5 New Rules My Kids Need to Follow

Every now and again, actually almost every fucking day, home life becomes so chaotic that I would rather sit in my car and decompress than walk into the Thunderdome that awaits me inside my home. It’s pretty cool having people that are excited by the fact that you simply walked through the door, but it’s still overwhelming. As soon as the kids see me, they’re waving their arms and vomiting words like it’s a White House press conference on a day where the president was caught fucking a beagle on Air Force One. I’m at a point now where I need to establish some ground rules that should have been established a long time ago, but now is better then never.

Count to 1,000 before asking me anything when I walk in the door from work.

When the kids start talking at me before I set a second foot in the door, I consider turning right the fuck around and leaving like Henry Hill. This Saturday night, I’m actually going to have them watch Goodfellas to give them a better understanding of how much like Karen I perceive them to be.

If Mommy and Daddy have their bedroom door closed, do not even think of knocking.

What are we doing in there?  We’re building an invisible treehouse for two minutes at a time, two to three times per week. Now go to bed.

When I’m watching TV, don’t ask if you can watch your shows.

I’m 36 years old. I’m crushed by life. Watching Mark Cuban finance an effeminate hipster’s cupcake business on Shark Tank fills me with just enough hope and goodwill to make it through another day’s worth of soul crushing work commutes and inevitable financial setbacks.  Let me live vicariously through this goofball’s cupcake dreams so I can make it to work tomorrow and keep the electric on.

You’re eating what I made for dinner or not eating at all.

This isn’t fucking Burger King. You’re gonna have it my way. I don’t care if you don’t like what I made. There’s starving children in Africa that would fist fight a lion on PCP for this Hamburger Helper. Eat it or get my debit card and see if you can get the next flight to the Congo. Actually, fuck. My account’s overdrawn. We’ll get you to Africa as soon as I get my tax return.

Go play outside.

For whatever reason, my kids normally react to being told to go outside like I’m throwing them into an episode of The Walking Dead. I wish they’d get some sunlight, talk to people and just get away from me for a while. Trust me, the more the kids go outside, the less they’ll see me in the corner, curled into a ball, pulling a Jenny from Forrest Gump and repeating the words, “Dear God, make me a bird, so I can fly far…”. I’d probably make use of their time outside by trying to have sex with my wife. But given my propensity towards hasty lovemaking, I’d probably end up pulling a Forrest Gump and apologizing to my Jenny for prematurely jizzing on the bedspread.

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