I’m Suspicious of Happy Family Photos

Today, I saw something on Facebook that made me so uneasy that I had to step away form the computer. I see it at least once a day and it never gets any easier to digest. I’m not referring to police shootings, movie theater massacres or dogs being left in hot cars. I’m referring to pictures of families where everyone genuinely looks happy.

What the fuck is wrong with these goofballs? The photos of these happy families that are most troubling are the ones where they’re all dressed in the same outfit on the beach at sunset, beautiful blonde hair blowing in the wind, with all having the smiles and eyes of Mormons. Every husband, wife and child looks like a goddamn serial killer. How are these people so happy? They have to be hiding something.

Any picture taken of me since we’ve had our three kids, I look like a failed gold prospector who blew his life savings to travel west, only to have his horse die of dysentery after receiving a letter that his wife was leaving him for some dork elixir salesman.

Jaime always looks hot no matter what, but she also has that glint in her eye indicating that the kids are one XBox argument away from making her rip through her goddamn clothing and just tear the house to fucking shreds like some sexy ass Incredible Hulk.

Kids always look happy in every family’s photos no matter what, though. In their defense, how could you not be happy when you have carte blanche to throw up wherever you want, leave your clothes wherever you want and just turn your parents into service robots like Rosie from the fucking Jetsons?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just miserable and refuse to believe that people can genuinely look happy, healthy and energized after having children. Nah. You’re right. They’re definitely serial killers.



Category: blog

A Beautiful Moment Ruined

One of the things I love about my girls is that they always tell me they love me. Mikey will do it occasionally, but he does it so infrequently that I really have to savor the sentimental moments with him. They are few and far between, so most days, I just have to assume that he loves me.

Tonight, I was listening to a Boyz 2 Men playlist as I made dinner on the grill. I came back inside to get a spatula and Mikey ran up to me. I naturally assumed he was going to punch me in the balls as he typically does every hour on the hour, like a goddman disgruntled traffic reporter. Instead of hammer fisting me in the nuts, he jumped towards me and just wrapped his arms around my neck as I lifted him up.

He laid his head on my shoulder and it was one of those parenting moments where you realize that nothing else matters and that is all about them and how they bring out the best in you and make every bit of bullshit in life worthwhile. I swayed back and forth with Mikey for a good minute, really just taking in the moment for all it was worth because I just didn’t know when it would happen again. Then, I realized we were slow dancing to “I’ll Make Love To You.” I smacked him off of my chest like he was a spider, did 50 pushups and ate a handful of raw ground beef just to recalibrate the testosterone in the room.

From here on out, it’s just fist bumps for us.

Category: blog

Typical Day at the Pool with Kids

I used to love going swimming. However, now that I have three kids, swimming is one of the last activities I want to take part in. I’d rather dress racist horses up in their white outfits for Klan rallies. If I get in the pool with the kids, I’m not so much swimming as I am getting kicked in the balls constantly while being partially submerged in water. If I’m not in the pool with the kids, our time at the pool typically consists of me sitting in a chair, saying the following for the duration of the outing:

“Yes, I’m watching. Very cool. Yep. I see. Whoa. Awesome. Daddy sees. Uh huh. Yeeeaahh. I see. For the love of God, just swim. Yes. I see what you are doing. My eyes are locked onto you right now. I clearly see what you are doing. For Christ’s sake, I see what you are doing, I acknowledge that you just did a handstand in the pool and I have stored it away as a memory that I will recall thousands of times when I question whether or not I’ve ever watched you do anything. Holy fucking shit. I have been watching you the entire time you have been in the pool. Great. I’m watching. I assure you, everything that you have done in this pool, I have been a witness to. I am now considering wearing a body camera from here on out for my validation and yours. Just. Fucking. Swim. If you don’t just swim and enjoy yourself, I’m going to tie the cooler to my ankle and jump into the pool. Fuck. No you cannot go to the snack bar if I tie the cooler to my ankle.”

Category: blog

Mikey Is Quickly and Confidently Paving His Way Into the Nut Shot Hall of Fame

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Mikey is four years old and already the funniest guy I know. He just has it. He even looks funny. Some of his funniest antics revolve around drilling me in the genitals with his fists or whatever the fuck he can find that will cause me pain and induce laughter from those watching his sadistic silliness. Recently, he upped his game with three world class nut shots that still make me laugh every time I think of them.

1. In addition to being incredibly funny, Mikey is also the sweetest guy I know. When he says, “I love you, dad”, it melts my heart. He’s picked up on the fact that he can weaken my defenses with a sweet approach, so he now uses his sweetness to hurt me. Last week, I was lying on the couch and he came up and said, “Dad, close your eyes.” Like an idiot, I assumed he was going to give me a kiss. Instead, he ball tapped me and ran away laughing.

2. A few weeks ago, our entire family attended a graveside memorial service. It was beautiful and I was humbled to be a part of it. While a beautiful poem was being read aloud, I stood there with my head bowed, eyes closed, hands behind my back. I should have just as well placed my nuts on a batting tee. Out of nowhere, I get drilled in the nuts with a toy hammer. No idea where the hammer came from and no idea why I haven’t asked Data from The Goonies to develop a protective cup that shoots a Taser at testicle-hungry aggressors.

3. I went to pick up the kids from my mother-in-law’s house a few nights ago. As I talked with my mother-in-law, I felt a tug at my junk. Sure enough, it was all trapped in the jaws of a fucking grabber that an elderly person would use to pick up a remote control. I was so used to the dick assaults by now that I simply continued the conversation as I pried my bird from the jaws of the grabber, much like how Siegfried & Roy used to remove their heads from that tiger’s mouth. Unfortunately, I’ve come to the realization that putting on a sequined jumpsuit and throwing my face into the mouth of a wild animal would be safer than being within an arm’s reach of this pint-sized testicle terrorizer.


Category: blog

Losing An Argument to a Child

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One of the hardest aspects of being a parent is keeping your composure when your kids are being dicks and remembering that your kids are in fact kids, even though they often give every indication that they came into existence from a fiery burst of jizz lava from the Devil’s testicle. I didn’t pluralize testicle because I’m sure at this point, the Devil has had a terrible pitchfork accident somewhere in time.

I try not to curse when correcting my kids, but I’m not always successful. Since becoming a dad, I’ve used “goddamn” as my adjective of choice for virtually every question I ask them. Of course, before I get to that point, I’ll probably say something to the effect of, “Who left the Doritos out?” about six thousand times. Every man has his breaking point and mine was the six thousand and first time I saw fucking Doritos on the table, on the kitchenette bench and on the floor. At that point, I fantasized that each loose Dorito was a Chinese throwing star and I threw every wayward one of them at the kids while they watched TV after making the mess that they couldn’t care less about.

I’m ashamed to admit, I’m also a big “fuck” guy as well. My fucks are never directed at the children, though. The bulk of my fucks tend to fly while I’m driving. During that time, the fucks are typically out in full fuck force, not giving a fuck about me, my fucking kids or any of the other motherfuckers on the road. God, I fucking hate them. I feel like my fucks come from a gigantic fuck reservoir that I had no idea I had, much like when a mother is able to lift a car off of a dog. I don’t even know if that’s ever happened. It’s just something I like to fantasize about.

When the kids are acting up, I’m pretty good at stating what I expect from them in a dignified manner. Every now and again though, they’ll get me. It normally happens when they try to hit me with their reason for being awake even though I told them hours ago to go to bed. I go zero to sixty pretty quickly, so it is an act of Christ that I’m able to continue to talk to them without acting like I just found my wife in bed with Verne Troyer. At that point, the dreaded stutter usually creeps in, i.e. “Because I told you two hours ago sleep…to bed…every (fuuuuuuuuck)!” and the kids know they have you once you stutter. At that point, the only way to save some respect is to collect your composure, order yourself a pizza and enjoy it quietly while you make the kids watch Stephen King’s It in the dark.

Losing an argument to a child is always frustrating because they think they’ve won, but have no idea that you just couldn’t take it to that next soul-crushing level. Unfortunately, you just have to take the loss, move on and stress-eat some Doritos. That is of course if they didn’t eat all the goddamn Doritos.

Category: blog

On Behalf of Our Kids, I Want to Apologize to Our Couch

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This morning, Jaime and I bought a new couch. It’s nice and I’m happy that we bought it, but we’re replacing a couch that is not even five years old. If we never had children, the couch would still look and feel incredible, and we’d be able to treat ourselves to something nice instead. But when you have kids, couches tend to age like meth-addicted professional wrestlers. Our kids have abused our sectional so badly that if it could talk like Chairy from Pee Wee’s Playhouse, the couch would have likely dialed a hotline in the middle of the night and would now be in a furniture shelter. On that note, I’d like to offer this apology to our once beautiful couch on behalf of my children:

Dearest Chocolate Colored Faux Leather Sectional,

Five years ago, you came into our living room and lives, providing comfort like we had never known. You were brown, you were beautiful and you were ours. Your beautiful, chocolate colored exterior made me think of Halle Berry every time I laid my envious Caucasian eyes on you. But then the children gradually tore you apart, like the lil’ savages they are. Your once beautiful brown texture had been broken down and exposed to an unremarkable beige base, much like former Spokane NAACP President, Rachel Dolezal.

How did we not see this coming? In hindsight, I should have spoken up every time the children ate food on you, did backflips on you or threw your pillows all over the room like starving chimps. Although they terrorized you on a daily basis, I was always careful not to desecrate your beautiful physique. Well, except that one time I was masturbating on you and accidentally got a tiny bit of ejaculate on your arm rest. In my defense, it was late, I was really into that episode of American Pickers and the pizza guy surprised be by staring through the window like friggin’ Michael Myers. God, I should have Scotchgarded you. How could I have been so stupid? It’s easier to remove the memory of a murder you’ve committed than jizz from a couch. That’s irrelevant now because the only thing that matters is that I am sorry.

You were abused, taken advantage of, jizzed on a little bit and never fully appreciated. I’m astonished at what the kids were able to do to you. The last time I saw kids inflict that kind of damage was while watching Children of the Corn. Only instead of knives, my buckwild children used Capri Sun, dirty feet and kid rage to tear you to pieces. You deserved better than that. I hope when we put you out on the curb that you are rescued by a thin, childless couple. If such a thing exists, I hope they pay a couch doctor to give you the graft you deserve and make you look as brown and as beautiful as you will always be in my eyes. I’ll never forget your beautiful “L” shape. Hopefully, you’ll never forget mine: I “L”ove you.



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Category: blog

Losing Our Electricity and My Mind

Last Tuesday, a quick storm hit Philadelphia and its suburbs, knocking power out. Some people had their power knocked out for a few hours. Ours was knocked out for 24 hours. I was home alone with the kids for the duration and my emotions progressed from “This is fun!’ to “God, I could use a good ol’ fashioned carbon monoxide poisoning right now.” Below is an hour by hour breakdown of my mental breakdown:

6pm: “Oh shit. The power’s out.”

7pm: “It’s kinda nice without the TV blasting. The kids can’t do a fucking thing about it either!”

8pm: “Stopped raining. Maybe I’ll take the kids to the park. It doesn’t look too muddy.”

9pm: “The park wasn’t a good idea. The girls’ shoes are covered in mud. Mikey’s entire body is covered in mud. This kid does fucking everything full throttle. I’m pretty sure his father is Animal from Muppet Babies.”

10pm: “Giving the kids baths in the dark was a fucking nightmare. I felt like Helen Keller on Top Chef. When is this fucking power coming back on?”

11pm: “The kids are still swinging for the fences. No shot they’re going to sleep. I’ll light some candles and we can all read books.”

11:02pm: “100% chance these kids are going to set this fucking place on fire.”

11:30pm: Thoughts creep in of Jamie Foxx in the last Spider Man movie. I spend the next 15 minutes pretending that I’m not a little bit scared now.

Midnight: “I think these fuckers are finally asleep. Maybe I’ll watch porn on my phone and whack off.”

12:08pm: “Of course my battery dies right before the chubby hitch hiker realizes that she can only pay for her ride with pussy. Fuck my life.”

12:30am-7am: Merciful sleep.

7am: “Still no fucking power. Where the fuck do we live? I guarantee some goat fucker in Afghanistan is able to watch a Double Dare rerun right now while I sit here like a dildo reading a 17 year old Highlights magazine like a child in a dentist’s office.”

8am: The kids are awake. “Is the power back on, dad?” Look at my fucking face. I’m pretty sure my expression says that I’d cage fight a Golden Girl for some fucking TV right now. No, the goddamn power isn’t back on yet.”

9am-noon: Drive around looking for other survivors.

1pm: “I really wish I wore condoms.”

2pm: “The food in the fridge is going bad. Even though they’ve just eaten lunch, the kids are acting like the friggin’ soccer team in Alive. I fucking hate Ethan Hawke.”

3pm: “The kids’ mouths are moving, but I no longer understand words. I think I might set our lawn on fire and send an SOS.”

4pm: “This pizza is delicious. God I should have used condoms.”

5pm: “I am sorry for my sins and I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and personal savior. Notice I said ‘personal savior.’ He’s mine. Go find your own fucking savior.”

6pm: The power comes back on.

6:15: The kids are watching their shows downstairs. I turned on the microwave with no food in it just because I can. Then I’m upstairs watching chubby hitch hiker porn with the fucking lights on like a serial killer. Life is good.

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Category: blog

Doing My Part In Preventing Another Mass Shooting

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I love guns and I fully support the Second Amendment, but it is entirely too easy to obtain a gun and there are way too many of them in the hands of dangerous people. It is clear that the application process is not thorough enough to weed out these people. Here are my proposed changes:

1. I nominate myself as Gun Judge. Every one of you honky dorks will have to go through me if you want to obtain a gun legally.
2. Anyone with crazy eyes will automatically be declared permanently disqualified from owning a gun. Take a look in the mirror. If you look like you’ve tortured squirrels, you’ve just saved yourself the trouble of completing anymore of my requirements.
3. If you look like you couldn’t handle a podcast, you can’t handle owning a gun.
4. Send me 10 photos of yourself. If any combination of those photos looks like they could be used to make a slow montage during a CNN breaking news alert, then I’m sorry bro.
5. I need to meet your uncles. If any of them shows up to our meeting with a political statement on a t-shirt tucked into dungarees, you’re fucked. If any of them refer to President Obama as anything other than President Obama, you are fucked in that regard as well.
6. If you’ve ever been banned from a mall, you’re not getting a gun. Your behavior in Hot Topic is a trial run for how I expect you to act with a gun on your hip. If I even hear that you’ve flipped through the My Chemical Romance posters with the least bit of aggression, you just fucked your own chances at gun ownership.

Bear in mind that complying with all of these requirements is simply the initial phase to possibly owning a gun. After all, this should be difficult. It’s a gun you’re looking to own, not a goddamn boogie board.

On a serious note, some of the parents whose children were victims of the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012 started an organization called The Sandy Hook Promise. Its purpose is to prevent tragedies like the one at Sandy Hook and most recently, in Charleston. So many of these tragedies could be prevented with common sense, i.e. not making guns available to those with clear mental health issues and/or with someone recognizing the warning signs and doing something before something terrible occurs. Please take a second to click on the link above and read about what they are doing. Thanks for reading.

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Category: blog

Who? Him?

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Who? Him? This guy? Come on. As far as I know, don’t violent white dorks typically work out their willies at The Gathering of the Juggalos? For pete’s sake, there’s no way he did this. Seriously, you really think this goofball with the eyes of a squirrel fucker is capable of such horror? Granted, the haircut does put up a red flag, as anyone with that haircut is typically either a mass murderer, a second grade teacher or Mary Stuart Masterson in Some Kind of Wonderful. But come on.

Sure, he looks like he was conceived as the result of someone injecting a pulverized DVD copy of 8 Mile into a surrogate’s uterus. But just because he is a mentally unstable dildo with a love of guns and drugs doesn’t mean he would do something irrational like kill a bunch of innocent people. Yeah, I’d also be willing to bet that he curses at his parents for not restocking the fridge with enough Mountain Dew Code Red and Monster Energy Drink so that he can have enough steam to get through his twice weekly, four hour cashier shift at Walgreen’s. But him?

Just because somebody looks like they play Call of Duty for eight hours straight without blinking, even when they are screaming in German at an 8 year old gamer on Xbox Live, doesn’t mean they are capable of committing this crime. Just because he unquestionably has a father who sits on the edge of his recliner with a cigarette, confidently espousing the dumbest racist bullshit you could ever hear, doesn’t mean that he would grow up to be a murderous white supremacist. I mean, from a logical perspective, how could someone who has the hairstyle of an aunt who organizes a book-banning rally think they are superior to anyone? I’m not buying it.

He might, and I say, “might”, be capable of trashing his bedroom/dad’s basement, ripping his John Cena, Eminem, Papa Roach posters off the wall, knocking his Uncle Jesse Ray’s pyramid of Busch pounders all over the room, and trying to rip one of his South Pole t-shirts in half before finally giving up and slapping his The Rock bobblehead off the TV with an exasperated dork wail before finishing his nerd tantrum by cranking up “Stan” and scream/crying Dido’s verse before quieting to let Eminem’s bars sink into his ears and soothe his tired, violent dork soul. But this?




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That Time I Thought My Son Murdered Somebody

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Mikey Paint

It never ceases to amaze me the creative ways that kids can just flat out fuck shit up. Especially around the house. Multiple times a week, I’ll either come home from work or emerge from whatever room I’ve been in for an extended period of time to see a mess so complex, that I wonder if it’s just a mess the kids created or if the place has been ransacked by dickhead burglars. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will never understand how these things happen, but I can’t stop thinking about the latest mess my kids made.

Last weekend, I decided to paint the bathroom on a whim. All of the walls in our house are white, which could explain why I feel like I’m in a mental institution whenever I’m home. So, I took the kids to Home Depot to pick out paint, which inevitably turned into a press conference with me shooting off responses to my kids in rapid fire succession like I’m the fucking White House press secretary. “No, you can’t paint your room today,” “Put those brushes back. We don’t need that many,” “Yes for the fifth time, we are only painting the bathroom,” ” Where the fuck did you get that drill from?!” We finally made it out of there with our paint and headed home to paint the bathroom. Well, I headed home to paint the bathroom. The kids headed home to royally fuck up the basement and leave me wondering why I haven’t permanently gone out for cigarettes yet.

Being that I had the kids by myself, I figured the best way to keep them occupied was to give them each a turn painting a section of the bathroom. Bella and Livi each did well on their turns, but then Mikey had his turn. Unfortunately, Mikey paints like Anmal from Muppet Babies after he got into Nan’s meth stash. I told him to go downstairs after about three minutes with the brush because I just couldn’t take it anymore. Roughly a half hour later, I finished painting. I went down to the basement to tell the kids to come look at my work, because I desperately need approval for every fucking thing I do.

I got to the top of the basement stairs and see Mikey in the basement, covered in red paint, smearing it all over the walls like he just finished committing a murder on Charles Manson’s behalf. Red paint was everywhere. I simply had no words. I looked at the mess to try to make sense of what happened, but nothing came to mind. I alternated staring at our new murder wall and staring at Mikey, who looked like fucking Carrie after being crowned at the prom. I’d like to say that I reacted like a TV dad, just shaking my head and tousling his hair. Sadly, I reacted like a dad who works six days a week and is always one disagreement with a neighbor away from turning into Michael Douglas in Falling Down.

I yelled, I threw shit and I told everyone to just sit on the couch while I tried to think of a reason not to just put on some Sinead O’Connor and have a good cry. Eventually, cooler heads prevailed and the kids were bathed, put to bed and drifted off to sleep. I sat downstairs without blinking until Jaime came home form work. When she asked how the kids were, it was difficult to form sentences. I described what happened the best way I could, which was one word at a time, like a fucking gorilla doing sign language, “Kids. Paint. Wall. Mike. Sad. Fuuuuck.”

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Category: blog