We have a winner to my contest launched last week which asked readers to answer the question “why is daddy crying?” This contest was motivated by the new 3-minute animated short based on this blog, created by JC Little with Little Animation. If you haven’t seen it – check it out here.

Our world class judges from Twitter: @IEatMyKidzSnack, @Tessasdad, and @nuckingfutsmama worked hard to pick our winner, pouring over 30 submissions from around the globe.

And the winner is!!!! Cortney Allen, or (@Ulesss on Twitter.)

Her winning response:

“Daddy isn't crying because he is frustrated. Or overworked. Or undersexed. Not because he has to wipe noses and wipe asses. Not because he got kicked in the nuts accidentally by a tantrum throwing kid. Not because the messes and arguments never end, and the quiet time is all too little. He isn't crying about the amount of sleep he gets, or doesn't get. And he is definitely not crying because he just can't get the last word in "I fantasize" battles, no matter how hard he tries.

He IS crying because the little joys of being a Dad sometimes overwhelm the manly exterior, and a sincere "you're the best, Daddy" is too much to take. He's crying at the wealth of pride he feels when one of the little fuckers learns a life lesson, gets an awesome grade, or crosses the finish line. He's crying because he and the toddler have the same dancing skills, or hold a pencil the same way, or have the same smile. He's crying because of the indescribable joy of having kids.

At least that's why the Daddy in our house is crying. And that's precisely the reason Daddy SHOULD be crying.”

And now…let’s get to know Ms. Allen with a quick Q&A!

In 140 characters or less, describe yourself to us!

I am first and foremost, a BIG nerd. A lover of music, art, debate and food. Especially food. My kids are my world, and I love meeting people.

Have you or have you not ever considered being a glove model, and why?

As a surgical tech., I modeled many medical gloves. But unless there is a short and stubby finger glove niche, I'm out of luck.

So why the Twitter name @Uless

Haha, great question. Let us rewind to December of 1983. My parents were so overjoyed at the birth of their baby girl, that they didn't notice they spelled my name Cortney, not Courtney, on the birth certificate form. Well, either that or they were just being mean. At my last job, there was a Courtney working there already. It became confusing in the OR one day, so one of the anesthesiologists decided that because I had no U in my name, he would refer to me as "uless". It kind of stuck. 

Yesterday when I was all alone I had a hankering for some potato chips. So, I busted out a small bag of potato skins and freakin’ plowed through them. They were sooo freakin’ good. Especially with the 24 oz beer I enjoyed with it. Oh…and of course, I had no pants on.

Not sure how to respond to the potato skin story, other than I had a very similar experience with a bag of Oreos at 2 am last Friday night. 

When your first born finished entering the world, what was your first thought/words?

Honestly? I would love to say that my first thought was how much I instantly fell in love with my baby, or something else sentimental. That would be a close second. I think my first real thought was, holy crap, that was way harder than I thought it would be. Someone get me some drugs!

Name one thing you’d shove up BP’s leaky oil pipe to shut it the hell down?

I knew the answer to this instantly. If we could shove Glenn Beck in the leaky oil pipe, we could not only rid the Gulf of the oil pollution, but the world of a lot of noise pollution as well!

And what does this young rock star win? She wins a hand-crafted, hand-picked, amazingly phenomenal care package created by JC Little of Little Animation and myself. And, I promise to send some of my dirty underwear.

What’s in the “phenomenal” care package?

• Little Animation’s children’s animation 2 DVD’s “Kid Stories International” & “Little Earth Charter” found at www.littleanimation.com/shop
• Gift certificate to Toys R Us
• A “Planet Earth” baby onsie – super comfort, 100% cotton jersey knit from Little Animation’s www.cafepress.com/littleanimation shop.  
• Picture of me when I was 20 wearing no shirt and holding three Amber Jack I caught on a deep-sea fishing trip.
• An opportunity to exclusively babysit my kids every weekend for an entire year
• Dick’s Sporting Goods gift certificate
• Dot & Lil ( @DotandLil on Twitter) limited edition Spring & Summer 2010 bath set seen here:



I hate the Snuggie. I hate it more than anyone could hate anything. Wanna know why? Read an old post I knocked out a while back about how the Snuggie is nothing but a glorified cock-block.

But for some reason I’ve been attached to the Snuggie on Twitter. At least once every couple of days I’ll get a picture of one sent to me by one of my kick-ass kids on Twitter.

But while Snuggies have impacted my life and made me contemplate arson as a means to which I could rid them from this planet…they’ve also created a life of their own. They’ve grown out of control becoming Slankets, Sham Wow Snuggies, and more.

Regardless, I still find myself wondering, what happened to the original Snuggie family. You know—the one you saw in all the ads.

So I tossed on my super ninja spy gear and dug into their history. And…here’s what I found:

It all started with the perfect family. The dad, hot mom, and two perfect, adoring kids and their Snuggies.

Then they boy wanted a dog.

So then the girl wanted horses.

The mom had two older twin sisters who lived their lives as “Cougars” hunting men and trying too hard to look sexy.

And of course there was the creepy uncle.

Over time the kids grew up. The boy went through a bit of a gangsta phase.

The girl…well, she got a little slutty.

She then had a life-altering experience and felt love for the first time. She panicked and became a recluse for a short period of time.

And when she came out of it, she decided to eliminate sex from their relationship for a solid year to make sure he truly loved her.

Meanwhile, the boy met a bad group of people and ended up joining a Snuggie cult.

A year later, the girl married her boyfriend and they settled down and quickly spat a little nipper out.

Although she always described it as “watching an alien tear out of me.”

But regardless she enjoyed motherhood. She enjoyed it so much she decided to crank out seven more rug rats.

And then life became too much, and she slipped back into old bad habits.

She even sampled hanging out in her brother’s cult for a bit.

Then she got pregnant again. And, for obvious reasons, after the baby was born her husband wanted a divorce.

In the end, the son got kicked out of the cult and he spent his life rebelling against the Snuggie.

The daughter’s eight kids traveled the world became well adjusted Snuggie lovers.

The original Snuggie parents got older, larger, and obsessed with Wal-Mart.

The illegitimate kid became President of the United States.

And the girl…she regrouped again, went back to college, traveled the world, but

eventually became a hoarder and died buried under her own filth.

THE END

At what point during my boy’s life is he going to not need to be told things 3,428 times before he actually freakin’ does it? I’m just wondering?

Saturday, I told the boy to go get socks. Four minutes later, as I’m running around getting stuff together to leave, I realize he’s still upstairs. So I go check and he’s lying on his bed reading a fucking book!

“Grayson! Dude! That’s awesome you’re reading a book, but…get…your….socks…on!”

Shocked that I would be rattled by this, he says, “I am daddy, I just needed to check something!”

He appears five minutes later with his socks…in his damn hands and stands in the living room doing nothing. A small drip of drool appears on his lower lip as he’s looking out the window into nothingness. Apparently he has become a dog who only knows how to receive and accomplish one command at a time.

“Seriously Grayson? I mean seriously? You know we’re trying to leave to go into the city. You know all that is required in order for you to walk outside in a foot of snow and 10-degree weather, but yet, you need me to walk you through it step-by-step.”

As soon as I finish that last word, he turns and looks at me and says, “Hey daddy, you know on Wii, on Mario, on World 6 when you’re fighting Bowser. His hat is weird!”

I just had to sit down after that. In what freakin’ world does this kid live? Mario’s World I guess.

Can I please have a huge dose of whatever the hell he’s got running through him to where he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the time continuum?

“Focus Danielson!!!!” I yell. This has become his least favorite phrase from me.

“Stop calling me Danielson daddy!!”

“Then put your socks on, then your boots, then your hat, gloves and coat and come…on!!!”

“I ammm!!!”

Every time we leave to go somewhere or to get ready for bed, we deal with this. And it’s leaking into my everyday life.

I’ll catch myself telling wifey we should go ahead and go to the store, “so please go get your socks, your shoes, your gloves, your hat, your coat, put on those jeans that shows-off your ass so I can watch you as you walk in front of me. And please take that damn Snuggie off so you don’t end up on some random website for wearing it to the store, and consider having sex with me tonight. Now! Hurry!”

Maybe I take the “I’m only going to tell you this once” approach and if we spend the day waiting on the boy to get his socks, then so be it. Or maybe I need to make a chart? Shit…I’m going to need a chart aren’t I—a hardcore Supernanny Jo Frost-style chart complete with jars of reward stickers, high fives, and hugs. Or maybe I’ll just super glue them to his feet.

Or, maybe I’ll just chalk it up to the fact the boy’s head is constantly swimming with new information and is going a million miles an hour thinking about Mario, snow forts, biking, hating his sister, and whether or not his experiment in the freezer is done yet.

Maybe I should just go on Xanax.

Thanks to everyone who read my ramblings since I started this madness in August. Thanks to everyone who took time to knock out a comment. And…well, just thanks!

My New Year’s Resolutions

1) Get a job.

2) Stop calling the cat “jagoff,” “furry turd monster,” “sack-o-shit,” and “piece of shit” because it’s just got to be hurting his self-esteem.

3) Run a total of 1,000 miles by the end of the year.

4) Promote Pants Optional Friday until it becomes a global phenomenon or until the wifey starts participating—whichever comes first.

5) Find whatever the hell’s living in my garage and murder it.

6) Write the first three chapters of my book and start pounding down publishers’ doors.

7) Perfect my Moon Walk and be the first person to ever Moon Walk every sidewalk in the Village I live in.

8) Video myself burning the wifey’s Snuggie and YouTube the shit outta that thing.

9) Love the wifey and kids twice as hard as I loved them in 2009.

10) Continue our 7-year streak of not getting caught having sex by the kids.

11) Start a support group for people traumatized by being caught masturbating by their mother when they were a teenager.

12) Teach the boy that when he flicks a bugger they don’t just vanish in thin air—they land and turn into little hard, sharp landmines that eventually cut daddy’s foot open days later.

13) Continue to be honest, open, and consistent on whatever this blog thingy is that I’m doing here—cause in some screwed-up way it’s awfully damn therapeutic.

14) Finally take the picture of Robert Degen down from the wall in the living room and acknowledge that my idol really has passed on.

15) Invest myself more in my life than I ever have and stop acting like I’m waiting for something.

So a few weeks ago a kick-ass friend of mine @nuckingfutsmama and I had an idea. She’s a hilarious blogger, I’m a hack blogger…what if we collaborated? Then the idea morphed to, I write a sentence, then she adds to that sentence, and we keep going back and forth till we have a story. Immediately our idiotic minds said, “hell yeah let’s do that shit,” and it was off to the races.

A week-and-a-half later…here’s the story. My sentences are the blue ones, hers…the pink. But before we get to the story…here’s a bit about my co-author:

@nuckingfutsmama

And here's her bloggy blog: http://mama2point0.wordpress.com/

Mother of twins, co-Chicagoan, stay-at-home-mom, marathoner, ninja yoga-master, hilarious blogger, noticer of dudes working out at the gym near her with massive bulges in their pants, super mom, wine lover, protective of her daughter who’s being stalked by a 1^st grader that’s obsessed with her wearing pony-tails, former patient of a chiropractor that prolonged physical exams so he could check out her ass in her green thong, and just an all around funny-ass, hot, kick-ass lady.

And now…the story!!

The Bumpit, The Snuggies & A Crazy Little Thing Called Love

Every time I smell the scent of butter frying in a pan, I can't help but think of the scent of her neck, the way hair grew on only the knuckles of her feet, and how she could beat me in thumb-wrestling with her pinky.

I always found solitude in the unibrow that framed her over-sized googly eyes, and her summer-toothed smile (some were here, some were there) that just melted my heart into a thousand tiny pieces.

Those were the thoughts twirling in my head as I finished shaving the hair off the back of my last customer of the day where I work at Max's Back & Bikini Wax.

As I swept up the last of Big Bertha's pubes and Captain Carl's back fuzz, I knew that I needed to get in touch with the woman who showed me what love was all about. 

Slowly I slid my pants back on, being careful not to catch them on the 12-inch knife cut she gave me just a month ago....the last time I saw her.

She had been raging mad because I'd accidentally thrown away her most prized possession, her Bumpit.

I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know it was her girl toupee when it looked like Uncle Ned had come by our trailer again and left behind one of his fetish dolls?

That fight was the last I saw of her, and word on the street was that she was dancing for dollars at the Pink Puttycat Parlor down in the back woods of Alabama.

But "word on the street" wasn't gonna stop me from giving it one last shot - so I called her number, 1-900-HOTT-ASS.

When she answered the phone, I could tell she was reading a script as she robotically told me just what she'd do to me and a vat of Velveeta cheese, and I got so excited at hearing that burly voice once again that I nearly pissed myself.

I quickly took a deep breath, checked to make sure I hadn't made a wet spot on myself, and said, "Hey sugar-britches it's your little waddly boodly boo."

After about three minutes of dead silence, she laid into me for all the things I'd done to drive her away, like calling her brother a man-whore, using her wart cream as toothpaste, taking all the Beeno without asking, and throwing away her precious Bumpit.

Those words pushed me to my breaking point, so I angrily reminded her of the time she made me wear her Bumpit backwards while we had sex so she could comb it, and how she made me "wear" a tampon all day so I could “empathize,” and how my father had to get a restraining order against her so she'd stop breaking in his house to smell his dirty underwear.

I knew I'd gone too far when all I heard was silence on the other end, but then she blurted out my worst nightmare—she'd married that son-of-a-bitch neighbor of theirs who sold imitation Snuggies out of his trailer.

Slamming the phone down I knew I was finally going to have to pay a little visit to my safety-deposit box to retrieve and begin swift implementation of my diabolical master plan to rid trailer Snuggie sellers from the county once.......and for all!!

Gathering up my lighter fluid and matches from my highly protected treasure box, I headed on over to the White T Timbers Trailer Park to pay a visit to old Mike Hunt and his Snuggie wannabe piles of shit.

Hopping off my fire-engine red Schwinn bicycle with flesh colored truck nutz hanging off the back, I reached in my backpack for my matches and lighter fluid while hawking a loogie on the ground so that anyone watching knew that I meant business!!

With my purple pleather shit kickers, I knocked down Mike's shower curtain front door, grabbed as many fake Snuggies as I could from his king-sized brass waterbed and lit the biggest damn bonfire that trailer park had ever seen.

Then I tossed the remainder of the Snuggies on the front basket of my Schwinn, looked around to see if anyone was watching, checked my kick-ass pleathers I nicknamed "my shit kickers," lifted a leg to let off some "steam," and peddled off towards Tammie's house where I knew I could finish the deed.

Tammie was waiting for me on a lawn chair in her front yard, and after punching me smack dab in the teeth, she grabbed me by the neck and pressed her big red lips, crusty cold sore and all, right up to mine.

"That better be a shit-ton of snuggies in your pansy-ass bike basket idiot boy or else I'm gonna make you clean Rufus' anal glands again while me and the neighbor twins drink beer and watch ya," she said in her super seductive smoker's voice while stopping every 5th word to hack up a lung.

In between grabbing and groping each other's cottage cheese asses, we managed to gather up the shit-ton of burned Snuggie bits and erect a commemorative statue of them in the side yard of Tammie's trailer, attracting thousands of supporters of the anti-Snuggie movement to come and pay their respects.

We were partying, drinking 40s, shooting guns in the air, stripping, taking turns with the neighbor's goat, and that's when I noticed the most horrifying, disgustingly sexiest, fuck-o-licious part of Tammie I'd never seen before.....she had a third nipple!

The fact that Tammie had one overgrown testicle just like me, combined with this latest revelation of a third nipple just like mine confirmed to me that stealing her from that one-legged pimp all those years ago down by the river was the smartest decision I ever made.

To this day I still don't understand why that fur-wearing bastard only had one gold leg made instead of two, but I'm chalking it up to the thought that maybe he's just a big fan of hopping?

At any rate, I finally had my honey schnuckimcakes back, and I figured that if I could swipe her from a no good son-of-a-bitch gimp bastard, then surely I could snitch her from Mike Hunt and his lair of fake blanket robes.

And I had just the thing, buried deep in the crotch of my pants, that was guaranteed to seal the deal and bring her to her knees begging for me to be hers for the rest of our unnaturally born, inbred lives.

I lifted my one oversized very sweaty ball and pulled out a brand new Bumpit to replace the one I'd thrown away, complete with the biggest rock of a Ring Pop I could find at the arcade.

With a Marlboro Red cigarette hanging from her lower lip and eyes popping out of her weathered face she stood there dumbfounded and expressionless before suddenly reaching deep down into the crotch of her pants.

She, too, pulled out a Bumpit and even a comb and told me that I could do the styling during sex next time.

This was the moment I'd waited for my entire life and was the reason I'd worn tear-off pants and a condom every day since I was 13.

So I ripped off my pants to expose my leopard print thong that was emblazoned with the words, "For fuck's sakes, will you marry me or what?"

A smile crept across Tammie's face as she ripped off her shirt to reveal a custom-made bra with three cups for her boobs and extra nipple with "You Damn Skippy" also emblazoned across it.

A we embraced in a sloppy, tonsil-hockey kiss, the whole trailer park came out to cheer us on, even Mike Hunt & the golden-legged pimp, and the two of us lived happily ever after in a van down by the river.