Category Archives: 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.

Get all my new blog posts sent to your email by clicking here!


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.

Thank you for reading and please sign up to have all new blog posts sent to your email by clicking here.

Category: blog

20 More Parenting Facts That I Just Made Up

98% of children under the age of 5 have no fucking clue where their shoes are.

83% of parents fantasize about beating the living shit out of another parent at their kid’s school.

92% of parents lock themselves in the bathroom to eat in peace.

60% of children are excited at the thought of a home invasion so they can set up all the booby traps that Kevin from Home Alone did.

I still wanna fuck Andy from The Goonies. I’d probably let Stef jerk me off if things didn’t work out with Andy.

By the end of every family vacation, 99% of parents are capable of murder.

75% of parents await pay day like children await Christmas morning.

85% of parents fantasize about building a time machine just so they can go back and start using condoms.

100% of children throw up wherever the fuck they feel like it.

92% of fathers use the word “goddamn” as an adjective.

There is no better feeling as a parent than when your kid rips a well-timed fart.

I hate giving Santa Claus credit for the presents that I bought.

82% of mothers seriously considering having their uterus filled with cement after the third child.

75% of parents’ sexual experiences are interrupted with pounding on the door and someone asking, “What are you doing?”

45% of parents enjoy sitting in their minivan by themselves.

8% of parents at kids sporting events can actually just shut the fuck up and let their kids play.

94% of parents who did a shot of liquor every time Caillou whined during an episode had alcohol poisoning by the end of the show.

80% of dads enjoying crushing their kids in Connect Four.

61% of dads are embarrassed by their inability to successfully complete the monkey bars after seeing their kids do it.

19% of parents eat all the Lunchables in the fridge just to be a dick.





Category: blog

An Open Letter from Dracula

Good evening.

Just finished walking around Transylvania, taking in the Halloween festivities and I have a few thoughts. One, this neighborhood starting going to shit once these castles became Section 8 approved, but that pales in comparison to the bigger issues that have been weighing heavily upon my mind since the mid 1600s. Just in case you weren’t aware, I am COUNT Dracula. Not Dracula, not Mr. Dracula (that’s my father) and certainly not fucking Drac, as at least one of you fucking mutants with an axe to grind against polysyllabic names tends to call me every fucking Halloween. Get it right. It’s Count, cunt.

Now that this name bullshit has been settled, let’s move on to my next issue. No, I am not, nor will I ever again, hand out candy on Halloween. I used to love handing out candy. However, after about the 45th kid in a row told me that he couldn’t have peanut M&M’s because he has a peanut allergy, I had to literally sink my teeth into my own forearm to keep from shapeshifting into a bat and flying into that 45th kid’s mom’s vagina to prevent any semen from ever entering her uterus again and producing more of these peanut sensitive mongrels. Whatever happened to kids who had to eat a half bowl of gruel then walk through town while tapdancing around plague-ravaged bodies just to collect a goddamn pail of water from the hunchback’s well? Pussification of Transylvania if ya ask me!

Finally, and this is a big one, did it ever occur to you mortal jerkoffs that dressing as Count Dracula may be the least bit offensive to me? It’s 2015 and you are still wearing white face? Un-fucking-real. White face is offensive enough, but then plastic fangs too? Do you have any fucking clue how much that shit bothers me? Just so you know, these fangs of mine, which are very fucking real, have ruined my sex life for close to 600 fucking years. I fucking loooovvvveee to eat pussy, but these fangs have cockblocked me since day one. Nothing would make me happier than to bury my face in some clam (if it’s during menstruation then two birds with one stone!) and just take my frustrations out with my tongue on some mortal clit like a boxer working a speed bag. But no, I simply cannot, but that doesn’t stop you assholes from rubbing it in. I recently found out that dentists actually give out Dracula teeth in their treasure chests to reward compliance from children during exams and I wanted to fucking open my curtains and fly through the fucking window into the blinding sunlight and just fucking end it.

These issues are just the tip of the iceberg as to how often I, a fucking Count for Christ’s sake, am disrespected. Just last night, I stopped into Burger King before turning in for the night and a group of teenagers started heckling me. They asked what I was “supposed to be.” I responded, “I am not supposed to be anything. I AM Count Dracula.” One of the young gentleman, and I use the term “gentleman” loosely, responded with, “Dracula? Muthafucka you look more like Scott Bakula!” Before I could even retort amidst the roar of ridicule, I was knocked unconscious, pissed upon and had my loafers stolen.

Walk a mile in my shoes. Well, my fucking socks, because I no longer have shoes. Just because I am undead, it does not mean I do not have feelings. Maybe show me a little respect and perhaps, and that is a big fucking perhaps, I may lighten up and hand out candy next Halloween. And hopefully, I’ll also get the opportunity to start eating pussy, as well. Remember ladies, your time of the month is my time to munch.


Count Fucking Dracula


Category: blog

Work Vs. Family Time

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a miserable jerkoff. When I’m at work, I’m aggravated that I’m not able to spend time with my family. When I’m spending time with my family, I inevitably end up fantasizing about the quiet misery of work. My typical trains of thought are as follows:

At Work

“What the fuck? I have no idea why the fuck I even bother coming here. I’m eating rice and beans for lunch for the next fucking three days because I have the financial planning skills of a chimp in community college. I fucking hate this place. I don’t make any money, I want to choke slam 90% of the people here and I miss my fucking family. I would kill to be at home right now, on the couch, cuddling with everybody while these dildoes at work talked their simpleton gibberish to no one in particular. I fucking hate these people. Almost every day, I fantasize about being seriously hurt at work so I can hang out at home, eat Percocets and watch Goonies with Jaime and the kids. Maybe I’ll take a shit for the next 45 minutes, then it’ll be lunch ti…but of course I got fucking rice and beans again. Fuck. God, I would suck some smelly dick for some hot cheese right now. I swear to God if my boss calls another friggin’ end of day meeting and makes me get out of here late, I’m gonna shit in her Thermos and throw her fuckin’ family picture out the window like a fuckin’ boomerang.”

At Home

“Every second that I’m with Jaime and the kids, I feel like I’m conducting a press conference. Do the fucking questions ever stop? Christ. I said we are going to the park, not to the fucking Congo. Just put your fucking shoes on and get into the car. And of course nobody can ever find their shoes. I feel like these kids have access to a time portal where they enter another dimension just to take their shoes off then come right back to now. And would it kill these kids to watch a show that isn’t a half hour of screaming tweens? I swear to God, if I make dinner tonight and one of them asks for waffles, I’m getting in the car and not looking back. I’m gonna live off of Budweisers and hot dogs for the rest of my life. I’ll have a heart attack at the age of 40 and when they’re reviewing my medical records to notify family of my impending death, I’ll overhear them say, ‘Oh wait. Says here he has a wife and 3 kids who wouldn’t ever leave him the fuck alone. Let’s just put a pillow over his face and let him enjoy silence while he enters the afterlife.’ And I’ll just smile and nod. Oh shit. Look who found his shoes. Christ almighty, Monday can’t come quick enough.”

Category: blog

Five Years of Mikey

In two days, Mikey will be five years old. Five years seems like such a short period of time, mainly because I feel like he’s been here forever. I’ve been in love with him since the day we found out we were having him and he has been everything that we could have hoped for in a son.

Jaime and I knew that our third child would be our last, so I was really hoping we would have a boy. Our girls are the most beautiful, sweet and loving daughters that we could ask for and I’m lucky to have them for a million reasons. But I feel like I always wanted a son, in large part, to be all the things that I wished my dad would have been for me.

My dad is somebody I admire for a lot of reasons, but he’s from a generation that is more inclined to eat glass than say, “I love you.” Even now, whenever I talk on the phone with my dad and say, “I love you,” he reacts like Nancy from Nightmare on Elm Street when Freddy stuck his tongue through the receiver. That was always something that bothered me, as I figured if somebody never says those three words, then they must not love you. I should have known that’s not the case, as evidenced by how easily I cry every fucking time I watch Field of Dreams and Ray’s father says he wants to have a catch with him. The action speaks the words that aren’t spoken. As beautiful as that movie moment is, I’ve always wanted Ty Cobb to emerge from the cornstalks, call them pussies and ruin their moment. It’s still a perfect scene, nonetheless. The coolest thing about that scene is that I feel like it exemplifies how baseball often serves as a vital link between a father and son, as it gives both a reason to be in each other’s company without having to exchange anything emotionally. One of the things I looked forward to most about having Mikey was that I could watch Phillies games with him and have that bond. The day he was born was the first game of the playoffs and I got to hold him throughout the game. It was everything I hope for and more, as Roy Halladay threw a fucking no-hitter. I’m surprised Mikey’s head didn’t fly off of his neck as I shook him like a bottle of fucking champagne when the final out was recorded. My love for him almost resulted in shaken baby syndrome, so I’m glad he checkout okay and I can just express love a little less enthusiastically from then on out.

With Mikey, I make sure I tell him and show him that I love him each day. But, I also know that I’ll do something which will inevitably make him hate me just a little bit and that will serve as a motivator for if and when he becomes a father to a boy someday. I kind of feel like he already does hate me a little bit, as he doesn’t think twice about challenging me, blatantly ignoring me when I tell him to not do some things. It’s still the cutest fucking thing in the world. Few things compare to when I tell him to get a cup for orange juice, then he proceeds to slug juice out of the gallon jug while making eye contact with me the entire time. He is such a jerkoff and it is part of what makes me crazy about him.

Regardless of whatever I do that fucks him up, I hope Mikey knows how much I love him. I really have loved him from the time we found out we were having him. I would have dreams about him and would feel that warm feeling in my chest just from thinking of him while I slept. Since being born, he has just done shit that makes me love him so much that my chest hurts. When he was a baby, he would crawl over to me when I would be taking a nap on the couch and kiss my face. It was one of my favorite things and one of those moments that I’d trade anything for to happen again. But, the impermanence of such beautiful moments is a large part of what makes them beautiful. I feel lucky to have had them at all. Thankfully, I still get a similar feeling from watching him play, hearing him say funny shit, telling him to put on underwear when he’s walking around with a huge smile on his face because he is in the living room with his bird out, watching him say and do sweet things for his mother and sisters and seeing him just being him. He has helped me reach a point in life where I don’t give a fuck about anything but spending time with him, Jaime and the girls. I don’t think a person can be any more special than simply making another person just want to be in his presence. He is that for me. I’m lucky to be his dad.







Category: blog

Sometimes Kids Just Need to Be Left the Fuck Alone

Last night, I rolled out of work at 730 and headed to my mother-in-law’s place to grab the kids. Whenever the kids are at Nana’s, the girls are usually ready to go. Nine times out of ten, Mikey has no fucking clue where his shoes are. Last night he was ready to go, but on the way out, out of nowhere, he declared, “I’m not taking a tub. I’m not taking a shower. I’m laying in your bed, playing Club Penguin on the pickuter (Mikey’s pronounciation of computer).” Normally, I’d shut his shit down right on the spot for talking to me that way. But I felt like he had a tough day and sometimes, kids just need to be left the fuck alone.

When I was a kid, I used to hear adults constantly say that being a kid was the best time of their lives. That scared the shit out of me because I was in a constant state of anxiety about my weight, having friends, not doing well in school and girls. On top of that, the family members that I was around 99% of the time were fueled by negativity. If this was the best that it got, then I’d prefer not to live past thirty.

Being a kid is exponentially harder than being an adult. You have no context for anything and you are at the mercy of a handler 24/7. If you have a shit parent/parents, your world is fucking horrendous and it is almost impossible to envision living a peaceful life. Even if you have good parents, one small thing can seem like the end of the fucking world because you simple don’t have the brain development to think, “Well tomorrow’s another day.”

Hearing Mikey say what he said reminded me that I need to be more mindful of the fact that just because my kids are cared for and treated well, they’ve barely experienced anything in life and that the world is an expansive, terrifying place for them outside of the comfort of our care. Problems are problems, no matter how old you are. It’s hard not to imagine how tough processing the world is for my kids, especially since I’m 36 and still occasionally think in the middle of the night that someone under my bed will get me if they see my feet hanging over. Hopefully, we’ll both overcome our fears. If not, when I have that momentary feeling of being gotten by my under-bed monster, I’ll probably just play Club Penguin on the pickuter with Mikey in my bed until the sun comes up.


Category: blog

The Best Way To Describe An Evening Without the Kids

Yesterday, my parents took the kids overnight. The experience was liberating and refreshing. There are a million thoughts running through my head, but the best way that I can sum up having an entire night without kids is as follows:

Being home without the kids for 24 hours felt like getting paroled, then on the way out of prison, Jaime and I were picked up in a limousine filled with all my favorite thick, famous chicks, who marveled at my new, chiseled physique and who ultimately ending up fighting over me, leading to me having to tell the driver to pull the limo over to throw Pink, April from Eastbound and Down, and Eva Mendes out of the car so that we could continue driving to Vegas to celebrate freedom, but not before enjoying the limo hot tub and me coolly and calmly explaining to Serena Williams that we could likely never be together, as I am deeply devoted to Jaime.

When we arrive in Vegas, Bill Gates is there to greet me at The Bellagio, to not only compliment me on the size of my muscles, but also to tell me that he is fed up with all that “giving money away to charity” bullshit and that he thereby bequeathed his entire fortune to me. I nod, smack him lightly on the cheek then tell him he has done the right thing. We then head inside The Bellagio, where Aloe Blacc is there to serenade me with “The Man”. We then get into the elevator, where I see Ray Rice and I promptly knock him out just because. The elevator gets to the penthouse, where Jaime and I get butt naked and ride around on the complimentary tigers that The Bellagio was gracious enough to provide for us. Somehow, Aloe Blacc shows up again singing “The Man” while I ride my tiger around the suite. I politely tell him, “I get it, but leave me the fuck alone.” He starts crying, calls himself a stupid dummy, then runs toward the door. My tiger picks up on this, views him as prey and immediately charges after Aloe Blacc, ripping him to fucking shreds in the foyer, while I hold on for dear life and accidentally set a tiger rodeo world record in the process. Jaime can’t contain her passion for me in the midst of me setting world records, looking super muscle-y and inadvertently causing Aloe Blacc to be ripped to fucking shreds. To be honest with you, I totally get where she’s coming from, so I have my way with her.

After we’re finished, we get dressed up because David Copperfield has found out I’m in town and he has comped us two front row seats so we can watch him do magic and he can get a load of me and see what it’s like to be a fucking winner. On our way out of the suite, I see Pink, April from Eastbound and Down and Eva Mendes running towards me, wild-eyed, sweaty and dirty as shit as they’ve run to Vegas from the spot where I kicked them out of the limo. They’re all pleading with me at once and I simply raise a finger, causing them to all fall silent. I explain that Jaime and I are on our way to enjoy the magical stylings of Mr. Copperfield and if they really want to please me then they can pick up all the Aloe Blacc carnage that has littered my suite. They oblige before the words even leave my mouth.

Jaime and I step over Eva Mendes and we are on our way to see some magic that is nowhere near as cool as the natural magic that oozes out of me since getting out of prison, but normal people magic that will suffice for the time being. The elevator comes, I drag Ray Rice out into the corridor, then offer my arm to my lady.

So, in a nutshell, that’s how it felt to not have the kids for a night. Wear condoms, ya’ll.

Category: blog