Category Archives: blog

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.


Category: blog

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.

Category: blog

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.

Category: blog

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!


Category: blog

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.

Category: blog

Ten Ways to Explain Bedroom Ruckus to Your Kids

One of my biggest pet peeves about being a parent is having to have soundproof sex. It’s just weird, awkward and frustrating. However, muting my sex life is of utmost importance to me, as I know firsthand the damage that can be done by having loud lovemakers for parents. When I was a kid, my parents would have sex so loud that I often wondered if they were fucking or hosting a live-taping of Maury. The worst part about it was that my parents were completely unapologetic and made no attempt to cover their disgusting tracks. So, when my wife and I will make a bit of a ruckus that the kids seem to hear, we have to feed them some bullshit as to why we were making so much weird noise or run the risk of scarring them for life. Below are my next ten excuses for bedroom ruckus.

  1. We’re making beats for Nicki Minaj.
  2. We were watching Forrest Gump and kept rewinding the scene where his mom gets him into school because education is super important to us.
  3. We were playing jump rope on the bed.
  4. The floor is lava so mommy and I were shaking with terror on the bed.
  5. Mommy and Daddy were having simultaneous night terrors.
  6. A bee got into our room and when mommy thought I got it with the swatter, she kept yelling, “YES!”
  7. Mommy and Daddy had an interpretive dance argument, which turned into a real argument because daddy’s dances don’t last as long as mommy wants them to.
  8. We were reenacting the scene from Home Alone where Kevin’s parents realize they are late for their flight.
  9. We were making sure the drywall is earthquake proof by banging the headboard into it for about 45 seconds.
  10. We were making you a little brother who hopefully doesn’t also have the hearing sensitivity of a bat.

Please click on this link and like the Facebook page of Delco Proper, a new Comedy Central web series that I am writing for and have a recurring role in. New episodes coming in February!

Category: blog

The Unthinkable Has Happened

It is with a heavy heart that I announce that the unthinkable has happened. No, I didn’t finally manage to blow myself. Although my goal of being able to do that is fast approaching. Unfortunately, “the unthinkable” is a sobering milestone that marked a turning point in my fatherhood. At approximately 1 p.m. Eastern Standard Time on Dec. 26, in the year of our Lord 2015, my daughter Olivia beat me in a foot race. This marked the first time one of my children legitimately beat me at anything.

I gotta be honest with you. I hate most of the activities my kids want to engage in with me. There are a select few parent/child activities that I enjoy, and most of them are competition-based. It’s occurred to me that maybe I enjoy those activities because they make me seem awesome and it just makes me feel good to win at anything, even if the cost is crushing my kids’ souls.

For instance, I enjoy playing basketball with the kids. Normally, I’ll let them build some confidence by letting them make a few shots. Then, I’ll swat one of their shots into fucking orbit, reminding them that I am running shit and that I am not that far off from being a pro athlete. They probably think I could be a pro athlete anyway, with my cat-like athleticism and my ability to create more children that I can account for at any given time.

So when Olivia challenged me to a race a few days ago, I welcomed it. I even considered eating a few hot dogs beforehand just to be a dick. Well, also because I really wanted to eat a few hot dogs. I didn’t get too cocky, though, because Livi has come close to beating me before. Our last race was so close that when it became apparent that I might lose, I pulled a Bruce Jenner and turned on the afterburners to beat her by a few steps. As soon as this race started, I knew I was in trouble and that I would have to pull a Bruce Jenner yet again. Sadly, it did not work. So now I have to pull a Caitlyn Jenner and show up at Livi’s school dressed like a poorly put-together woman to embarrass her for beating me.

Livi showed a lot of class in victory, which is more than I can ever say for myself. Most of my victories over the kids are punctuated with me ripping off my shirt and pounding on my chest like a gorilla that just got tricked out of his lunch by an asshole zoologist. I have a feeling this is the start of many victories for her over me. The same day she won the race, she swung across all of the monkey bars in seconds. I honestly don’t know if I could do the same, so I ran home and sent an anonymous email to homeland security to say there is a kid training for ISIS on the playground.

As much as the loss stung for me, I hope Olivia continues to excel at whatever she tries. As for me, I’ll be okay. I’ve already moved on. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to run up to Mikey’s room before he goes to bed for the night. I’m hanging our last tic-tac-toe game, which I had framed, above his bed, with my three winning “X’s” outlined in neon lighting. Hopefully, it will be the last fucking thing he sees before he drifts off into a peaceful dreamland, which is the only place that dude can even fathom beating me at anything for the foreseeable future.

I’m writing for and have a recurring role in a new Comedy Central web series called Delco Proper. Like the Facebook page for Delco Proper here!


Category: blog

5 Tips for Getting Through Holiday Dinner with Extended Family

If you’re anything like me, you’d rather suck dick in front of your parents than have a holiday dinner with extended family. Unless you go in with a game plan, you’re going to end up cornered in the rumpus room by your sister’s new boyfriend who knows nothing of personal space and who has a great new business opportunity for you (jerk-off motion.) Here’s a few tips to help you survive the holiday dinner and put you in control of the evening so you don’t feel like you’re sitting in the corner of the room watching your spouse get plowed by your boss.

Shut your fucking dumb uncle down right off the bat.

Your uncle has been chomping at the bit for the past year with fresh material that he stole from some other balding dildo off the Internet on topics like DeflateGate, Caitlyn Jenner, Donald Trump, and Syrian Refugees. As soon as that fucking middle-aged dork in stone-washed jeans takes off his jeff cap and scarf, he’s going to open his mouth to say the first of what will surely be a thousand dumb dork declarations of the evening. It is imperative you throw a handful of cum in his face like Miggs did to Starling in Silence of the Lambs. If you need to borrow cum, so be it. The second that load lands on that asshole’s face, he’ll be stunned and will spend the rest of the evening in the bathroom scrubbing his face with lavender soap so he can smell anything other than boy bleach.

Tell everyone you are expecting another child.

That way, it will steal all the thunder from Mom Mom, who would have inevitably started her pity party about not knowing how many more of these get togethers the Good Lord has in store for her. Nobody wants to hear her sappy bullshit. While everyone congratulates you on your forthcoming phony baby, Mom Mom will sit there seething, willing herself to die through prayer so she can divert the attention back to her, but coming up with nothing because even God doesn’t want to communicate with her. She’ll just have to sit there and wait until it’s 7 o’clock so she can take her blood pressure medicine, which will likely be the most exciting aspect of her worthless day.

Get really drunk.

No real game plan behind this one. Tie a load on and sucker punch your brother in law the second he starts talking about fucking work. Fuck him and fuck work. If you knock him out, piss on him, take his shoes and upload the video to WorldStar.

Moan throughout grace.

While your dad acts like fucking Joel Osteen with his lame improv prayer, envision yourself getting the best head you’ve ever gotten. Let everybody else at the table know how good this imaginary head is as well. Finish it off by squirting some hypothetical ejaculate at the relative across the table. Throw your dinner napkin at them and tell them to clean themselves up instead of sitting at the table with hot spooge all over them like some kind of slut animal.

Settle the “stuffing vs. dressing” argument with authority.

While playful arguments are lobbed across the table, pound your fists onto the table and yell, “We’re talking about shit that we are eating that has been shoved into that turkey’s asshole. Why don’t we go around the room and talk about some of the other things we’ve eaten out of assholes? Uncle Rick, you’re up first. Why don’t you start with your time in the Peace Corps?” Make yourself another drink and enjoy the stories. What til they get to Mom Mom!

Thank you for reading my nonsense. On a serious note, one of my son Mikey’s classmates was recently operated on to remove a cancerous brain tumor. Please click this link and help her family with a donation. Thank you.

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Category: blog

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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Category: blog