Archive for December, 2009

Paternal Hubris Beget Respiratior

December 22, 2009

View From the Top of Suicide Hill

So while I was shoveling out all the old ladies and uncovering fire hydrants after the “Blizzard of 2009” (two days ago) my wife took my child “sledding.”  That’s a pretty cool thing for a mom to do, right?  Problem is the mom took the kid to a fucking baby hill: Mansion Hill.  It’s a place where parents do more pushing and pulling in an effort to introduce children the concept of snow and sledding and gravity.  It should be called “learn to sled.”

As a father I was embarrassed that my child was trying to sled down a 5 degree slope with a bunch of toddlers and haus fraus with digital cameras.  I mean I’ve already called the kids her age at Mansion Hill “overprotected retards.”  Now my kid is a retard.  This will not stand.

So the wife had to go to work yesterday (we encourage that, believe me).  It was a snow day for the school kids.  I decided we were going to sled and conquor Suicide Hill.  I mean, it’s just a name, right?  I promised her that we were “going to have fun if it kills us” on this 100 yard run, 30 degree slope (compare sled tracks in images for scale).  Sure there is a slight possibility that you could sled into a freezing lake but those chances are slim.   What could go wrong?

We’re Now Having Dad Fun, Dammit!

I’m a gentleman and a very protective father, so I went first.  It was really fucking fun!  And scary.  And fast!  If I liked it, she’d LOVE it!  That was my reasoning in action.  I’m a logical fellow.  I figured that she’d go a whole lot slower given her tiny weight.

The first time she wiped pretty good.  But came out smiling and declared that it was her turn again.  Fine.  See?  What could go wrong?

When she crashed on her second run (see image above) at about 30 MPH in a crack-thud of white powder and immediately SCREAMED “aghh, daddy, my baaaccCCKKKK!!!” I thought I had a Christopher Reeve on my hands.  I was already scouting where the helicopter should land for medical evacuation.  Then I did the ABSOLUTELY WRONG thing and picked her up and hugged her (her new glasses filled with snow like some weird white cataracts).  This is where the paralysis happens; the pick up.  Fuck me!

I dragged her home on the sled and she complained of back pain, sobbing and hating and getting her story set for therapy twenty years from now – how her father ruined her life.  When we got home she said, “should we tell mom?”  My instinct was to not tell shit but I’ve learned after 11.5 years of marriage to tell everything early and often.  We called the mom (no assistant answering today, straight to the mom).  She grew up in central NY and was all, “yeah, you crash on sleds…can you wiggle your toes?  Then you’re OK.  Put your father on.”

I’ve been instructed to not take out only child to Suicide Hill anymore.  I figure we’ll try next year.

Later that day, the child had me take her to Mansion Hill.  I did it because it would prove she was OK.  Fuck, man…parenthood is humbling.  Retard father – retard child.  It takes a mope to grow a mope.  I was pushing and pulling as giggling moms and slobbering toddlers acted like snow was the best thing since the indoor toilet.

My child survived Suicide Hill.  She survived her father, this time.  Scared the fuck out of me though.  Today is another snow day.  And she’s milking it too.  I’m not the guilty type but she’s completely honed-into my regret over this deal and is dragging me by the dad-balls.  I gave her chocolate chip cookies for breakfast.  Makes me bring her the remote and shit like she’s some goddamn invalid now.

But, at least she isn’t.



December 17, 2009

He’s looking out the dot in his neck. Now it’s a guy with a kangaroo hat on his head and some  round, red mesh over his face. It’s no longer a magical creature that everyone loves. Shit, he’s not even that tall.

I went to Yo Gabba Gabba recently and even got to hang out backstage but as soon as I realized they were all looking out of their mouths, I couldn’t look at them. I think 90% of kid’s favorite people are just guys in a suit looking out of the mouth hole. As soon as I told my son that, he had a breakdown. This morning he asked me if Santa is just looking out the mouth hole. I had to tell him the truth.

The Happy House-Husband

December 7, 2009

NSFW: Negligent Shithead – Female Working

I am a simple man.  Not Mennonite simple but simple for a modern city man in Barack Hussein’s 21st century New America.  Once you strip away all the time devoted to making art, my clients’ needs, my angels who require “maintenance”, and all the duties associated with raising and educating the kid, my wife is the very first person on my to-do list.  I know you think that that 5% of my life is only a tiny morsel, but I am 100% devoted to that 5%.  She deserves the very best!  Well, I kid…not really.

You see, once you peel back those layers, I’m just an everyday house-husband.  I’m in charge of the home (is the term “homemaker” still available because that sounds a lot like “home builder”?).  For example, just the other day: I paid the plumber that I scheduled to visit after I found the leak after I went to retrieve the plunger after my 7 year-old clogged a toilet.  Apparently it had been leaking for a while.  Mission accomplished like a motherfucker.

Remember on Bewitched when either of the Darrins came home and Samantha would have the house all cleaned, dinner made and a drink at the ready?  That’s like my life, but in reverse (and without the performance enhancement of witchcraft).  Well minus the house cleaning part too (there are people I pay for that); and the drink part since she doesn’t drink…I usually have that in the form of about 4 ozs. of beer.  But I have a hot meal ready every single day.  And fortunately I can pick up take-out if I’m too beat from housework to cook.  Sometimes I have special nights where we all go out!  I guess my closest similarity with Bewitched is the cast of witches and warlocks who visit me during the day when the breadwinner is at her office.  But other than that, I’m worked like a mule.

Oh, and I go grocery shopping.  That’s right!  In fact, I know all people at the grocery store.  Marcy at the “Solutions Counter” with the running joke about being “fresh out of solutions.”  Brian, whom I HAVE TO discuss sports with (to the point that I have to read the sports section or go online before I go to the store so I can say something).  But I’m mostly just bluster.  And then there’s Pete.  He’s uh, what’s the PC term now?  Pete’s the retard kid who collects the carts.  Pete is keen on discussions about the weather.

Then there’s the dilemma over which of the three coffee shops with fast WiFi to pick from, which house moms to gossip with, and so as you can see, my days are chock full of domestic duties.  Just today I had to change two tiny light bulbs in the range over the stove.  Range?  is that what that’s called?  As a house-husband I’m more hopeful than desperate, however.  I get shit done.

Our biggest conflict arises when my wife is home.  Weekday mornings, weekday afternoons, and dreaded weekends.  Oy fuck!  I’m a TGIM kind of motherfucker for reals.  Thank God It’s Monday is my religion.  We have ourselves a Role Reversal 101 in here.  She tries so hard to “help out” and “participate” in the business of running this house and raising this child, but she’s just not cut out for it.  Suddenly she thinks she can just pop-in and help with homework?  The kitchen?  Nigga please!  THE KITCHEN?!  BITCH PLEASE!!  I have it under control, OK?!  I don’t wander into her office all telling her how to perform her corporate duties!  All touching stuff and moving stuff and…God!  And all in the name of “helping.”  I have healthy boundaries.  We should maintain our roles.  A woman’s place is in the office.

So I’m here to offer the following tips to my fellow Dad Homies.  Mostly it’s a way to keep the old fem-crabs cool so we can continue to “support the homefront” like the champs we are (or continue to bullshit our way into continued goofing off all day…working from home):

10 Household Tips for the Modern Househusband

1.  Have dinner ready.  Even if it’s totally shitty or take-out, at least have napkins and tableware ready.  Never use the take-out napkins.  Fuck the environment. KFC napkins only make her realize that she could’ve brought this home her damn self.  Set a table.

Make it appear that your effort was well-intentioned and tender.  Practice makes perfect.  Soon you can do it while you IM your pals.  I’m “cooking dinner” right now. Boil faster water!

2.  Clear away clutter
.  That is, don’t leave evidence of your day’s activities.  It’s annoying and it’s…anonoying!  Put away paraphernalia, guitars, porn, and snack wrappers.  Throw your nasty clothes into the hamper, etc.

3.  Get yourself ready.  Brush your teeth before the old lady comes home, at least.  Take off your hat.  One word:  Listerine®!  One more: Visine®!  Take a shower even if it is already 5:00 in the afternoon.  She shouldn’t come home to you smelling Swiss or anything.

4.  Do not greet her with your problems or complaints.  She doesn’t care.  She works, jerkwad!  Somebody leaving flyers in your mailbox doesn’t count as a valid complaint.  How people park is not a valid complaint.  Shut the fuck up.

5.  Keep it quiet.  Turn off your shitty music that you know she hates.  Women do not like Frank Zappa.  You don’t have to put on her shitty music.  Just turn yours off.  She’s been on the subway for 3 hours today, give her a break. Soundgarden isn’t that break.

6.  Make her comfortable
. Move your PSP off the chair or something.  Quit farting.  Turn off the TeeVee.  Move your “latest masterwork project” from the kitchen table or living room floor.  She doesn’t give a shit.  Seriously, she doesn’t.  She just wants to sit the fuck down.

7.  Listen to her.  This is the hardest one, but you have to try it.  She’s gonna crab out about everything.  All kinds of stupid shit too.  Nod and smile.  Nod and look “empathetic.”  I know, it totally sucks, but at least look her way and say, “uh-huh” every paragraph or so.  Pretend she’s talking about you or something.  Notexting.

8.  Tame the kids.  Chill them mopetards the fuck out.  The last thing you need is for the kids to rat your ass out or annoy the mother.  She going to declare your “living situation experiment” a complete failure if the kids are fucking assholes.  Bribe!  Bribe!  Bribe the little motherfuckers.  At least do something to wear their silly asses out.

9.  Make the evening hers.  Ha-ha!  I know, that’s really dumb and so weak but you have to totally pretend that this is her time.  I know, I laughed typing that.  At least do it until you can chill out in front of the TeeVee and watch 30 Rock with a beer once the kids are asleep.  Fuck, remember:  THIS IS THE HARDEST PART!  THIS IS YOUR LIFE’S WORK!

10. REMEMBER YOUR GOAL:  Make her forget that you’re all “making art” all day.  Don’t let her dwell on the nude young models in your house or the “oregano” your “bandmates” left.  Your job is for her to believe that you scrubbed a toilet, cooked a pot roast, and washed the kids asses.  Play along to get along.  Take out the trash and clean the litter box too.  She’ll love you forever.


December 6, 2009

There are a group of soccer hooligans who hang out at my deli all day harassing customers. It’s as confusing as it is scary. Don’t these kids have jobs? Why are British thugs hanging around a Bodega in Brooklyn? I would ask them myself if I had the courage.

The worst of these bullies is a particularly ornery man who calls himself “Big Wullie.” He is constantly calling me names and knocking stuff out of my hands. When I shaved my beard he yelled, “Look everyone, a gay worm” and his cronies roared with laughter. I’ve threatened to call the police numerous times and all he does is laugh. When I took this photo of him he said, “Oooh, what are you going to do, blog me?” I told him the photo was for police purposes. It makes me sick to my stomach to admit he’s right. I’m too cowardly to do anything but take his endless abuse. I’m so ashamed.


December 2, 2009


(Izzy, the burger, and the #1 dad)

I’m having lunch with my son Izzy at this diner in Park Slope because I’ve decided he’s going to make a crafty Birthday card for his mom (he didn’t contribute one felt letter) and the only craft store around is in Park Slope. We’ve taken the day off because he’s sort of sick and I get to take care of him. Which is fine, because he doesn’t seem all that sick minus the hot forehead and occasional elbow cough. We’re eating lunch when these two guys come in and sit down behind me. One is older and is either a cop, a foreman or in the mob. Or both. Or all three. He’s pretty animated and he’s got a thick LI or Brooklyn accent. He likes the spice on the burger. “What is the SPICE on this? I mean I love it. Just neva had a burger like this.” I’m assuming the guy with him is his partner.

I’ve been chatting with Izzy throughout lunch about this/that and it’s time to get the check. Certainly nothing out of the norm. Occasionally, I space out and consider grabbing the NY Post sitting on the counter like any other normal dad. But that would be rude so we chat. I give the waiter my card and Izzy asks why. Which is normal because he asks “why” about 25 times a day (much less than his 2.5 year old brother who asks why about 100 times that). But this isn’t one of those “why did those fireman die in 9/11?”[1] or “why are there rainbows?” [2] type “why” questions. It’s a pretty straightforward one. It’s a credit card and it’s how I pay for things I don’t need. Pretty simple really. He takes it so they can charge me for the 1/4 of the burger you ate. I guess this Dorothy Parkensian conversation finally got to the big guy behind us, because he goes, “That your kid?” and I’m like “Uh, yeah (mind racing with possible never responses).”

“Because, it’s not often you hear a dad talk to his kid like that.” He’s being nice but it’s fucking offensive. Then he introduces me to the guy sitting with him as HIS 24 year old son. And he says it gets better. The older they get the less you have to deal with them. And I’m thinking JESUS FUCKING CHRIST; I can’t imagine how little attention you must’ve paid to your son make you think that a father sporadically talking to his son was a potential kidnapping in progress.

So we pay up. I’m putting Izzy’s jacket on and I wipe his ketchup face, I mean he’s still five and sort of sick, I’m helping out, Christ. Then #1 Dad asks me if I’m a SINGLE DAD!!!

And I tell him, I am now. His mother/my wife and his younger sister were killed in a car crash six weeks ago, and this was the first time we’ve gone out.

I didn’t, but COME THE FUCK ON!! I couldn’t tell if he was trying to compliment me or emasculate me. Is paying attention to your child on a one-on-one lunch this fucking out of the ordinary? Certainly not in Park Slope. He’s lucky I wasn’t breast-feeding him.

Of course I puss out and I laugh when he asks me if I’m a single dad and we joke that I’m not and I’m not normally this nice to the kid. He just caught me in a moment of weakness.

The End

[1] Because four guys flew two planes into the World Trade Center and it caught on fire and collapsed. Always a fun one to answer. That’s the abridged version.

[2] I have absolutely no idea.


December 1, 2009

About two decades ago a guy got horny for some random chick in a bar and then YOU came out of her cunt. How random is that? It’s randomonium. Who is this fucking old man in a bathrobe that gave you your DNA? Here’s 10 things that sketch you out about him.

Let’s get this thing out of the way first. What the fuck is with your dad’s dick? It’s a cylinder. Is that what happens to your dick after you beat it off 16,000 times? I don’t want to have a weird Coke can hanging out of my pubes when I get old. Shit.

Ew, your dad beats his meat. When he’s sure he’s alone, he puts in some weird VHS tape that has a corny gangbang scene and he beats off. Does he cum in a tissue? Where does he put it? Ew, your dad cums in a tissue.

I mean, it sucks that his parents died and you’re probably going to cry when he dies but that doesn’t make him crying any less weird. A big, salty, wet, tear crawled out of his wrinkly eyes and slid down his face into his beard. Your dad cried, dude. He sobbed. He was blubbering and your mom held him.

After he eats a bad oyster, the defecation feels like Braveheart being disemboweled. Shit is ripped out of his ass into the bowl so hard, and he can feel it in his chest. Holy shit does your dad ever have diarrhea.
By the way, what is with that weird toothpastey shit smell he leaves in the bathroom after he’s done? Did a million dead Africans murder a rat in there using mints? Gross.

Even if he wanted to tell you about this he couldn’t because he doesn’t remember a thing. He stumbled to his car, fumbled with his keys, poured himself into the front seat and weaved his way home. He probably hit a dog, he MAY have hit a kid. We’ll never know. Your dad puts about seven lives in jeopardy every time he goes to a bar.

This is probably good news in your twisted, shitty books. They went down to once a month in their 30s but by the time 40 hit, it was barely once a year. Now it’s none. He’s still horny though. What does he do about it? See #2. That’s why #1 looks the way it does.

Someone bawled out your dad. They yelled. They said, “Jesus Fucking Christ -” then they put his name at the end. He just sat there and took it too because he knew he was wrong. He did blow that account. Weird. Someone tore your dad a new ass.

Back in the 70s, when everyone was digging free love, he had a thing with that family friend that you know really well (the mom bought you Electronic Battleship). They both did. Your mom Frenched that dude with the black hair and your dad felt Rhoda’s tits. They were super wasted and they never talked about it ever again but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It did.

This isn’t so weird because he was only a baby but it went down so there’s no use denying it.

He pretends he doesn’t give a shit who Sleigh Bells are and he rolls his eyes every time you say “Like” but sometimes he looks at you guys and thinks, “I remember having enthusiasm for bullshit like that. Fuck. I don’t care about anything anymore. All I want is a six-pack. You could leave me alone in an abyss of blackness but if I wasn’t cold and I had a beer, I’d be happy. A chair? Yeah, I’d like to have a chair too but if there wasn’t one there, I wouldn’t care. I’d just sit on whatever the abyss calls ‘a floor.’ Look at these kids. They barely get hangovers. They fuck and do drugs and they don’t have a care in the world. What I would give to be them just for a day. I’d even be my daughter I don’t care. I’d have tits and wear tight jeans. What the fuck is the matter with me? Am I gay?”
Your dad thinks shit like that.

You’ll be old enough to handle it and it’s not going to come out of nowhere but one day, he will be lying there, deceased. His face will be all wizened and empty looking and there will be no life left in it. And then, that’s it. Your dad’s dead. So you better get over all this other bullshit and love his ass off while you can because one day, there will be no dad and you’ll miss that stupid asshole.