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.