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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!
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…
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 sh
ades 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…
(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.
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.
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…
I’m a day late, I know, but if you people aren’t used to me being an erratic (read: lazy) blogger at this point, just wow, get a clue.
So, with that in mind, I do want to step outside of my usual smarmy, sarcastic, cynical self and truly extend my sincerest thanks to everyone who reads, has subscribed to the RSS feed (hint), Dugg It (hint hint) or clicked on a link to select Off The Pole as one of their Technorati favorites (hint hint hint, people! C’mon!).
This has been quite therapeutic for me and I truly enjoy it. I’d blog more, but I really want to make each one entertaining if not interesting instead of slapping some bullshit together to meet deadlines. I don’t have all day to hang out at the Starbucks listening to shitty independent music and feeling superior, ya know.
And now, back to the mockery. Well, technically I started taking shots in the last graph. Sue me.
Here’s some stuff you all missed but I think you will enjoy.
For starters, as promised to loyal reader and commenter Trish, here is the class photo from my elementary school days:
Note the finely styled hair, the skinny leather tie and Van Heusen power pinstriped button-down shirt. My, someone was quite the up-and-coming yuppie back in the 80’s, wasn’t he? You should have seen it paired with overcoat and scarf.
Would you believe I went from this phase in my life to one of rap music and breakdancing? I am so effing cool. Probably for the best though. If I’d stayed on the wannabe Alex P. Keaton track? Wow. You think Wall Street is effed up now?
Next up, here are a few ditties from the girls over the past month:
“I never put a bone in my mouth before.” — Weirdo, Halloween 2008
Here’s one that is probably best left alone, but I have issues so I’m going to go there.
So, I’m putting up my Halloween decorations when Weirdo walks up and picks up one the many Styrofoam bones I have scattered around my witch and fogging cauldron. She asks, “Is this new?”
“No,” I reply. “You took a picture with mommy and Crazy last Halloween and you were holding one up to your mouth like you were eating it. Remember?” (Sidebar: Props to her for being a complete ass in what should have been a nice mommy-daughter-daughter Halloween photo last year.)
Puzzled look from Weirdo. “I never put a bone in my mouth before.”
Lord, grant me this one wish: May she repeat that phrase 100 years from now on her death bed.
“Oh, I like wieners.” – Weirdo, circa mid-October
So, our neighbors were on their Honeymoon and we served as cat sitters. If you have been a reader for some time, you know we are big cat people – probably to the extent of real clinical concern – and so we were all too happy to host the adorable little black kitten.
Well, because I’m such a child, one of my favorite games with the kitty was to stretch him out and make him dance around while singing “Do the wiener kitty dance! Just doing the wiener kitty dance!” much to the delight of Weirdo and Crazy.
That’s damn funny. I don’t care who you are. You can’t buy humor like that.
So Weirdo turns to my wife and asks what a wiener is. My wife explains that a wiener is a hot dog.
To which Weirdo says, “Oh, I like wieners.”
Lord, grant me this one wish: May she never repeat that phrase over the next 100 years or I will surely end up on my death bed.
And finally…
Loyal reader and linker to to my blog from her’s (godammit people, take a freaking hint already!!!), Lady Jane Scarlett, sent me the following drawing.
Allegedly, this depicts a mom who works at Home Depot and who is selling a snow shovel.
Riiiiiight. Looks to me like she’s selling a hoe (da-dum crash! Thank you. Thank you very much.) Also looks to me like someone’s daddy would have benefitted from my blog.
If only more people were helping me to build awareness…
Big shout out to frequent poster Adawg this morning. He and his wife welcomed a baby girl into the world late last night.
Well Adawg, I know you have been an avid reader and contributor to the Off The Pole blog, but I invite you to now view it as a “How To” manual (or perhaps a “How Not To” manual – not really sure how that’s all going to shake out down the road).
Anywho, while I am extremely happy for you and Mrs. Adawg, I’d really like to address your son. We’ll refer to him as “Big C” for the purpose of this blog.
Big C, I know you are not yet 3 years old, but like or not, you are the big brother. And with that title comes a great deal of responsibility.
It is now your life’s duty to defend the honor of your little sister.
If any guy’s gaze lingers on her too long, pimp slap him.
If any guy tries to talk to her, punch him in the face.
If any guy writes her a note…wait, do the kids do that anymore? Eff it. If any guy tries to text or IM her, break his GD fingers until he is ROTFWIA (rolling on the floor wailing in agony). See if that makes him LOL. Prick.
If any guy gets the audacity to ask her out, burn down his house.
If any guy so much as lays a finger on her, unleash the wrath of Christ upon him and his kin. From you black throne of cold onyx, unleash a shockwave of fury so deliterious, when he opens his maw to beg for mercy, the only thing that escapes is the noxious smoke of his charred soul as he is permanetly unshakled from the mortal plane.
Basically, until you and your father mutally agree upon the eunich to whom your little sister will be
betrothed, you are to your sister what the CIA is to the President’s daughter. If you have any questions, your father has all the answers locked up in a cabinet in your home.
So, like I way saying, welcome to the world, Baby Adawg…and for the love of God – Stay Off the Pole.
Ah, Halloween. Tis the most magical time of the year. For those of you who don’t know, I get waaaay into Halloween. I am obsessed with it. I mean so deeply obsessed I begin planning my Halloween decorations/party in July, start stressing about it in late August and get thoroughly pissed in September when I see Christmas decorations overtaking the Halloween aisles at the local store.
Side bar: Screw you, retailers. Screw you and your early Christmas.
Back to the topic at hand, I love Halloween. I literally spend the week leading up to October 31 working furiously into the wee hours of the night building decorations and baking food for my party. Then the day before and of Halloween I work about 18-20 hours each day setting up a spooky Halloween display on my front lawn and decorating my home for a party I host the neighbors at after trick-or-treating.
To borrow a phrase from Fiddy, I love Halloween like a fat kid love cake.
For Weirdo and Crazy, naturally the big excitement is choosing what they will dress up as for Halloween. For Weirdo, this changes about every 30 seconds. I mean right up until the time of purchase. It’s cute and harmless though. She wants to be a Disney Princess. She wants to be a cowgirl. She wants to be a different Disney Princess. She wants to be Barbie. She get’s to the store, she comes out as Batgirl.
WTF?
Now, I’m cool about this. I’m a guy, and I love a tea party or playing babies as much as the next red meat eating, football watching, hairy chested, action movie fan. But Weirdo wanting to be Batgirl is pretty freaking cool, right?
Wrong.
Observe the following photo so we can discuss. Take your time. I’ll wait.
Let me point of what’s wrong with this.
“Teen” comes to mind first. I’d be uncomfortable around a neighbor’s wife in this outfit (Note to wife: Green light for you though, hon. I have a couple other options I earmarked in the catalogue as well).
“Lenient parents” would be numero dos. Lenient? Really? What else falls under that category? Wine coolers? Co-ed overnight cuddle parties? A rousing game of “Just the Tip?”
Talk about a euphemism. Let me take a stab at reworking the copy for accuracy:
“Hey, does everyone basically think your daughter is a hoo-rah? Why not remove all doubt? Honestly, I mean, what do you care? Do you even know where your daughter is? Oops, hey, you dripped some mustard on your wife beater. No, I don’t think dabbing at it with a sock soaked in PBR is going to get it out. What is that smell?”
(Spirit Halloween)
Now, I got sympathy for the ladies. I realize once you hit adulthood your choice of costumes is a little lacking. Basically your menu of options consists of “Slutty (insert profession here).”
(Again, I’m not complaining!)
But does my daughter have to be subject to that? Isn’t Princess Jasmine and her bare mid-drift racy enough?
Crazy is being a cat. Not a pussycat or a Pussycat Doll or a cat in heat. Just a little kitty with little whiskers and ears. And she says “meow” every time you bring up her costume.
Adorable.
As far as Weirdo, she’s way into the ass-kicking superhero side of it, which is pretty neat. I guess the bright side is I can give her a can of Mace for her Bat Tool Belt in case Lester the Molester is lurking on his porch with a bowl of Bit-O-Honies.
If nothing else, he should get Maced for handing out that shitty candy. Seriously, who the eff eats that crap?
Happy Halloween!
Ahhh genetics. Aren’t they adorable? Sure! Of course they are when you are crossing the red flower with the white one in the Punnet Square…I think you get a couple pink ones when they, you know, do it.
I aced Biology as a lad. I’m not bragging. I’m just saying.
Anywho, so as an innocent young boy attending the daily garten that is kinder, my eyes fell upon a spirited lass with red hair braided in pigtails, and soon I found myself smitten. Yes, the Cootie fad common among my peers at that age (the lice-like infestation, not the upstanding Hasbro game that has been adored for generations) was completely foreign to me.
I’ve been down with hoes the ladies since day 1. That’s just how I roll.
So although on recess I would play “wrestle” and “fight” and dodgeball” and “kickball” and “guns” and every other game banned during the pussification of America, I’m not going to lie, I’d engage in a little bit of “chase” with the honies.
So, over dinner the other night, I asked Weirdo how school was and what she did (because I am an upstanding father and I think I once saw a PSA involving rapping parents that alluded to such interaction with your offspring keeping them away from “the weed”).
And as is generally the case, sans “I went outside” and “I played,” she has zero recollection of anything that took place within those hallowed halls of learning. But, alas, on this one evening, the details of her daily activities were more, shall we say, robust than most.
It seems Weirdo spent her recess chasing her friend “Betty’s” (name changed because getting sued over of shitty blog post sucks) brother. Now, she’s a girl and girls are prone to show an interest in boys at an earlier age, but did it have to start in kindergarten?
I’m a pretty easy going guy, and I know I can drink away the demons of fatherhood if need be, so I take it in stride as I saw through my pork chop, straight through the plate and into the table top.
But then the kicker came in:
Me: “Oh, and who is Betty’s brother?”
Weirdo: “Paul” (see above re: name change)
Me: “Paul, huh?”
Weirdo: “Yeah. He’s two years older.”
You wannabe pimp SOB, Paul.
I’m watching you.
Oh how the people are regaling me with their tales of mirth