Category Archives: humor
This past weekend I had the honor of escorting our beautiful daughter to the annual Stepfordville Daddy-Daughter Dance, or Triple D as I like to call it. This is a first for both of us. And with she in her old flower girl dress and Me in my only suit, we head out for a night out under the Stepfordville lights. Just a Dad and his Daughter…
In Stepfordville, few things are bigger than the Daddy Daughter Dance. (The only thing bigger is the
annual luxury import vehicle giveaway…that’s the only way I can explain how everyone here drives one…maybe this is my year to win…) And due to the unrealistically large number of children in Stepfordville, the Triple D cannot simply exist as a single event held in an evening. In fact, there are so many little girls in Stepfordville that the Triple D must be divvied up like chow time in prison. Each age group (or cell block) gets a 1.5hr time slot for which to hold their dance.
We decide to surprise M and get her a pretty corsage to wear to the dance. This, of course, is met with indifference, if not disgust. (Perhaps we should not have opted for the corsage tattoo) After a quick guilt trip, she relents, and agrees to wear the flower…but ONLY until we get into the dance…So, donned with our pretty flower and a scowl, we are off to the Triple D! (After 400 photos…thank you, Mommy)
If I can describe the dance in one word, it would be, “Crowd”…or “Lines”…It starts before we even leave our vehicle with waiting in line to pay for parking. Once we have parked and make our way into the Stepfordville Conference Center and we find ourselves in line yet again. This time the line is to take photos, which, like the parking, cost money. Oh well, you gotta pay to play, right?
20 or so minutes into our allotted chow time…err, dance time, we finally make our way into the main hall. As you might suspect, we find ourselves in line for a third…and final time. This line is for refreshments. (Wow, we actually do get some chow! … the prison similarities are starting to pile up…Is that guy wearing an orange jumpsuit??) We load up our paper plates with tiny finger sandwiches, semi-fresh fruit, and stale cookies. This feast is not to be outdone by the airplane-sized servings of soda poured straight from the 2-liter bottle! Oh well, we ain’t here for the grub. Let’s dance!
We hit the floor with some fellow daddy-daughter cohorts and the dancing commences. As we approach the dance floor, a sea of suited-up middle-aged dads parts to allow us entry. These dads are busting some moves! I see the sprinkler, the running man, the cabbage patch, and even the robot. If not for the little girls, I would swear I am at an insurance seminar mixer! As they say, “When in Rome…” so I start working my magic on the floor with M. Soon, she is dancing in a group of her schoolmates and I find myself moonwalking alone. Now I know how Farmer Ted felt when Sammy left him on the dance floor in Sixteen Candles…awkward.
The rest of the dance continues in this manner except that the other “single” dads and myself make our way to the sidelines to watch our little girls having a blast…without us. It is at this point that I am thankful that the Triple D is so short. There is only so much small talk and little girl screams this man can take. (The loudest of the screams came when What Does the Fox Say comes on…I am still deaf in my left ear)
Before we know it, the time limit is up on our fairy tale evening and the DJ is ushering us out the door in order to prepare the mess hall for the next cell block. We take our girlies out for dinner and rather than cut our losses and call it an evening, we decide it will be a good idea to take them to Main Event (a mega-super-center containing bowling, laser tag, video games…and beer).
Main Event is anything but an event. As soon as the game cards are loaded up with dad’s cash, our girls are gone… So we do what any other man would do in this situation, we get beers and follow them around while they play games. If they were older, this would be equivalent to holding purses and coats while they shop. At least the beer is cold.
It takes roughly 1 1/2 hours for us to collect the girls and exit the mega-supercenter-gameapalooza-bar. The girls guzzle down the candy that they purchased with their winning game tickets on the way home while the dads ride in a silent, slightly beer-tinted reflection.
As I tuck my sweet baby girl in and looks up at me with those heart-melting baby blues and she whispers, “Best night ever” and then flashes an ear-to-ear grin (at which point she looks like a jack-o-lantern due to all of the missing teeth she has…or doesn’t have). It is at this point that I come to a harsh realization.
I have reached the pinnacle of fatherhood. Soon, this little angel will hate me. She will not snuggle with me while we watch cartoons. She will not throw her arms around me and ask me to pick her up. She will probably not even talk to me…She will grow up.
I only wish “chow time” lasted longer…
We have scratched. We have clawed. We have laughed. We have cried. Did we contemplate murder… and suicide? Daily. Did we cope by ramping up our discount box wine intake to an all-time high? Definitely. Are we stronger parents after having survived the past year battling our three year-old son? Debatable. And yet, there is something good to come of these trying times…I think I see it in the distance ahead. Is that…could it be? Yes, it is! There’s a light at the end of what has seemed like an eternally long tunnel, otherwise known as the Terrible Threes.
That’s right, folks. Lil b is turning four! I first notice it on the refrigerator calendar as I am topping off my 64 oz glass of fine boxed Merlot. Something on that calendar catches my eye, so I take a closer look and I can scarcely make out the hand-written scribble. “Benny’s B-Day” is scribbled diagonally across the symbolic date box in the Nell-scratch that is wife’s primitive form of written communication (She also points and grunts…and bites when she’s really mad). It was like a beacon of light guiding the lost ship that is my soul safely to shore. Lil b’s birthday…no more terrible threes…there is a God…I just overflowed my wine chugger…
I instantly drop to my knees and french kiss the kitchen floor. Mainly because I don’t want to waste any Jesus Juice. Once down there I also see several drops of gravy that I must have dropped earlier (and every good Texan knows that thou shalt not waste gravy…or chili, for that matter). Needless to say, while I kneel there slurping cheap wine and delicious cream gravy from the grout joints in my tile, I think back on the past year and how much we have actually overcome in our battles with three year-old Lil-b.
Over this past year We’ve endured what I would call a textbook case in your generic toddler parenting book. We have battled the “anger hitting”, where Lil-b will lash out and take a swipe at you if he feels he’s being wronged. Aside from the anger management aspect, the real problem with Lil-b hitting me, whether playing or not, is that he just happens to be at that height to where is right cross lands squarely in my junk. He affectionately calls it, “Tee Tee Punch”. At least he screams it out as he’s winding up his haymaker, which provides me just the fraction of a second that I need to protect the family jewels. Perhaps the silver lining is that he attacks with no mercy when I sick him on my buddies!
Lil-b also has a severe problem with authority. He doesn’t like to be told what to do. (So sometimes I have to check him into the wall and blame it on his clumsiness). Once he gets older, he can get some dark sunglasses and tell people he ran into a door just like mommy…(wink, wink). So, when Lil-b gets upset and he’s not sucker punching someone in the baby-maker, he simply throws an all-out fit complete with screaming, crying, and floor flailing. It is this, and this alone that I pray goes away with the threes. I need this for my own sanity…and he needs this if he doesn’t want to walk around like Verbal Kint the rest of his life.
Lastly, we have valiantly waged a violent war with bed wetting… and have suffered heavy casualties. In fact, we are currently in full retreat. Each night Lil-b is straps on a pull-up and we get to make it through a night that doesn’t involve a midnight sheet changing. We will take this loss (along with the extra sleep) and live to fight another day.
As I finish tongue squeegeeing every last drop of nourishment from my kitchen floor I glance up at the calendar one last time. A smile comes to my face and I start to chuckle just thinking about all of the things I have just ranted about above. It occurs to me that these are the very things that we are going to one day look back upon with fondness and warm fuzzies. This gives me hope for the future and it also reminds me that time flies. Before I know it, my babies will be complaining about me acting crazy and wetting the bed. You know what, Lil-b? You go ahead and throw that fit. You go ahead and wet that bed…and why not, throw in your best Tee Tee Punch while you’re at it. Daddy loves you just the way you are.
About 6 months ago the Wife and I somehow drink ourselves into the decision to take M to her first concert. Some of you may feel that 6 years old is much too young for a concert. We are on the fence, but decide to let it ride. I mean, how bad could it be if we are there with her? Hell, we have another few drinks and even end up purchasing a ticket for Lil B too. Some of you may feel that 3 years old is much too young for a concert. We are…oblivious. We are…drunk. All this being said, we are music lovers and like any good, strong, overbearing parents would do, we cram our personal interests down the fragile, noisy, little throats of our children.
It’s December. We are hungover…and the proud owners of 4 shiny, new Taylor Swift mega-concert tickets. These golden tickets are to be M’s Christmas gift from her awesome parents. Being such a media darling (excluding the endless stream of ex-lovers), one might be inclined to think that tickets to Taylor’s show are somewhat affordable. One also might be a dumb-ass. We have, quite possibly, the shittiest seats in the stadium and we have to take out a personal loan from local Craigs-lister, Eddie “Fingers” Grimaldi, just to afford the them. Not sure why they call him Fingers…He seems nice and even gave us some “special juice” or something like that…I wasn’t really listening…All I heard was, “Blah, blah, blah…40%…blah, blah, blah…I will cover all of your thingers.” Whatever, dude. Fork over the cash!
The “magical”Christmas morning ticket unveiling goes as expected. M gives us a half-hearted smile, a bro hug, and then bounds off to see her “real presents” from Santa. Wifey and I are a little booty hurt, but quickly cast our disappointment aside. “The real excitement will be when we actually go to the concert!”, we reassure ourselves. Who needs an aspirin?
Fast forward to May. Taylor Swift is in town and M is starting to get excited. LUCKILY, we have a G-Ma in the house (or “hizzy” if you prefer) and she agrees to keep Lil B. This solves the huge concern that we have. Once we sobered up, we quickly realized that we would be lugging a toddler around a pro football stadium amidst capacity crowds and unimaginable loudness. The likes of which, he is no way prepared to experience. WTF were we thinking when we bought him a ticket? (Note to self: Don’t drink rubbing alcohol again) Instead, we let M invite a friend and all is right with the world. Load up in the family truckster! It’s time to make our way west…into the waiting arms of sweet, cute, money-grubbing, slutty Taylor.
We arrive at the majestic Jerry World and it is gratifying to see the awe and excitement in the girl’s faces. By the time we park, walk to the stadium, and get the girls some grub (arm-length hot dogs…mmm) we have missed the opening act. We hit the seats, cram some cased meats down our gullets, and listen to the stylings of the remaining opening acts. It should be noted that the house lights are up and the stadium is fairly empty.
Once the last opener finishes, we decide that it’s a good time to run down and grab some T-shirts. We hit the swag shop and promptly plant ourselves in line with about 1000 preteen girls. The line moves slowly, but we make it to the small shop eventually. By the time we get to where we can actually put our hands on any merch, it’s picked over and we are pretty much left to fight each other for scraps. I felt like the kid from District 1 duking it out at the cornucopia. We manage to scavenge a few T’s for the girls and make our way to the cashier. “That’ll be $130 sir” WTF? “There must be a mistake. We only have 3 T-shirts and 2 light wands.” “No mistake. The T’s are $40 and the wands are $5″, smirked the teen cashier. I wanted to grab his greasy, pierced head and slam it through the countertop. (like I did to that little bitch that tried to grab my light wand. Nobody Effs with District 1!) Alas, I am with my girls, and I have severe indigestion from the baby arm that I previously consumed, so I reluctantly pay the little bastard and we scurry off to our seats. Taylor. Is. Coming.
We emerge from Jerry’s underbelly out into the stadium and are greeted with a much different scene from that which was there when we left. Now, the stadium is FULL. The stadium is DARK, and the stadium is LOUUUUD. We scramble up to our seats in the dark (thank you light wands!) and get seated just as Taylor takes the stage. The roars of 55,000 prepubescent girls is deafening. All four of us cover our ears instantly. (I feel like a Turkish protestor after a percussion grenade has detonated) As Taylor works her way through her first song, Wifey and I both notice that M is just sitting quietly in her seat. She’s not dancing, singing, or clapping along. She’s just sitting there…scared…almost tearful. (and quite possibly bleeding from the ears) We do our best to communicate with her over the ear drum-piercing squeals, but it’s tough to hear anything. I jokingly ask if she wants to go home and she stares up at me with her blue doe eyes and meekly says, ” Okay”. Are you effing kidding me? Of course, I don’t say anything…Instead, I simply hug her. Her Mommy does the same. Another Taylor number and M is up dancing, singing, and clapping along with her friend and the rest of the crowd. Hell, I even caught myself twerking!
In the end, a good time is had by all. M experiences the awesomeness of her first concert and then sleeps peacefully while Mom and Dad endure the 2-hour car ride home in an ocean of shitty traffic. All-in-all, I think we can put this event in the memory bank and we will eventually look back and share funny stories…If our hearing ever returns…
Three dads and four daughters go into the woods…Sounds like the start of a bad joke, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, this is no joke. It’s a tale of extreme weather…foraging…hunting… surviving in the wilderness…(for what amounts to as lest than an entire day) Enjoy the fail…
It’s Saturday. M & I hastily throw together a backpack with a few necessities and we are off to start an adventure together. First stop, Wal-Mart, the land of plenty. (Plenty of whack-jobs…at least we fit in). We purchase only the necessities that one might need to survive in the wilderness for almost an entire day. We buy hotdog supplies, s’more supplies, kid friendly drinks, and the rest of the cart is filled with chips, beer and beef jerky…okay, mostly beer. We checkout and we are off to meet up with our Sherpa’s at base camp.
The journey just to get to the campsite is daunting in itself. It takes an entire 10 minutes and we are already hot, tired, and frustrated…mainly because we don’t get to hear the end of “Thrift Shop” before we have to park and unload. (Now we will never know if he bought that broken keyboard…and what about the knee board?)
We opt to hold this years DDG at a local lake and one of the 3 dads just so happens to have a boat at said lake. It is our mission to hit base camp, throw the tents up and get out on the water post haste…Of course, this takes slightly longer than anticipated. Each dad brings his own tent. One dad is either smart, or just lucky and brings a small backpacking tent that is quick to set up. The other two of us bring tents that are sized to sleep a small village. While these tents are only slightly more difficult to set up for a single person under normal conditions. When coupled with 40 MPH straight-line winds, they are near impossible. We endure. Three tents are eventually erected…barely (we had to forego the rain flies on the two larger tents as the winds were just too wild to even attempt that mess.)
The girls manage to entertain themselves while we dads wrestle with the tents and the wind. They find a mother herring of some kind that is nesting. For whatever reason, this herring builds her nest out in the open in the sand on the lake beach. Of course, the girls see a pretty bird and they want to get near it…so they do. This mother bird does not like the site of 4 girls prowling around her nest full of eggs and she becomes rather hostile. After several warnings from us dads about messing with animal mothers, and several run-downs by the momma bird herself, the girls seem unfazed and eventually they run momma off from her own nest! The next thing we see is one of the daughters running up the beach holding an egg in her hand and cheering as she had just won the last golden Wonka ticket. Before we even have time to get to them, the egg has been dropped and one baby bird is lost. After violently explaining to this little girl that she is a murderer and a terrible person (I think one dad even kicked her in the ribs), we force her to wipe her tears away with the murdered fetus and oh look…it’s boat time! (Don’t worry about the girl’s psyche. We booked her an appointment with Dr. Kermit Gosnell…she will be all better soon)
We get out on the lake and find an awesome little cove that is shielded from the wind…and we have a blast! The girls take turns jumping off the boat into the frigid, murky water. The dads take turns shoveling beer and snacks down our fat, unshaven faces. Our time out in the calm cove has makes us forget the tornadic winds that we were battling at base camp, and for a fleeting moment, we fool ourselves into believing that the winds may have actually subsided.
We get back to base camp and somehow manage to get a sustainable fire going. I feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway. We quickly realize that the two house-sized tents are not doing so well in these harsh wind conditions, so we improvise multiple tie-downs and stakes to keep the tents, at least, somewhat upright. The girls have fun roasting hotdogs and marshmallows in the fire while the dads have fun swilling beer and keeping the girls from falling in the fire. Only one child catches flame and kudos to her school because she knows to stop-drop-roll. After getting her snuffed out and resuscitated, she gleefully rejoins the group around the fire. If you find yourself downwind from her you catch the sweet aroma of charred mammal flesh drifting with the wind. If this campout takes a turn for the worse, I know who’s getting eaten first…
After the great s’more cleanup, we get the girls into their jammies and let them attempt to all sleep together in one tent. Obviously this does not work worth a damn and we end up sequestering each of them in their respective dad’s tent. Slowly, One-by-one, they drift off to dreamland. Meanwhile, us dads sit around the fire drinking ourselves off to drunkland.
Morning comes too soon, but she is a welcome sight nonetheless. Groggy and hungover, we begin to tear down camp in the hurricane force winds. (That’s right, the winds never slow…never calm…never stop.) As we are breaking down our campsite I look to where the girls are playing and what are they doing? They are effing with that effing bird and her nest again! Rather than administer more beatings, I just sit down on the ice chest and smile as I watch them play a game of cat and mouse with that poor momma bird. The girls squeal with both fear and delight as the angry mom chases them away and this warms my stone cold heart to its core. It looks like breakfast is on Mother Nature today! “Girls, bring daddy those eggs!”
When I was a child (not all that long ago), I played soccer. I played every outdoor season, then played indoor soccer in between the outdoor seasons and sometimes even simultaneously. Let’s just say I played a lot of soccer growing up. (I played so much that my ankles are now about as useless as Nancy Kerrigan’s after a Tonya Harding crow bar session)
While I no longer play due to my competitive eating disorder, M is now playing soccer and I am truly loving it! Each Saturday the nostalgia comes bubbling back to the surface of the caldron that is my memory. The smell of the fresh-cut grass, the sideline chalk dust in the air, the overly loud soccer moms cheering on their little would-be Pele’s, and the list goes on. Suffice it to say, I love me some game day!
Even at the tender age of 6, the girls are quite competitive, M in particular. I don’t know where she gets it, but she has a wide competitive streak in her and a strong drive to win. (God knows it does not come from me…Hell, if I were out there, I would be swilling a beer and waiting for the ball to come in close enough proximity for me to fane a kick without spilling my drink. And all that running…Eff that! I get tired just watching them. Me, I roll up to the games with a dozen bear claws and go to town while my baby gets her soccer on…I kid, I kid…everyone knows I am a chocolate glaze kinda guy…)
Seriously though, as M’s games kick off, I start out calm and in my camp chair with the Wife and Lil b alongside the rabid soccer moms (& dads). As the action picks up, I find myself standing and starting to bark a few minor instructions to M. ” Cover #8!”, or “Get to the front of the net!”, or maybe “If she comes by you again, slide her an elbow to the temple!”, and occasionally “Shut-up, Ref! Or I will gut you like a fish!”
If we are not already pounding the other team into submission by this point, (we usually are), I start pacing the sidelines along with the coach at times. I start to give M more instruction. Mind you, I am not one of those yellers or arm wavers on the sideline. I am subtle…almost to a fault as M often does not notice me or hear me trying to get her attention. (I sometimes have to trip one of the opponent kids to get a dead ball so that I can get M into proper position) Needless to say, I am slightly involved in the game from a parent perspective, but not overly so like those crazy soccer moms. So, over the past couple of seasons I have been begged by M to coach and even been urged to assist by her current and previous coaches. Alas, I have held strong…until now.
That’s right folks, I am breaking the ole whistle out of retirement! And I must say, I am pretty excited. I have not coached since I was a junior in high school when I assisted in coaching a 5 year-old boys team to what I will now embellish to an undefeated championship season. (in reality, I was probably too hungover at the games to even know if we won…hell,did we even play? Was that all some bad dream?). Even if I am only going to be coaching in an assistant capacity, it is safe to say that I am not the only one who is a little excited. You should have seen (and heard) M’s delight. It totally made my day. (Now I am not regretting all of the threatening and coercing I had to do to get the current assistant coach to “step down”. I hope she regains the ability to walk again soon…)
I dropped the coaching news on M as she completed her final game of the season with yet another tick in the win column. I am quietly reflecting as the team huddles around the coach as he starts to hand out the hardware. And by hardware I mean the standard participation trophies that EVERY kid on EVERY team gets these days. I almost crap my pants (if you count sharting as crapping your pants, then yes, I did crap my pants) The size of these effing trophies is bigger than the largest trophy I ever received. Only, my team had to win a huge citywide tournament to get that trophy! We poured our hearts out on that clumpy dust bowl field to get that trophy! I will probably be buried with that trophy! (Just me, my trophy and that unfortunate Prince Albert jewelry) As M crams her participation loot into the family truckster, I am left to ponder what size trophies they hand out to the kids who actually accomplish something. If the size of these participation trophies is any indication, we are gonna need a bigger house…
Below is the transcription of a speech given just before the great spring clean of 2013 in Stepfordville, Texas. Go forth and be motivated!
You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many years. The eyes of this house are upon you. The hopes and prayers of clutterless-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the Clutter war machine, the elimination of toy tyranny over the oppressed parents of Stepfordville, and security for ourselves in this house.
Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well-trained, well equipped and battle hardened. He will fight savagely.
But this is the year 2013! Much has happened since the Clutter triumphs of 2011-12. The United Parents Nations have inflicted upon the Clutter great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our recent offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the playroom and their capacity to wage war on the ground floor. Our Home Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting parents. The tide has turned! The clutter-free rooms of the world are marching together to Victory!
I have full confidence in your courage and devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!
~Dwight D. Parent
Many of you may or may not know it, but we as a one-world population sit at the precipice of hell. According to my favorite extinct race, the Mayans, the world as we know it is going to end tomorrow. Wow, that sounds really ominous and hopeless-feeling. This being said, I have a bucket list of items that I am going to take care of tonight:
1) Watch porn…pre genital hygiene early ’70s porn…
2) Eat a beautiful medium rare steak…correction, a beautiful medium rare HUMAN steak…mmm3) Practice karate in the garage
4) Pee on my neighbor’s sofa…again
5) Watch more porn…midget porn…
6) Burn something…anything…a nice yule log…or a car
7) Perform my rendition of Eddie Murphy’s Delirious…at a giant Jehovah’s Witness church, or a synagogue
8) Properly execute the Tripple Lindy…Thornton Melon style bitches!
9) Go Christmas carolling…at the “terrorist” containment block of Guantanamo Bay
10) Finish my life of with another round of watching porn…staring anyone who has defiled our guest room…we saw what you did, you filthy bastards!
On a more light-hearted note, I want to know why/how society today with all the technology at our fingertips, do we base our eradication on a primitive calendar made by a practically extinct race of sacrificial heathens?? These primitively advanced Mesoamericans had their own written language, “end-of-days” calendar, mathematics, astronomy, and on and on. However, they had not yet discovered steel apparently because the Conquistadors put the beat-down on those “primitive” bastards…hmm, this story sounds awful familiar…just ask the American Indian.
Okay, okay…I will get off my soap box…but only because I want to know why four guys on horses are tearing my lawn…
Not long ago I decide that I am going to live vicariously through my children. I am going to have them do all of the things that I did not get to do as a child. I know that most of you already assume that I am talking about sports. Don’t get me wrong, I will probably do what most fathers who participated in sports end up doing for their kids. I will spend thousands upon thousands of dollars sending my kids to sporting camps hosted by local pro athletes (who never actually show up at the camp). I will bribe referees, coaches, and teachers in order to assure the maximum playing time for my kids. Hell, I may even sabotage my children’s opponents. Anything for mention of my child in the local gazette, right? While I will, undoubtedly, do all of these things, there are other, more important things that my children need to experience…for me.
As a child, I always wanted to be trained in martial arts. I never got the chance because I was too busy stealing hood ornaments and pulling drive-by shootings with my paintball gun. Naturally, I want my children to experience the confidence and discipline that is taught through martial arts. My son is now almost 11 months old. I have been training him to become a baby ninja since he was about 6 months old. I am happy to report that he is progressing rather nicely. He even connected on a roundhouse kick to the skull of his three-year-old sister the other day. (assisted by me of course, as he cannot yet walk) It felt as if I were actually the one landing that sweet roundhouse to her petite, blonde noggin. I must say, if dealing out round-houses to one of my kids…using my other kid were a drug, I would be Pablo Escobar. This whole vicarious living concept is going to work out for me, I think.
I never got a tattoo as a young person. Naturally, I do not want my kids to miss their window like I did, so I got M inked. I didn’t want to take her to one of those trendy tattoo shops with their fancy artists and sterilized needles like all of the punk college kids. I found a homeless man the other day that had a sign that read, “Will Tattoo You For Food”, so I hired him. Turns out that he was not looking for food, so after a fifth of $7 whiskey he was ready to get started on my three-year-old daughter’s tat. We are pretty happy with the results and after a brief hospital stay and a bout of tetanus, the tattoo is healing nicely. What a gift for both M and Me!
I think that my children are going to grow up with the sense that they have lived life to the fullest. I can’t wait for tomorrow’s experience where I…er my kids get to go skydiving!
Recently I became a member of an elite fraternity…of sorts. I am talking about an organization that most or some of you actually belong to, but will most likely never admit to having a membership card. Unless you are a member, you have not likely heard of this secret society. This club is steeped in tradition and its members pride themselves on the secrets that lie within the order.
You may be thinking that I am referring to the Freemasons, Shriners, or a college fraternity. Or maybe you are assuming that I am a Parrothead, Deadhead, or perhaps even a pothead. Of course, you would be wrong. While the afore-mentioned clubs share many similarities to my new fraternity, they are very different in nature. Most of these other clubs will accept new membership at any given time. My club can be impossible for some to gain membership. I have attained membership. You are in luck because I am going pull back the shroud of secrecy this one and only time and reveal to you…The Club.
Gaining membership to The Club can be simple for some, while others will strive their entire lives and never make it. Actually, it has taken me 35 long years to earn my admittance. I know some brethren that were initiated very early in their lives , and others that are still trying to get in. The Club is open to any and all. In fact, the official motto of The Club is “Six to sixty. Blind, Crippled, or Crazy.” Many of you may recognize this motto as it has been leaked into mainstream vernacular in recent years. This is an indicator of The Club’s influence on today’s society, which continues to grow. As a member of “society”, you may be asking, “How do I gain access to such an influential yet so secretive organization?”. Well I am going to share with you the story of my initiation, which should provide the answers to many of your questions.
My Initiation Into Greatness
A friend and I were nurturing our alcoholships for the better part the night recently when my path took a fortunate turn toward the golden entry portal of The Club. However, I did not feel like I had done near enough to earn my official membership card…I was ever so wrong.
My codependent friend had long since been gone and I was in bed and well into a very enjoyable dream. In my dream I was back camping in the wilderness. This dream was one of those dreams that you could swear was real. The fire was crackling and warm. The air was crisp, but not too cold. I was sitting there in my camp chair when I received the call of the wild. Man, oh man there is nothing better than being a man out in the woods and having the urge to urinate. In the wilderness a man can simply whip it out and fire away without a care in the world. It was at this exact moment of extreme enjoyment in my dream that I was awakened by the sounds of my wife yelling.
It turns out that call of the wild that I had heard in my dream was real. Many other details that I was dreaming were real as well. I had whipped it out. I had started to fire away. Most men’s wives do not shout at them when they are urinating…in the toilet. My problem was that I was not urinating in the wild like in my awesome dream. I also was not urinating in the toilet…I was not even close. In fact, I was urinating on our bedroom floor…
“What’s that noise? It sounds like water is running. Did you spill something?” the wife yells. My stream immediately halts. I am now in pain, but somehow I am able to pull myself together and lie to her like the pro that I am. I simply told her to go back to sleep and that I was just up going to the bathroom. (Every good lie is 90% truth!). I did go finish my business in the bathroom like a normal adult if that saves me any face here.
So the next morning I lay in bed trying to shake the fog of a light hangover. As I attempt to drag myself out of bed I see the wife and she casually says, ” Why is the floor all wet?” All of the sudden it was like someone must feel coming out of a coma or an amnesiac regaining memory. BAM! I had vivid memory of standing at the foot of our bed and urinating on the floor in a half-sleep state and waking my wife up in the process. Oh my God! Did I really do that? I get up and inspect the floor. Sure enough, there is a small wet spot in the carpet. It was at this point that I had to come clean and tell my wife what I had done…
What I had done was earn my life-long membership into The Club! Yes, the exclusive club of the drunken idiot that urinates somewhere in the house other than the toilet (or sink)! I am truly honored. Although, as I fired up the steam cleaner I couldn’t help but think that membership to The Club doesn’t have many privileges.