Move it Dumb-%*&!

Yep that’s me. I’m that guy. I’m the guy driving 40 miles per hour in a 40 M.P.H. top speed zone. Have you ever tried this? Have you ever tried going the actual speed limit for any length of time? The answer is yes for most people, but the longer you do it, the more you realize how impatient Americans really are.

People ride your ass like a G.I. in Thailand when you go the speed limit…pissed as they mouth the words, “Move it you dumb-f*&K.

Why would I ever drive the speed limit you ask? Is it because I have two young boys in the car 75% of the time? No this is not the answer, but it should be. The reason I am driving Mrs. Daisy everyday is because of the American economic recession.

“Recession – the general slowdown in economic activity in a country over a sustained period of time, or a business cycle contraction. Production as measured by Gross Domestic Product (GDP), employment, investment spending, capacity utilization, household incomes and business profits all fall during recessions.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Recession

You know what else falls during a recession? The city’s profits from sales taxes. To mitigate the monetary loss from decreased sales taxes the cities in the metro Denver area have tripled the number of speed traps.

The fuzz’s “Put the heat on” campaign has resulted in $500.00 of revenue to the city out of my F-ing checking account. 2 tickets in 2 months.

I have had 3 tickets since I began driving in 1991, nearly 18 years ago. I had 1 ticket from 16 yrs old until 30. Maybe I was just lucky. At the tender age of 34 I now have 3.

Again maybe I was lucky, but I think not. My take is that cops used to be happier. They used to get raises every year, they used to make gains on their property like everyone else, and they used to not have their sergeant on their asses 24/7 asking them why they haven’t written more tickets!

I have been pulled over for speeding during periods of economic prosperity. During those time-periods I was left off with a warning. Now comes my warning….If you speed, and you get pulled over, you are getting a ticket. If you are a woman you better have a hell of a lot more in your bag of tricks than a nice smile and some cleavage. They don’t care…they want your $$$.

P.S. It is tax day tomorrow, I sent another $500.00 to the government, after paying thousands of dollars already this year. Hopefully that will but some more radar guns. YIPPEE!!!!!

“The Mimicker is Hilarious-ing!”

My 5 year old son and I often play the mimicker. The name of the game is obvious. One person speaks, the other mimics. I know, I know it is juvenile behavior that I should refrain from teaching my children, but I can’t help myself.

Tonight my son, in a pathetic attempt to divert my attention from making him go to bed, started in on the mimic-er. I said, “Common, let’s go, get moving.” He said, “Common, let’s go, get moving.” I said, “Oh the mimicker!” He said, “Oh the mimicker!” We then bantered back and forth till I outwitted him, reversed the mimic-er (because I have a way grander intellect than any snot-nosed offspring-o mine) and off to bed he went.

This game led me to think about our life of imitating. We begin very early in life imitating others. In our early years we imitate our parents in a variety of ways. We imitate their speech, the way they eat, the way they walk, their routines, everything they do, we imitate it. We mimic them. Most people call this learning, but really it is imitation.

The action of copying people carries over into adulthood. We copy those we think are successful, those who are good at sports, those who are enlightened, etc. Hell…I even copied the Mimic-er game from friends who did it in college.

I have spent much of my life trying to become a better person through the art of mimicry. I watch those I think are successful at work and act like them to try to ascend the corporate latter, I observe successfully wealthy people, and try to invest like them, I see good parents and attempt to mold myself to be like them, and it goes on and on. This is an evolving part of becoming a better you.

Then all at once, you find yourself mimicking a child, and you soon realize that they are the ones who have it all right. They don’t give two squirrel’s nuts about wealth, climbing the corporate ladder, molding oneself to reach a higher level, etc. They don’t care about these things because they are already there. They reside on this higher plane, this ascended level we strive for, the one they tell you about in church. All children have the Art of Ascension for Dummies memorized. We all have it as kids, and the world slowly tugs the book from our grasp and buries it deep in the ground next to Jimmy Hoffa.

Prior to the mimicker game this evening, my son asked me to play “patty-cake” with my feet. I was able to make it through 1 whole game of “patty-cake patty-cake baker’s man” with my crusty Barney Rubble feet. My wife participated and found it quite amusing because this exercise was excruciating to my flabby stomach that wished that I’d mimic some ripped ultimate fighter on a more frequent basis.

F-it! I’d much rather play some patty cake with my feet and drink a beer than mimic some douche-bag with ripped abs, although I’m still slightly jealous. Stop mimicking me you douche-bags!

Nobody Wants to Get Caught with Their Pants Down

Have you ever been caught with your pants down? People throw the phrase around in jest periodically in reference to embarrassing situations.

Maybe your friend caught you in a little fib about where you really were on a given night. You told your buddy you couldn’t hang with him because you had to watch your kids. Really you didn’t have the kids, you just didn’t have the energy to hang with him and carry all his baggage around with you from Bar to Bar. Then he walks in and sees you with several mutual friends drinking...caught with your pants down!

Regardless of the situation, you just don’t want to be caught with your trousers (and under-roos I might add) around your ankles.

Getting to the brass tax and essence of the phrase “getting caught with your pants down,” Have you ever actually been caught with yo knickers round yo ankles, or even better yet…with no knickers at all?

For example, how would you feel if someone lurched through the door with a camera and snapped a picture of you while peacefully leaving a nice poop in the toilii? You wouldn’t like it too much is the unequivocal answer.

What would you do? Would you yell and scream, would you sit there calmly, would you attack the paparazzi? You probably have never pondered this situation, because it is odd and obscure at the same time, but I’ll tell you one thing, when a person is on the toilet, and you barge in on them camera in hand, the wrath of a 1000 demons crosses the threshold in an instant.

Have you ever been caught with your warm-ups on the locker-room floor? Let’s hear it!

A Short Trip to Inappropria

This week I went to the funeral of my half-brother and half-sister’s great aunt. I took the day off work for this. She was a lively, friendly and caring person, and I am glad I went, however, at this sad event I encountered a place I like to call Inappropria.

After the funeral, my extended family held a luncheon in honor of “Aunt Margaret" and her fiery-red hair. It was your typical post-funeral eat-in. People gravitating to sit at the table in their “safe place,” awkwardly avoiding those they don’t know.

At this luncheon, they served up a little booze, a little wine, and a little beer. To avoid the place I call Inappropria, you should only have “a little” bit of the alcohol.

My half-brother and half sister’s second cousin (I know this is complicated), “Buzz” proceeded to hit the hard stuff. After approximately 3 scotch and waters, Buzz crossed over from his “safe place” and began conversing with my mother, Janet.
Buzz began to tell my mother how beautiful she was at her wedding. I have seen pictures of my mother at her 1st wedding to my half-brother and half-sister’s father, Ronnie, and indeed she was beautiful. Buss went on to describe how great an experience this wedding was at the tender age of 6. All of this conversation was held in Appropriate-Land. No issues here in Appropriate-Land, just pleasant conversation.

Then, all of the sudden, Buzz went there. Buzz saddled up his horse and leapt over the fence into Inappropria. Buzz spewed the following line into the universe, “Janet, when I saw you that day of your wedding, I gotta tell you, I thought to myself, I don’t know what Ronnie is gonna do, but I know what I’d do!”

WTF!?

Did you seriously just say you wanted to have sex with my mother at a funeral luncheon?

My mother’s reply was, “Oh you…” My reply was, “WOW!” My 25 year old nephew’s reply was also, “WOW!” We were both taken aback by this comment, and if this comment would have been made any other place, besides a funeral luncheon, I would have told good old Buzz that he was inappropriate, and that he just dragged my family and I into a dirty and weird back-alley we didn’t wanna go.

What was so funny and ironic about this character you ask? Buzz was the guy who says all the Catholic responses half-a-second earlier and louder than everybody else in Church, just so you all know he knows them better than you. If you have ever been to a Catholic service, you know this guy.

That was my trip into the strange land of Inappropria. There are certain times to be in Inappropria (at the bar with your close buddies, in your own head, maybe in the bedroom from time to time, etc.) but not at a funeral luncheon, in that situation.

Maybe I shouldn’t judge Buzz, I’ve taken people to Inappropria plenty O’ times I guess, I just wish he'd have waited until I went for a beer to make the comment.

Uh oh, my son just got on top of the couch and said, “I’m captain underpants!” I gotta run before someone gets hurt up in this piece.

Has anyone gone to Inappropria with you lately?

Financial Shit-Storm!

Last night my beautiful bride and I met with our financial advisor. The previous sentence makes it sound as though we have our financial shit together, and we meet with an investment consultant on a periodic basis. This is so far from truth. This was our second meeting with “our” financial advisor to stop the bleeding, and get this f-ing mess under some sort of control, because we certainly can’t do it. I jest, of course, but we do need some guidance.

This meeting was much like Catholic confessional. Throwing down all you financial woes in all its wretchedness is quite embarrassing, yet liberating at the same time. Although I am not Catholic anymore, (That’s another blog topic all in itself), I do feel that confessing to another person about that which has been haunting you is worth its weight in gold. (Get it? I made a funny).

Anyhow, there it was, before me, on the table…all my financial mistakes, pointing their dirty fingers at me, laughing, pulling my pants down in public. Turns out terms like interest only and credit card debt are bad words in economic-land.

The news isn’t all bad, the little dancer friend I call my wife and I have made some good judgment in this fiscal whirlwind. We have 401k, IRAs, Pensions, 529s and other crap that makes you realize that the days of sloppy keg stands and $20.00 in your account till next Friday are long…long past. Financially that is just fine.

As I sat there with the guy in the tie, I realized just how grown-up I have suddenly become. I have become old enough to actually worry about the future. I now have people other than me, myself and I that count on the decisions I make with my paycheck.

Damn! I want to go out, buy a new motorcycle on a spur of the moment whim, and get a horrible deal on it, and not care like the past. My glorious fiscally irresponsible past. I want to go out and spend $200.00 a weekend on overpriced LoDo (Lower Downtown) Beer. I want to go to a desolate field with a couple of shotguns and throw clay pigeons in the air and then blast them to smithereens while we laugh and talk about the 200.00 bucks we’ll blow on nothing.

Oh well, at least my kids will have college money, I’ll find a different way to pay this house off early and leave working behind at 55. Sounds pretty good.

Anyone want to do a sloppy keg stand at my house later tonight? I’m buyin and the kids are at the in-laws?

Peace out & spend it like you got it. Be a real American!

Ever Felt Like Doing This?

I am not feeling so creative this week, but I figured I'd provide something at least mildly entertaining. Pause the music on my page while takin this in. Have a great weekend!

I Caught Them in the Act!

My son received dozens of G.I. Joes for Christmas this year from his uncle. Upon seeing these Government Issued Joes I shrieked out a shout of pure joy. I remembered my own childhood memories and hours playing with my own Joes.

G.I. Joes are the coolest toy ever, and G.I. Joe was one of my favorite cartoons as a kid. Any boy growing up in the eighties knows the G.I. Joe cartoon theme by heart. The G.I. Joes of today are much larger than those of my generation, but regardless, they have the same win at all costs American attitude complete with the shotguns, grenades, bullets, Kevlar helmets, and camouflage attire.

Since Christmas I have been playing with the G.I. Joes with both of my sons, and since Christmas I have noticed something I had never noticed before. All G.I. Joes are 110%, no doubt in my mind, clear-as-day GAY!

That’s right, I said it…G.I. Joes are sooo gay. Have you ever looked at them? I mean really looked at them? Their hair is immaculate, they are perfectly proportional, and they have .25% body fat. No matter what shit hole country they are currently invading, at all times they have their hair perfect, and they are always cleanly shaven.

I have noticed another oddity while having these new toys around. Every night we clean them up, throw them in a box and go to bed. Every morning they are in slightly different positions.

There is on of two possible answers as to why these Joes are in different places in the morning than the night before:

1.) My boys get up in the middle of the night and make their way to the scary dark dank basement to play G.I. Joe while I dream pleasantly of the upcoming swimsuit issue.

OR

2.) The G.I. Joes come to life while we sleep and have gay sex-capades in the basement while I dream pleasantly of the next Broncos Super-Bowl (Dozens of years off.)

I began to believe that #2 was the answer to my question, but I needed proof. So what did I do, asks the inquisitive blog reader? That’s right, I placed a camera at the scene of the suspected crime.

And what did I find at that suspected crime scene? All the proof I need, that’s what I found. Actual evidence that toys do in fact come to life like Toy Story when humans are not looking and do things no kid should see. Here is the visual evidence.


Disclaimer – the evidence shown herein is disturbing at best and should only be viewed by mature adults:



Now let it be known, I have absolutely no problem if you are gay, but it was extremely shocking! I have since kept Woody and Buzz away from the basement. The next thing you know G.I. Joe will have them tied up doing things to them you would never want to see. Lord knows what they would do to the Cookie Monster doll.

Although…come to think of it, I will let Bert and Ernie in on the action, they deserve it.

I Wish my Dog Was More like Bolt!

If you have seen the Disney movie Bolt, then you know Bolt is a serious ass kickin crime fighting super dog! Bolt has a “Super-Bark” and can shoot lasers out of his eyeballs to shoot down evil helicopters and shit like that. Bolt can talk and is bad-ass from the word go!

At one point in the movie Bolt finds out that he is not a “Super-Dog,” but merely a run of the mill mutt. He saves the girl in the end and thus is still pretty much kick ass.

Why do I know soo much about the movie Bolt? It may be that I have seen Bolt 15 times in the last several days because my boys love to watch our pirated DVD version of this blockbuster animated feature, or the morally correct answer to this question, I simply have an extremely good memory of when I saw it in the theater a couple of months ago. Whatever the case, the dog f-ing rocks!

Toby, my pooch, cannot “Super-Bark” evil-doers onto their back-sides, he cannot jump 100 feet in a single bound, he cannot work mathematical equations in his head to figure out the geometries of incoming missiles and thus hit them with his paws at that exact moment to deflect them out of the way of innocent victims. No…he cannot do any of these things.

Toby can, however, slobber on my nicely pressed work slacks, steal the boys peanut butter and jelly sandwich from their hand as they watch Bolt, shed all over the furniture, scratch our hardwood floors with his massive paws, leave huge landmine piles of poo in the yard, bark at absolutely nothing 2.3 seconds after the boys have fallen asleep, scratch my screen-door to smithereens & whack my son in the face repeatedly with his tail.

Although Toby does all the above things in his own annoying way, he also happily welcomes me home, warms me up at night, warns me when people approach my house, makes a great couch for B and separates me from all the hatred, pain and suffering the world can produce.

Now that I think of it, I can’t jump buildings in a single bound, shoot webs from my wrists, or bend steal with my hands.

Neither one of us has super powers, but we do our best and that is good enough around these parts. Toby and I will leave fighting the evil-doers to secret government agents. Who wants to deal with that? Besides, the laser powered blaster eyes are dangerous around the kids.

I’ll take Toby the way he is; lazy, slobbery and constantly begging for attention. Toby will take me the way I am; lazy, slobbery and constantly begging for attention.

If you could be a Super-Hero, who would you be?

My Son is One Mean Mo-Fo When He Awakes!

There are some people you just don’t wanna mess with when they wake up, my son B is one of them. B is 2 ½ years old, and if you look him directly in the eye within 5 minutes of his latest R.E.M cycle, you’ll wish you wouldn’t have! If you hear him cry just let him be. If you go into his room during that first 5 minutes, watch the hell out.

There he is, hunched over in the corner of his shaded room, like a Gorilla in the mist, protecting his youngling (Or in this case “Jaffy” the Giraffe he takes everywhere he goes.), possibly pooping, pondering his next move to attack you and all you hold dear.

If you have the pleasure of watching B in the future, don’t go near him right after nap…I’m telling you. Don’t do it!

The other day I walked into that dark room he calls home during this volatile waking period and naively said, “Hi B, how ya doin?” He aptly replied, “You get outta here, Don’t say dat to meeeeeee!” He then charged and attempted to grapple. I fought him off, narrowly escaping tragedy. I realize that I am not nearly as tough as my 2 ½ yr. old, so I got the hell outta dodge. I still cringe at the thought of him rushing toward me, springing from the shadows like a fullback smelling the end-zone.

Take this into consideration before entering his room post slumber all Christopher Columbus confident. He’ll cut your ass down to size.

After the 5 minute grace period the kid is sweet as can be, just wait it out…wait it out….

"I'll Have a Mc Muffin Please...Minus the Ridicule"

One Sunday morning I awoke and decided I wanted something greasy for breakfast. I conferred with my wife about such a proposition. She agreed that it was a good idea, so I jumped into her SUV and drove toward the local McDonald’s. Instantly, I was annoyed by the mess within the SUV, but remembered she has two kids to deal with all day, and besides this was the only vehicle in the garage with enough gas to make it to that greasy deliciousness.

The night before I had drank an adequate amount of beer, so I wasn’t feeling so chipper. As I drove closer to the McDonald’s I became even more eager to get my hands on the damn Mc Muffin, hoping it would alleviate the pounding sensation in my head. “I will never drink that much again,” I reiterated to myself…again.

Sitting at the stop-light I thought of all the stupid crap suburban life brings. “Wonder how my 401K is doing this month? I need to fix that freakin broken screen door the stupid ass dog scratched to shit. I gotta remember to install new batteries in the smoke alarms…soon. How can I save enough money to go to Hawaii with the wife, alone.” The light turns green…my minds descends back to the breakfast…sweet, sweet breakfast!

As I drove up to the McDonald’s menu to order, I struggled to remember what my wife wanted. I couldn’t remember what the hell she said. An egg Mc Muffin? A Sausage Mc Muffin with Egg. I think that Yo Gabba Gabba show was distracting me! The stupid green monster with the noddle arms whacks me out! I ordered more than we needed and assured myself that I would eat anything she didn’t want.

The high-school kid came over the intercom in an annoyed manner. “Can I take your order?” I replied, “Ya…I’ll take 1 egg Mc Muffin, 2 Sausage Mc Muffins, with egg, 1 pancake breakfast, three orange juices, and 3 hash browns…and four asprin.” “We don’t have asprin…sir. That will be $10.22 at the first window. He said.

I quickly drove around the corner anticipating the wonderful creations only McDonald’s can accomplish to drown out a big-time hang-over. I got to the window, and gave the kid 11 bucks. As he gave me my change, he looked at me, gave me a sly wink and a smile and quickly walked toward the kitchen.

I wondered what the problem was. Did I have a booger in my nose, hanging in the breeze? No, I checked before I left the house. Did he think I was a dumb-ass for wearing my hat backwards at the tender age of 34? Screw that punk if that’s the case. Was it the two car seats in the back? Again, screw that punk if he doesn’t like kids.

I drove to the pick-up window and was handed my breakfast by a giggling young teenage girl. I couldn’t figure out what the hell these kids were laughing at. I quickly scanned the vehicle. As she slowly walked toward me with three orange juices my eyes caught the reason these kids were laughing at me, the reason my existence was so funny, the reason my vehicle welcomed such ridicule…the porn star endorsed bondage tape on the passenger seat!

The messed up thing is this; the bondage tape was not even mine! It was for some customer! Someone I know sells this shit, and that someone owns the SUV. Why didn’t my truck have gas?

Yes my wifey is a Slumber Parties Consultant. I’m proud of her, and she does so tastefully, but I just wish she woulda put the item in a bag on that particular day.

New Parents Are Liars!

Before beginning this blog I would like to define what a “new parent” is to me. “New Parents" are those parents who still have trouble putting a car seat into a vehicle, or are grossed out by the visual of pulling a long, wet, nasty booger out of your kids nose and then proceeding to wipe that same booger on the inside of your khaki work pants because there just isn’t any other spot for it. New parents are those still enthralled by the miracle of life, and send out weekly email updates & photos of their 1 month old child.

I realized recently that when you are a new parent you are a freakin liar. When you have a newborn people ask how things are going, and you reply with some sort of B.S. answer like, “We are just so blessed right now.” Or, “We just couldn’t be happier with her/him.” He’s such a great baby.” We’ve lost a little sleep, but it’s soo worth it.”

New parents are f-ing LIARS! New fathers are by far the worst kind of lying new parent.
New fathers will say, “It’s been awesome, the whole experience.” And gaze into the baby’s eyes in front of mommy. I’m calling bullshit. I have two sons, one 5, one 2 ½, and I love them both, however, I’m likin them a hell of a lot more now than when they were 1 month old.

When you are the father of a 1 month old, you do not want to be left alone with that kid. They cry & shit and you have no breasts to give them to make it better. It’s freakin horrible. I’m puttin it out there. Don’t get f-ing suckered into thinking the miracle of life will have you tip-toeing through the tulips with Ann Geddes.

Everyone wants new parents to believe this miracle of life will begin at the birth and go on forever. Trust me, the miracle is when the kid can go potty alone, and fix themselves something to eat on a Saturday morning while you snooze. Now that’s a damn miracle.

New parents go from freedom to hell in one short day. Of course we don’t ever tell you that. Those of us who have kids keep this part a secret. It’s our little joke. We smile and say, “Oh…I’m soo happy for you, this is awesome!” The whole time we are thinking, “You are in for 6-9 months of hell!” The woman is more prepared for this hell of course, because they have had the little bastard inside of them kickin the crap out of their ribs for 9 months.

Here is my Child-Rearing Scale of Comfort:

1-6 Months – HELL
6 Months – 1 yr – TORTURE
1 yr – 1 ½ yrs - SEVERE DISCOMFORT
1 ½ - 2 yrs – INDIFFERENCE
2yrs – 2 ½ yrs – SLIGHT ENJOYMENT
2 ½ yrs – 3 yrs – MODERATELY FUN
3 yrs – 3 ½ yrs – FUN
4 yrs and beyond – VERY FUN

Today I had my 2 ½ year old and my 5 year old, and I can honestly say I had FUN. I am able to calculate this fact through the simple scale shown above. I have one child with a SLIGHT ENJOYMENT score on the Child Rearing Scale of Comfort, and one child with a VERY FUN score on the Child Rearing Scale of Comfort. The two together drives the overall score to either a HIGH MODERATELY FUN or LOW FUN. Today’s activities I am scoring a FUN.

The 3 of us went to another 5 year old’s Birthday Party where there was face painting, presents, other kids, cake, and alcohol for the parents. (Damn, I thought I could make it through a blog without mentioning alcohol.) The Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer was definitely a contributing factor toward making the day score a FUN on the Child Rearing Scale of Comfort, rather than a MODERATELY FUN. Another contributing factor was the fort we built together in the living room tonight just for the hell of it.

Today I was takin in by my son’s like a fine pair of trousers by the tailor. My meaning here is this, it takes time to get the trousers right, but after a couple of hem jobs and fittings, everything fits just right. You understand where the slight imperfections are, and hide them the best you can, but understand that the trousers just are not perfect.

I am now having so much FUN with my kids because they are in it everyday to have FUN. They have no other objective or rationale for the day other than to pursue the quickest route to FUN.

So if you’re a parent, take a hard look at the Child Rearing Scale of Comfort when answering the question, “How’s everything going?”

I am now, finally, at peace with my answer for today, “I had FUN with the boys today!”

The majority of new parents reading this will say, “This is not me, I love my baby so much, and I genuinely love every second with him/her.”

This is because New Parents Are Liars! Watching babies is brutal, admit it now! God will not punish you, he’ll embrace your honesty.

I Used to Be Cool!

I used to be cool. I used to wear my hat backwards. I used to go out every Friday and Saturday night till 3 or 4 in the morning and get completely f-ing wasted. I used to drink and fight and lift weights. I used to play video games with my "boys" all day until my hang-over was healed and then do the weight lifting, drinking and fighting all over again. The nights didn't always include the fighting part, but the rate of occurrence was fairly high.

It happens to you oh... so slowly. First it's the realization that you don't have a fucking clue why anyone ever even watches MTV anymore. Then it's the understanding that you don't know any of the texting slang, much less how the fuck to send a text on your old ass broke down phone. The greatest realization that you are old and uncool is when you hear a song from the early years of true grunge, say...Mudhoney...with a high school kid, and they don't even know what the hell it is. It sneaks up quick and then bam, LIKE A SPIDER MONKEY you're too damn f-ing old to even ponder saying "That Shit is Phat."

To place a final layer of fine chocolate icing on this "I Used To Be Cool" Cake of mine is the transcript of the interaction between my 2 year old and I.

(I put him to sleep, he got up 5 minutes later):

Me - Super Dad - "Go To Bed."
B - the 2 yr old - "No".
Me - Super Dad - "Why?"
B - the 2 yr old - "I can't."
Me - Super Dad - "GO TO BED!"
B - the 2 yr old - "BE QUIET!"

Dissed by a 2 year old. (I'm too old to say diss....shit.)

Now , if you are a 20 something, you probably are bored by now, however this only provides the adequate amount of fuel to my "I Used To Be Cool" Cake fire.

The fact that I'm even writing about this makes me uncool to all the dumbass 20 somethings that will find this shit all so unlighting in 10 years. Ya, I used to be cool like you. Now I'm not. The weird thing is, I'm totally cool with this. In fact I like it. It is less work. I used to be cool and worry about what everybody thought of me. Now...who cares. I am soo cavalier about the fact that I am uncool that it has actually made me cool...OK Maybe not.

Stop looking at me with your straight billed cool hat...you look like a clown...and turn down your bass...bitch...my kids are sleeping...I'm out like Vanilla Ice!

I USED TO BE COOL!

My kid told his teacher that he drinks beer with his dad

That Marley and Me movie made me " Sensitive." Now I am back to me. The pissy half drunk Bobby everybody missed.

Anyway, My kid told his teacher that he drinks beer with his dad. My 1st question to myself is where did I go wrong? Do I drink too fuckin much? As a write this I have had 2 Captain & Coke's. Not too bad. Although I am alone. maybe I'm a loser? (That's a later blog...back on topic.)

My kid told his teacher that he drinks beer with his dad.



Upon hearing this over the phone comment from my wife my first instinct was to laugh out loud about this situation. Then I was whacked in the face by the realization of where I live. I live in America. America is by far the best country on earth (At least that's what I think since I've only been to Mexico, Great Britain, and Canada - yet more blog topics for the future). Anyway, America is the best, however, we are sooooo politically correct that this situation with my son could get serious if not dealt with.

My kid told his teacher that he drinks beer with his dad. This situation makes me harken back to my feeling that I should have been born in the 1940's. If somebody (in the 1940's) told you, "My kid told his teacher that he drinks beer with his dad." 99% of people would laugh, light up a stogy and go on with the next topic.

Here is the difference today. 99% of people laugh, but they do not go on to the next topic so easily. Every one's next thought pattern goes to how you are going to deal with this situation so it doesn't happen again, because God Forbid anyone take a fuckin joke. I mean, what if Susie Teacher decides to turn you in? What if Susie Teacher thinks it is true? What if Susie Teacher takes the 5 year old's joke seriously.

That's what is soo f-ed up in America right now. We are all soo scared and politically correct that we can't even see the obvious situation soo clearly in front of our faces. The 5 year old is f-ing with you. It is a joke. He gets it, why can't the rest of us. The reason is, he is not jaded by our politically correct society yet. Guess what, I'm gonna do my best to make sure he never loses that sense of humor that is unwavered by the fear. You know what fear I speak of.

My kid told his teacher that he drinks beer with his dad. My first instinct was to laugh out loud about this situation. I think I'll stick to that.

Toby & Me

Along the lines of movie time - We saw "Marley & Me" last night. This movie was a prolific commentary on "One Love." There is only one living thing that I know that truly practices "One Love" and his name is Toby.

Toby is my dog. He is a 7 year old lab just like the one in the movie. Just like the lab in the movie, Toby loves you unconditionally whether you are pissed off, sick, tired or moody. Whatever the case may be, there's Toby ready to practice "One Love."

Cynics may say that Toby is simply not smart enough to understand the complexities of human life, and therefore defaults to "dumb love." Regardless of his intellect Toby & Marley are poster children for this "One Love" concept.

Oddly enough, the "One Love" theme has been a major part of my life the past couple of days. My friend, who plays in a band, is a big huge fan of reggae music. He loves Bob Marley, and preaches about "One Love" constantly. It is a good theme for life and I agree with him, but the message never really hit me until I saw the movie.

There is so much hate and discontent in the world, and we see it on a daily basis. We are surrounded by it, we are engulfed by it, we are consumed by it. Hope awaits and I have seen a slight reversal.

There is a strong energy for "One Love" going on in the world right now, and every day I am seeing it. It is subtle, but the message strong. Whether it be a comment about how good Bob Marley's music is, the message at a church service, or the premise of a chick flick, the implication is the same. Perform "One Love" in your life and all's good.

Now... can we all do this everyday day? No we can't. Our egos are too strong, and our feelings of self, revenge and pity tend to cloud the "One Love" sky.

The one thing to take away from this is that the nasty, smelly dog laying in the corner has it right more often than not, and by digging to the roots of "One Love" and making it more a part of your everyday routine, maybe the world will get better one slobbery dog kiss at a time.

Comment About That Which Peeves Me Greatly

Tonight I went to the Movies with my wife and ran into the situation that peeves me greatly. I was exiting the theater and held the door for some dude who was also leaving. I held the door, he walked through it, I was peeved. What was missing? Was it a gift? Was it a gift card from Best Buy? Was it a new cover for my cell phone? The answers are - No, no & no.

Although a gift from a stranger would have been nice, it is not what I expected. What I did expect however was a simple "Thank You" for holding the door. Once again I was let down by the absence of this simple gesture in return for my polite deed. I was not surprised by this situation, as it happens quite often.

I just don't f-ing get it! How can you just walk through an open door (held open for you) and not make a simple acknowledgement that you appreciate it. There are a few excuses I can examine that may justify the non-disclosure.

1.) You are distracted. - excusable in certain circumstances.
2.) You lost your voice. - excusable if you at least nod your head in a thankful manner.
3.) You had a stressful day, and are deep in thought on a serious matter. - excusable on a rare occasion.

In the case tonight, I could be a compassonate person and go with option #3. He was probably stressed out from a long day and was deep in contemplation about his sick Grandma, or money problems. I could go that route and know deep down inside everyone means well, and that everyone will try to do the right thing. I, however, am not going with the lame #3 excuse.

Tonight I will stick with the fact that some people in America (Colorado to be exact) are douche bags! Some people thrive on being rude because it make them feel good for some sick and twisted reason. I will stick with the fact that no matter how many times I sarcastically say, "Your Welcome" to someone who has walked their lazy ass through the door I am holding for them, they just don't get it. Some people never will get it. So this is a comment about that which peeves me. More to come. I hope you read this and "get it" and simply say thank you the next time someone holds the door for you. Unless of course you are in deep though about your credit card debt, in which case, I'll still think you are a douche bag.

Comment Added - You'd think I'd be more in tune with love after the movie I'd just seen, but there's that ego again.