Mankind as we know it officially died today. Thanks, England! Like bad teeth and mayonnaise for french fries weren't bad enough. Now this travesty?
A couple things. First of all, the studio is “Make Me Fabulous.” I’ve said a lot of things about how your typical stripper looks and “fabulous” does not even sniff the top 25 adjectives in that repertoire.
Not that I’ve been to a lot of strip clubs (ahem). Strictly for blog research, I assure you.
Oooooh! Looky here! Shiny!
Now, what we were we discussing? Oh, yeah. Not what you think we were…
Secondly, this: “the studio advertises pole dancing as ‘sexy, relaxing and invigorating.’” Great googly moogly! Who is the H-E-double-hockey-sticks sees this and is like, “Eff yeah. That’s what I want for my 3-year-old. I”m all about that shit. Lemme cut a check ASAP. Sex up my baby fo’ shizzle.” I mean, how effing stressed out is your toddler? Can’t you just introduce them to smoking like your run-of-the-mill trailer trash?
Also, double negatives.
Thirdly, this: “…holding their legs in a V-shape while sliding down a pole.” Not only did I just die a little inside, every innocent memory of my childhood was just “unwanted touched” and burned with an unfiltered cigarette.
The instructor protests that she is “not a scumbag.” On, no? Ok, I’ll play along, but mayhap you should just start handing out scumbags (psst… that’s slang for “condom”) to your students, cuz, well, if they’re already pole dancing at seven…
This is why you hug your daughters every single day and tell them how special they are. You don’t want to be on the posting bail side of this situation.
Color me dubious, but I highly doubt the knife set at said house is anywhere near as nice as that in the clipart.
I also sooooo love the tags: arrested, knives, pregnant teen. It’s like playing the home version of “Taboo: High School Drop-Outs” edition.
And then there’s this:
Go here for more hilarity -- http://some.ly/gRN7Wf -- then decide to laugh, cry or laugh so hard you cry.
So is this the new thing for middle aged white dudes? Have I stumbled upon the latest iteration of the proverbial mullet?
Yesterday while on my quick 53.5 mile commute to work, something peculiar caught my eye. So, there’s this guy, all suit and tie and slicked-back cocksure hair in his shiny Cadillac SRX.
Yup. That’s right. The one that’s a *station wagon*
Yes, he’s Mr. Professional. He’s got a career in overdrive, a luxury car, and a six-figure paycheck. He’s all business. But, wait a minute…what’s that? What did I see back there poking out of the trailer hitch? Is that…nooooo. Well, I’ll be dipped in shit. Gollllly. It is a Harley Davidson hatch cover on the back of this straight laced, professional yuppie mobile.
"Yeah. I'm born to run. Shit! @#$&* pothole made me spill my latte all over the TPS reports."
You know what. I bet this guy is a three martini freaking barrel of monkeys after some racquetball. Oh, boy. Just wait until Roger is “off the clock!”
So, instead of the wash-and-go mullet we now have the three layers of the modern business man:
Layers. Kinda like Shrek.
If this truly is the new mullet, I long for the days of Billy Ray Cyrus.
Before there was ever a party in the USA, the Cyrus family was known for parties in the back. Never forget.
So, Crazy Girl, at the wizended age of 5, has it all figured out. If you’ve ever met the girl, she’s a pint-sized, iron-willed creature when she wants to be. And once she’s made a decision, by God, she’s made it, and damn whomever thinks they can change her mind.
A commendable character trait for an independent adult. A real pain in the ass for parents.
That being said, the other day Crazy came home to declare that she is going to marry a certain lad in her class. Shortly thereafter it was declared said young man would sire my grandchildren.
Not so bad. I can take news of that nature from a 5 year old without therapy or illegally obtained pills. Pretty much a stiff quarter barrel of clear liquor does the trick.
That should do for starters.
Well, move it along a few weeks and Crazy comes home from school to declare that she took the lad aside and informed him that he was going to marry her and be the daddy or her babies. What’s more, he agreed.
Now, my first reaction, other than, “You did — wait, what the f…ohmygodohmygodohmygod…I can’t deal with this right now…<jams fingers in ears> ahhyahyahyahyahyahyahyah…I am not listening to Jeffrey…” was one of a sort of ill-conceived pride. Damn right, I was thinking. That’s my girl. Pick one guy, tell him what the deal is, and, BAM!, lock that shit down. No need for all those other assholes to come around trying to spit game.
Sidebar: Yes, I have young daughters. I have seen more episodes of “That’s So Raven” then I care to stop suppressing the memories of. Like you haven’t (<– Inside joke. Yay!).
The forward girl. The girl that walks up to a guy and tells him exactly what is what.
I know that girl. I’ve been approached by that girl. Hell, time was, I liked that girl. At a kegger, I actively sought that girl. It made things so less complicated.
Also, if she throws herself all into this dude, sure it’s cute now but what about when she’s 13? Or 18? Or 22? What if the guy doesn’t feel the same way and leads her on? What if he treats her like shit because he knows she’ll always be there? What if I miss her wedding to an actual good guy because I’m serving 15 to life in Jackson State Prison for taking a tire iron to the dude that strung her along and made her cry?
On the plus side, I would be a folk hero to every inmate with a daughter, so anal rape should be at a minimum.
I suppose the good news is this kid Crazy is, err, crazy for basically appears to be a good kid, which is not to say I haven’t been tempted to jab a finger in his direction from across the playroom at school and administer a “you watch your ass, son” look. And it’s not like they’re actually going to get married, right?
Now for a very special Valentines Day edition of the Off the Pole blog. And by special, I mean I am writing this while dressed in a diaper and holding a short bow. A tad bit nipply considering the weather, but I demand fealty to themes and traditions…
The other day while Weirdo was off at a sleepover, the wife and I decided to make Valentines Day sugar cookies with Crazy. With a couple tubes of dough and an assortment of thematic cookie cutters and sprinkles, we got down with the rolling, cutting, decorating and baking.
After cutting out and decorating our delectable assortment of hearts, double hearts, smaller hearts inside of bigger hearts, and L’s, O’s, V’s and E’s — and realizing we had the world’s least creative collection of themed cookie cutters — wifey surveyed the remaining dough and decided to get creative.
Now, I love my wife, as she is rife with a myriad of admirable qualities. Artistry is not one of them.
By a long shot.
And lest you think I am speaking out of school, she will freely admit it.
So, armed with extra dough, wifey decided to craft an arrow penetrating a few of the single heart-shaped cookies. You know, so it would look like this:
Unfortunately, they came out of the oven looking like this:
Do you see it? It looked like this:
Not horrified yet? Let’s try one more time:
If you see a throbbing phallus penetrating a heart like some maniacal necrophiliac broke into a high school biology lab, you share my horror. If you don’t yet, this ain’t one of the pictures where if you stare hard enough a dolphin suddenly appears jumping over a effing sailboat, people. That shit is in your face like your asshole friends shame sketched it on your forehead after you made one too many trips to the keg o’ cheapest swag available.
As background, I freaking LOVE cookies and milk. Every other dessert can pretty much cease to exist as if some confectionary Hunger Wars type shit went down and only one “mom, I cleared my plate” reward goodie emerged from the bakery oven Thunderdome. I don’t love cookies and milk like a fat kid loves cake. I love cookies and milk like Charlie Sheen loves hookers and blow. Are you feeling me?
Sidebar: Two Charlie Sheen/coke jokes in one day. I know, I’ve gone to that well more times than Charlie Sheen’s name appears in Heidi Fleiss’ little black book. SHAZAM! The trifecta, suckas!!! … … … … Ahem. Moving along…
Imagine the scene of me peeling open that Tupperware (is that a proper noun? Wait, I don’t care), the anticipation simmering within me, anxiously waiting to dip a cookie into a cold, cold, cold glass of milk (I religiously stick to the 8-count as how long to submerge the cookie before eating it), and on top of the pile of within that container is…the penis cookie.
What’s the first thing that goes through my head? That I might vomit uncontrollably if I see one of my girls put that phallus-shaped snack into their mouth. NO.
No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!
So like a freak, I quickly snatch it from the container and hide it under a napkin. I’m dead effing serious. That’s how neurotic I am about this B.S.. Then after we have finished dessert, I sneak the penis cookie away to my office and snap the penis head off.
Much better.
I did this without a wince or flinch. Let me speak to the fellas out there. When you see something like this…
… you instantly wince, right? Mayhap reflexively shield, or cup (I don’t judge), your genitalia? Not this time. I hacked that shizzle off like it the head of a poisonous snake ready to strike.
I get that I have issues, and that I am probably in need of professional help, but I gotta do what I gotta due to keep my babies pure.
Too bad we hadn’t made the cookies a few weeks back though. I totally could have entered the Penny ArcadeDickerdoodle contest.
Postscript: I spelled “necrophiliac” correctly on the first try, but Tupperware I effed up. I’m a wreck.
I think 90 percent of the trauma and drama (llama baby mama chicken shawarma) in my life happens at my dinner table. With as much bad shit that goes down there, you’d think I wouldn’t be such a fat ass because I would willingly skip meals.
I’ll have you know I’m a fat ass because I live a sedentary lifestyle, thank you very much.
So, anyhow, I am sitting – what? I can’t just gloss over the fact that I haven’t written a blog post in a year? (sigh) Ok, fine. Let me get you up to speed.
I’m older, more out of shape and, because good things come in threes, losing my hair. Weirdo is a year older and therefore developed that fine Christian trait known as shame of one’s own nudity (gift horse, I look not in thy mouth). Crazy has become self-aware and is tactically eroding the sanity of her mother and me with her iron will. As for Mrs. Off the Pole, talking about her on this blog pretty much guarantees me I won’t get laid for a very long time, so let’s just say she’s fine, fancy and free, and leave it at that, shall we?
May I continue now, pricks?
So, I’m sitting at dinner with the fam. Crazy is seated to my left (and by seated, I mean she’s standing on her chair…because that’s what she does). Next to her plate is a small pile of almonds.
Suddenly Crazy picks up two almonds, a euphoric expression spreads across her face and she swishes wistfully back and forth as she places them on her chin.
Almonds are a healthy way to control your appetite...and a very unhealthy way to make your father lose his.
In shock, I turn to my wife and exclaim – no, demand, “Why is she putting nuts on her chin?” I do this not only because, umm, well, NO. Not my babies. But also because I tried pulling off that little joke once (“Look, hon. My nuts are on your chin.” Tee hee, tee hee) and let’s just say after that my “nuts” didn’t go anywhere near her for a spell.
Tangent: Anyone have a line on just how long a “spell” technically is? How about its duration in relation to a “coon’s age?”
I am horrified, but my wife simply explains that Crazy “loves her almonds so she’s giving them a hug.”
I bullshit you not. She is giving her almonds a hug.
Now, this should have been adorable….had it been with Chicken McNuggets or green beans or goddam pecan pie (and, yes, pecan pie should be damned by God), but nuts? That’s just too effing weird for me to find the innocent cuteness in it.
Add it to my list of hang-ups…which add to my hangovers.
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!
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.
Oh how the people are regaling me with their tales of mirth