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Psychoanalyzing Mikey’s Preschool Work

Mikey Thanks

After seeing Mikey’s preschool artwork indicating what he is most thankful for, I have ambivalent feelings. He put me on the list, which was a slam dunk, so whatever. But I’m a little weirded out about most of the other shit. I hope I’m wrong on some of these, but here’s my interpretation:


This one weirded me out the most. I have no idea who Carolann is. The first thing that popped into my mind was that creepy dead kid from Poltergeist. If that’s the case, then not only is he chillin’ with some weirdo spirit who is a portal to the gates of hell, but now I have another kid in the house. Ghost kid or not, that’s the list thing I friggin’ need. She’s probably going to start waking me up in the middle of the night to bother me with bullshit like my worldly children do. “Mike, wake up. I’m scared. There’s a living boy in the room that my closet’s in.” No shit, Carolann. That’s because it’s Mikey’s room that you’re haunting. Go back to the netherworld and leave me alone.

The Color Red

I think he’s simply referring to the color red, which I can definitely understand because red is a pretty awesome color. Or he could be referring to a sequel to The Color Purple that I’m not aware of. I’m guessing The Color Red is a special Valentine’s themed sequel to The Color Purple where Danny Glover feels terrible for being such a jerk off to Whoopi and showers her with red roses. Look, I don’t know. It’s his fucking list, not mine.

Mommy and Daddy

Pretty good ones. Mommy is beautiful, does a lot for Mikey and is just pretty awesome. A little unstable, but again, his list, not mine. Daddy is an excellent choice. I’m easily the best blogger he knows and I pay for his food, clothing, shelter and Netflix. He has my full support on that choice.

The Red Door

I’m creeped out again because I just assume this is the portal that Carolann uses to commute from the kid afterlife into my house. If I find this door, I’m putting a deadbolt on my side and evicting Carolann from my home. If she’s got a problem with it, she can take it to Ghost Court.This ghost kid is already causing me more aggravation than I need. I swear to God, if I gotta take a day off from work to go to Ghost Court, I’m gonna go ape shit on this kid in the court room. I’ve seen A Few Good Men like 15 times. This kid has no idea what she’s in for. If she thinks purgatory was rough, wait til she sees my cross examination!


Mikey’s toys are pretty cool, so I can see his point here. Unless he’s referring to that horrendous Robin Williams movie, Toys. If that’s the case, I’m going to slowly phase this kid out of my life, because I just can’t associate with someone with such poor taste in movies.


Chairs really are pretty cool if you think about them. I enjoy chairs so much that one of the goals on my bucket list is to confine myself to one when I get to about 80 years old. In the meantime, I’m stuck being a part time chair user.

My Hammer

I’m assuming this is a euphemism for his penis. In which case, I admire him for feeling so confident about what he’s working with. My penis is so mediocre that I often dye my pubic hair neon green to make my genitals stand out. I’d kill to have enough briefs beef to brag about in preschool. No wonder this kid is attracting chicks from the afterlife.

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Ferguson, Kids and Having To Do Better


For the past week, I’ve engaged in heated debates about the Grand Jury’s decision in Ferguson. Like the people I’ve wasted valuable hours of my time arguing with, I haven’t offered any solutions to the issues that we argued over, so I am a clearly a part of the problem. Yesterday, I saw a picture which softened me and made me realize just how useless the arguing was and has made me rethink a number of issues that I spend time arguing over. All of this happened because of the actions of a 12 year old boy.

At a Ferguson demonstration in Portland, 12 year old Devonte Hart was pictured hugging a Portland police officer. Every time I look at the picture, it makes me feel soft, but in the best way possible. Kindness and compassion have viral effects, but when they are exhibited by children, they are exponentially more powerful. I especially feel that with my own children. I often feel guilty because I feel like I should be teaching them more, and to compound matters, I feel guilty because they often are the ones teaching me.

My most glaring defect is that I lose my temper way too easily. I’m a big yeller and I always feel like an asshole after I’ve freaked out over dumb shit that undoubtedly did not necessitate me yelling in the first place. I have made progress over the years, but not to the point where I can confidently predict that I’ll handle my emotions maturely in response to a given situation, especially in front of the kids. I know that my anger has had a significant impact on them and I fucking hate it. I also know that whatever strides I’ve made towards handling situations in a calmer, peaceful manner are all because I know I have to set a better example for the kids. I just don’t want them to inherit the shitty behaviors that I exhibit.

My kids are getting to the age where I’m starting to feel more comfortable about talking to them honestly about what I really feel. I want them to understand that anytime I’ve reacted in a regrettable way, that it had nothing to do with them and everything to do with me. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to a point where I feel comfortable knowing that I can react to something I disagree with without losing my temper. But I do know that a substantial amount of the progress I make will be a direct result of kids like Bella, Olivia, Mikey and Devonte reminding me that I can, and have to, do better.

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5 Black Friday Tips For Getting What You Want

Getting your ass kicked on Black Friday in the middle of Walmart is about as bad as it gets. I once came dangerously close to getting shelf-stomped by an obese lady in a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt all because I assumed she was a dude and accidentally called her “Bro” when reaching for a television. Fortunately, store security pried her hands off my dick and throat or else I would have been embarrassed to the point of never leaving the house again. I vowed never to get punked like that again on Black Friday, so I came up with a few tips to protect myself, as well as yourself, from other shoppers.

1. Sneak into the store like you’re an employee while all the goofballs wait outside

No one will ever question you. Just walk in the back door with a shirt the same color as everyone else and start complaining the second you walk in. Say something to the effect of, “It’s bad enough I have to come in on Thanksgiving night, but my period’s so bad I might have to work out of a baby pool tonight.” NO ONE will make eye contact you from that point froward.

2. Get a Black Friday dog

Just like police dogs can be trained to sniff out bombs and drugs, they can be trained to hunt down bargains. I trained my dog, Bark Ruffalo, to run around Toy R Us and shit all over the aisle once he hunted down a Tickle Me Elmo doll. As soon as the doors opened, he took off and found the toy, but more importantly, kept the other shoppers at bay as store employees scrambled to block off the aisle to clean up Bark Ruffalo’s mess. I casually slipped through, told them that was my dog and grabbed a Tickle Me Elmo on the way out.

3. Start having sex with the grossest cashier a week before Black Friday

Or you could start having sex with the most attractive cashier a week before Black Friday. Your call. I’d just go with the gross one, because Christmas is a season of giving to the less fortunate.

4. Shop online

Zero chance of getting beat the fuck up if you shop online on Black Friday instead of in-store. Be careful though, you might get cyber bullied. Last year, an online customer service rep called me a fat pussy when I asked her why there wasn’t a sale on husky gentlemen’s jean shorts. I was so traumatized that I only wear sweatpants now.

5. Just avoid it altogether

Seriously, you’ll feel like a better person if you just delete Black Friday from your thoughts. It’s like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, except you’ll be banishing memories of men and women who look more like Carl Winslow instead of Kate Winslet. If you want, I’ll even send Bark Ruffalo to keep you company.

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I’m Grateful Today and Everyday

Thank you for reading my blog. I look forward to writing Terrible Dad every day. Partially because I just love writing it and partially because I love getting to interact with so many of you who have shared similar experiences or who just like what I write. And also for all the attractive MILFs who have liked, commented or just followed my blog. For those of you that know me, you likely know what a miserable asshole I can be. Thankfully, those “miserable asshole” moments seem to be fewer and far between the older I get. The biggest reason for that is that I’m overwhelmed each day with gratitude.

It’s so easy to be negative and to find no shortage of people who are willing to wallow in the bullshit with you. I’ve spent a significant portion of my life throwing pity parties where the only requirements to attend were to listen to my bullshit and to BYOB, Bring Your Own Bullshit, so that we could jerk each other off in a misery circle jerk. But negativity is so draining and after awhile, I realized, “Why the fuck am I doing this?” in regards to thoughts, actions and people that I associated with. So this past year, I decided to express gratitude more often for all the little and big things that have made my life better.

This year was an incredible year for me for a number of reasons. No, my big dick pills haven’t taken effect yet, but I’ll give them some more time. One of the biggest reasons why life has just been good this year is that I’ve had an amazing year in comedy. I’m thrilled that the print version of my book, Terrible Advice for Parents will be available within two weeks. But aside from writing, I love performing stand up. While it’s incredible to make rooms full of people laugh, the most rewarding aspects of performing are the relationships that I’ve been able to build with other comics and the bizarre situations that comedy never fails to present. A prime aspect of both is when I got to appear on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, alongside by buddy, comedian and just all-around incredible dude, Tim Butterly. For about nine minutes, our handsome faces, along with Jimmy Fallon and my chubby torso were all that millions could see on NBC. I could have never dreamed up that scenario, nor could I have dreamed up that Honey Boo Boo would have been eating a cookie out of a trashcan backstage.

A huge part of the gratitude I feel on a daily basis stems from my family. Honestly, Jaime and the kids are a daily source of stress from one degree to another, but they are also the reasons for any personal growth I’ve experienced in the last fourteen years. They all drive me nuts at points and to be brutally honest, sometimes I avoid going home. But I’d be an even bigger train wreck without them and I’m in love with each of them for a billion different reasons.

i’m also incredibly fortunate to have jobs that I like. My work is fulfilling at both my full-time and part-time jobs. I’m lucky to have coworkers who make me laugh everyday. Last year, I dreaded going into work everyday after a while so when I found out I was being relocated, it was one of the rare times where job uncertainty was a relief. At my last job, It got to a point where I’d wake up everyday and pray that I came down with a debilitating disease just so I’d have an excuse not to go. I would have danced out of the doctor’s office like Fred friggin’ Astaire if I had been given a shingles diagnosis and a get out of work pass. I didn’t have to and I can’t be any more thankful for the position I’m in.

I could ramble on about all the other good shit in my life, but the bottom line is that I’m grateful. My life is filled with people and experiences that make me look forward to getting out of bed every day. I’m just grateful. Thank you for being a part of that.

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Finding Love at Denny’s

Fourteen years ago tonight, I met Jaime. Up until that point, when it came to talking to women i was attracted to, I had the confidence of a stutterer with severe acne. Fortunately, that night I worked up the balls to talk to her and ask her to sit with me. Unfortunately, she shot me down.

I had gone to Denny’s with my friends after leaving the bar. I had every intention of just shoveling food into my face to put a merciful end to another night of binge-drinking and going home alone. Sitting next to the table that my friends and I shared was a group of people that I really wasn’t paying much attention to until I saw Jaime. The second we saw each other, I instantly felt like I got punched in the chest. I was in love with her the second I saw her. Being that I had never been in love before, I had to idea what to do with myself. I briefly considered going to the bathroom to poop/masturbate to try to process what I was feeling. Instead, I chose to stay in my booth and ask her to sit with me. In front of about fifteen people, she declined.

Considering it took every ounce of courage in my body to ask her to sit with me, her rejection left me feeling as though my soul had been sold at a yard sale in exchange for an old cat with incontinence issues. Fortunately, everybody seemed to pretend they didn’t just observe the biggest rejection since the “Can’t you see we don’t want you anymore!” scene from Harry and the Hendersons. As I buried my face in my Moons Over My Hammy, I could at least take solace in the fact that I was still the Cal Ripken of involuntary celibacy streaks.

Jaime and her friends got up to leave and I continued to pretend that my heart wasn’t just hatefucked by an angry pit bull. I sat there and prayed the check would come so I could go home and whack off in the basement, as only whacking off in the basement can be sad enough to make a monumental failure feel like a promotion to CEO of Fleshlight, Inc. For some reason, Jaime walked back in and proceeded towards my table, which I presumed was to make sure I understood when she said “No” a few minutes prior, just in case I still had any hope for anything in life. Instead, she handed me a piece of paper with her number on it and I felt like I was just given a Mogwai that shit hundred dollar bills. I remember saying, “You’re awesome” before she walked away and fighting the vicious urge to roll around on the floor with that little piece of paper like a cat in heat.

I called her the next day and she’s been the only one for me ever since. We’ve had a shit ton of problems over the years, but we’ve worked through them and I hope we can continue to do so. Mainly because I want nothing more than to grow old with her. And partially because I’d look like a total fucking loser going back to Denny’s to pick up women. Who even does that?

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Why Do You Terrorize Your Kids With Santa?

What the fuck is wrong with you people? Why would you wait in line for an hour surrounded by screaming kids belonging to you and the other goofballs who get something out of dressing their kids up in velvet? Why would you put yourself through that, but more importantly, why would you put your kids through that? Stop ruining your afternoon and stop ruining Christmas.

I simply don’t get it. Why do you take your kids to get their picture taken with some knockoff Santa Claus? One of the most awesome aspects of being a kid is the mystique surrounding Christmas. Christmas Eve is special in large part because it’s one of the few times you’re excited about having nervous diarrhea. How exciting was it for you going to bed early, setting out snacks for animals on your roof and also some milk and cookies for some dude you’ll never meet but is cool enough to leave you some shit? It’s incredible. Well, that illusion dies the second your kid gets in line at your local mall to wait a painful amount of time to sit on the lap of some old creep who reeks of root beer schnapps and is dry heaving his way through, “Have you been good this yeeeaa…”.

It’s never not creepy when an old dude at a mall asks a kid what they want in exchange for being good. It’s basically a To Catch A Predator live taping.  Everybody’s miserable, all the kids are dressed like assholes and all the parents look like they’ve been fucked by a train. Yet year after year, the lines are staggering and the prices are on par with those you’d find on a dominatrix menu. For the love of God, stop doing this to your kids and yourselves!

Preserve some of the magic in Christmas and let your kid have their own idea of Santa instead of having it ruined by some seasonal capitalistic pedophile. It’s like meeting Malala Yousafzai in a New Jersey rest stop bathroom. At least then, you probably don’t have to wait in line or pay. Unless it’s some knockoff Malala charging for pictures and reeking of root beer schnapps.

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Why Do We Stress Kids Out With Youth Sports?

I read a great article yesterday that talked about the only six words that kids need to hear their parents say about sports. No, those six words aren’t, “No way that fat kid’s nine.” The six words are “I love to watch you play.” It made complete sense and was a great read, especially considering we live a block from a football field where every night until 9pm, I can hear desperate dads screaming at their kids/failed dreams. Occasionally, it’s cool to see a reminder that very little of the bullshit we feed into our kids’ heads actually matters.

My kids have tried various sports including t-ball, cheerleading, basketball and gymnastics. Sometimes, they seem to be having fun. Other times, they look like they’d rather watch me slow dance with my dad. One common thread in all of the sports is that they provide a great opportunity for the parents of their teammates/classmates to get the much needed attention they desperately deserve. Youth sports are essentially a party without alcohol for the parents.

I picked Olivia up once from gymnastics and I will never do it again. That’s because the other parents I had to wait with acted like mannerless chimps who were desperate to unload their day’s trials and tribulations onto one another. I buried my face into my phone and hoped no one would ask me how I was doing because I knew before I could even answer, they’d follow it up with “Well my day couldn’t have gone any worse…” I pray that every one of their children has an iPod that they can use to tune these needy simpletons out as they complain about life in sweatpants.

All the games and practices are never opportunities for the kids to exhibit what they’ve learned. They’re always just platforms for multiple parents screaming at their kids like Vince Lombardi in carpenter jeans or scrubs. The “What the fuck do you want me to do!” look on their kid’s face is always priceless. I’m shocked I haven’t seen a kid try to leave with the referee to get a break from the gorillas he has to live with. The events are as much of an opportunity to get some exercise as they are getting groomed for adulthood when some know-it-all asshole will be screaming at them at work or at home.

After reading the 6 Words article, I’m going to try it next time I go to one of the kid’s events. Ideally, saying, “I love to watch you play” will be met with an angelic smile, letting me know that I’m appreciated and they know they did a good job. Realistically, it will likely be met with, “Dad, you were right. That fat kid’s really eleven.”

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People Watching/Creeping It Up

People watching is basically stalking that is acceptable because there is a cup of coffee in front of you. I love doing it. People watching, not stalking. It’s not that I’m not creepy enough to stalk because I am. I just don’t have the patience to stalk anyone. Few things make me happier than people watching, and at the risk of sounding like a terrifying creep, I wish that I could dedicate time every day to do it.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop having breakfast with my baby girl, Olivia. She’s also writing a fairy tale while I shovel a bagel into my face and type about how I love staring at people. Livi is just a really cool person that I can spend time with and not have to constantly talk. She’s often happy just being in my company, as I am with hers. So, as we both write, I feel totally comfortable looking around the room without blinking, like an overweight mass murderer as I try to figure out everyone’s back story.

The guy to my right is about 60 pounds overweight, has a beard that is platted down to his chest and he is making some kind of trinkets while he makes small talk with the guy next to him about The Civil War. Using that information, I’ve already decided that he lives by himself with a cat who is praying for the day that he can escape the apartment they’ve shared since the early 2000s, when a dispute with his mother caused him to move out of the basement in a huff. When he comes home from the coffee shop, he’ll likely put a cat treat between his teeth and make a weird noise in an attempt to tantalize the cat into eating the treat right out of his gross mouth. The cat will eventually take the bait and will sit in the corner licking his own asshole the rest of the day to get the smell of Civil War Guy’s mouth out of his face.

In front of me, there is a “business meeting” between a young Asian gentleman and a prototypical middle aged Caucasian dad/middle manager who’s probably named Craig. I’ve surmised that for the Asian Guy, it’s a networking opportunity. For Craig, he’s praying to build enough of a rapport that he will soon end up at a conference with Asian Guy, where he’ll convince him to room with him, then after about four post-conference Mai Tais, Craig will awkwardly try to get Asian Guy to blow him. Once Asian Guy rebuffs his advances, Craig will go back to hating himself and try to clean his palate by calling his wife to tell her he loves her.

I could be wrong about all this, but I love stereotyping people. I think I’m good at it, but I’m likely just deflecting my own insecurities onto people. I should probably stop fantasizing about dudes blowing each other at conferences and see if Olivia needs another hot chocolate. Oh…wait a minute. A smoking hot chubby brunette MILF just walked in. Her back story seems easy enough. She’s likely just grabbing a latte to get out of the house to get her mind off the super smooth, incredibly funny, chubby daddy blogger who she reads every day without fail. In a world full of dorks who just don’t measure up to her standards, he’s a guy who just flat out has all of his shit together. Yeah. That’s definitely her sto…fuck. I just spilled hot chocolate all over myself.

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My Parents Have Become My Favorite Form of Entertainment

The older I get, the more I appreciate my parents. Tonight, I had dinner with them and was reminded throughout the duration of the visit of how much I love them. I love them because they’re my parents. I also love them because they’ve done so much for me. But I especially love them because they’ve become my favorite form of entertainment.

My Dad is 68 and my mom is 66. They’ve been together forever and I’m sure they love each other and all that. But the most amazing aspect of their relationship is that they are the prototypical straight man/wise guy duo. My mom is incredible as the straight man and my dad just fucking crushes as the wise guy without even trying. Tonight at dinner, my mom threw a fastball right down the middle of the plate and my dad smashed it out of the park with a comment that would have given Jeffrey Dahmer the vapors. It was basically Hitler’s version of The Aristocrats.

Individually, my parents are both funny in different ways. My mom is usually smiley-faced and reserved, but occasionally will say something vicious. Whenever I see her, the first thing I do is hug her because she just has that effect on me. She also really makes me laugh. Case in point, we were once having a conversation in our living room when my dad, who was forty pounds overweight at the time, walked down the stairs in his tighty whities. In mid-sentence, my mom broke off our conversation and said, “…and here comes Baby New Year.”

As for my dad, he’s just always on and doesn’t even know it. The guy is just a machine. For starters, he’s reached the age where he just does not give a fuck. He often does not have to say a word, as his softball shorts and “Why Should I Have To Press 1 For English?” t-shirt do all the talking. I can always count on him to say something wildly inappropriate, no matter the situation. His brain is like a Magic 8-Ball for things you should never say unless you’re trying to make small talk as you wait in line at the entrance to the lake of fire in hell.

Until a few years ago, I never realized how funny my dad was, even though he was a monumental inspiration to me wanting to make people laugh. As a kid, I always saw my dad as stressed. He worked a ton of jobs to not only make ends meet, but to put my sister and I through Catholic school. The only time I saw him relax was when we’d occasionally watch TV or movies together. We’d watch shows like Police Squad! and Cheers together, and movies such as Airplane!, The Naked Gun and Spaceballs. I really wouldn’t watch the show, though. I’d just stare at my dad and wait for him to let out his awesome, obnoxious, passionate laugh. I didn’t need to watch what was on the screen. Watching my dad be happy made me happy.

As we ate dinner tonight, my parents cracked me up throughout. Unfortunately, Jaime couldn’t join us, so that screwed any chance of my dad making one of his patented “big titty” jokes. I’m already penciling her in for our dinner at my parents’ place four months down the road. I have a feeling that for a gentleman who is undoubtedly the king of sexually inappropriate jokes in social situations, his 69th birthday will likely be his finest hour.

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5 Things On My Christmas List To My Kids

I’m tired of buying shit for the kids. I’ve decided this year, I’m not going to get them anything so that they can realize that this relationship works both ways. This year, we’re going to level out the playing field a bit and just make it about me. I’ve compiled a list of 5 things that I want my kids to give me so that I can be a better father, and also help them realize that I would like them a lot more if they thought about someone else other than themselves for a change.

1. When I’m in the bathroom, give me the gift of leaving me the fuck alone.

It’s almost impossible for me to use the bathroom without a child being outside the door, knocking, asking me what I’m doing. It’s creepy and it really throws a monkey wrench into my bowel movements. I just want them to realize that there is no need to ask me what I’m doing as I’m either doing something disgusting or eating a sandwich in peace.

2. When I come home from work, give me a half hour before you unload your stresses onto me.

Most days when I come home from work, I feel like I’m walking into a press conference. I have zero interest in doing anything for anyone until I’ve eaten dinner and had a short period of time to myself. I don’t want to do anything other than say hello to everyone and be left the fuck alone for awhile. I’m currently developing my own line of invisibility cream that has been met with mixed results. I’m able to achieve invisibility, but the kids are still able to see where I am because they see the slices of pizza that I shovel into my invisible mouth as I sad eat the day’s stresses away in the corner of the basement.

3. Stop bugging me about your Christmas lists.

You’re not getting anything this year. Every day is Christmas for you. You have computers, tablets, iPods, Xbox, Cable, multiple TVs, a billion books, clothing, warmth, shelter and food. Leave me alone until spring and let me enjoy my invisibility and basement pizza in peace.

4. Clean up the bathroom after you’re done with it. 

We all have to share a bathroom so stop leaving your shit everywhere. I look forward to the day when I can wash my genitals without having to simultaneously kick a G.I. Joe upstream in the shower. It’s embarrasing, one, because I’m 35 years old and I’m kicking toys in the tub, and two, because I don’t like treating plastic veterans like that. Also, throw your dirty clothes into the hamper instead of throwing them on the floor like some Black Friday savage at TJ Maxx who couldn’t find a Snoopy sweatshirt in their size.

5. When you go to bed, STAY IN BED!

Scared? So am I, now go to bed. Thirsty, get some water from the bathroom faucet. A little fluoride won’t kill you. It will actually build some character.Also, I don’t care if there is a family of gypsies that have snuck into your bedroom and are making trinkets and smoking cigarettes in your bed. I’ll deal with that in the morning. For now, you need to leave me alone, so your mother and I can drown our feelings with shitty food and even shittier TV shows.

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