Crying Over Cat Turds

Six months ago, I came home from work and was smacked in the face with the reality that I now had another mouth to feed. No, my wife, Jaime, wasn’t pregnant again. We had her tubes tied, filled with concrete and filed all the necessary paperwork with the Housing Authority to label her womb uninhabitable. But it felt just as jarring. I was now the father of a kitten that I did not want.

I watched this phone-sized furball scurry across my carpet and felt my inevitable freedom disappear in an instant. Furious at the prospect of now having to care for and clean up the shit of someone else after gradually sniffing the sweet fragrance of caretaking liberation, I walked out, slamming the door behind me and considered taking up smoking so I could go out for cigarettes and never come back.

My car engine roared, as did I, screaming, “I DON’T WANT THIS FUCKING CAT!” to the point where the cars next to me were likely praying for the light to turn green so that they could gun it and get as far the fuck away from this person who was either an unstable cat ingrate or a deadbeat feline father. Either way, my claws were out and I was spraying on everything in sight. I called my wife and gave her the ultimatum that either the cat goes or I do, and the next day, the cat was gone.

But, I had a bad taste in my mouth, a taste somehow worse than that of the cat who had been cleaning his asshole in my living room like he was trying to win a county pie eating contest just hours prior. The night before, I wholeheartedly objected to caring for anything else in my lifetime, but by the next afternoon, that cat was back in my living room because if you Google the words “Big Pussy,” you’d see Vincent Pastore from The Sopranos and me.

It’s crazy how you miss the shit that you would once pay anything to end. As time progressed, I reveled in my slowly developing fatherhood freedom. My kids are 17, 13 and 9. Long gone are the days of being jolted awake by crying in the middle of the night, filling bottles with my eyes closed and shoving shitty diapers into a Diaper Genie that smelled like microwaved death. The kids still need me, but in a way that I’ve been much more suited for since Day One. All three kids have become self-sufficient to the point where it’s unnerving, forcing me to make sure they’re still alive and double check that we haven’t joined the ranks of the unaware dead, like Adam and Barbara from Beetlejuice. Fortunately, they’re always still alive and just enjoying their independence.

When the parenting pipe dream of one day reclaiming your independence turns from fantasy to reality, it isn’t on some date that’s been predetermined and worked towards with a series of “x’s” on a calendar. It sneaks up on you after enough “remember when we had to…” conversations with your spouse have been spoken. You say, “God I’m glad we don’t have to do that shit anymore” moments before you’d give anything to have another one of those mini heart attacks that you’d get every fucking time you’d load multiple kids into your back seat, certain that you forgot one. But then you do a head count and see a bunch of angelic faces looking back at you, completely dependent upon you and the care you’ll give them no matter what.

With the kids reveling in their independence, I now have a ton of free time to write, work on Dad Meat Podcast with by buddy Tim Butterly and watch twerk videos until I’m dizzy and in need of a new eye prescription. It rules and is every bit fulfilling as I thought all this free time would be. But thankfully, I also have a cat that I can baby, spoil with attention and feed him treats to the point where I wonder if he’s becoming meow-bidly obese.


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My How the Toilets Have Turned

As many of you know, I am a powerhouse farter and can easily hold my own from a shitting perspective. But lately, my place in the house hierarchy of shite has been unexpectedly downgraded. My wife, Jaime, has scatapulted herself into sole possession of first place, as she now sits alone on the throne and I don’t think I can ever reclaim my place.

I don’t know if this shit surge is a direct response to diet or if it’s attributable to global warming. Jaime has quickly gone from a once a week, single turd efficiency dumper to a full fledged Harlem Globetrotter mud thrower. Within minutes of eating anything, she’ll run for the toilet as if her turds will shoot through the plumbing to power Monstropolis as an energy efficient replacement of children’s screams. God forbid Sulley and Mike Wazowski mistake our bathroom door for our kids’ bedroom doors. They’d instantly trade Boo for a breath of fresh air to escape that portal potty to hell.
If you had told me at any point in our relationship that I’d be the second place shitter in our family, I would have immediately call the crisis hotline and had you evaluated by a mental health professional. How could this have happened? I eat like a morbidly obese death row inmate inhaling a last meal so cheese-heavy that it will likely stop his heart before the potassium chloride in his lethal injection will. Has years of self-induced diarrhea been for naught? What even is this life for?
Sadly, I’m left with no choice but to put my foot on the gas and eat whatever it takes to once again become King Caca. At this point, I’d even consider eating healthy if it lead to bragging and gagging rights. Honestly, though, I think Jaime has become so drunk with poop power that she may never relinquish the toilet title. I never thought I’d see the day where I’d be standing in the upstairs hallway, staring through an open doorway, taunted by the eyes of my seated successor, yet here I am. As I stare at her on the toilet, I feel like Georgie from It, gazing into the eyes of Pennywise, realizing I am powerless against this manure monster taunting me with the frightening fecal fact that, “They all float down here.”
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Top 5 Tips for New Parents

1. Brace yourself for projectile vomiting and projectile shitting. One of the most interesting aspects of kids is that they can never just throw up somewhere convenient. It’s always going to be on you, on the furniture or in the car. And whether it’s vomit or shit, it will also come out of them with such force that you’ll be conflicted as to whether you should call a pediatrician or a plumber. Prepare accordingly by permanently draping yourself in plastic like you are a couch belonging to an Italian grandmother.
2. Have as much loud sex as you can while you still can. Few things are as mortifying as hearing your parents having sex. New parents have a grace period where they can still tear it up without their kids noticing the cause of all that racket coming from the master bedroom. In a few years, that all changes and you’re then forced to make love at a decibel level typically reserved for jewel thieves and librarians. Really let loose and in addition to yelling out your normal sex sounds, indulge yourself and yell out shit like, “Show me the money!” and “Snap into a Slim Jim!” while the gettin’ is still good.
3. Don’t let your kids watch YouTube. Odds are, they’ll become obsessed with some weirdo gamer who has somehow become a billionaire by recording themselves playing video games while acting like a total fucking dickhead. The videos are mind numbing and they’ll also make you homicidal when the realization sets in that you’re struggling to pay your bills while this Minecraft playing dingleberry is buying rare birds with chic haircuts and shaving truffles over his Fruity Pebbles each morning.
4. Don’t let your kids sleep in bed with you. If they do it once, they’ll expect that shit every night. If they just slept like normal people, it wouldn’t be that bad, but for some reason, kids sleep so restlessly that it looks like they’re breakdancing while being attacked by bees. If they tell you they’re worried about the Boogeyman, just give them your cellphone for the night and tell them to call 911 as he’s coming out of the closet to pull them into a demon portal.
5. Stop worrying because you’ll somehow figure everything out. Your kids aren’t gonna starve, they’ll have clothes to wear and they’ll likely be so spoiled that they’ll become monumental pains in the ass that make you wish you donated your genitals to charity before they were born. Then again, the tax deduction for claiming a child on your income tax return is far greater than counting your genitals as a charitable contribution, so I’d consult with an accountant before even considering time travelling genital donation versus having children.
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Mikey’s Shoe Goes Missing for the 68th Time This Year

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A city on edge tonight as 7 year old Mikey can’t find his shoe for the 68th time this year. Police, Mikey and his parents are baffled as to the shoe’s whereabouts and there seems to be no hope in sight. Sources say Mikey came into the house and blindly launched his shoe across the length of the friggin’ house, leaving no clues to the shoe’s whereabouts and forcing an entire household to wonder when, if ever, Mikey will ever figure out what the fuck he did with his shoe, yet again.

We interviewed 39 year old pizza enthusiast and father of Mikey, Mike Rainey, to ask him about the AWOL Nike and he expressed a mix of shock, longing and anger. Rainey said, “I simply don’t know how someone can lose their shoes every single day. Honestly, I wouldn’t care if it was a Skecher, but it’s a Nike KD 10. I swear to God I’ll never buy this kid another cool pair of shoes again. From here on out, he’s wearing Crocs and dealing with the fallout. Losing an $80 kids sneaker is something no parent should ever have to endure.”

Police have searched Mikey’s home for hours, getting no further to finding the shoe than when they started. There was a glimmer of hope shortly before sunset, as a police dog seemingly hit on a match, but it turns out he was just excited to answer a curious onlooker who asked, “Who’s a good boy?, crushing the hopes of searchers and all those with a vested interest in this shoedunnit.

Authorities are hoping that a $50 reward will help entice anyone hesitant to share knowledge of the shoe’s whereabouts to come forward. For now, Mikey will play outside in a pair of rain boots as his family is left to wonder if they’ll ever see his sneaker again. “For fuck’s sake, is it that hard to just take your shoes off and leave them by the door?,” asked Mikey’s father, as he begrudgingly added a pair of child-sized Crocs to his Amazon cart before looking across the room to a single Nike KD 10 by the front door and bursting into tears.

Editor’s note: Shortly after posting this story, the shoe was found in the refrigerator’s lunch meat drawer. 

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The Clock’s Ticking…

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So much of being a parent is the sense that your responsibilities to your children will never end. That feeling persists for years and years and then suddenly, you realize it’s all ending and ending very quickly. Last week, my oldest, Bella, turned thirteen and it dawned on me that although there is now light at the end of the tunnel, I really don’t want this to end.

Every morning that I am home, I am the first one awake. Now that my partying days are over (probably), there is nothing I enjoy more than drinking coffee in silence that is ultimately broken by the sounds of birds chirping their balls off. Then, the sound of tiny footsteps coming down the stairs disturbs the peace like a werewolf on PCP. I’ve gone through stages where I resented having this time interrupted, but I grew to appreciate it because my kids are super cute and are just cool people that want to cuddle on the couch and watch TV.

But lately, I only hear the early morning footsteps of Livi, my nine year old, and of Mikey, my five year old. Bella now sleeps late and has become independent. On one hand, it’s a breath of fresh air, as having to care for three other people at once is a lot like being a juggler. Only the fruit you’re juggling asks you questions the entire time you’re tossing them into the air and they’ll somehow manage to spill something on the rug, causing you to drop all your fucking oranges and wonder why you didn’t just buy some friggin’ Sunny Delight to get your citrus fix instead. On the other hand, it’s a blunt, sad reminder that our time together is limited.

That realization of limited time has somehow also given me more time to reflect upon how much I enjoy them. But I now feel like time is being fast forwarded. It’s really uncomfortable because it’s not some shitty movie that being fast forwarded. It’s like I’m watching The Godfather and I’m unknowingly sitting on the remote, causing Sonny to beat Carlo the fuck up with a trashcan in hyper-speed. It blows, because whether it’s watching my babies grow up or seeing some abusive asshole get pummeled with garbage, I want to enjoy each experience in real time.

I now have five years left to enjoy my oldest before she’s off to live her own life. I know that will be exciting to see her do that, but I’ll miss the feeling of her needing me. I like to think I’ll be mindful enough to savor all of our time together and make each moment count. If I forget to do that though, hopefully Sonny will track me down and beat the living piss out of me with a trashcan to remind me of what’s really important in life.


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Summer Activities for Kids with Mentally Unstable Parents

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Less than a week into summer vacation and the kids are already driving me up a wall. So, I brainstormed some ideas to keep them occupied and out of my hair. Feel free to borrow them and give your kids a summer to remember before they end up in juvenile hall.

Have them read Lord of the Flies then set up their own hierarchy.

Kids love to feel important. They especially love doing so at the expense of those around them. Let them decide who will be Jack and who will be Ralph, while you play the role of Piggy. They’re gonna treat you like shit, but they’ll get a huge kick out of it. If it gets to be too much for you, tell them that the game is over, but don’t expect them to respect your command unless you’re holding the conch.

Research family lineage with a twist

Go onto a site like and get everything all set up, only instead of using your actual information, enter the info of a distant relative of Charles Manson. The kids will get a huge kick out of finding out who their relatives are up until they realize that they’re actually descendants of a violent sociopath. Then again, depending upon how weird your kids are, they might enjoy it. I know mine did!

Have them start up a lemonade stand then have the Bar Rescue guy come in to fuck everything up

Get your kids all the materials they need to start a killer lemonade stand. Let them make enough sales where they start feeling good about themselves then call in John Taffer from Bar Rescue. He’ll reorganize the entire operation while chiding your children about how they store their lemons, but before you know it, the day will be over and it’ll be bedtime. If your kids are still upset about Taffer telling them they’re methods are “A FRIGGIN’ DISGRACE!,” just remind them that it’s business, never personal.




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Bracing for The Reverse Purge

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As the school year comes to a close, my stomach starts to hurt a little bit. I know it’s coming and it hurts my head to even think about it. It will become worse each day as we inch towards the final bell on 7th and 3rd grades. The kids will rejoice and my blood pressure will rise as Bella, Livi and Mikey attempt to sit in the house all goddamn summer and drive me utterly fucking insane. I call “it” The Reverse Purge.

If you haven’t seen the movie The Purge, I’ll give you a quick summary of it. Once a year, there’s a night where people can get away with whatever bad shit they want to do just to get it out of their systems. As a result of all the malcontents on the prowl, good people board themselves in and lock the fuck out of the windows and doors of their home to keep the trouble out. This is similar to what my kids attempt to do each summer. The big difference is that the only trouble afoot is the trouble they’re causing in the house and the only safe haven for me is outside of my home.

When I was little, the streets could have been filled with child molesting crocodiles and I still would have been raring to run outside at sun up. Sitting inside on a summer day was the equivalent of wearing a blindfold to watch porn. We had cable and we had air conditioning and I couldn’t give a fuck. I was thirty pounds overweight and couldn’t fucking wait to spend each day sweating my balls off and developing heat exhaustion while playing street hockey in 90 degree weather like Wayne Gretzky with a wildin’ out pituitary gland.

My kids are the exact opposite. It takes an act of God to get them out the front door. They’ll stand at the threshold of the front door just to antagonize me before saying that they can’t go outside. They’re like Shoeless Joe Jackson from Field of Dreams if Shoeless Joe was a spoiled child instead of a weirdo ghost. If the roles were reversed and my kids were weirdo ghosts, I’d tell them to go towards the light and they’d complain about Heaven being too bright as an excuse to haunt my house for eternity.

Maybe this summer will be different. Maybe the kids will have an epiphany and realize that they’re pissing away a golden opportunity to pay the sunburned price of a well spent youth. Or they’ll continue to drive me insane and never get to realize the joy of being dehydrated and obese with second degree burns.

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5 Ways That I Think I Can Hide From My Children

One of the biggest obstacles parents face is finding time and space to be left the fuck alone. No matter where you go, the kids always seem to hunt you down. It’s like The Walking Dead only instead of brains, these child zombies just want you to watch them do shitty cartwheels. But I’ve had enough of watching shitty cartwheels. It’s high time I man up and show’s these kids who’s boss and declare my independence from these attention vultures. So in other words, I have to find a few places to hide. I have yet to find any cool hiding spots so I’ve decided to create my own. Below is my list of top five ways that I think I can hide from my children.

1. Buy a bear skin rug and hide under it on my living room floor

Honestly, this one isn’t very realistic for two reasons. One, we don’t have the money for a bear skin rug. Two, I know I’d be terrified with that thing draped over my back because I’d feel like DiCaprio getting butt fucked by that bear in The Revenant.

2. Set up a zipline from my bedroom to the park down the street

The second I hear the words, “Daaaaaddd, I need you.”, I’m climbing onto my roof and ziplining to the park to treat myself to a hot dog and watch a little league game involving kids that don’t need anything from me. Then again, I don’t want to earn a reputation as a guy that stares at children while eating hot dogs. Fuck.

3. Find a good invisibility cream

I thought I found a good invisibility cream last summer in Chinatown. Turns out it was just bootleg monkey semen. You better believe The Better Business Bureau heard from me, pal! As I type this, I’m currently wearing another supposed invisibility cream. Not disappearing yet, but definitely not gorilla cum either. Still a possibility. Keep ’em crossed for me.

4. Get weekends in jail

This is a long held fantasy of mine. Just gotta figure out a crime that would only get me Friday thru Sunday in the slammer. I think I’ll try to sell puppy coke to an undercover police dog and go from there.

5. Go back in time and start wearing condoms

Let’s be honest though. Time travel is more of a possibility than protected sex at this stage of the game. Although if condoms are sound-proof, I’ll buy a pack of Magnums and wear ’em on my head. I just hope their not sheer enough as to where I’d have to still watch shitty cartwheels.

Click here and check out this interview the kids and I did for a web series entitled At Their Worst.

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5 of My Worst Moments Since Becoming a Parent

I’m over 12 years into being a parent and I still don’t know a fucking thing about how to do it correctly. Every day is filled with a sliding scale of glorious successes and soul-numbing failures. If I had to pick a few things that I’d change, there are a few that really stand out. In no particular order, they are…

Bobbing for Budweisers at My Daughter’s Baptism Party

While everyone congregated in the kitchen to blow out the baptism cake, I was on the other side of the kitchen window bobbing for Budweisers in a baby pool. When I finally came up for air, the candles had been blown out, which made me feel terrible that I’d missed it. Fortunately, I had successfully bobbed for Budweiser, so at least I had a fresh beer to drown my sorrows in.

Drinking 2 Pints of My Own Piss at the Same Baptism Party

I drank the first pint of piss because my buddy Steve dared me to. I drank the second one because I’m a showman.

Getting So Drunk That I Ruined a Sweater

A few years ago, I recorded a podcast in Philadelphia. I crushed Jameson Whiskey throughout the whole show, so I needed a ride home. Jaime picked me up with the kids asleep in the back of the car. Within five minutes of being driven home by my wife, I told her to pull over so I could throw up. I puked all over my sweater and was so embarrassed, I ripped off my shirt and ran through the streets of South Philly trying to lose my wife rather than have her continue to see me in this condition. Jaime drove the streets looking for me for a bit, but I ran like my life depended on it, so eventually she just went home. It was the white trash Bourne Identity.

Not Spending Enough Time With Each of the Kids

The most difficult aspect of having so many kids is that it’s difficult to find one on one time with them. My partying days are done, so I spend a lot more time with all of them at home, but I still feel guilty about not being able to spend more time with them due to the time I have to spend working. Hopefully, I’ll suffer a debilitating injury in the near future which requires me to get a full body cast. If somebody could blast me with their truck like in the “Enter Sandman” video, that can become a reality for me. That way, I can spend all day with the kids and get caught up on Downton Abbey, Better Call Saul and American Pickers. God that sounds awesome. Fuck, why didn’t I think of this sooner?

Not Wearing Condoms

Self explanatory.


I’m writing for & playing a role in a new Comedy Central webseries called Delco Proper. Like our Facebook page here. New episodes in late February!


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Reasons Why House Hunting Shows Send Me Into a Blind Rage

At some point in my life, I’d like to buy a house. We’ve been renting forever and each month when we pay rent, it feels like we’re pissing money down a drain that leads to our landlord’s indoor pool, where the piss money turns into gold coins and cash like Scrooge McDuck had on Ducktales. For that reason, I hate paying rent and I hate ducks as well.

So I like to dream that one day, we’ll have our own dream home and have plenty of money to buy the one we want, just like the people on these house hunting shows. But whenever I watch these house hunting shows, I lose sight of why I was watching in the first place and just end up on the verge of an angry nervous breakdown because of how badly I hate these unrelatable asshole couples that are buying these homes.

First off, where the fuck do these people get these budgets? “Well, Kierstin and I only have a budget of $800,000 because my testicle removal surgery ended up costing more out of pocket than originally expected.” Is this savings they are tapping into? How the fuck can you save that much money?! If I have an extra hundred bucks in my pocket, I’m less likely to save it than I am to take everyone to Chuck E. Cheese to make it rain with tokens and tickets for the kids while I get drunk and try to coerce the animatronic band to play “Freebird.” So saving enough money to eventually pay for a home is out of the question.

Do these people inherit this money? If so, then fuck. I couldn’t imagine what that is like. When my relatives die, they just leave problems. Our family funerals tend to just be venues for fights to take place. We’re so white trash that the deceased’s pockets are requested to be sewn shut to prevent people praying in front of the casket from slipping their hands in there looking for loose change.

It also seems like these house hunting couples nitpick over the dumbest shit. “I don’t know. I just can’t picture the morning sunlight hitting my face the way I like it to in this Florida Room.” Anytime we’ve looked for a new home, I have to fight the urge to say, “Fuck this is fancy.” if the place doesn’t have exposed wiring.

Once I’m angry and jealous over their budget and “Must Haves”, it’s typically time for the show to get to the point where the couple is mulling their decision over dinner out. AND YOU HAVE MONEY TO EAT OUT TOO! FUUUCKK! There have been times where we have been so broke that I’ve considered staging a choking with Jaime swiftly guiding me from the table to the car as I try to get away without paying for my mozzarella stix. I’ve also offered to pay for a meal at Outback Steakhouse by telling the waiter that I didn’t have any money, but I’d make him a cool hundo if he bet on me and let me fight the kangaroo in the basement. Even after winking at him, he insisted that wasn’t a real thing. Fortunately, I maintained my composure while staring him the fuck down like a koala. I’m sorry. I’m just jealous of these people because I simply can’t relate to them and it drives me insane.

By the end of the show, I’m normally in a sweaty rage. I’ll at least entertain the thought of punching a hole in the wall to make myself feel better, but then I’d just end up pissing more money down the drain and into my landlord’s pool of gold. God I hope Scrooge McDuck drowns in that fucking pool.

Thank you for reading. Please like the Facebook page of Delco Proper, a new Comedy Central webseries that I am involved in.

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