by Jon Waldrep
A/C in my car suddenly not working. Nothing like sweating off a few pounds while driving around for work when it's 100 degrees out. Also, in hindsight, I picked a bad day not to wear deodorant.
Being alone at the office as an adult is a lot like being home alone as a kid. Just, you know, less running around in your underwear.
Jobs I have turned down this month:
1. Chef at the all-you-can-eat Monkey Brain Café (country not disclosed)
2. Restroom attendant at the maximum security men’s prison in Pelican Bay, CA
3. Sigmoidoscope cleaner and adjuster
4. Safety food taster/tester for Sarah Palin for any San Francisco, CA visits
5. Pizza delivery boy (car provided: 1975 Ford Pinto)
6. Extra in the movie Glitter II (man in clown shoes buying hot dog)
7. Assistant to the pig truffle sniffer
8. Certified aide to the colorblind
9. Freelance writer for Fungal Times (your toes are forever!)
10. Birthday clown for animal parties (human balloon shapes!)
11. Test patient for the new drug, Groback, for those who are losing their back hair
Am I being too picky?
Is there any better sleep than the fully clothed, drool-inducing, I’m-just-going-to-lay-on-the-top-of-the-bed-for-five-minutes (an hour and a half later) kind? I think not.
For the past year, I have had to continually fight off the urge to randomly jump up and start dancing 'The Robot.' I really need to stop eating genetically engineered food.
So, I just downed a sleeping pill with an energy drink. I know that seems weird, but I just love the competition!
So, every winter my psoriasis flares up a little, and this year my doctor suggested ongoing narrow band light therapy at the doctor’s office (fancy medical term for fancy tanning booth) to keep it in check. I went the first time and discovered that not only did I have to wear the protective goggles, but I was given a brown, paper bag and a black sock as well. The nurse explained that in addition to the goggles, I had to wear the paper over my head to prevent any premature aging. I told the nurse, “Look at this face. Do you really think three minutes of ultraviolet light is going to make it worse? I have beautiful children specifically because I DIDN’T make them with my face.” That’s when she told me what the black sock was for. I was instructed to stuff my ‘family jewels’ (honest to God, that’s what she said) into the black sock. WTF? “Hey lady,” I told her, “I don’t know where this sock has been, and I’m not used to giving it up to laundry items on the first date.” She assured me that the sock was new (oh great…so I have to be its first time) and sanitary (if I had a quarter…). So, I got naked. I put on the goggles. I put on the sock (not as easy as you would think, and now I’m going to have a major aversion to certain hand puppets) and then put the paper bag over my head. I felt like a really perverted Chicago Cubs fan, but I have a pretty good idea of what I might be next Halloween.
So, now, they are saying that chocolate will help prevent colon cancer. That's great if I can just figure out a way to get it in and keep it in. Anybody?
I had to reset my password for Kaiser (health care provider) because, apparently, some genius in a cubicle somewhere decided that the password I have been using for the past 15 years was no longer secure enough. No longer secure enough? Is someone trying to hack my Kaiser account? Hmmm...I’m guessing there is a state fair carnival worker out there who wants to check my records to glean useful information so he can kick my ass in the ‘guess your weight’ game.
My head and face have been so oily lately. I think there may be some illegal fracking going on up there.
You know those magnifying mirrors that make a pore on your nose look like a hot tub and a zit look like Mount Doom? I will NEVER look in one again on an empty stomach.
So, I may have to conduct a little scientific research. You see, I’m not sure which grows fastest: tropical Asian bamboo, the giant fern tree in the Amazon rainforest or this one hair on my right earlobe that is trying to transform itself overnight into a 2,000-pound-tested tow rope or maybe something useful for bungee jumping. Hey, guys! Going marlin fishing? Sure, I’ll come, but no, I do not need a pole. Don’t worry, officer. I’ll tie up these criminals while you go after the getaway car. Fire! Everyone, come over by this window and stand on the right side of my head!
I have these antacids that are virtually impossible to open, and I have to ask, why? Why do I have to channel my inner MacGyver to pry open the tiny, vacuum-sealed pill that will keep my stomach from doing the Macarena all night? Why, in God’s name, is it so critical to keep antacid out of the hands of the general public? Is there a secret government project to create thousands of frustrated, acid reflux-capable, night zombies? Are teenagers stealing Mom’s Pepcid AC for the cheap thrill and dangerous rush associated with reduced intestinal acid? I just don’t get it. It's possible to buy a baggie of crack on the corner in a simple, re-sealable baggie, but to score one of my antacid pills, I have to rip through industrial grade plastic with the strength of Godzilla and the surgical precision of a circumcision snip? Why?
I will admit it. I hate smoking. I never tried a cigarette, not even once, because I just didn't see the point. I don't let people smoke around my kids, and if I see someone smoking where they shouldn't be, I'm the pain-in-the-ass guy that always says something. The ironic thing, to me, is that no one ever starts smoking because they like it. When that kid sneaks around back with his friends and takes that first puff, he doesn't suddenly have an epiphany and shout out, “Yes! This is what has been missing in my life! It's great! I must smoke more!” He turns green and coughs and may throw up. Why would you want to continue something that makes you feel that way the first time?
If anyone wants to send me a “hope that jock itch clears up soon” card, that would great as I battle through this itchy situation. There’s nothing worse than a condition that makes you want to walk around with a hand in your pants or makes you want to spontaneously dry hump an old telephone pole.
We Are Family
Someone was once looking at photo of my family and wondered aloud how someone with a mug like mine could churn out such beautiful children. Hey, I don’t make them with my face!
So I have been trying to teach the twins a little Spanish. They have friends in their daycare who mostly speak Spanish, so I’m trying to teach them a phrase or two a week. This week, I have been teaching them how to say, “I’m your friend,” (Soy tu amiga). We were all in the van this afternoon, and I prompted the twins to see if they remembered their new sentence in Spanish. They were having a hard time remembering, so I gave them a hint. “OK,” I said, “it starts with Soy…”
“Oh! I know, I know!” Gracie exclaimed! “Soy latte!” Not correct, but at least she remembered her mom’s favorite Starbucks drink.
It takes a village to raise a child, but a couple of pretty good parents with Netflix and nearby in-laws can get by.
Gracie was having a hard time putting on a pair of shoes this morning. When I suggested she loosen up the laces a little more she said, "Daddy, please! I've been doing it this way for years!" She's four.
Me: We're leaving in ten minutes. Does anyone need to go potty?
Kids: No.
Me: OK, we're leaving in five minutes. Does anyone need to go potty?
Kids: No.
Me: Alright, let's go! Last chance...does anyone need to go potty?
Kids: Daddy, no! We said we don't have to go.
Five minutes after we leave the house, one (or more) of the kids: Daddy, we have to go potty now! We can't hold it! Daddy!
Yesterday, I was showing my daughter how to use a can opener. I know this sounds weird, but the thought struck me that this is what dads and moms are supposed to do. Teach your kids all those little things so they don't grow up and have a really awkward adult dinner party moment.
I know there will come a time when the girls, now 9, 7 and (the twins) 5-years-old, will spend hours on
their hair and their make-up and all that other stuff that makes it harder to get into the bathroom than it is to score a four day pass for Augusta National, but for now they don’t care. Many people tell Kim and I that we must be wonderful people to have adopted four, Russian war orphans.
So the twins now have some of their Sunday school training down pat. If I comment that something is big, they will agree but add, “Yes, but God is bigger. He’s the biggest thing ever.” If I say that something is nice I will get the compulsory, “Sure Daddy, but God is even nicer. He’s the nicest of all!” Tonight when we were putting them to bed, I told Riley that I liked her pillow because it was so fluffy. “But not as fluffy as God,” she replied earnestly. “He’s the fluffiest of them all!”
We have millions of pictures of the kids. Millions. We have more pictures of the kids than my father ever actually looked at me.
Men suck at grocery shopping, and I am a part of that club. If I go to the supermarket, I spend $100 on three bags of groceries and a baguette. When my wife goes shopping, she comes home with the minivan full of groceries (that the girls dutifully drag in, bag after bag, like little slave labor Oompa Loompas), yet she has only spent $67.88. What is up with that?
We have a humor situation at our house…and it’s my fault. These days, it’s difficult to go more than a few minutes without one of the girls invoking one of the seven-bathroom-or-anatomy-related-words-that-should-not-be-said-at-the-dinner-table. I guess it wouldn’t be bad if there were some sort of truly comedic thought process going on behind this and the occasional bathroom humor witticism was used as a well-timed and witty comeback. Unfortunately, when you are 4 or 6 or 8 years old, this kind of humor is in the word itself. In a way, I suppose, it’s comedy in its purest form.
Me: “Bailey, would you like some more bread?”
Bailey: “Sometimes I poop because I have a butt!” (Side-splitting laughter ensues…)
Me: “Riley, are you done?”
Riley: “Hey, everybody! I just farted!” (Milk is reverse-snorted uncontrollably out of noses in a gale of laughter…)
Me: “Cassie, can you hand your sister a napkin?”
Cassie: “First, I’m going to pee sitting down because I have a vagina!” (Nearly eaten peas become spit-out projectiles flying across through the air as the laughter simply cannot be contained…)
Me: “Gracie, stop messing around and eat, honey.”
Gracie: “But Riley’s fart smells like disgusting monkey turds coming out of her booty!” (One or more kids roll off their chairs and has a semi-epileptic laughing fit while rolling around in pea remains…) During all of this, Kim will shoot me a glance or two because she knows that in this nature/nurture world, most of the poop (humor) really does come from me.
A new study claims that marriage drives women to drink. I'm not sure if that's true, but I'm going to ask my wife just as soon as she gets back from the liquor store.
The twins were arguing about who was the oldest. “Daddy,” Riley whined, “Gracie says that she’s older than me and that makes me the baby!” I confirmed that Gracie was indeed older, by one minute. Cassie Jo, standing nearby, decided to jump into the fray. “Does that mean,” Cassie asked, “that Gracie came out of mommy’s butt first?” Oh my God, I thought. This is what happens when you make friends at a public school! Parents spend twelve years running an anti-dissemination campaign.
“First of all,” I tell them, “nothing came out of mommy’s butt.” Cassie tilts her head at me. “Nothing?” she says in a tone that insinuates that I am very much mistaken. “OK,” I say, “no babies came out of mommy’s butt. No babies, period, come out of anybody’s butt, period.” Now I have an audience and I see where this is going. “Babies,” I explain, “come out of a woman’s vagina, or sometimes the doctor has to open a mommy’s tummy to take the baby out.” Gracie, Riley and Cassie all nod their heads solemnly as if some great truth has been revealed. I can see them on the playground later giving their peeps the lowdown on this whole birthing thing. “Wait a minute!” Cassie demands out of the blue, “Which way was I born, the normal way or the gross way?” I’m not sure which is which, so I simply tell her “You came out the vagina.” Cassie signs a massive sigh of relief. “Thank God!” she says before leaving the room triumphantly.
The twins learned a valuable life lesson this morning: Silly Putty and cats do not mix.
You know your kids aren't little anymore when you can no longer get away with that great parenting standby, "We'll see...”
I just stepped on one of the girls’ necklaces and cursed Hello Kitty like Hello Kitty has never been cursed before.
I just read a fun fact. Snails can sleep up to three years straight. It didn't say, but it must be talking about snails without any kids.
So today, I shouted at the top of my lungs, "The next person who goes poopy without flushing is not getting a popsicle!”
Take several handfuls of Cheerios, the head of a chocolate bunny, one bite of leftover pizza, a bite of something yet-to-be-identified off the floor, many mandarin orange slices, a handful of corn, a pretzel and (quite possibly) a nibble or two of the cat’s Meow Mix….eat them all together and you get THE MOST DISGUSTING BABY POOP EVER! (Please don’t ask me how I know).
Good evening, passengers, and welcome to the bedroom shuttle. Tonight we will be traveling from Mommy and Daddy's bed back to your bed. You will be flying at an altitude of about five feet. Please keep your head on Daddy's shoulder and your arms at your sides to avoid any unnecessary turbulence. Our travel time will be approximately 10 seconds. Looking ahead to your final destination, we're showing it warm and comfortable with your stuffed animals arranged to your liking. Thanks again for joining us on this short journey. We know you have choices when it comes to snuggling, and thank you for choosing Daddy and Mommy in the big bed. Good night, sweet dreams, and we love you.
I love my girls, but sweet, blessed Jesus, I can't walk through this house without impaling my foot on a Lego, toy ring, or half the pieces of a princess tea set! In other related news, the shinbone clearly serves no purpose greater than as a device for finding furniture in a dark room.
This Is The End. The Final Random-O-Rama-Dama
If you have read this far I either have some good news or some bad news for you. If you have gotten to this point and think it sucks more than a four-hundred-dollar Dyson, the end is in sight. If you found a few things to be funny and entertaining, then I have scraped the proverbial bottom of the Facebook posting barrel and added this last little bit.
The Paleo diet is based on eating what cavemen ate hundreds of thousands of years ago. That’s weird to me because most cavemen only lived to be 20 to 30 years old, less if they were crushed by a woolly mammoth or if they pissed off their club carrying girlfriends. The exception would be the Geico cavemen, but they had all that TV money so it’s really not a fair comparison. Anyway, I don’t want to go on a diet where I die at 30, because that would involve both time travel and several awkward explanations.
So I had a dream last night and in it I forgot to do something and then had to go through the time and hassle to do it to go back and do it. You would think that your own dream would cut you a little slack.
I don't want anyone to read anything into this, but my space bar is sticking.
I don't know anything about this TV show, but 'Devious Maids' is the most God awful title I have ever heard of. (Note: Please look forward to my new television hit, "Scheming Accountants.")
My porn name is Monkey San Marino.
I just spent the last three minutes going mano-a-mano with a re-sealable bag that was not cooperating. That’s three minutes I’ll never get back…
Of all the driving offences that bug me, tailgating is the worst whether it’s on the freeway or just on some street in town. When someone is tailgating me I feel like yelling at them, “We are not two dogs at the dog park trying to get to know each other better! Get your schnozzle out of my ass!”
Did you ever walk
out of a store and go to the place you parked the LAST TIME you were at that store and then think, just for a minute, that your car has been stolen and then remember that you’re actually looking where you parked the last time and then walk around, resolutely, until you finally find your friggin’ car? Yeah, me neither.
I'm going to download Photoshop into the mirror in our bathroom and teach it how to airbrush.
I have a zit the size of Lake Titicaca. 54 years old and I'm dealing with a zit that could be mistaken for a VW bug if I parallel parked my face. Now, if I could just teach it to hold the door open for me.
I have got to clean the fish tank tomorrow. It’s starting to look like aquatic section-8 housing.
It looks like Amazon is looking to get into the online grocery business. If they do, remember not to shop (online) when you’re hungry.
So I just left the sprinkler on in the front lawn for like 8 hours. Some people might say that I’m forgetful. No, I would argue. I’m just subliminally trying to restore America’s wetlands.
The hotel I stayed at last night in Fresno had a low-flow (water saving) showerhead. Taking a shower was like being spit on by three, parched, mean spirited geckos. :-(
We just do not use the word skullduggery enough in everyday conversation. I'm going to teach it to the girls in hopes it spreads like wildfire in elementary schools everywhere.
Irregardless is a word. Look it up. Yet, even though it's a word, Merriam-Webster says you shouldn't use it. That only makes me want to use it more and makes me, I guess, a word rebel. Sweet.
Personal challenge…I am going to work in a “You will rue the day!” into everyday conversations.
I have a fear of semicolons. They are confusing and bully regular commas to no end.
Somewhere a study must have been conducted that concluded most people need to be prodded about 10 times to subscribe to a magazine before they submit to the pressure. At least that’s about how many of those annoying, indexed-card-sized subscription forms that seem to fall out of every, single magazine I read.
