Best Christmas Present

When all you want for Christmas is to be together as a family again.



Merry Christmas everyone!

From

Trooper Thorn

Santa Is A Real Asshole

This Christmas, I've been accepting comments on my most recent post where I'll add one dollar to my contribution towards The Make A Wish Foundation in memory of a young boy I knew, only shortly, who changed my life. Please feel free to stop by and make a comment.

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It's Christmas again and once again we're bombarded with Christmas music. Have you ever really listened to the Christmas song “I saw Mama kissing Santa Claus”? Allow me to indulge you for a moment:

Christmas toys all over the place
Little Shelby wears a funny smile on his face
Shelby has a secret
And the secret he must share
He wants to tell somebody
So he tells his teddy bear
I saw Mama kissing Santa Claus
Underneath the mistletoe last night
She didn’t see me creep
Down the stairs to have a peek
She thought that I was tucked up in my bedroom fast asleep
Then, I saw Mama tickle Santa Claus
Underneath his beard so snowy white
Oh, what a laugh it would have been
If Daddy had only seen
Mama kissing Santa Claus last night

Okay… so… this song was written in 1952… times were much more innocent back then. I realize that “Santa Claus” is probably “Daddy” dressed up as Santa but if you are to take this song literally… it makes this whole situation seem ripe for the Jerry Springer show.

First of all, if you don’t realize the playful nature of this song and that Shelby is probably just peeking in on his dad and mom kissing under the mistletoe you might accidentally think that Mama is cheating on Daddy with this old, fat, hairy bastard.



Santa should never be trusted to be alone with your wife

Despite the fact that this song was written over 50 years ago… there’s still something deeply disturbing about it! All of us listening to it might say, “Oh! Ha, I get it!! Shelby is actually just seeing his Dad and Mom have a sweet Christmas Eve kiss! He’s just misunderstanding what’s really going on! How cute!”

Well let me tell you something people… Shelby actually thinks his Mom is getting it on with SANTA CLAUS while Daddy is (more than likely) asleep!! And he thinks Daddy would have laughed about it!! I’ll tell you what I would have done if I had gotten out of bed to find my wife mugging down and “tickling the beard” of some random fat dude in our house… I’d have collapsed his frontal lobe with the nearest blunt object I could find.

What happens after Shelby creeps back to bed? Does he lay there and worry about if he should tell Daddy or not? Does he pray that his Mom and Dad don’t get divorced because Dad can’t “clean her chimney” like Santa can? Does he cover his head with his pillow to muffle the sound of Santa’s “Ho-Ho-Ho’s” and Mama’s “Oh-oh-oh’s”?

What kind of light does this song shed on Santa? It makes him sound like a real slut. He gets one night a year away from Mrs. Claus and apparently he takes the opportunity to get his game on. Mrs. Claus thinks he’s off spreading good will. Well... I'm here to tell you Mrs. Claus that that's not the only thing he's spreading.

Anyway… I think the song is a little dated for where our world is at this point in time. Santa should stick with gifts and stockings… not Mama’s fun bags.



Santa’s been pulling the wool (in more ways than one) over our eyes for years…

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Come visit me at my home: Who Is Papa K.

His & Her Gifts

Last week Beth had asked the Hot Dad's for a post about least favorite gifts we have received. I can't say I have received any I didn't like. Christmas (and birthdays) have always been hard for me as I'm uncomfortable receiving gifts. I really enjoy the holiday, the family, the traditions and giving, but I'm awkward about receiving gifts. I'd just as soon not get anything, and if you must, then beer always fits.

After my ex and I spilt up, there were a few Christmases when I thought we were "working it out" when the gifts she provided didn't seem like there had been much thought. However, even when she gave me a big box of returned gifts (included paintings I had done for her), I didn't give back her dismissive gifts.

As for suggestions to help your Christmases, I have posted over at Dogs and Jeans this season, so you are welcome to check it out:

Gifts for Him

Gifts For Her

12 Creepy Days of Giving

In preparation for a posting about worst gifts given, I thought I'd share a hilarious posting from Dale Dobson at Cracked magazine. I only wish I could post something this clever here or at Dogs and Jeans.

Ladies, wouldn't you all swoon if you received the 12 Days of Christmas from Christopher Walken?

The First Day
The partridge, the pear tree. I trust both have arrived safely on this First Day of Christmas. The partridge, unfortunately, required mounting for shipping. Taxidermy. I had to strangle the poor bird with my own two hands. Sometimes small cruelties must be tolerated for the greater holiday good in this case, pears.

The Second Day

May the two beautiful turtle doves, enclosed, enliven your Second Day of Christmas. I have recorded their mournful songs on a compact disc, also enclosed, so you will understand why I found it necessary to smother them. These birds these birds could drive you fucking crazy.

The Third Day
The three French hens have been prepared and dressed for oven or broiler, as you will. But the holiday fun does not stop there, my friend. I have removed the heads myself. With an axe. And I have decorated them, festively, as Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus. Please, enjoy.

The Fourth Day
Fourth Day. Four calling birds. Listen. Are they calling? No. But the silence is, in its own way, a kind of Christmas.

The Fifth Day
I have taken special care to select the five golden rings, enclosed, because I know you treasure the better things in life. Four are from the world's finest jewelers. The fifth was my grandfather's. It is of special sentimental value to me, because I had to exhume his corpse to retrieve it. An unfortunate bureaucratic slipup, by an unfortunate fucking bureaucrat.

The Sixth Day
On this Sixth Day of Christmas, six geese sit a-laying on your front lawn. Eggs. I have always admired these elegant, graceful white waterfowl. It saddens me that the hatchlings will not emerge before I send workmen to burn the nests.

The Seventh Day
On the Seventh Day, God rested. But the seven swans presently a-swimming in your pool do not rest. They will not climb out of the water, nor will they stop moving. Why? Because the lead weights I have tied to their legs, the amphetamines in their feed, assure you of a full day of Christmas entertainment.

The Eighth Day
The small American dairy farm has, tragically, disappeared forever. Therefore, most of the eight maids a-milking appear courtesy of the good people at La Leche League, to whom I have made a generous donation in your name. For the remainder, I have called in a personal favor from the publisher of Lactating Mamas magazine. Distasteful. But it is, after all, Christmas.

The Ninth Day
Nine. Ladies, Dancing. Nine sterling examples, one might think, of the female form in motion. But who is that tall, strikingly handsome woman in green? It is I, Christopher Walken. In Peter Pan drag.

The Tenth Day
On this, the Tenth Day of our Christmas adventure, the ten lords a-leaping represent every walk of American street life. The gambler, the bookmaker, the dealer and the junkie. The ambitious gangster, the implacable crime lord, and the common thug. The crooked cop, the arsonist, and the con man. Their nimble hops, always one step ahead of Johnny Law, are what the season is all about. Merry Christmas.

The Eleventh Day
Eleventh Day. Eleven pipers. Piping. Not a-piping, mind you. But piping hot. Like soul-searing New Orleans jazz. Like a boiling glass of absinthe. Like me. Happy Holidays.

The Twelfth Day
On this Twelfth Day, I am filled with ennui. Twelve drummers, merely drumming; too easy, perhaps. Which is why I have, at great personal risk, imported drums made from human skin. They produce a sound like no other; the sound of a tiny bamboo cage in a fetid jungle prison, where hope dies anew with each cruel dawn. It's the sound of pain, frustration and disappointment. The sound of Christmas.

Ho Ho Ho Holiday Dating Do's & Don'ts

Last week, KittyCat asked for some Hot Dads Advice on Dating During the Holidays. Never let it be said that Hot Dads are not givers. So for you KittyCat, and all the other readers, here are some simple Do's and Don'ts to help you through the season without hospitalization or a restraining order.

Do: Recognize that expectations may be raised at Christmas: For many women, The holidays are a time when being single can put added pressure on dating. This pressure can amplify the situation and speed up normal dating time lines. Be aware that a simple coffee meeting might be analyzed from her perspective as an "interview" for being a potential date to an office party or even Hanukkah supper with her family.

Don't: Show up for a first date with your suitcase packed and demand she get rid of her cat on account of your allergies.

Do: Behave yourself at the office Christmas party. In this age of political correctness and sexual harassment, the office party is a mine field of potential work issues for the new year. Enjoy the social atmosphere of conversation and refreshments with your co-workers, keep your hands to yourself and don't be the last person to leave.

Don't: Get drunk and finally confess to Rhonda in Purchasing she's "stacked but not fat, but in a good way," and tell your female regional manager "she is really attractive when she's not being a ball breaker!"

Do: Show interest in her celebration traditions. From decorating the Christmas Tree to lighting the menorah, most faiths have events they hold special. If you are lucky enough to be in

vited to attend such a celebration with her, be respectful and engaged.

Don't: Ask her to participate in your annual online Feast Of The An'kora'na Beast in World of Warcraft.

Do: Expect an increase in her emotions. Whether it's unpleasant memories of a "Christmas Gone Wrong" or the thought she won't see her sister this year, even a happy moment can open a floodgate of tears. Sometimes the holidays can seem like three weeks of egg nod induced PMS. But just be patient and understanding and she'll appreciate your time even more when she has stopped.

Don't: Tell her to hang on and you'll talk about it during the next commercial after Chevy Chase falls off the roof.

Do: Curb your generosity. If you just started dating, there is no expectation to give a gift. A card, flowers and a heartfelt admission you feel happy to spend this time of year with her will go along way.

Don't: Give her diamonds, airline tickets or a kidney.

Do: Give her some some time to prepare for New Year's Eve. The movies make a last minute invitation to the best party seem like the most romantic thing ever. However, in practice, it's is not a recipe for a love connection. Ask for her time at least three days before (more is better). A woman wants to have enough time to plan her outfit, hair, nails etc and also to think about you feeling that sense of anticipation of seeing her all dolled up.

Don't: Take your date to your ex's New Years Eve party to make her jealous that you are kissing someone else at midnight.

For more helpful advice, be sure to visit Trooper Thorn at Dogs and Jeans

Don't Be A Grinch, Hot Dad!

I am very disappointed the Hot Dads. With less than 3 weeks to Christmas, there has been not one post from any of you on the agony or ecstasy of the season. With the compliment of experienced (translation: "broken") men on our posting list, I would have expected several blogs by now discussing:

• crummy gifts
• parents
• mistaken trysts at office parties
• ex wives causing troublelamentations on the weather
• in-laws
• excessive decorations
• keeping kids believing
• dating in December

You know, general 'What's Up With The Holidays?" posts from a man's point of view.

Maybe we all need to get in the spirit. Therefore, as a follow up to my posting last week at Dogs and Jeans on the subject of The Grinch, here are some demotivational posters. Get blogging guys before your are visited by three ghosts!

Is Your Daughter 18?

A father's worst nightmare; your celebrity daughter turns 18 and nothing can stop the slutty descent into career irrelevance that follows the alcohol and drug fueled post-adolescence Bacchanalian parties. Okay, maybe not your worst nightmare, but certainly one that Billy Ray Cyrus has to face now that little  Miley has turned 18. We've seen the warning signs for at least 2 years now: revealing outfits, provocative videos, rumored boyfriends of dubious reputation.

But now it's on in full force and digital 3D. Unfortunately the vices and entertainment-industry-parasites around Miley will ensure that "Hannah Montana" will remain her acting and singing "high point".

If my calculations are correct, this should be the next few career moves after she sobers up:

• "Buddy" movie with Taylor Swift and Rhianna where she shows her "chops".
• Inner city rookie high school teacher whose misunderstood students learn to see the world through new eyes. Cyrus receives an Oscar nomination but no shot at winning.
• Cast in high concept tech-thriller opposite Christian Bale but is replaced by that girl from "I-Carley" a quarter of the way into filming. The official press release is she is suffering from fatigue, but rumors from the set are she was frequently missing from the set and hung over.
• One month marriage to stunt man. Two month stint in revolving door celebrity rehab center.
• Disappointing romantic comedy with Jake Gyllenhaal where they have to sail from Manhattan to Miami to prevent the wedding between each of their best friends.
• Box office flop of her personal pet project "NASCAR Angels" about a group of women race car drivers.
• Moderately successful TV series where she plays the older, world-weary best friend of Dakota Fanning.

Does that seem about right?

December 14 Update: With Miley's recent "alleged" bong use, she may be going to rapidly down the Lindsey Lohan career path to accomplish any of the above bullets.

Thanksgiving Wishes

Happy Thanksgiving to all the American readers of Hot Dads from a Canadian Hot Dad.

More Thanksgiving Demotivational Posters are your to enjoy this holiday over at Dogs & Jeans.

Be A Better Hot Dad By Reading

If you are a man, or if you know someone who claims to be, I recommend you buy a copy of Adam Carolla’s recent book “In 50 Years, We’ll All Be Chicks”. The former co-host of “The Man Show” lays out why today’s society in softening guys and what we should do to stop it. He paints a horrifying, and hilarious, portrait of the modern man as insecure, incompetent and far too interested in smelling nice than knowing how to change a tire.

Some of the chapter titles include:

• “We’ve Built A Minimum Wage Gilded Cage”
• “Motherfucking Nature”
• “God, Religious Tolerance, And Other Shit That Doesn’t Exist” and
• “Foods I Have Beef With”

From politics to religion, women’s rights to parenthood, Carolla is not afraid to speak his mind and make you laugh uncontrollably along the way. But don’t take my word for it, here are some of the comments of others:

"Adam Carolla is a genius. And no, I'm not kidding."
--Jimmy Kimmel

"Reading Adam Carolla is akin to having a horrible illness. Alone with your thoughts, you struggle with whether you want to even go on living. When you're done, you're a stronger, better person."
--Alec Baldwin

"If you’re a man, read this book. If you’re a man who wears turtlenecks, wise up. Nobody thinks that looks good."

--Seth MacFarlane

“I don’t know this guy from Adam, but Carolla’s humor—fearlessly crass, shamelessly honest and irresistibly funny—sucks out like liposuction the layers of fatty pride to expose the often warped and wounded psyche buried deep within the modern American male.”

--Ken Burns

"If comedy books were big-breasted porn stars, In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks would be Christy Canyon."

--Bill Simmons, ESPN columnist and bestselling author of The Book of Basketball

Read more manly things at Dogs & Jeans

November 11

Tomorrow is Veteran's Day in the US and Remembrance Day in Canada. Different name, same sacrifice. We all pay tribute to the men and women who sacrificed for our freedoms and those who continue to put themselves in harm’s way today.

It is also a time to honor the families of those who serve. These families have given their sons and daughters so that other people’s sons and daughters can live in peace. Whether the sacrifice is having their children gone for long periods, and the daily worries that go with that, or the ultimate sacrifice of their children's lives, we all owe them a debt a gratitude. My own kids are old enough to serve (and one is considering it) so I can only imagine the mix of pride and pain that goes along with having your child in uniform.

On this November 11, please thank a military mom or dad for what they offer and say a prayer for the safe return of every loved one serving.

The smallest utterance of politics makes my brain shut down into a lifeless, steaming pile of toad poop.

I can't get into it. I can't get passionate about it. It doesn't interest me.

I know, as an American born American, I should... but I simply cannot.

All I know is that no one is ever going to agree on anything. In a perfect world there would be no arguments, there wouldn't be any Republican or Democratic parties, there would be no Hillary Clinton and we would all have nothing to argue about.

I know... boring, right?

Although, I have to admit, I was slightly interested in seeing if "Prop 19" would pass. For those of you who don't know, Prop 19 was a ballot initiative to legalize marijuana (aka pot, dope, Mary Jane, ganja, giggleweed, reefer, bud, cryptonite, doobie, grass, hocus pocus, happy backy, rainy day woman, wackytabacky, pretendica, etc.) in the state of California.



California's Future Governor: The Honorable Mr. Snoop Dogg

It didn't pass.

Honestly, I was going to be really surprised if it did pass... even for California!

I couldn't even imagine the drove of patchouli-soaked hippies that would move to California to bask in the glow of the legalization of marijuana. Perhaps that's why California residents voted to keep it illegal? I mean... who likes the smell of patchouli other than dirty hippies right?! (Sorry Matt)

Anyway, as someone who's *cough cough* never smoked wackytabacky myself *cough cough*... ahem... I'm a little under the weather (or am I?) I apologize... what was I saying? Oh yeah, in my humble opinion I don't think it's a good idea to legalize it because of the sheer chaos it would cause.

"But Papa K, marijuana is much safer than alcohol!" You might say, "No one has ever died from smoking too much pot!"

It's true, no one has overdosed from inhaling too much cannabis... they just become incredibly stupid. Nothing irritates me more than someone who is high. While the recipient of the head change is on another planet, his or her surrounding peers have to put up with the idiocy of his or her actions.

Can you imagine how long it would take to get through the check-out line at Wal-Mart when the checker is as high as a hot air balloon?

What if the person driving in the lane next to you just sucked down a whole blunt and their idea of exiting the highway is to change lanes by smashing through your luxury Sedan? I don't think you or I would have much sympathy for someone after picking ourselves out of a ditch on the side of the road to find out the reason they ran you off the road was because their sensory skills were inhibited by the giggleweed!

Yet... I have some sympathy for the "legalize marijuana" advocates. I see Marijuana, as with EVERYTHING, in excess is too much. Too much beer is bad, too much ice cream is bad, too much sex is bad (well... not that bad), too much of Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen is bad and too much pot is bad. Now, if you could GUARANTEE some resiliency on the part of those who want to smoke a little Mary-Jane and limit their intake only to times when they're out of harms way or not in a position to severely affect every one elses busy schedules... then fine. But it wouldn't be that way because Americans like to abuse their privilages.

I could go on and on. The argument between smokers and non-smokers will carry on much like arguments about capital punishment, prayer in schools and whether or not Elena Kagan is a man.



Sir... ah... Ma'am... uh... hey you!

Whatever the case may be, I honestly don't have a problem with people who want to smoke an occasional doobie much in the same way I don't have a problem with someone who wants to have a few drinks. The problem is how many dirty hippies would abuse their right to smoke pot free and clear. While this would increase profits for those who invest in IHOP, Denny's and Waffle House it would also increase the amount of one-sided ass whippings given to smoked-out hippies that fried the final nerve of many clear-minded individuals.

So, with that, thank God Prop 19 didn't pass.

That's what I think... what do you think?

BTW - I didn't inhale.

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Come visit me at my home: Who Is Papa K.

Last Minute Costumes

At this late hour, most of the good costumes are gone from the stores. However, if you have a can of spray paint around, you can still put together a sexy look for this weekend's Halloween Parties:

1. The Economy

2. Don't Ask, Don't Tell

3. Weeding The Garden

4. Modern Art Enthusiast

5. Gulf Disaster

Check out more Halloween Ideas at Dogs & Jeans.

The Bus Doctor Returns

I’m not a doctor by training, but I do provide an abundance of medical expertise to people on the bus each day. As a Public Service, occasionally I pass on some of the frequently asked questions to help the readers of Hot Dads.

"Are you really a doctor"

Define the word "really". Now define the word "conundrum". Now do five knuckle push-ups.

“Is acupuncture covered by my HMO?”

Most HMO’s to not include non-traditional medicine in their benefits, but it’s best to consult your provider. If not, you can perform your own acupuncture easily and in the comfort of your own home using a wet cat dropped from 5 feet on the exposed back of the patient. Vinegar makes an inexpensive post-treatment antiseptic.

“I think I might be crazy. Am I?”
Yes.

“Can I manage my diabetes through diet and exercise alone?”
There are 2 types of diabetes: insulin-dependent and non-insulin-dependent. While proper eating and an active lifestyle are never a bad idea, insulin-dependent diabetes will usually require medication as well. However, there are several recent studies that have shown positive responses when people stop watching “Oprah”. I would expect to see a great drop in the number of new cases every year when her show goes off the air for good.


“What is that smell?”
It is the smell of one hand clapping. Now try and take the pebble from my hand Grasshopper.


“How can I know if I am masturbating too much?”
Masturbation is a healthy activity, but like everything, there is a time and place for it. If you are masturbating right now, you do it too much. Please move away from me.

“Are you crazy?”
No. Would a crazy person admit they were crazy? Wait… maybe I am then? No, we are not crazy. Who said that? I did. You mean “Me”? Sure, but don’t tell anyone.

I May Be 30... But I Need My Nub Nub

It's been a rough day.

First of all, when I got up this morning, I realized that my DVR did not record "Sister Wives", a show about a dude with four wives.

Then... I came to find out we were out of Rice Krispies.

Then... I had an accident in my pants.

Then I cried an endless waterfall of tears.

"It's gonna be one of those days!" I thought to myself, "Good thing I got this"!

I reached into my pocket and drew out my best trusted friend to whom I resort to when days begin to look as though they're sliding into the pit of Hades: a faded green pacifier.

"Hello old friend" I said as I cradled it gingerly almost expecting it to respond back to me. "When everything else fails... I can always depend on you!" I said as I popped the bulb of the pacifier in-between my lips and then began frantically sucking away the pain of the day.

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You may think this is strange and ask me, "Why are you, A GROWN MAN, sucking on a pacifier?" Well... my mother never weaned me off of it and before she knew it I had moved out of the house using my "Nub Nub" to help get me through the stressful moments in life.

Who was there for my end of semester finals? Nub Nub.

Who was there when my college girlfriend broke up with me? Nub Nub.

Who was there after I killed that hobo and feared I was going to get caught? Nub Nub.

Who's been there through 11 years of the Texas Rangers not being in the playoffs? Nub Nub



Watching close games stress me out. Who's there for me? Nub Nub.

So... you can imagine the kind of rift this created in my relationship with Bunny when I pulled Nub Nub out after our first major argument.

"What are you doing? Is that... a pacifier?"

"NO! THITH ITH NUB NUB!! AND HETH THE ONLY ONE WHO CARETH ABOUT ME!!" I screamed around Nub Nub who I held so delicately between my teeth.

"HA! Are you a man... or are you a baby?" she responded while simultaneously yanking Nub Nub between my pursed lips.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Give it back poo-poo face!" I screamed again before close-lining her then slamming her to the floor in order to wrench Nub Nub from her vice-like grip. I sure as hell knew that I wasn't no baby!

So don't judge me. I may be the largest person you've ever seen sucking on a pacifier... but it's my own business. My mommy never told me I had to give it up... so I'll give it up when I'm ready.

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Post Post Disclaimer: if you didn't notice my complete and total sarcasm... then you are indeed a complete moron.

On a more serious note: what's your thought on pacifiers? Should kids be allowed to decide when they don't want a pacifier any more? Or should there be some rules established i.e. "only a nap-time" or "only at bed-time" or "pretty much whenever they scream loud enough?" Or do you have no rules i.e. "Let them suck on that thing until they're 30 years old... like Papa K!"

I'm interested on starting a heated debate... make my wishes come true.

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Come visit me at my home: Hands To War.

Some Commonplace Things...

from when I was a kid that my kids have never seen:

• Pipe cleaners (that are used to clean pipes, not as craft supplies)
• Typewriter ribbons
• Loni Anderson's cleavage
• Ashtrays in McDonalds
• Those disks that you inserted in the middle of 45’s to play on a standard turn table
• Evil Knevil posters
• A manual roll-down windsheild
• Dollar bills (only coins in Canada)
• Musical variety TV shows

Read more observations at Dogs & Jeans

Wandering Eyes May Cause Incoming Fists

Having a beautiful wife like mine is indeed a blessing… but sometimes it can be a curse. You’re going to have to deal with the roving eyeballs of your passing homo sapien male brothers yet know the rules that come with the territory of having such eye candy on your arm.

Alternatively, when dealing with an oncoming pair of extraordinary boobs on a hip-swingin’ supermodel; you have to know when to look away so that you’re not going to be eviscerated by your wife, girlfriend or recipient of your lengthy stare.

Here are some tips for you OR the guy taking too long a look at your better half’s miles of boundless cleavage.


1. It is okay to look… but not for too long!

With all the enhancements women can get these days along with the things they’re allowed to wear in public… men don’t stand a chance. They have to look. Not looking would result in a catastrophic collapse of their frontal lobe which in turn would create a small black hole, sucking everything within the general vicinity into it.

Quite frankly… they want you to look. They wouldn’t have worn what they’re wearing, worked out that hard or gotten the work done if they didn’t want the opposite gender looking.

The trick is when to know to look away.

If you’re “the looker”… you want to look for a second or less. In this case a second lasts a long time. This could more commonly be called a “glance”. That’s honestly long enough to get your fill. If you look any longer than that… it will assuredly result in you getting caught. This is when you know you’ve evolved the glance into a “stare”.

If you’re the unfortunate boyfriend/husband of the recipient absorbing the +1 second stare, then you should probably say something.

“Hey buddy… you know the rules! ONE SECOND MAX!!” You should bark.

This will usually knock the lookee out of their trance, result in their immediate embarrassment and will generally concede with an apology.

If nothing happens and they seem to have fallen into a trance… it’s time to strategically plant your fist somewhere in the general vicinity of their ocular cavities.



One second... it's all you get...


2. The party involved should be flattered with a glance

The problem with most passing looks is that they last too long and evolve into a stare. A stare is rude, inconsiderate to everyone involved and makes you look like a douchebag.

A glance is a more appropriate form of non verbal communication that can be interpreted in a number of ways. It could mean, “Your surgeon should get a Nobel Prize for that work”, “You must work out” or “That guy she’s with is a lucky dude”.

The good thing about a glance is that even if it’s caught by the significant other, it’s usually followed by a head nod and grin distinguishable only to the male species. This is non verbal man communication as if to say, “Nice work dude” or “You suck but I gotta give you props”!

Glancing merely reinforces the fact that (a) you were correct in your assumption that your girlfriend/wife is hot and (b) other guys are jealous of you.

Girls want to be noticed… they don’t want to be ogled.

Staring, whether they/you are caught or not, merely reinforces the fact that (a) there’s no tact in our society anymore and (b) he/you are going to get verbally abused/punched/slapped/shot/kicked/eviscerated.



This dude looked too long...


3. If in passing, the situation presents itself again to glance… DON’T!

On occasion, there will be an opportunity to look at the same set of delightful orbs or derriere in skin-hugging leggings within a fairly short time period.

This presents a more delicate situation because all parties involved were made aware of each other earlier and have danced around the situation once already. Going through it again will result in awkward scenarios and uncomfortable moments.

If you are the viewer, take solace in knowing that you got your freebie and move on. You need to stay focused straight ahead. You’ll want to look… but remember this quote:

“I looked once and got my breath taken away… I looked twice and got my eyes gouged out.”

It is too great a gamble to feel greedy and catch another glance. The opposing territorial male is all too aware of the elephant in the room because he is a red blooded male himself… and he knows what you’re after.

If you’re able to curtail the need to look again… you’ve gained the respect of your unknown brother and keep true to the unspoken male code.



It starts early...

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Come visit me at my home: Hands To War.

Ashton Kutcher Sexy Texting - Huh?

Apparently Ashton Kutcher didn’t get the memo when Tiger Woods went through his high-profile divorce. When a spouse sends sexy text messages to someone other than their betrothed, there’s Trouble with a capital T, and that rhymes with P, and that stands for Pathetic!

To summarize (straight from the covers of People and Okay! magazines): Ashton Kutcher reportedly cheated on his wife of five years, Demi Moore. After he cheated on her, he and his much younger lover Brittney kept up a texting relationship. I’m not sure how many times Ashton and Brittney hooked up, but the texting evidence of their post-coital flirting is there on young Brittney’s cell phone.

Ashton Kutcher is 32, and Demi Moore is 47. A lot of people wondered about their older woman younger man cougar relationship. But they seemed to be in love and got along great. Demi has kids from her marriage to Bruce Willis, and I believe even Bruce felt Ashton was a good step-dad.

Ashton’s lover Brittney is 21, making her younger than Ashton's step-daughter (Demi’s oldest daughter). How f**ked up is that? Most would agree that older man younger woman relationships become creepy if the woman is the same age or younger than the guy’s daughter (or in Ashton’s case, step-daughter).

I’m sure psychologists could have a field day with the older woman younger man / older man younger woman dynamics to these relationships. I won’t try to analyze Ashton here. Though I will say, it always did strike me that Demi’s old enough to be Ashton’s mother.

At least Ashton’s too young to be Brittney’s dad. (But somehow he’s old enough to be step-dad to Demi and Bruce’s oldest? Only in Hollywood...)

To put things in perspective: I’m the same age as Demi Moore. If my ex-wife had married someone as young as Ashton Kutcher, there would have been bells ringing and red flags flying in my mind. And I sure as hell wouldn’t want him as my kids’ stepdad, especially if he was only ten years older than my daughter.

Back to sexy texting. What Ashton Kutcher does with his life is his business. How he involves his wife and step-kids is his business. But if he’s going to have an affair, don’t you think he’d know enough from Tiger Woods divorce to not text about it? I’m not defending Ashton. I’m just saying any sane person … er… what am I trying to say?

Okay, the whole thing is creepy. And it played out in text-speak exactly how it was meant to be...

Hey Ashton, here’s an emoticon for ya: :-P

Image by Made In Hollywood, some rights reserved.

I WANT DOWALD'S PAPA! DOWALD'S

“Dowal’s. Papa, I want Dowal’s.” The Boy told me as I walked back into the room and plopped down on the couch beside him, just as Mr Spongeboob Squire Pants popped his annoyingly awesome yellowness back on the tube before us.

“Dow? What is it that you say my son?”

“Papa, Papa,” Mr Pants eagerly said as he looked straight at me, as I was looking bug eyed straight in his pupils,”

“Yes son, I am here… Yeees, what is it……” “Papa…” “What whuuuuuuuut?”

“Uhm….I want Dowald’s. Dowald’s. Have some? Can I have some?”

“Yeah buddy. But uh, I don’t really know what Dowald’s is.”

“DOWALD’S!”

“Sure sure, you can have it! Take it.” And that was the end of it. Dowald’s though, I haven’t the foggiest idea what the hell he was so gluttonously asking me for. For the most part, now at 27 months, I can understand everything he says. And he can imitate nearly anything I tell him to. (Even damnit, (as if I would really ask him to repeat that though, (sometimes they just eavesdrop on my conversations and get me in trouble with their verbatim recollection of it’s contents later on when their mother happens to be around)) But this was utterly beyond my capacity to translate.

So we sat and watched Spongeboob. The commercials came on so I pried the controller from Mr Pant’s filthy lil’ hands and started fast forwarding the commercials. And then this….

“DOWALD’S Papa! Dowald’s!”

And at once I knew what he was talking about. For a fleeting moment, a mere flash before my eyes that could have been missed if I blinked too long, a brightly colored Mc Donald’s happy meal box flashed before me on the screen. Nearly subliminally as the commercials flew by in high motion on the tube in variations of bright colors filled with brief glances of various toys and cartoon ads…..with a sneakily placed Mc Donalds commercial jabbed right in the middle of it all. So sneaky they are. Mc Mother Fucken Dowald’s. So I rewound it and saw the commercial. A cleverly animated commercial with all sorts of happy little shit heads eating their happy little fucken meals, as if the contents of those happy meals were the absolute best thing in the world for them, making them the happiest little snot nosed pea brained kids in the whooooole world, as if every kid should have one of those damn things or else they are a total loser and not with the in crowd, as if I am a bad parent for not getting my boy a happy meal at the precise moment he spits out his first begging for a happy meal word…..as if. And there it was before me, sending us all those messages instantly, subliminally sabotaging my boys psyches.

And I realized that while I was out of the room, no one was there to fast forward the commercials. NoooOoOOOoOoo! Say it isn’t so. How could I of neglected my boy so badly as to subject him to those damned brain washing commercials? I’m a failure, a complete and utter commercial fast forwarding failure.

Who watches commercials anymore anyway? They are now obsolete. Have been rendered so by my network media tank hooked up to my system with several terabytes of memory that holds millions of movies and shows, and the satellites ability to record and fast forward. Commercials. Bah. I scoff at their very existence and the marketing geniuses behind them. May they be damned to an eternal hell filled with their very own commercials being played before them for eternity. You know what, I bet each and every person behind the design of those commercials fast forwards them. You know they do.

So my boy was subjected to a Mc’y D’s commercial for the first time, as I was out of the room. And now he wants a damn happy meal. Well, he probably also remembered what it was when his granny (cough cough, mothers side, cough cough) got him one that one time. Yeah, and then Lilly threatened that if she keeps feeding him junk her visitation rights will be removed. Serious. It happened. Yeah, the wife went there. Can’t really say if it the threat worked though. Can’t really say.

But now the Mc D’s brand is burned in his poor little brain forever. Everytime he see’s those damnable golden arches, the commercial will replay through his little chicken nugget craving brain, bursting forth a wash of serotonin in his lil head making him feel so good as he imagines taking a bite of nugget with three sauces on it while simultaneously dipping a handful of fries in his chocolate shake and stuffing all that in his mouth at the same time while taking a sip of his seriously watered down orange soda with the straw that is so carefully plugged in the corner of his mouth as he swallows, no chewing, just swallowing. Oh you know that’s how you did it. That’s how I did it anyway. And if I can help it. If I can resist the damned temptation of those beautiful golden arches dripping with gooey ketchup as they sneer at me in my rear view, I will never, ever take the boy there. Never……eeeeveeeer….mmmmmmmmmmmm….chicken nuggets……frys……with a choco shake……ahhhhhhhhhh…must have mcdowals….

Mother Goose Needs Therapy

Back when my wife and I were just dating, I used to buy her children's books. This served as sort of a time machine to take myself back to when I used to be a kid (when I read books with pictures) and was also a subtle way to say, "I wanna read this to our kids."

The first children's book I bought for her was "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs" over seven years ago.



I had remembered what a cool book it was when I was a kid and she'd never read it... so to me... it offered her a glance into my childhood.

The passing years we were together brought more books like:



AND



AND



One of my personal favorites...

Our pile of books pre-kid expanded fairly rapidly and when I found out my wife was pregnant over three years ago it made it that much more exciting knowing that I'd finally get to read them to my kid.

Now that she's over two and growing like a weed... we've read EVERY book in her shelf at least 40 times. In an effort to switch things up, I grabbed an aged book I found in the deep inner recesses of my closet: Mother Goose And Her Book Of Sick And Twisted Nursery Rhymes.

This book is indeed nothing BUT twisted and extremely effed up.

For example:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again!



Humpty Dumpty seconds before death...

You can't tell by the rhyme itself... but Humpty Dumpty is a giant living egg. Then he falls to his death while breaking into a million pieces. While it makes about as much sense as a land where it rains meatballs or a dog whose farts help rob a bank... its central character dies! These are supposed to be stories that parents read to their kids before they drift off into dreamland. I don't want my kid dreaming of some "Egg-man" falling off a wall and shattering his body into a million bloody pieces!

Another example:

Three blind mice,
See how they run!
They all ran after a farmer's wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife.
Did you ever see such a sight in your life,
As three blind mice?

While the central characters in this rhyme didn't die... they got their tails cut off!!! With a carving knife no less!!! Don't get me wrong... I don't want mice in my garage more than the next guy but I'm not sadistically cut off their tails!!! I'm going to set out a mousetrap.

How about this one:

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn't know what to do.
She gave them some broth,
Without any bread,
Whipped them all soundly, and sent them to bed.

Man... what a bitch. Call social services! Sorry about your luck having to live in a shoe (how's that possible anyway) but it ain't your kids faults!! This lady just "didn't know what to do" so she starved them and whipped them. Ooooookaaay... where's the good moral fiber in that story?

Again:

If all the world were paper,
And all the sea were ink,
If all the trees
Were bread and cheese,
What should we have to drink?

Okay... that's not sadistic... it's just stupid.

One final time:

Rub-a-dub-dub
Three men in a tub,
And how do you think they got there?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker --
They all jumped out of a rotten potato!
'Twas enough to make a fish stare.

W... T... F! Okay, so I want my little daughter envisioning three men in a tub together. No. And how I ask you... HOW... did they jump out of a rotten potato? What were they doing there in the first place?

I could go on forever... but I'll stop.

What a sociopath! I don't know who "Mother Goose" was or why she felt the need to reveal the innermost workings of her twisted mind to CHILDREN! All her stuff is a mix of randomness, death, torture, child abuse, etc. etc. etc. I think she's really more suited to write lyrics for Slipknot as opposed to writing books for kids!



Rumor has it that the dude in the lower left corner is actually Mother Goose!

I know I may seem a little extreme and I'm not seriously on the "blacklist Mother Goose" bus but seriously folks... seriously... if they made Mother Goose into a movie it would be rated X.

What do you think?

---------------------------------

Come visit me at my home: Hands To War.

Taste The Rainbow….really, taste it.

The boy had been repetitiously slurping on the rainbow swirled suckers from the savior of every shopping parent, everywhere, otherwise known as The Candy Store. I don’t know how I ever got through shopping without the use of such a candy savior. I think he had three so far. And the gummy bears, oh the gummy bears. A plethora of gummy bears in all the fruity rainbow flavors….

And when he puked, his puke was a conglomeration of milk, fruity gummy bears, and rainbow swirls of melted and partially digested sucker juice. It brings a whole new meaning to the term, taste the rainbow. How bout, see the rainbow, then re-taste the rainbow. Now clean up the rainbow Lilly. Clean up the half digested rainbow. Yeah, you clean that rainbow.

Then…..taste the rainbow again, and even a third time. How does a rainbow of fruity flavors taste after the third time? And how does one kid puke three times in a row in one store? Well, I’m not sure, but I sure the hell am glad I wasn’t there to witness….I mean to clean it up. Thirty seconds before my boy puked, three times, I had left the wife and the boy and the baby in the dressing room in Banana Republic.

“Yeah, call me if you need anything,” Was the last thing I said to the woman as I left her in the dressing room with over 2,000 bucks worth of clothes to try on, a toddler, and a crying baby. Hey, I had to make it to the Billabong and Quiksilver store before they closed. Time was wasting and this was multitasking at it’s best. You mean leaving the kids with the wife isn’t considered multi-tasking? Hmm.

Okay so my phone got left in the diaper bag, in the stroller, in the dressing room where I had left them. And seconds after I left the room, he blew chunks everywhere. And then the woman called my phone, several times, while she stood there naked, in the dressing room, with puke all over the place, a screaming and faint 27 month old boy, and a screaming baby who was overdo for a nap and a bottle.

But I didn’t feel too bad for her. A little bit, but ehhh….not too much. Hell, the last time the boy puked in a public place it was all over me in the middle of a restaurant. Chunky chicken vomit bomb. Blaaahh. So she had it coming. As she replayed the gut churning story for me an hour later when I finally got back from spending her money on the credit card she gave me with my name on it, (hey, I’m a SAHD, what do you expect), I showed sincere pity and sorrow on my face, and I sincerely, with all of my being, was laughing my ass off way deep down inside. Ahh man, if she could have just heard me laughing, she would have even thought it funny too. She really missed out on the good time I was having when she told me about how she was on her hands and knees, while naked in between trying on suits, mopping up three piles of vomit off the changing room floor with nothing but butt wipes, the boy’s extra change of clothes we keep in the diaper bag, and some napkins the Banana Republic employee tossed under the door for her. Good times all around.

Sexual Psychology

I’d like to understand my sexual psychology better. Specifically my ability to fantasize increases rapidly during sex but becomes almost completely absent afterwards.

Men in general are much better at sex during the sex that after wards. During, we are completely engaged in the activity and nothing else matters. Our only distraction from the task at hand is planning the positions we’d like to use when we do it again, right after.

Often, I have 3 or 4 fucks scheduled over the next 90 minutes right up until the climax of my current engagement. Most guys will agree we are so excited about the next ride, we are in a hurry to get this one finished, since the next one will be really mind-blowing because she’s in top, or we’re behind or her mother will be out. Plus the pressure is off so we can really concentrate on pleasing her slowly, just the way she likes it.

The cruel irony is that within 8 seconds of finishing, sex is now the furthest thing from our minds. The car needs waxing. I’ve got to get up early for a meeting. Football is on in half an hour.
Stupid fantasy life.