Thursday, September 25, 2014

We Don't Shit There (An Illustrated Potty Training Poem)

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potty training problems





































Monday, September 15, 2014

Rise of the Elegant Stinkhorn

"There are giant, red dicks coming up all over the back yard," my wife said nonchalantly. "I need you to take care of it."

Always armed with a smart-ass remark, and refusing to believe that there was a naked herd of rogue neanderthals running amok and pleasuring themselves all over our back yard, I said, "Well, it sounds like they're doing just fine taking care of themselves. Maybe it will help the grass grow back in the bare spot in the middle of the yard."

She wasn't impressed.

She did validate my assumption that the red dicks we were being attacked by were not guys running around our back yard with smartphones working their way through the naked Kate Upton photos hijacked from the ever-mysterious iCloud and spread across the Interwebs. Instead, we had a healthy amount of large, red fungi popping up all over the place that just happened to look like giant, red penises. And the scientific name for these large, red, wanger-looking fungi? Elegant Stinkhorn. I'm convinced these things were put on this planet to prove that scientists had a sense of humor. It was like Father Christmas came early (pun intended) when he put red dick hill in my back yard, giving me my own little comedic gem ripe for the dicking. I even got lost thinking up prospective blog titles that played on movies or TV shows: 20 Dick Jump Street, Old Red Dick, Die Hard: Red Dick, The Wiener Games: Catching Red Dicks, Red Dick Tracy, Flower Wars: Red Dicks Strike Back, 300 Red Dicks, The Mighty Red Dicks, The Walking Red Dicks, How to Train Your Red Dicks, Lord of the Red Dicks, Frozen: Red Dicks, The Fast and the Furious Red Dicks, Finding Red Dicks, Despicable Red Dicks, Breaking Red Dicks and on, and on, and on. I could have literally dicked around with those all day.

Monday, September 8, 2014

Some Assembly Required

The relationship between myself and kid furniture/toys you have to assemble is similar to the relationship I have with one-ply toilet paper: It takes longer than it should to get the job done, I'm continually doing re-work on some areas, and I always walk away angry. And while I've made it very clear since before my wife and I were married that I won't live in a house that hangs anything less than two-ply toilet paper on its dispensers, I can't tell my children that they can't have a bicycle because daddy's a lazy, selfish prick. Besides, you haven't truly experienced fatherhood until you've been reduced to tears while trying to assemble a Dora the Explorer tricycle that looks like Ray Charles could put together in a matter of minutes.

There's a little bit of me in everything that I assemble for my children, because I've literally bled on all of it in some capacity. Everything from cribs, beds, tricycles, a bicycle, a swing set, pretend play sets, baby swings, and all manner of other wicked, evil shit manufactured in the bowels of Hell by the Devil himself and his gaggle of mechanical engineers. I suspect the engineers actually responsible for this crap are people who were fired from real engineering jobs because there was a history of bridges, buildings or roads they were associated with collapsing, and the only companies who would give them a job were the likes of Little Tikes or Sorelle.