How Santa Will Make My Son An Episode Of Intervention

It’s the holidays!

And you know how I know?

Because everyone’s becoming just a bit more of an asshole than they normally are. Even the kids! Hell, the dog has even gotten into the holiday spirit by gnawing on the strap of my man-purse I carry to work every day.

He’s never done that before!

Ahhh the holidays. When people pepper-spray you for buying video games at half-price at a Wal-Mart instead of doing what you should normally do at Wal-Mart….bring your best camera and search for great pictures to upload to www.peopleofwalmart.com.

I found a catalogue over Thanksgiving weekend the daughter had taken a liking to. Upon opening it I thought, “oh cool, she’s circled a few things in……oh…oh she’s circled everything in here.”

The son is still an incredibly devoted believer in Santa. Which sucks for two reasons…

1) It’s gonna break his heart and be rough as hell on him the day he finds out that fat bastard is really his MILF mom tossing extra un-wrapped gifts under the tree late at night while his drunk dad stands naked next to her whispering loudly, “just look at it…I’m making it look like helicopter blades!!”

I can’t help but see an episode of Intervention 20 years from now when my son’s all cracked-out, crying on national TV saying his addiction started when he learned Santa wasn’t real.

2) He thinks he can get whatever in the hell he wants. All “I gotta do is ask Santa!”

It’s like a huge middle finger being jammed in our faces when the boy asks for an iPhone, we rightfully say no, and he responds with that. It makes me want to out Santa right then and there.

But then we wouldn’t get away with my favorite phrase which keeps him in line, “really? You’re gonna give your sister a swirly in that toilet while Santa’s watching? Wow man…you’ve got balls of steel.”

Then there comes the wife. I procrastinate. I’ll occasionally look at commercials showing other rock-star husbands blowing the socks off their wife with cars, jewelry, vacuum cleaners and more. I can’t afford a new car, the wife sells all the jewelry I buy her and I might as well cut my own throat before buying her a vacuum cleaner.

So I wait. And wait.

And wait.

Until a couple days before Christmas and decide to fight the crowds. Bitching the whole time about finding no place to park, the long lines waiting to check out and the check-out ladies being rude because I had the gall to actually purchase something from them today.

I bitch about not being thanked as I hold the door for some jack-wad whose arms were full and mumble angrily to myself as I get stuck in endless shopping traffic.

And it’s at that last stoplight that I realize….the holidays and I need each other. Like my future cracked-out son needs his drugs, I need the holidays to be angry about something. I thrive off the rush of anger that I got on December 22 and 23 when I’m last-second-shopping for my wife. It makes me feel alive. It makes me…

LOVE THE HOLIDAYS!!!

Growing Up

There comes a time in a father’s life where he has to face the truth.

His daughter will grow up.

My precious moody, smiling, devil-attitude, angle-like daughter will one day become a woman.

And yesterday I was introduced to that very fact like a slap to the face.

My wife took the boy to have his haircut. His first since he shaved his head bald last fall to raise money for cancer research.

During this little jaunt she also decided to take my daughter’s hair from three inches below her shoulders to less than a “bob” haircut.

Walking into the house our proud daughter flashed her attitude and owned the room.

Meanwhile the wife saw a light bulb go off and said, “Holy shit! I just remembered I have a picture of me at that age with the same haircut!”

And off she went to find it.

And when she returned we handed it to my daughter and the similarities of beauty, personality, confidence, and child innocence were caught on film.

  

Bacon

So, yesterday I got to have a daddy/daughter day.

To kick it off I did what any self-respecting father would do.

I made bacon.

And we ate it…and life was good.

It then got me thinking. Bacon really is such a unique, diverse, and satisfying food.

It can be served with just about any other edible combination – peanut butter, strawberries, honey, and…well…..bacon.

Then it got me thinking even further about how bacon could change...well, the world!

1) Served before every business meeting:

Manager: “Before Bob begins his report, would anyone like some bacon?”

2) Excellent in hostage situations:

Hostage Negotiator: “That’s right, just let 10 more hostages go and we’ll deliver four crispy and warm slices of bacon.”

3) Premature ejaculation?

Husband “I’m sorry honey that never happens to me. Come on...don’t be mad. Hey, guess what? Who has two thumbs and a plate of bacon for his special girl? This guy!!!”

4)      Making oral sex much more appealing to the wife:

Frank: “Hey hun, I ummm…I was thinking maybe tonight I could ummm…you know…like, get a little oral or something?

Wife: “Jesus Frank!!! Is that all you think about, huh? My mouth going down on you? Damn it!!”

Frank: “I wrapped it in bacon!”

Wife: “Let’s do this!!!”

5) Wrapping paper for shitty presents: (overheard at the wedding)

Guy #1 “Hey? Who’s the jagoff that re-gifted the picture of his grandmother holding a poodle with ‘You’re My Favorite Grandson’ shaved in its fur framed in a Kenny G.-singing frame?”

Guy #2 “Who gives a fuck? It’s wrapped in bacon dude! I’m stealin’ it!”

6) Tricking the kids into taking vitamins.

Mother: “Oh look Timmy! Someone left a bacon ball sitting on the counter. Guess I’ll have to eat it.”

Timmy: (Grabbing for his shank attached to his ankle) “Back the fuck off…I’ll cut you ma… Don’t touch my bacon ball. That’s right…walk away…don’t even look at it…keep walking…”

7) To keep from having to talk to the Mother-In-Law:

Step 1: Cook 23.4 lbs of bacon in flat strips.

Step 2: Spent 89 drunkin’ hours sewing said 23.4 lbs of bacon into a size 38 coat.

Step 3: When mother-in-law arrives and starts digging into every inch of your life invite her to go for a walk. Before leaving, slip on the coveted bacon jacket. As you walk down the street, Nature will slowly begin to attack you with louder and more viciousness by the second forcing you to retreat back to the house and retire for the night in your bedroom in a fit of trauma next to the stocked cooler you’ve managed to previously hide under the bed.

I strongly support everyone trying all of these and more. In fact, you should comment and let me know how bacon has forever changed your life!

My Daughter's First Boyfriend & Me

Recently I’ve been getting a small test as to how I will react when a boy becomes smitten with my precious angel of a daughter.

We have really good friends that live just a few houses down from us on our block. They’re proud parents of a two-year-old and a four-year-old boy.

The four-year-old is a down to Earth kid. He always says, “hello Justin” whenever he walks in the door of our house or sees me outside. Just yesterday he stopped by my at-home desk and said “how was your Easter Justin?”

You just can’t help but smile at a kind young little bastard like that.

He’s two years younger than our daughter, but at this age it doesn’t really matter.

He loves to play with her and she loves the fact she can pretty much manipulate him to do whatever in the hell she wants him to do.

Play school? Done!

Play veterinarian? Done!

Play stuffed-animal tea party? Done!

And so they’re friendship has blossomed.

When she eats her lunch, he’s sitting almost on top of her.

Macy: “You don’t have to sit so close to me.”

Neighbor Kid: “I know, I just like to Macy!”

This is when my mind starts to get the best of me.

What if the neighbor kid is working me over?

What if he’s trying to get me to fall head-over heels in love with his little dimples and innocent interest in how my day’s taken shape, just so he can drop a Jedi mind-trick cloud of oblivion over my weary brain so I’m cloaked from seeing the obvious….that he’s slowly taking my daughter from me.

I know, I know, they’re four and six.

But they grow up.

Hair starts protruding in awkward places, little hormones start revving their engines and next thing you know the sweet little neighbor kid has me rambling about what a dick my boss is while sweet Macy ganks $40 from my wallet so the two of them can sneak out later, buy some liquor and make-out at the neighborhood park.

I’m watching that little guy.

What he doesn’t realize is that I’m playing along with his little game. While he’s being all nice to me, I’m being super nice right back. Not because he’s four, cute and armed with a winning personality.

No.

But because I’m keeping my enemies close. Watching….learning….remembering.

When I hand him a plate of chicken nuggets, grapes, and a cup with ice cold 2% milk I make sure our eyes meet as I give him just a split-second glare that says “bring your A-game little man and let’s dance.”

And when he smiles right back and says, “thanks for making me lunch Justin,” I immediately know he’s accepted the challenge and the game is on.

Only time will tell who the winner will ultimately be.



My Loud-Ass Son

What’s a normal morning like in our humble little abode?

Our family slumbers peacefully as dreams of bunnies, cotton candy, and Jennifer Aniston fill the air.

My eight-year-old son slowly raises his head, steadies his eyes and surveys the room to see if there’s even the slightest smidge of sunlight creeping through the blinds.

He then climbs backwards down the ladder from his loft.

Half way down he stops, places feet side by side, then leaps landing firmly on the ground as if this swan-like move would set-off sparkles, lights, and song birds filling the air with joyous sounds celebrating Grayson’s entry into a new day.

Instead, I leap five feet in the air screaming “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!!!” as the windows still rattle.

Just then the boy walks by our room naked except for his little tighty-whities on his way to the bathroom.

I lay back down trying to calm myself as I listen to his pee randomly hit the floor, then the toilet water, then the floor, then the toilet water. I try to figure out what he’s spelling.  

Just as I begin to find a happy place, WAM!!!!  The sound of the toilet seat and lid slamming onto the porcelain of the bowl has me clawing at the sheets.

My wife…sleeps through every second of this.

As he walks by I firmly whisper, “Grayson!! Stop being so loud. Your sister doesn’t go into school till 11 a.m.!! We want her to sleep AND you’re gonna wake up the dog!!”

“Fiiiiiinnnnuh daddy!” he says in a louder than normal tone reeking of “what the hell’s your problem old man?”

I look at the clock and see he’s up 15 minutes before the alarm was set. I reach over and just as I start to turn the alarm off I hear, RUFF….RUFF…..RUFF!!!

Followed by my son screaming at the top of his lungs, “DADDY???!!! I CAN’T FIND A MATCHING SOCK!!!”

The wife picks her head off the pillow reaching for her phone to see what time it is just as a tear forms in the corner of my eye.

I slowly rise and throw on some clothes. As I walk out of my room I run smack into the daughter who’s carrying her blanky and headed towards the stairs.

“Morning daddy! Can I have cereal? I’m hungry?,” she says in her precious little princess voice a mere four-and-a-half hours before she needs to be at school.

“DADDY?!!,” screams the boy who’s standing literally seven feet away, “did you find a sock? And I don’t want cereal…can you make waffles?”

“I don’t want waffles!!!,” screams the darling six-year-old girl as the dog is now clawing at his cage while yipping and barking to join in the hellish ordeal taking place at 6:30 a.m.

And from there it continues.

All because of my loud-ass son.