass grunge era where the goal was to have a more effed up name of your band then the next one (Toad the Wet Sprocket? Are you shitting me?).

Nothing beats a little Ice Cube, Jay-Z, C.L. Smooth, Eminem or Big Daddy Kane to get me in a good mood. Besides infectious beats, their lyrical prowess (a.k.a. Skeelz), involving word play, rich analogies and both pertinent and obscure cultural references, is mind-blowing (a.k.a. dope, fresh or “the shit.”).

I state that to make sure we’re all on even ground here. I’m no suburban, white flight, cracker over here. Those are my relatives down south. I had blue and black first generation Jordans (cooler than your red and black ones, sheep), parachute pants, skinny leather tie (see my Thanksgiving homage to readers), a tacky magnetic earring, and I have never mistaken Turbo and Ozone for characters in a Mortal Kombat game.

You see, at one of the buildings where I have an office (I have two offices. Probably because I am a peon and therefore need to go to people rather that be gone to, but I like to pretend it’s because I’m important. You with me on that? Yeah. No, I’m not buying it either…), the parking lot is patrolled by a security guard in a maroon vehicle.

Now, let’s set aside the fact that this individual inspires zero feelings of safety or comfort.

A slightly less intimidating version of our security guards. Probably more level-minded too.

The problem is he inspires exactly the opposite. When your security guard is creeping through the lot, window down, gangsta lean in effect and blaring hardcore gangster rap while he stares you down, it’s, well, unsettling.

An audio snippet of what I deal with while the security guard “glares” me down as I walk to my car:

I pull my strap on a muthafucka (boom boom)
Put a cap in a muthafucka (boom tick boom)
Where you at, muthafucka? (boom boom)

Should I be scared of being caught short when 2.5 is on the smooth creep?

(Translation for the urbanites: Do I need to be carrying a firearm in order to protect myself in the event the security guard should drive past?)

I guess I gotta start ridin’ dirty.

(Try Wikipedia. It’s your friend.)

I think what scares me the most is that if you are in your 30’s and you drive a maroon Hyundai with a magnetic security logo slapped to the door, you’ve basically lost all hope. And some sorry S.O.B. without hope is the scariest S.O.B. I can think off.

I get being a security guard when you’re in your 20’s or even later in your career. A bunch of my friends were mall cops (albeit not of the Paul Blart ilk, hijinks and hilarity most certainly ensued) and they had a lot of laughs about harassing teenagers and incapacitating shoplifters.

Here’s the thing though, they moved on and got “real” jobs. Some even went into law enforcement. One coaches girls basketball (ok, that’s only funny to me because I know the guy. You? Less so, but this is my blog, so tough).

Anywho, that’s my quandary du jour. At some point I’ll buck up and be a man about the whole thing. But for now, I’m going to continue darting between cars as the dark stain in my pants continues to expand.

Parting thought: Do you think the security guard turns his canister of Mace to the side before he uses it?

“Break yo’ self!!!”

(hissssssssssssss)

Does This Mean I Get to Hit Someone With A Chair?

(clink)

(clink)

(clink clink)

(twist twist twist)

(glunk glunk glunk)

Oh, who am I kidding? Make it a double.

(glunk glunk glunk)

Hello, everyone. I hope you don’t mind if I drink while I blog today. I don’t condone drinking alone, but since you’re all gathered around for this little fire side chat, in a manner of speaking, I’ll consider that my own private loophole.

I’m beginning to be horrified by dinner. And no, it’s not because of my wife’s cooking. Quite the contrary, that’s the one part of the meal I enjoy, even when it’s Tuesday Night Dinner – a random “eff it, I’m tired so here’s dinner” concoction of meat, soup and vegetables brought to a boil in the same pan and then served. Sometimes with rice.

Dinner is supposed to be where the family gathers to set aside the stresses of their day and share pleasantries while basking in the warmth of one another’s company.

Not at my house.

No, dinner at my house is like walking through one of those haunted houses that pop up every fall (sans the double-negative spewing white trash and annoying teenage girls).  It’s like an ulcer-inducing stumble through a thickly veiled corridor of dread, perilously unaware of when some jackass is going to thrust forth from compartments unseen in the fog to distribute some genre of horrifying ”gotcha.” 

Unlike said haunted house attractions, however, instead of paying $8 to have that one girl no one likes and you don’t know why she was invited in the first place annoy the shit out of you while vigorously clutching your jacket in a white-knuckled death grip, and simultaneously climbing your back and dry-humping your ass, this journey thru Unpleasantville begins with one innocent question:

“How was your day?”

Now, I’m trying to play the role of good dad. I know that by being involved in my kids’ lives they are less apt to boot black tar heroin, run guns to Canada or be Yankee fans, but really, After School Special? Do I really have to open myself up to this ongoing tenure as the emotional gimp to Weirdo’s life-and-times Zed? That’s just effed up. Can’t I just catch her rolling a joint only to find out she learned it from watching me?

TANGENT: I don’t do drugs have never done drugs (Hi, kids!). And is it just me or does the guy in the commercial referenced above come across as the Hedgehog’s older brother the accountant?

Getting back to my no doubt enthralling yarn, in response to my query, Weirdo drops her head into one hand, rolls her eyes and laments, “Some of the boys in my class always want to wrestle with me.”

…

…

…

(gulp)

(clink clink clink)

(glunk glunk glunk glunk glunk glunk)

…

…

…

(sip)

….

…

Well if it’s on then it’s muthaeffin’ on, G.

I know that drill! I know it all too well. I pulled similar crap back in the day too. You tease the girls you like. You say you’re afraid of their Cooties. You give them stupid nicknames like Dog-Face, Alien Baby or Beotch (ok, maybe the latter one introduces itself into your vernacular later in life). Maybe you pull their ponytail.

Maybe.

But wrestling? Is that how it’s going to be? Does that mean I can stand in the corner like some ex-urbanite (albeit more subdued in fashion) version of Jimmy “the Mouth of the South” Hart? Am I able to drill these kids with bean bags chairs (because folding ones would be a little extreme, i.e. illegal) when the Kindergarten teacher isn’t looking?

To Weirdo’s credit, she can be a bit of scrapper. In the absence of a son, I’ve got to rough house with someone. Can’t be my wife because when I wrestle with her, I end up having more kids to blog about (bow-wicka-chicka- bow-wow). If Weirdo is wrestling, she can throw down.

But as I reflect on this, is Weirdo being a good wrestling buddy the best course either? Hardly. I don’t exactly want to encourage boys to wrestle with her. I don’t think is serves my insominia well to know my daugther is the undisputed King of the Playground, and everyday a new challenger will throw down the gauntlet (or mitten, I suppose) for the right to heft the proverbial championship belt over their shoulder.

Hmmm. Right now I need to jog my memory and remember if a glancing blow to “the twins” affected me at 6 as much as it did when I was older. Might be time to introduce effective use of knees to Weirdo in our next rough housing session.

Guest blogging on What’s the DIFF blog

Hey kids!

I am guest blogging again today on the DIFF blog, found at www.WhatsTheDIFF.com. This is a unique blog I am a fervent follower of that is dedicated to “exposing the gap between average and excellent.”

I came across a really inspiring story of selflessness that to me exemplifies what it is to be “the DIFF.” I hope you’ll click over and check it out. Subscribe to the DIFF’s RSS feed too – you won’t be disappointed.

Warning: This guest post is a little different from my normal fare being that it is devoid of the sarcasm, mockery and withering self-hatred we all know and love. My reason for this is that I truly think this is an amazing story. I’m sure you will enjoy it, however.

No worries though. I have a trio of ire-inspiring events to share with you…so sit tight and come back tomorrow!

I am the Paul Coffey of Parenting

My readers from the D or who are sports fans have seen the title of this post and have a pretty good idea what’s coming. Others of you are completely confused (I’m looking at you, hon). Stick with me. You know I’m always happy to spell out whatever convoluted analogy caroms around in my complicated grey matter.

Way back in the days of yore, 1996, when I had not yet graduated to scotch and Gentleman Jack (and since I was not a dad yet, didn’t need too – plus I was broke so I was probably drunk on Natty Ice), Hockeytown’s own Red Wings were squaring off in the Stanley Cup Finals against the hated Colorado Avalanche.

Future Hall of Famer defenseman Paul Coffey, draped in the Winged Wheel, found himself caught between two Avalanche skaters driving toward the Red Wing net, so he flipped the puck to his goaltender. Only problem is, the puck went past his goaltender. The error has forever ensconced Coffey into the hockey blooper Hall of Fame as well.

Folks, I pulled a Paul Coffey last week. I put the puck in my own net, so to speak.

(Tangent: Reader adawg has already twisted the preceding statement into something vile and illegal)

I took the family to Disney World and while we were there both Weirdo and Crazy had appointments at the Bippity Boppity Boutique. That is the place where they take your beautiful, innocent, princess-loving daughters and whore them all up like a Vegas Jon Benet Ramsey look-alike burlesque show.

Now, this is a BIG DEAL to a lot of little girls. Appointments are hard to get and must be made well in advance…kind of like getting a table at the Ivy, but without Leonardo DiCaprio and his pretentious electric car bullshit.

In true Disney fashion, they go to great lengths to make a true atmospheric event. You get an appointment card with Princess Weirdo or Princess Crazy on it. Everyone calls you “princess.” The employees are in Renaissance dress. A photographer takes photos during the appointment and offers (to sell) you a professional photo shoot afterward. You get to pick your hairstyle, color of the weave (yes, your little girl gets a big ol’ hunk of horse hair), the color of their make-up and nail polish. You can even pick out a princess dress, shoes and wand. They end it all by giving you a sash and sprinkling magic dust (a.k.a. glitter, a.k.a. stripper dandruff) over the girls’ heads with a magic wand.

Here is the result:

 

Now, I admit I love Disney. I get caught up in all of it. So I’m right there taking photos. And when the stylist asks me what my girls can get, I quickly tell her they can have whatever they want.

I have gone from overbearing, neurotic overshadower to gross enabler akin to that drunk friend at a kegger telling you that lying on the floor while the guy pounding Kamikaze shots juggles Ginsu knives over you is a great idea (true story!).

Remember that time you got really hammered and took a shit on the engine of someone’s station wagon? No? Just me? Hmmm. Well, humor me. At the time you were kinda caught up in the moment because everyone else was doing it? But when you sobered up you realized what you had done and quickly tried to fix it before more harm was done? (Or not, in the interest of truth)

Yeah, well kinda like that, once we got back to the hotel room and I’m staring at my girls all hussied up, it was quickly bath time where I scrubbed them back to purity.

Well, going back to Paul Coffey, he scored both of the Red Wings’ goals in that fateful game as well. So I didn’t let my “team” down either. You see, the Bippity Boppity Boutique lets the princesses take their make-up home with them. It became my mission to hide the make-up somewhere in that tiny boxy hotel room and, should it be found, bar the door so that none may exit without a proper inspection of lips, eyelids and cheeks.

This was a tad more challenging with Weirdo, as she actually knows how to put on make-up (yay!). Crazy, on the other hand, applies lip gloss to her chin and eye shadow to her forehead, so…kind of a gimme, if you will.

So there you have it. That is why I am the Paul Coffey on parenting.

Hey, didn’t the Wings still lose that game 3-2 in OT despite Coffey redeeming himself by scoring two goals for his team? So, basically, no matter what you do…

Shit.

Reach Out, Reach Out and Strangle Someone

Holy shnikies! It’s a post!

Ummmm, yeah. Sorry about that, gang. You’re favorite neurotic, teetering over the precipice of full-blown alcoholism daddy of two has been the travelling.

As they say on the street, “I’ve been handlin’ my bidness.” More to the point, to quote poet laureate Jay-Z, “I’m not a businessman, I’m a business man.”

Word. Dope stuff.

I mention that I have been travelling because apparently I can never do that again. It seems when I go out of town, all hell breaks loose at home.

Dads, you leave the hen house unguarded for one godforsaken minute and I’ll be damned if the foxes don’t make themselves right at home.

So, I’m eating dinner last night, partaking in some fried chicken from the Krog’er and some smashed potatoes (because that sounds fancier than “mashed potatoes”) when the phone rings. My wife answers it and soon a puzzled look spreads across her face. Then she hands the phone to Weirdo.

WAIT JUST A DING DONG DANG MINUTE. You just hand the phone to 6-year-old? …the eff? As Weirdo immerses herself in the conversation, I am frantically gesturing at my wife, trying to figure out who is on the other end of the phone, asking to speak with my daughter.

Her answer was simple: A boy

A BOY?!?!? I’m not even going to go down the road of debating what the most potent concoction of liquor and anti-depressants is to deal with that whole scenario. Let’s get down to brass tacks here, people. Isn’t there some sort of unwritten law of nature that states the boy has to go through the father first before speaking to the daughter? Apparently my wife is not aware of this law or she just chose to ignore it.

Let me put this in perspective for my female readers (you know, the ones Googling “tampax” and were mistakenly directed to my sight – it is still one of the top search terms driving traffic): Suppose your daughter and husband went out and picked the wedding dress without you.

It’s that egregious…times 10.

Well, now that I have been robbed of the pure, unadulterated joy of licking fried chicken grease off my fingers. All I can do is hang on every word. Which, by the way, has to be reeeaaaal comfortable for Weirdo. She’s trying to have a conversation and I’m leaning in three inches from her face.

All I am able to pick up is that “maybe the day after tomorrow” she can come over and “watch a movie.”

I am eventually able to calm myself and keep the rapidly ascending bile down as I continually assure myself that “watch a movie” at age six actually involves just watching a movie.

Now the grilling begins. Who was that? What did he want? How do we know this boy?

Turns out it was “Bill” (names changed to protect the innocent, as always), a boy in Weirdo’s kindergarten, who is also her bo-

Her buh-

(I can do this)

Her b-b-b-b-b

Oh, screw you people. You know what I’m getting at.

(TANGENT: I am far too lazy to keep track of the fake names I assign the young men in my children’s lives, so the same kid could presumably have 10 different names. Just want to clarify that lest you think my daughters are whores. Thank you for indulging me.)

Yeah, so Bill, her…you know…wants her to come over Saturday afternoon and watch a movie. Essentially a date. At age 6.

And then it hits me. I remember begging my mom to call the mother of a little girl in my kindergarten class, Tennille, and asking if she could come over and play. I distinctly remember my mom calling Tennille’s mom and saying “I think we have a little love affair going on.”

So, there you go. My past, my very genes, have risen up against me. Why couldn’t it have just been Diabetes? That’s in my genes. I can deal with that. Saw off my foot. Eff it. Whatever. But being into the opposite sex at such a young age? Screw you, Darwin. You can take your Punnett square and shove it up your ass. Prick.

I wish my tale ended there, but because God hates me, it only got worse as the night progressed.

Later on Weirdo was quick to point out that Bill was not her only “friend.” There was also “Stuart” and “Bob.” At least I heard of Stuart. I’m like, “Who the hell is Bob?”

Oh, you know. Just another boy in her class. So at what point do we go all Lord of the Flies and the boys fight over her? I’d actually be for that. It would make my job easier. You ever try to cover a four wide receiver set with nine guys in the box? It can’t be done!

Then, after Weirdo and Crazy are in bed, the wife and I are going through Weirdo’s school bag. Inside it is a massive drawing of two stick figures holding hands, drawn by Weirdo, with a heart and the words “Bill” and “Weirdo.” Also contained in the bag, apparently my own private Pandora’s Box, is a drawing of a heart with the words “Bill” and “Weirdo,” this one drawn by Bill.

I don’t think I want to be sober until after Valentines Day…

Question of the Day: Not sure youre asking the right quesiton.

Man, did I do absolutely jack squat with my blog over the holidays. I mean my lazy ass couldn’t even be bothered to write a “Happy Holidays” message.

And that’s a total mail-in post.

Well folks, not a whole lot more effort getting put into this post. But I will try to make it worth your while.

So, I’m driving to work over the holidays – you know, one of those stratospheric productivity days like the day after Christmas (or “Critma,” as it is known in my household), and I get behind your standard boxy delivery truck. I took particularly good note of the truck because it was one of the nine cars I saw on the road during my hour commute to work (albeit not such good note that I could tell you what it was delivering).

Perhaps the company needs to turn up their marketing efforts…say to 11?

Anywho, what I did notice was the friendly inquiry on the back of the truck:

“Hows my driving? Call 1-800-who-gives-a-poopy.”

Really? Really? Are you sure that’s the right question to pose?

Beg your pardon, sir, but I believe a better question is, “Hows my punctuation?”

I mean seriously. Just freaking GD seriously. How does that even happen? Or perhaps I should be asking, “Hows that even happen?”

Courtesy of Penny Arcade (best Web comic, bar none)

Did no one see the apostrophe was missing? Not the owner of the company? Not the company that painted it on the truck? I guess that falls into the “not my job” category of having zero pride in your workmanship (which is an entirely separate rant that I would post here, but God knows Mrs. Off The Pole could recite it for you).

Hows your driving? Better than your level of literacy, I hope. Otherwise I’d thank you kindly to steer clear of the school bus ferrying Weirdo to and fro.

Tangent: I just wanted to say “to and fro.”

This reminds me of when I was in college (go state beat the GD bulldogs mark dantonio i love you jonny spirit is a green-skinned imbecile my liver hates me). The Clark gas stations refreshed (or “reskinned,” as the hep marketers of du jour like to say) the brand. And with that reskin, every pump had the following designation painted on it:

“Pump No.#1″

Pump number number X. That’s right: Number number.

“Can I get $20 unleaded please?” (Oh, who am I kidding? This was college. That’s Natural Ice, Faygo Moon Mist and Planters Cheeseball money, friend.)

“Can I get $5 unleaded, please?”

“What pump?”

“Number number 8, please.”

I find this even more egregious than the delivery truck, because presumably there is an entire PR and marketing team, graphic designers, C-level management and perhaps a board of directors who this reskin went through before seeing the light of day (let alone the company hired to make it so). Sounds like they needed a better designer.

Tangent: “Make it so.” That’s what Jean Luc Picard used to say to Cmdr. Riker on the Enterprise, right? “Make it so, Number 1.” Good thing Clark wasn’t fueling the reactor. Otherwise Picard would have had to order Riker to “Make it so, Number Number 1.”

Whatever. I gotta go “make it so, number 2,” if you get my drift.

Happy New Year, all!

(Yes. I’m including it in this post. Too much effort to create a whole new one.)

P.S. Spell check had a godforsaken nervous breakdown editing this post. The ubiquitous anthropomorphic Microsoft paperclip became increasingly agitated as I banged the “Ignore Rule” button incessantly as all the “No.#” and “Number Number” instances popped up.