The Zombie Plan: A Hot Dad's Guide

Do you have a plan for when the zombies attack?

Please, people...don’t tell me that Halloween is the only time of the year that you think about zombies and the undead. C’mon now...surely you must realize that zombies that bring havoc to the land of the living at any time of the year. What will you do when it happens? Where will you go if you’re being chased by flesh-eating beings? How will you survive the impending apocalypse?

Well...I’ve got a plan. It’s not perfect, it’s not absolute, but it’s a plan. In fact, my girlfriend was a bit taken aback at knowing that I actually had a plan in place. Well...she’s gonna be in a world of hurt if she doesn’t at least have an escape route in the back of her mind.

So because you never know if somebody who will eventually be a zombie on my trail will read this (and use it to catch me later....duh!!), I’m not going to provide my detailed plan here. No, instead I’m going to help all of you by providing some very important tips on how to stay alive during a zombie apocalypse:

• Find water. I don’t know about you, but I have yet to see a movie where zombies could do ANYTHING involving water. So find a boat...a life raft, even...and seriously consider going to the nearest island to wait out the storm (so to speak). Of course, if this island has only trees and bugs then you might be in a bit of a jam when it comes to staying alive, so you might need more than just a boat in order to stay alive. Of course, if you don’t live anywhere close to water then you’re probably screwed if this plan is followed.
• Find weapons. Lots of ‘em. Guns...explosives...machetes...anything that can blow something up or cut something off. You’ll need it. Just remember there are only two places you can focus your attack on: the head and the knees. Everybody knows that zombies eat brains. The flip side of that is the fact that zombies will actually “die” if you destroy their brain. So always try to aim for the head each and every time. Of course, if the head isn’t an option then go for the knees. Why? You can out-run a zombie with only one leg. Trust me.
• Find a mall. Not only are there a LOT of resources there that are available for you in order to survive (food...water...those shoes you saw on Sex & the City), but there are normally a LOT of places to hide from the undead hordes that might be coming after you. Obviously, there may be some drawbacks like the distinct possibility that more and more zombies might surround the mall because it’s where they used to congregate when they were alive...but for the most part you’re probably in a pretty safe spot. BONUS: Pick a mall with a Wal-Mart or some outdoor specialty store for easier access to zombie-destroying weapons.
• Find old people. This may sound crass and horrific, but let’s face it: you don’t want to die, AMIRITE?? Do you really think a zombie cares if they’re chewing on flesh from somebody who’s 20 or 80? Nah. If you’re being chased by some flesh-eaters, your best bet is planning an escape route that runs past a senior citizen’s home. You may frown now, but you’ll thank me later.
• Find a remote area. Listen...most of the zombie hordes will spend weeks (possibly months) eating on the yummy flesh within the urban areas and cities. So if you live on a farm or in a suburban area, you’re probably in better shape than you think. Is it free of zombies? Well of course not...but it’s still better than being in a city where the undead will breed faster than Octomom in a sperm-donor clinic.
• Find a way to stay alive for 5 years. The suggestion is that bacteria will have eaten away at the zombies to the point that they cannot actually “survive” after 4-6 years. So if there has been a “zombie war” and you have found a way to self-sustain, then you’ve got a great chance at long-term survival.

Hey...I’m no expert. I’m sure there are ‘official’ websites and books out there that can tell you, in detail, what you need to know in order to completely survive the zombie apocalypse.

But don’t let the Halloween talk make you think this is the only time of the year that you need to think of a plan. Any good dad has a good zombie plan.

It’s just a given, isn’t it?

The Peace Corps

By TentCamper

This friend of mine joined the Peace Corps a few years ago. He was a young guy and wanted to do something special…something for others. He was soon sent off to some desert area near Egypt for his first mission (or whatever they call it) to help build school houses and teach children in need. What a great guy. Smart, loving, dedicated, honest and giving.

Anyway, when he returned we got together for a few beers and to talk about his “journey.” After he had downed more than a pitcher, he began telling me a story that I don’t think he ever intended on telling anyone…but I just sat there nodding my head…and listening.

The story goes as follows:

“So once I got to the desert Corps camp, I was shown into the camp manager’s office. He had me sit down and proceeded to go over all of the rules, timelines, jobs, personnel, etc. When he was done he showed me to my bunk house. I got my stuff situated and joined up with the rest of the workers and started on my journey to help those in need. After a few weeks, I noticed (out of nothing more than my manly urges) that there were no women at the camp. I brought it up to one of my co-workers who said that due to the local customs, women were not allowed to work here and that I should go talk about it with the camp manager. I was a bit embarrassed so I did nothing about it at the time. After a few more weeks, the urges were getting pretty bad and the sleeping quarters and showers were not conducive for pleasuring my self. I decided to bite the bullet and go talk to the camp manager about it.

I went into the office and told the camp manager that I’d been there for more than 6 weeks and was wondering if there were any women that were around…I was getting pretty frustrated and kind of wanted some release. The manager looked at me and said, “Well…around the back of the office…there is a camel…” I cut him off there and said, “Thanks but I’ll be ok.” And I bolted from the office.

It was about a month later when I went back to the office, basically clutching my groin…as if I were going to explode. I told the manager, again, about my situation and he once again said, “OK, there is a camel in the barn behind this building and that is what most of the guys here use…” I cut him off again and ran from the office…thinking about how nasty that would be…especially after all off these other guys…fuck that!

Now I had been there for 3 and a half months…I ran into the manager’s office, with duress on my face. I sternly asked about that camel. He pointed out the back window to the barn. I ran out the door and around to the barn. After grabbing a stool from the side of the barn and placing it behind the tied up camel, I jumped up on the stool, ripped my pants down, lifted the camel’s tail and ….OH MY GOD! I have to say that it did not take me long at all. It did not even really click that it was a camel until after…and at that point…I didn’t care.

I ran back into the manager’s office, with a huge grin on my face and said, “That was great!...Can I do that whenever I want?” The manager looked at me with the strangest eyes that I’d ever seen and said, “what the hell are you talking about? What happened?” I told him that I grabbed a stool from the side of the barn and placed it behind the tied up camel, I jumped up on the stool, ripped my pants down, lifted the camel’s tail and …you know. The manager, let his head fall into his hands and then, after a few seconds, looked up at me with a shitty grin and said to me, “Holy shit boy! Most of the guys get the camel and ride it into the town about 20 miles east of here!”

That was my last day at that camp…I insisted on being transferred to a completely different region where I finished out my 6 months...from that point on…I decided to wait til I got back to the states to get laid.” I have to say that I really hope that this story was not true…I never brought it up with him again, but these days I’m thinking that he’s not as smart as I used to think he was.

To Pee Or Not To Pee

By TentCamper

As you may be able to tell from the name of my blog, I have a tendency to pee into the wind now and again. But that is not the only thing about pee that I like….I grew up in the northeast and spent many a winter producing creative ‘art’ on my white snow canvas. I peed on my brother after my other brother and I tied him up. I have (I am man enough to admit it) peed myself …as a grown man. I pee outdoors at every opportunity…bushes, behind trees, alleys, fields, off boats, in streams…you know…pretty much anywhere. In addition to all of that, I have a small bladder, so I go pretty much all the time.

As a 41 year old man, with all of the aforementioned experience, I do consider myself an expert…or urinary master extraordinaire…as I have been referred to from time to time.

With that said, I have considered writing books on the subject…things like Taking the Piss (The History of PEE) for the guys and How to Pee Standing Up for all of you ladies…who want to let loose and pee in the wind with me. Maybe I am talking about pee too much or maybe just sharing too much about myself personally, but I really don’t care. I love to pee.

You know when you have to pee really bad?...no when holding it hurts so much that you actually start to laugh. When you finally let go…it is complete ecstasy… A ‘peegasm’ if you will. Or when you (knowing how big or small your own bladder is) pee for so long that you wonder if something is wrong…then you just get that little smile on your face…you’ve actually impressed your own self. What about when ….oh never mind…you get my point.

Lastly, I got a bit upset when I saw this. Who do theses asses think they are anyways?

I will start this post by saying …”not that I do”, but what do you all think about men who name their…package, johnson, manhood…whatever. I don’t mean names like that….more like, “Mr. Mighty”, “Sammy the Snake”, “Big Bob”, “Dong Juan” etc.

I will admit that BACK in the day…I may have had a name or two for my “instrument panel” but not these days.

I don’t really know why this popped into my head…and I really don’t think that it matters…It did so I write.

For the guys out there…do you have names?
For the women…
What do you think of guys who name their privates?
What is the best or worst name that you’ve ‘encountered’?

Oh…also do women name their…womanhood?

D.U.I. -- Decorating Under the Influence

We are in the process of converting my daughter's bedroom from heartwarming (read: infantile) to chest-pain-inducing (read: tween). This, of course, meant that the rubber duck theme of the bathroom next door also had to go.

Thing 1 and I headed to the local Dead, Daft and Diddley to select a new shower curtain, which we did along with a plastic ice-tray mold one can use to make teeth-chattering shot glasses.

This latter purchase is a necessity because redecorating in our house usually requires serious post-project imbibing to relieve the pain of smashed fingers, sore backs and box cutter slashes. It also creates a dreamy soft focus that masks my inability to get corners to square properly and helps My Love feel more in sync with the inevitably wobbly IKEA furniture we end up piecing together.

I had just put the shot-glasses-to-be in the freezer and settled down to catch up on what TiVo had wrought when My Love said I would need to go back to the store. The hooks I had purchased to hang the new shower curtain were not big enough.

"You just might want to get a smaller rod," she said.

"Amazing," I said. "You have managed to utter a sentence that in the history of Western civilization has probably never before been said by a wife to her husband."

She looked at me askance, paused, then left the room.

Mentally, though, she took the keys to my minivan off the counter and whipped them straight into my nether lands.

Closing the Baby Shop, Part 4

I woke up the morning of the surgery, put on my tighty whiteys and sweatpants as instructed, and headed out into the frosty morning to get neutered. At the doctor’s office, I was outfitted in the classic open backed surgery gown and a pair of blue socks that had puffy paint treads on the bottom, similar to what can be found on the soles of the socks of my infant daughter. I was led to the operating room and left to wait, bare assed, blue bootied, shorn and nervous. Sitting next to me was a tray of shiny, sharp instruments, which I had been sternly warned by the nurse not to touch. As if I wanted to get up close and personal with the instruments of torture that were going to be used to slice open my anatomy.

I sat there for a while.

As the wise poet Tom Petty once said, the waiting is the hardest part. After nearly 20 minutes of solitude, the doc came in and asked me how I was doing.

“Have you ever had surgery before?” He asked in an all too chipper of a tone.

“Only above the neck,” I told him.

I was prepped, which consisted of the nurse reclining the table and ladling a brown liquid all over my crotch, and the party began. As he stood over my genitals, the doc made another crack about it being cold. I wanted to punch him in the back of the head. First off, it was cold. The nurse had even given me a blanket while I did my time in solitude before the surgery. Second, now was not the time to be insulting my manhood. My balls had pretty much figured out what was to come when their protective layer of hair was removed the previous evening. Everything had been shriveled down there for the past 12 hours. Third, you used that joke already during the consult. Time to get some new material.

I closed my eyes, plugged in my earbuds and the procedure began.

After all of the stories I had heard, the warnings from friends and the all of the nervousness leading up to the surgery, I can honestly say that the vasectomy wasn’t that bad. The worst pain endured was during the Novocaine injection, which felt exactly like what it was—a big needle being stuck into my scrotum. A shooting pain traveled from my left testicle to somewhere just above my crotch, like an electrical shock had overtaken one of my nerves. But this pain was fleeting and after it subsided I honestly couldn’t feel anything. The problem then became psychological. Even though you can’t feel it, you know what’s being done down there and no matter what, you cannot get that out of your head. I started to hyperventilate and I could feel my body temp rise. I flashed back to that Lamaze class that WonderWife™ and I had to sit through before the Bean was born. They said to breathe. I did and was amazed to learn that the stuff actually worked. In retrospect, WW™ probably should have used it during the births of our two children. However, as a result of the breathing, my throat got dry and I wanted to cough more than anything in the world. But I dared not for a single cough would cause the lower half of my body to shake. The same lower half that currently had some of its insides on the outside.

The procedure was soon over and as the table was raised, I was given a Dixie cup of the most delicious cold tap water I’ve ever had. The nurses slid a jock strap over my legs and around my waist in the exact same way that I put on the Bean’s underwear in the morning. I stood up adorned in the jock-strap (or, in the words of my take-home literature, my “scrotal support”), which accentuated the ass-less gown/bootie ensemble perfectly. Ladies, I was looking hot. They gave me two specimen cups, for my follow up visits, in a bag labeled “biohazard” and sent me on my way. A half-hour later I was in bed with a bag of frozen corn on my balls, eating a delicious peanut butter and jelly square that WonderWife™ had made for the occasion. (Have I mentioned how totally awesome that woman is?)

I would have gone to work the next day, except that I was inadvertently all fucked up on narcotics. After the procedure, the doc asked me if I wanted pain medication. The answer was a no brainier, “Yes.” I took the pill, Ultram, the afternoon after the surgery and felt fine until the next morning, when in the shower I realized that I felt both drunk and hung over at the same time. There was no way I was going to operate a motor vehicle or subject myself to the scrutiny of my colleagues and boss.

The day after that, however, I was amazed how much the pain had receded from my balls. I went back to work and only my boss knew of the real reason I had missed two days of work.

So that was it. I’ve been snipped. And it was much less of a big deal than I had imagined. I told a friend of mine about the surgery and he turned pale saying, “I feel like I’m chewing on tin foil.” But really fellas, we shouldn’t be melodramatic about this whole thing. Women have it so much worse.

Happily, it’s all over for me. After I clean out my system, I will hopefully be given the all clear from the doc and then I will be able to officially turn the sign on the front of the baby shop from “open” to “closed”.

Click here for parts 1, 2 and 3.

-DGB

Closing the Baby Shop, Part 3

Click here for Part 1

Click here for Part 2

The dreams started about a week before I was scheduled to have the procedure. Clearly, my subconscious was concerned about the vasectomy. In one dream, I sat in the waiting room indefinitely, thumbing over and over again through the only magazine they had—a dog-eared copy of Highlights for Children. In another, I had forgotten to wear sweatpants and briefs, as I had been instructed, and was forced to walk around pant-less, until WonderWife™ could bring me the garments. In the strangest one, Stephen Colbert was my doctor. His cocky attitude did not make for a great bedside manor.

During my consultation, I had been instructed to shave the night before the surgery. This was a surprise. I had listened to many anecdotes about vasectomies and none of them included self-shaving. Nonetheless, I arrived home from work that night and headed into the bathroom, armed with determination, electric clippers and my Gillette Fusion.

I had not been given specific shaving instructions and as I stood in the bathroom, pants around my ankles, I realized that I had no idea what area they wanted shaved. It’s not like there’s any resource for this. I certainly wasn’t going to Google “male scrotum shave”. So I decided that the best thing to do was to get rid of it all.

Admittedly, I had been rather lax about my manscaping over the past few months, so things were more unkempt down there than usual. Shaving myself was a perilous process that took a lot of time, nearly half a can of shaving cream and two blades. At first I worried about cutting myself, but soon realized that was a ridiculous notion. No small nick would compare with punishment that my boys were going to face the next day.

I finished up, toweled myself off and called out to WonderWife™, who was kind enough to preserve my dignity by giving me privacy during this ordeal. Though I’m sure she was giddy with curiosity to see the result. She raced in and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. My poor balls looked pathetic and bare, like a naked mole rat. My boys hadn't looked like this since I was 11.

One of the major complaints guys have about vasectomies is that they diminish one’s manhood. I was beginning to see why. I was not looking forward to how it was going to feel when things down there started to grow back.

"There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum...it's breathtaking." - Dr. Evil

To be continued...

-DGB

Closing the Baby Shop, Part 2

There were a handful of other patients in the waiting room of the urologist’s office. I was the youngest one there by three decades, easy. It was a startling glimpse into the future.

I took a seat and dug into the mountain of paperwork, which included a plethora of Really Useful information about vasectomies. The doc was already a half-hour late, so with nothing better to do, I began to read. Amongst the papers was a jaunty little pamphlet simply titled “Vasectomy” in big bold letters that had a lot of illustrations. It was like an elementary school book, only with a lot more penises. On the cover, a cartoon couple was holding hands on the beach. The man had a sly look on his face, as if he had just asked his wife to do it right there on the sand. The wife had a slightly annoyed look, as if her husband had just asked her to do it right there on the beach. It was not clear if the man had just been snipped or was just about to be.

Inside, the pamphlet offered an idealized world of vasectomies. Everything was bright and clean, without pain or suffering. One picture promised what I could expect after the surgery:



Look at how happy the man is in his Lay-Z-Boy and slippers. Look at how happy his wife is to serve him. See, it isn't so bad...you get apple slices! I’m glad I have this booklet so if WonderWife™ refuses to bring me apple slices, I can wave it around and say, “But the pamphlet says you have to!”

The doc finally showed up and after approximately three seconds of small talk asked me to take off my pants. He made a comment about the room being cold. Normally I would take offense to this, but the truth is that things had tightened up down there. A strange man had just asked me to strip down and lie on a table, I couldn’t really blame my boys for trying to take refuge in the upper regions of my body. There was a bit of poking and prodding, which would normally fall under the category of “unpleasant” but the after the realization that the next time this guy would be in the vicinity of my crotch he would be cutting into it, I figured that this was as good as my balls were going to get during this adventure.

This doc uses a “no scalpel” technique, in which he performs the operation with a single punch through the scrotum. It sounded more like getting an ear pierced at the mall than sterilization. (Maybe I could get an Orange Julius afterward.) The literature I received described it as an “elegant way for the surgeon to perform the operation.” Although this conjured up images of top hats, monocles, classical music and caviar, somehow I doubted the actual procedure would be that civilized. The doc went on to tell me more details of the procedure, but to be honest once he started talking about incisions I lost my focus. To say I’m a wimp about this sort of stuff is completely underselling it.

Because of some of the comments in my first post, I was compelled to ask about the permanence and success rate for these things. The doc said that a vasectomy reversing itself is very rare and he’s only had one reversal in the 20 plus years he’s been practicing. So those of you who had “reversal babies” make up slightly more than 1% of all vasectomy procedures done. You guys should start playing the lottery.

Finally, I was given the option of local versus twilight anesthetic. The twilight option would knock me out and was described by the doctor as “fun" though fun is hardly a word I’d associate with any part of this endeavor. Because I’m a “real man” I opted for the local (also because I know that any anesthetic has risks and it seemed pointless to be knocked out for a 15 minute procedure). “In that case,” the doc said, “You’ll be able to drive yourself home.” This seemed odd to me since I had just signed 150 pages of paperwork promising that I would do no such thing.

And that was it. The consult was over in five minutes and I was now beyond the first, and only, obstacle that stood between me and the knife.

The surgery will be in a few weeks and the first pangs of nervousness are beginning to bubble up.

To be continued…

--DGB

we know a lot of shit

As most of you already know from reading our posts, we HOT DADS are master scholars of varying areas of expertise. In short, we know a lot of shit. Because we are unselfish with our wisdom, we want to share our vast knowledge with you, our faithful readers.

This post will mark the beginning of a long, and hopefully, educational journey, which will plumb the depths of the minds of the Hot Daddy Bloggers – “Ask the Hot Dads”.

In this ‘column’ we will answer every single question that you submit. No rules, no strings attached. Ask us absolutely anything. Get to know us. Get to know men. Have a burning parenting question? Need an opinion? We’re here to help. It’s like therapy without the stigma, costly bills or outdated waiting room magazines.

We promise that for each question submitted, at least two of our highly skilled, and devilishly handsome, contributors will provide an answer. Some questions may be answered by all of us.

Be ready for blunt, truthful, no-holds-barred responses from “Our Hotness.” We are here to please and would not want to let any of youdown…in any way.

Questions should be submitted to tentcamper1 @ gmail.com and all thosethat are received by Thursday at 5PM Eastern will be answered in ournew Monday Morning “Ask the Hot Dads.

**Lastly ladies, in this economy, I am sure that it would not be hardfor me to convince the rest of the guys to do a nude Hot Dadcalendar…for the right price!

Closing the Baby Shop, Part 1

I have decided to close up the baby-making shop for good. That’s right, I’m getting a vasectomy. Every man reading this right now is wincing. For guys, there is hardly a subject that comes with as many polarizing opinions as this one. There are guys I know who are so squeamish about vasectomies that they cannot physically be in the same room with people who are talking about them. Others see the ol’ snip snip as cutting off their manhood, as if taking away the ability to procreate strips him of his vitality. To those guys I say, “man up.” It takes balls to willingly allow somebody with a sharp object access to your junk. And yes, the pun is intended. Of course I’m not saying that every guy should get snipped or should have to. But I don’t understand those who are simply too afraid to have the procedure.

I’m getting a vasectomy because I have two kids and I am 100% certain that I don’t want any more. I’m getting one because using birth control sucks. I’m getting one because when it comes to making a kid, women get the raw end of the deal. Pregnancy floods them with hormones and stretches their bodies out, and this is before they actually squeeze the kid through one of the smaller openings in their bodies. I’m guessing there isn’t a guy alive who’s witnessed pregnancy and birth and hasn’t said, “Thank Jeebus I don’t have to do that.” So I figure that getting cut is the very least I can do. (Actually, the very least I can do is nothing, but then I’m back to dealing with birth control.) Lastly, I’m getting a vasectomy so sex can once again be a spontaneous thing.

It’s important for you to know that my getting a vasectomy is completely my decision. Soon after my first was born, I approached WonderWife™ with my plan. Needless to say, I didn’t have to do very much convincing for her to be on board. She happily agreed after I uttered the syllable “vas”.

Right now, I am confident in this decision. I’m focused on the end result and not on the surgical road that I’ll need to travel to get there. I’m sure as the surgery draws closer, so will my apprehension. I’ve done some reading on the subject, but as far as I know, I am the first amongst my friends to willingly put my boys in harm’s way.

So faithful readers, I have decided to literally let it all hang out for you. Over the coming weeks, I will chronicle the process in order to demystify, and most likely horrify, what is arguably the most fear-inducing elective surgeries a guy can face.

My consultation is next week.

To be continued….

-DGB

Hot Dads Hanging Out

When Hot Dads invited me to join the fray, I thought back to the last time I hung out with a bunch of dads, hot or not. It was, um…er… sheesh, I honestly can’t remember. What’s up with that?

I’m a single dad with 50 50 child custody, and let me tell you, most men and women in my neck of the woods don’t understand why I would sacrifice career and social life to take care of my kids. Don’t get me wrong, I know a lot of dads who are involved in their kids lives. But in general, the ones I know aren’t involved in the day-to-day running of their household. And they don’t do any of the social planning. Whenever I ask my married buddies if they can meet for dinner or a beer, they first have to check with the keeper of their social calendar – their wives.

A while back, I wrote a piece on Silicon Valley Moms Blog where I called all matchmakers for help setting me up with a woman. I told about a dinner party where all the dads were outdoors talking sports and business, and I was in the kitchen with the moms talking about books and women. Comments on that post ranged from calling me unmanly to gay. (My follow-up post asking if men who read and cook are sexy or unmanly garnered a lot of support, and was one of my blog’s most commented posts ever. Gotta love my Dad’s House readers! Most of whom are women, btw…)

My point is that I don’t get a lot of dad time. Blogging here will be good!

So, if the bloggers from Hot Dads met in real life, what would it be like?

• A group of men at the bar drinking beer and munching peanuts, talking about life, chatting up women who come our way…?
  
• Dads sitting in towels in a sauna, talking about life, chatting about woman, breathing in eucalyptus-infused steam…?
  
• A bunch of dads barbecuing big-ass steaks (and tofu burgers for the vegan crowd), talking about life, chatting up women who come our way…?
  
• A circle of dads practicing tantric breathing… er, let’s keep that image for me and a circle of women!
  

Whatever it’s like here, I think it's cool being called a Hot Dad.

Hopefully, not from being sunburned.

David Mott blogs about single parenting and dating at Dad's House.