Ok, sponsored is a bit of a stretch. I have a pair of tickets to the Nashville Predators/Colorado Avalanche game on the 6th to give away.
How can you win them?
Leave a comment below revealing your deepest, darkest PG-13 secret (if you have furry fetish I don’t wanna know).
Play your cards right and you may have a pregame Appletini…I mean beer…with a prominent local blogger.
And me.
Long before steroid engorged men started rubbing their oiled up man parts on one another, the Incredible Hulk was a successful comic book warning us of the dangers of the Atomic Age. I don’t know what year it was first published, I’d guess around 1963. I bit over a decade later it became the tv series that propelled Lou Ferrigno to mega-super-duper stardom. He later parlayed this 70’s era success into recurring spots on King of Queens in the mid 2000s.
I have a girl. She’s ok, I guess. But I missed out on the best parts of
having a son, like imparting life lessons I’ve learned. Sure some I can
pass on to a female, but it’s not the same as mentoring my own little
mini-me.
Oh well, if I had a boy, these are some of the things I would tell him:
1. Don’t try to catch a frisbee with your face. It doesn’t work and is a
might painful.
2. Never walk away. Pain from a punch in the face and subsequent blows
to the gut is unpleasant but temporary, shame is forever.
3. The first time you wear a protective cup, it’s uncomfortable. The
first time you get hit in the balls by an errant fastball is even more so.
4. It’s not a good idea to use hair clippers on the scrotum, the many
loose folds and meshing metal blades make a bad combination.
5. Just because you think you can drive 30 more miles when the low fuel
light comes on, doesn’t mean you can.
Sure some people might just know this stuff. I had to live it.
Stepping out of the shower this morning I stumbled over to the sink to shave. The wife asked me, “Did you get hit with a puck again?”
Most of us as fathers understand the influence we have on our children as being greater in some respects than that of the mother. There are very patriarchal households where the man’s word is law or the wife doesn’t spend money without permission, etc where the reason for this influence should be obvious. If the woman is just the husband’s bitch why should she be respected and emulated?
I’m not knocking that way of living. If it works for you, more power to you.
In my house the labor is fairly evenly divided. I tackle about half the cooking, most of the laundry, and the lawn. The wife mostly cleans the house and does homework patrol, which as previously mentioned is kind of a time suck.
I’m at a loss to explain why my little girl prefers to emulate my behavior over her mother’s.
Bad jokes I tell her to make her laugh will be repeated ad nauseam, to her mother, to aunts, to uncles and back at me again.
A couple of years ago, for some school project (not a turkey) she had to trace an outline of her hand and cut it out. I picked it up and joked that this would be very useful to have when you had to count past ten.
She didn’t get it.
When I explained it, I followed up with a fake infomercial in my best announcer voice:
”Do you have trouble counting to eleven, twelve, thirteen? Then you need the brand new product mathematicians are raving about, Counting Hand! When counting is hard, count on US to give you a hand.”
”That’s funny, dad. Can we make a commercial on the Mac?”
”Is your homework done?”
”Yes.”
”Ok.”
We made a commercial. We set our price at $9.99 and made sure to include a second “Counting Hand” free if you acted now. Between the shooting, editing, dubbing we must have killed 2-3 hours. She then made every family member watch it. Again and again and again. I know I’ve got the influence, I’m just not sure I’m using it well.
One of the good things about not having an issue-oriented or humor-oriented or hyphen-oriented blog is that I can do what I want. I write about whatever the hell is on my mind.
This post isn’t intended to be funny. It is a bit right wing. If you don’t like it, I believe you have a ‘back arrow’ on your browser.
Two blogs I read frequently in my feed reader* and happen to be present on my blogroll are Tiny Cat Pants and Occasional Superheroine.
These blogs are written by feminist chicks. I am not a feminist chick, though others refer to me as feminine and it hurts. It hurts bad.
Tiny Cat Pants had a post recently, that is 17 types of insane.
It seems Jon Favreau,
no not that one,
this one (speechwriter for Obama), got caught molesting a cardboard cut out of Hillary Clinton (see below).
Cardboard. Isn’t it, like, scary evil how he touches paper?
This is a good example of why the feminist movement has moved into the territory of the insane. I won’t entertain the argument posited Aunt B’s commenters. If you think screwing around with a cardboard cutout is condoning rape or sexual assault you are a retard. I’m sorry. I wish it weren’t so, but alas it is. Cardboard is not flesh. Cardboard doesn’t bleed or feel. And it isn’t a Terminator. You know going in that a Terminator can’t be reasoned with, and that it will not stop until you are dead.
Cardboard doesn’t give one flying fuck if you give it beer. Or touch its titty.
Cause it’s not alive. And even when it was, when it was a tree, it didn’t care.
Feminists, I advise you to just shut the fuck up about this one and move on to something that has more any meaning.
While I’m here, in the comic book world there is actually something to think about…feeding the sexual appetites of child p r 0 n consumers. At Valerie’s place she is concerned about this case in Australia.
In this case a man was convicted of possessing child p r 0 n because he had drawings of the Simpson’s children depicting sexual acts.
Is this guy a sick fuck? Absofuckinglutley. Would I personally like to drive a sledgehammer between his fucking legs…yes. Yes I would, because what he sees as a fantasy, the rest of the world finds abhorrent.
However, much like in the case above no person is actually hurt. No child is abused. If no child is placed in jeopardy…how can you deprive a man of his liberty?
It’s gross and heady stuff. But something to think about.
I saw one of our secretaries in glasses, she normally does not have glasses.
I don’t have a ‘before’ picture, but here is the after.
When I’m responsible for dinner and I’m busy…well you get what I find in the fridge and pantry.
I found: rotisserie chicken, rice, and Kraft Dinner in the icebox. I pulled a can of Spinach from my left over Y2K stash. I put it on the kid’s plate working my way around the dish in standard fashion. I told her I was putting a bite of spinach on her plate. When I went back to the kitchen to fetch drinks I returned to the above photo.
All food items had been removed as far as physically possible. Maybe she can be on the Tennessee gerrymandering committee after the next census.
As a known picky eater I can’t even begin to blame my wife’s side of the family for this weirdness.
I am not some new agey type parent. Many peers seem to get so self absorbed in the trendy way to parent that they seem to suck avery last drop of joy from childhood.
I am not anti TV.
I am not anti toys.
I am not anti sports.
In the right way, any and all of these are fine for a kid to consume. Reading Laura’s post today I was reminded of my kid when she was 3 or 4.
She liked to watch the Powerpuff Girls. She commented one day that none of the girls had brown eyes. So I sketched a new Powerpuff Girl and she colored it in the way she wanted and gave it a name. A little while later she asked for another, and then another. I’ll stop here but suffice to say small kids have an amazing ability to keep asking for more. I drew a template in Paint and showed her how to print them off.
In a couple of weeks my house was wall to wall Powerpuff. Every color combo. Unique names. Unique ‘powers’. As soon as I’d come home from work she’d give me the history of each of her creations. Some were human, some were aliens. Bored with my template she added rocket boots or wings.
The TV didn’t stop her from being imaginative, at that moment, with a little help from the old man it just inspired her creativity.
I think most people think the job of being a teacher is easy. They believe that since they attended elementary school they have an understanding of the roles and responsibilities of this profession. They give lip service to the difficulties of the job, but in reality don’t understand.
It’s one thing to grasp that children are unruly. It’s another to figure out how a teacher must deal with the pupil and parent in a tactful manner. There are a slew of problem children to deal with. For instance in the younger ages you have the booger eaters. Can you imagine how many times you nearly throw up watching little Johnny digging for gold, inspecting it, then savoring his gelatinous mucoid treat.
“Hello new teacher, I’m little Johnny’s mother. I just wanted to let you know, before the other children get jealous and quit playing with him that he’s a gifted child.”
“Of course he is.”
You have the smelly kids. They often are half-retards, but won’t get extra tutoring from the teacher because she can only hold her breath a couple of minutes. How does she let the parents know?
“Hello, Billy’s mom? Yes, this is his teacher. I don’t know how else to put this, so I’ll just say it. Billy smells like ass.”
“Pardon?”
“He smells like ass. Like someone wrapped him in duct tape and shoved him into Richard Gere’s rectum and let him marinate for a week. Please have the boy take a shower.”
Then you have the little boys with boner issues. This was me.
In third grade we often had to have a reading circle. The teacher would be at the center and we’d read a couple of sentences one at a time until the story was complete.
For some reason during this hour, my little fireman always felt the need to ‘extend the ladder’ if you get my drift. I was eight, I didn’t know what the hell was going on. Hence I was not bashful about trying to shove it back down, which I later learned was the exact wrong strategy. I’d wrestle with that thing for 30 minutes until it was my turn to read at which point I’d rest the book on the protruding crotch of my 70’s era plaid bell-bottom pants.
This occurred maybe once a week or so in group reading. The rest of the time I was at my desk, where I still twisted, torqued, and tugged my junk…to no effect, it would not relimpify. However, most of the time my dirty self touches were hidden behind the table. Only in the group circle was my public immorality on display.
I was never disciplined by my mom, nor corrected by Ms. Binkley. I guess she figured there was no upside to calling my parents and telling them I was a perverted little monkey boy. Eventually, I learned shame and that erections are the devil’s work.
I thought about Ms. Binkley and the reading circle yesterday, because walking through Kroger to pick up some milk my pants inexplicably tightened. There was no visual stimulus. Just unexpected tumescence. Part of me thinks I’m too old for this, but a another part wanted to snap a photo and send it to the Viagra spammers. I may need the product some day, but today, is not that day.
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