Practically a Joke...

I think someone is playing a joke on me and I have to admit I am finding it quite entertaining. For the sake of this exercise I will call it ‘The Idiot vs The Cashier’. It is a very complex practical joke so I will assume that Ashton will not be jumping out from behind the counter anytime soon, and based on the fact that it hasn’t involved a fart joke I will assume my college buddies are not involved. The premise is really straightforward, show up to a store that I am at and make sure that the cashier is helping someone that is a little imbalanced in front of me.
Case in point: the extremely Latina cashier trying to have a conversation with the Dragon-Con groupie about Power Bars vs. Cliff bars. While it may seem like she might be the expert on the benefits of whole grains in relationship to the volume of protein in said items I think something was lost in translation. No doubt the case of Diet Mountain Dew will offset any nutritional deficiencies in the final decision, it was a debate for the ages. I call this one; Hoop Earrings vs. Orthopedic shoes.
Case number two: Cat lady vs Cat dude. For the jokester this was an obvious meeting of the minds, but none the less effective. Any interaction with a Petsmart employee is bound to be filled with awkward moments and glassy eyed responses to my quick witted humor. Add in a sale on cat treats and accessories and painstakingly obviously hilarity was bound to ensue. The conversation was centered on what treat/ leash combo was most appropriate to train a cat to walk on a leash like a dog. You can’t make this shit up.
I have some errands to run tomorrow so I am sure my tormentors are furiously at work to find the socially inept to coordinate their New Year’s eve social calendars with my own. Locations that would be best to spring their next trap include the liquor store (Indian cashier vs drunk bum, “will Steel Reserve get me fucked up enough?”), the cheese counter at Whole Foods (hipster vs Lincoln park know it all mom on what cheese goes best with a rosé wine), or Party City (Highschool manager vs mom trying to buy 500 Justin Bieber balloons). Cant wait to see where the next trap is sprung!

I am a sexy man.

I am a sexy son of a bitch. With my smoky blue eyes, thick dirty blonde hair and six pack abs, my sex appeal is undeniable. The proof? Have you seen my wife? She is smoking hot, so there is no way a lady like that marries a turd. We don’t even have to discuss my dazzling personality, expertise in the bedroom (or wherever my wife chooses to indulge in my goose bump inspiring touch) or startling ability to combine intelligence with humor. Sexy stare, subtle bounce of the eyebrows and a pouting of the lips, you are helpless.
Now that we have established my desirability I want to tell you what I have recently discovered that could potentially bring all of this to a screeching halt. Men don’t look sexy in the same outfits that women look sexy wearing. I am not talking about cross dressing here, even though that too is the case, but rather the potentially innocent outfit that bridges the gap from shower to fully dressed or transitioning from work to casual attire. Let’s call them accidental outfits. In order to preserve my delusions of erotica I have removed the following outfits from my wardrobe while simultaneously requesting these be worn by my wife at least once a week.
1. Dress shirt and no pants or underwear. Seeing flashes of my manhood bounce in and out of the shirt tails is not hot.
2. Black dress socks and white underwear. Need I explain?
3. Hoodie sweater shirt and underwear. It makes me look like a perverted Unabomber.
4. Just socks. Heads up fellas, put your boxers on first out of the shower.
5. An open robe. Now you see me now you don’t and peek a boo are equally disgusting phrases used to enhance this attire.
6. Naked.
7. Shoes without pants on, specifically dress shoes.
I will attempt to keep the transitional content in the house to a minimum specifically cut out the “Risky Business” move making the transition from clothed to naked as hidden as possible and I suggest you do the same.

The Meat Between the Buns; A Story About Pure Ecstasy

I have finally settled in back to my normal routine after engorging my sexual deviance over two weeks ago with a little something I like to call the ‘meat between the buns’. If you are faint at heart or thought, like me, that the movie was actually called Puss in Boobs and locked your doors when you heard a million children saw it opening night you might want to turn off your computer, this is about to get nasty. Please note that the names of many involved have been changed to protect the innocent and deter the sexually inexperienced.
When I informed a close friend of mine, we will call her Limberly, of my intentions there were some immediate and unpleasant reactions. Our relationship had been through a lot, but it seemed what I was suggesting we do was simply more than we could handle. Take into account the number of absolute strangers that needed to be involved and the risk of catching something weighed heavy on both of us. What I needed was someway of showing Limberly that what I wanted to do was not only safe, but something that millions of Americans enjoyed at isolated times during the year and we were quickly coming upon the ‘season’. I reached for my computer and to the internet and based on what we found her fears were not unwarranted. The videos we graphic. What if I couldn’t go back to the way it was ‘before the meat’? What if I had a bad reaction and needed to spend hours on the toilet? What if I became addicted? As much as I love Limberly I was willing to take many of these risks in hopes of obtaining that moment of pure bliss. Sure I pictured my addicted body cowering in an alley with everything lost, all alone covered in sweat longing for one last hit. I had to be strong.
So on that fateful day Limberly gently let me slide to the dark side giving me a personal moment to enjoy the journey that lay ahead. It was everything I could have expected and more. A sweet aroma punctured the air driving out the surrounding noise as a succulent and salty taste danced across my tongue. It was ecstasy.
Today, days later the moment is as fresh in my mind as the day my lips embraced the sinful delight that can only be know to two people that have experienced this much together. Would I do it again? In a heart beat. What would I change? I say the more the merrier. Do I feel like a gallant warrior returning from the battlefield soaked in victory? No doubt. Would I recommend this to my friends? I think the simplest response…Try the McRibb for yourself and tell me you don’t feel the same way.

One Line, Two Registers

My McRibb orgasm will have to take a back seat as I relay my encounter just minutes before I even ordered the famed sandwich. At the crux of this divergence is the system commonly known as ‘one line, two registers’.
The system is complex, one that has undoubtedly caused strife throughout human history. As archeologist still struggle to translate ancient texts and hieroglyphs one thing is clear, even the Egyptians understand the importance of order and lines. Important enough to dedicate the burial walls of their most famed figures with stories of men standing front to back patiently waiting for their turn. My, how we have regressed.

It was clear from the moment I entered McDonalds the ordering and receiving process was in pure chaos. The gentlemen in front of me made the right call and opted to apply the ‘one line, two register’ system which was quickly executed by myself and the man behind me. Moments later a large woman appeared and quickly rebuked our orderly system jumping right behind a family near the register and right in front of me. I tapped her on the shoulder and informed her ‘ma’am we are all waiting in line here for the next register’. Big mistake. She turned quickly (well quick for someone her size) swinging her big bear arm in my direction screaming, ‘no you idiots are in that line, I am in this line’. Oh it’s on. ‘I know this may be hard for your pea brain to understand but we are all waiting patiently for the next register. Clearly you skipped a couple of grades, 4 through 12, and have a better system than me or this Doctor behind me (he was in scrubs), but I can tell from the sight of you, you need this a lot more than we do so please go ahead.’ This did not go over well…with her. She was irate. I smiled and the doctor behind was laughing hysterically as the employees watched in blissful terror. Bitch just got Hamburglared.
She ordered, got her food and left before I got up to the next register to an amused manager. The doctor behind me offered to let me take the next register but I thought it better to keep my distance from the banshee and quipped it was probably safer for fear of losing a finger if they are out of icecream”. His response ‘you made my day’.

Dear Friends

This is a very big week for the Miller family and me as we are embarking into uncharted waters both emotionally and physically. Not to be taken lightly Kimberly, Emerson and I have spent hours discussing our options, weighing the financial investment, and engaging in legal council to avoid any longer term consequences.
Some of you may find our decisions gut wrenchingly painful while others will be curious on why we waited so long, no doubt we lose some friends along the way. The manor in which we are making this announcement was debatable as many of you find this blog too humorous to be taken seriously, but the longevity of this posting will last much longer than any tweet or facebook posting.
My drop dead date has been set for 12:30pm on Thursday November 3rd for any of you that would care to join us in witnessing this historic moment. Some of you have learned about this in advance and already voiced your objections and removed us from the standard social media and phone contacts lists and for that we are truly sorry. For the rest of you, thank you for your support.
Without further delay I am ready to announce that on Thursday November 3rd at 12:30pm at 3620 N Clark I will be pairing the likes of French inspired fried potatoes, the liquid potion of a one Mr. Dr. Pepper with the culinary treat known as the McRibb. Your support is both welcome and appreciated. We will see you on the other side. My love to my wife, child and the rest of my wonderful family.

Happy Crap

I was at Whole foods grabbing a bite to eat when I noticed a very attractive women walk by and go into the bathroom. Nothing of note besides her attractiveness. Now before you get all worked up let me just state this for the record, I love my wife. Just because I made a promise to her to love and care and blah blah blah for her doesn’t mean that suddenly other women cease to be attractive. I certainly would expect my wife to see a shirtless washboard abs flexing Brad Pitt and think ‘icky, he looks nothing like my husband’. Hell I just got a little excited thinking about him, the man is hot.
Back to my slice of pizza. At this point I had pretty much finished the second slice and realized I never saw little hottie come back by, someone must be doing some work. It wasn’t exactly the picture I wanted in my head of Suzie sweet cheeks, but no big deal. Finally after a few more minutes she emerged from the bathroom and boy was she happy. With pep in her step a smile on her face and a fresh dab of lipstick and she was ready to take on the world. Now I was disgusted. I mean I have taken some satisfying craps before but this must have been orgasmic. Her joy churned my stomach. Then came the trailing waft of perfume that followed her from the bathroom. Never have rose petals smelled so horrible.

Trust me, they are not to be trusted.

Random list of people I don’t trust and you shouldn’t either:
1. People with mullets with no facial hair
2. Security guards with only a flashlight as a weapon

3. Guys that drink the ‘other flavors’ of Mountain Dew
4. People that don’t find me funny
5. People that find me really funny
6. Guys that wear ties and short sleeved dress shirts
7. Clowns and people that dress up in costumes at Disney. What are they hiding?
8. People that walk their dogs without a leash
9. The Birthday boy or girl – Have not heard the old excuse? “What? I can bring a prostitute back to the dorm, it’s my birthday.”
10. Ryan Peter Miller

Getting old isn't so bad.

I am turning 30 years old soon and to be completely honest with you it really doesn’t bother me. Look, I have never been hip so no one expects me to know the cool places to hang out. I have always had a decent taste in clothes so you wont find my in a blue blazer and turtle neck anytime soon as you will never see me in some hipster skinny jeans. My party days were few and far between so no one can accuse me of ‘not going out anymore’. But there are a few things that I have noticed that are a little disturbing.
1. My first cocktail of the night is now a coffee
2. When I say ‘its what the kids are doing these days’ it is because some new trend scares me
3. I am the first person at every party
4. When my single friends tell me they went out with a girl I ask way too many personal questions. I then have to relay these details to my wife and then we go to our separate corners and shed a tear for our 20’s.
5. Farting is still funny, but it is also a relief to know my bowels are working as designed.
6. 8am is sleeping in…late
7. Hangovers last longer than one day
8. I can remember a time when I didn’t text, and I have no idea how anyone managed to meet up at a bar.
9. I watch gas prices and will drive out of my way to save $0.05 a gallon
10. I have some desire to read a news paper
11. Some products have been boycotted in my house due to political reasons.
12. I sit down to pee more often than I am comfortable to admit.

Rogue Cougar

I am not the pool boy. I do not have rock hard abs. I look like a ghost without my shirt on and I struggle to pick up a 50lbs bag of mulch, but this has not stopped my imagination from wondering if one day a lonely housewife will ask me to ‘look at something in the master bedroom’. For years I have been the general contractor that gets the invitation into the house for a glass of lemonade, or to pick up a check, or discuss another project and since the age of 15 I have always wondered if I would be the star of some contractor/ housewife porno. Mind you I am saying, wondered, not hoping or waiting for. As a single man I always hoped something fantastic might happen, but as a married man I fear the cougar.
I think this all went terribly wrong when the first landscaping job I worked on was the house of a very attractive 45 year old wife and mother of 3. The nanny was always away with the kids and the housewife had nothing but time to chat. Years later I wondered what was going on in the back of her mind (gosh this kid is skinny, I wish he would stop starring at me) but the seed had been planted. Now at the age of 29, I have young and old clients some attractive and some…not some much. More of the later than the former. I have utter faith in myself to be professional and loyal to my wife, but I do fear the rogue cougar that cannot control her sexual depravity and make me not a lover but victim. And it was just last week that I came face to face with such beast that had an obese loneliness in her eyes that might result in me being handcuffed to a radiator in the basement surrounded by teddy bears and rice crispy treats.
I knew I was in trouble when she requested screen paneling on her deck for privacy so she could ‘make out with her boyfriend…or whoever else.’ I could feel her eyes undressing me and slathering me with butter and marshmallows. The exit was too far away and we were four stories up, she knew what she was doing. I was out matched. The temptress had lured me into her sexual buffet and was ready to consume all she could eat. Slowly I reached for my phone and took an imaginary phone call from my wife…”yes honey I am still meeting with Suzy on XYZ street and will be home in 10 minutes”. Her eyes widened and began to salivate at the thought of another woman feasting on this man banquet. I hung up the phone, pointed to something across the street and made a run for it. Sure, probably bad for business, but you will also never find a picture of me dressed as Teddy Ruxpin eating a giant lollipop on some creepy porno site.

I'm the keymaster, are you the gatekeeper?

He is the gatekeeper, the social director, security guard and all around know it all. He is the condo-building doorman. The wonderful thing about having a doorman is there is always someone to help you with your groceries and buzz in your drunken friends. The horrible thing about the doorman is you have just given unabashed power to, and I apologize, an idiot. Let’s face it; we are not talking about the cream of the employee crop here. Are their some intelligent folks out there guarding our buildings from Jehovah witnesses and girl scouts? Of course they are out there, but I have yet to find one.
Take my trip yesterday to drop off a cushion at a client’s condo. With the client on the phone I was instructed to leave the cushion at the front desk with Ralph and she would pick it up later. I explained this radical concept to him and he scoffed, “like I have room around here to keep this”. It’s a fucking pillow, stick it under your ass for all I care. We are in a 200 unit condo building I am sure there is an empty closet somewhere that can hold this pillow for three hours.
Today I had the pleasure of meeting Joy. The irony of her name was not lost on me. My presence was upsetting to her because the elevator was not padded at the time and she was not told I would be there. Personally I didn’t think a couple of flats of flowers warranted padding the elevator walls, but what do I know I have never been a doorman. In the middle of this debate a homeowner began to walk in the front door with his bike and she yelled ‘uh uh, no bikes in here sir, sir, sir…I said no bikes!’ Dude was about to get cut.
My suggestion is to be on your game if you ever find yourself interacting with one of these individuals. Keep in mind they don’t realize they don’t have any real power and are willing to make up their own rules if what you want means extra ‘work’ for them.

Yes, we can all hear you now.

Today’s challenge, pretend to be the person on the other end of the phone to someone who is talking way too loud on his or her cellular device. For inspiration I will relive my dinner experience from last night. I will play the role of jackass, random 45 year old lady will play the role of idiot talking on her phone loudly at the table next to us.
I: Where are you?
J: I am right here.
I: How long till you get here?
J: I am already here, so zero minutes and zero seconds
I: Sorry I am having a hard time hearing you someone is being rude.
J: Don’t you just hate that? Turn to your right, I am right here! Surprise!
I: No, he keeps talking to me. Whatever. Should I order you something?
J: I will have a house salad, no dressing, a cheeseburger with American cheese and fries a Coke to drink and apple pie for desert. Oh wait no, cheesecake for desert.
I: Dave, I cant hear you with this guy. We need to go somewhere else.
J: My name is Adam, but Dave sounds sexy.
The murderous glare I got as she left the patio area was well worth the annoyed look I got from my wife.

American flag Cheesesteak

All I wanted was a cheese steak, apparently I was asking for too much. As I waited for my number to be called a table ten feet over was being occupied by what I will assume was a professor/ student combo. Someone forgot to tell professor no nuts that he wasn’t in the auditorium and could use his inside voice. Preparing for my meal I surveyed where I would be able to obtain some ketchup to pair with my fries. I found that the only bottle was on the table with professor snuggle farts and I would be forced to engage these two twits. As if the cook knew I was suffering endlessly, he took great care in hand preparing my sandwich, growing, harvesting and cooking the fries from scratch.
The verbal masturbation had reached its climax when the absolute truth was revealed, “President Bush knew Osama wanted to blow up those buildings.” If this dick pleasuring dialog had been caught on tape I am sure even Michael Moore would get a good chuckle. Number 77, that’s me. Here we go. I approached the table and grabbed the ketchup. They turned and shot me a steely glance. I started right in, “hey fellas, so do you think the Packers are going to win it all again this year? That Aaron Rodgers sure can sling a pig skin.” I might as well have been wearing a turban and holding the latest copy of ‘Crash flying a plane for Dummies’. “Well thanks for the free squeeze…of ketchup. Yea America!” I don’t really know why I felt the need to proclaim my patriotism, but it went over well. Well that or the thumbs up just caught them flat footed. USA! USA! USA!

She knows the crap I write and still sleeps with me...hopefully.

I have some bad news; my wife reads my blog. Through the powers of deductive reasoning I have assumed this to be the case over the past 18 months, but it recently has become fact. It was safe to say something was going on when she stop letting me drive, or push the shopping cart or enter a Starbucks while she was around. Then today in a clear act in defiance of our wedding vows she told me that she had read my latest post. She began the conversation with what we refer to as a compliment sandwich which is a nice way of telling me she thinks I am funny, but that I also write at the grammatical level of a third grader. “Honey your blog was really funny today. The grammar was horrific, but I really enjoyed reading the parts I could understand”. Compliment, insult, compliment, this is a compliment sandwich.
The reason why this news is bad for all of is not because her involvement will sensor my criticism of our parenting skills, financial irresponsibility, or sexual experimentation, but rather you might be forced to read postings that are written intelligently. Look, my lady is smart. Not smart like me, but actually smart. She is no doubt smarter that you which probably explains why she has been the only one to complain about my use of eight commas in the same sentence. My pledge to you today is to find the balance between my obligation to bring you factual accounts of the stupidity of humanity, but in a (slightly) more intelligent manor. If at any point a correctly placed comma or an omitted ellipses causes harm to even one of my readers I will immediately disregard the thousands of years of work perfecting the English language and relapse into my pre teen conjunction free ranting that prove to bring joy to this word. I love you honey, but no one puts baby in the corner.

My baby might be dumb.

My baby is dumb and apparently it is my fault, I have ruined my child. I knew at some point in her life her ignorance would be blamed on bad parenting, but I guess I was hoping we would at least get past colors and maybe even the alphabet. I did, sort of. At eight weeks old we are apparently two weeks behind on reading, math and the landscape of the socio economical dilemma that modern countries will face in an ever growing social media based population. This may seem like a small task, two weeks can be made up, but in fact we are 25% behind schedule. Remember that senior in your graduating class that needed to pass freshman math to graduate? That is my baby.
This recent information came to light when a baby book that my wife was reading told us we should be reading to our baby and working on flash cards. Flash cards? What flash cards? I just sit my baby in front of the TV and head to the bars, I am counting on her being pretty not smart. Let’s face it, I have the body of a 14 year old girl, so if she is blessed with my body and my wife’s…well you know, she will be fine. Apparently this isn’t good enough for my wife. After all who will continue this horrible diatribe once I am going? Now that is a scary thought. So I did what any good parent would do (I think) I downloaded an App on my wife’s phone. I feel smarter already.
In other baby news. I fart so loud the other day it woke up my sleeping baby. Is that bad?

Irrational lesson in pre road rage

I might have missed the point on why student drivers are in cars with giant signs “Bill’s Driving School”. For years it was my impression that these signs were in place to test the experience of said driving students. Whether in car, on foot or even on bike, I would investigate the skills of these young operators in essence asking “are you ready to be all alone in this crazy world?” I don’t mean are you ready to drive alone, are you ready to be alone? Just you, the road, 5,000lbs of metal and a sea of humanity ready to make you miserable. If you cant handle life behind the wheel of a car in Chicago it might be time for you to pack it in and get a job at the local movie theater. (offense to theater employees intended, those people creep me out). Upon finding one of these lost souls, my vehicle becomes a purveyor of life’s little lessons, a rogue monk teaching the spirituality of ignorance, a charging bull in the cattle call of the morning rush hour.
I will wait that extra moment at a green light enticing the doe eyed driver to reach for that horn. I will go out of turn at a four way stop and honk my horn and flip them off. As a pedestrian I will aimlessly cross the street forcing young Billy to wait patiently while cars angrily honk behind him. While on my bike I will ride as close as I can to his driver side window until his knuckles turn so white the blood might not ever return. For the fortunate few that encounter me on the streets feel privileged. The fearful fleeting moments we shared on the road has given you a taste on what life has to offer, pure uninspiring stupidity. Welcome.

I have Ruined my Child.

Remember when I told you I have no interest in your kids? I don’t really care that little Billy pooped in the toilet for the first time, or Suzie can read at a third grade level and she is only three weeks old. Its great that you think your kid is amazing, but remember I know they are still having a hard time telling the difference between an elephant and a dog…your kid isn’t that smart. In fact, I would rather hear about all the stupid stuff your kid does because honestly I think it is a direct result of your negligent parenting, which I find hilarious. I am sure all of you experienced parents out there are either laughing or cursing at me…’you have only been a parent for seven weeks, you don’t know shit’. (happy seven week and one day birthday Eme!) In fact in my seven young weeks of parenting I have done more to ruin my child than all of you have done combined. Quite possibly, I might be the worst parent ever in the history of parents and so begins my first post ‘how I have ruined my child today’.
In seven weeks here are just a few of the things I have done that will torture my young child throughout her life.
I let her watch the first Star Wars Phantom Menace before Star Wars a new Hope.
She is a Cubs fan
She still doesn’t have a facebook page
She was a wake Saturday when I drunkenly ate a soft pretzel and cheese in my underwear at 2am. No one should have to see that.
I have promised her a pony like 80 times. I hate ponies.

Cougars and dogs.

I dog flirted with someone today. I think that is the term the kids are using these days. Did I do it on purpose? Hell, I couldn’t act that stupid again if I tried and usually I don’t have to try. You have to know I sucked at flirting when it was needed most…high school. The best flirting tactic I had was a van.
So here I am, just me and the dog exchanging typical ‘dog people’ pleasantries with another dog owner. How old is your dog, whats its name, blah blah blah. For some reason the other dog owner told me her dog (female) liked huskies, ‘SHE really likes blue eyes’ as she looked right in my eyes (blue) and smiled. Like a dumbass I responded, ‘uh yea, so your dog must like me too’. ‘She does’. I feel weird, what is happening. Just then Daley lifts his leg and lets the other dog get a big old dick lick. “Looks like Daley likes the older ladies”…the lady was easily forty five. She smiled and asked ‘oh does…he?’ Crap, I just picked up a Cougar. I grabbed the dog and ran, just like High School. And now I am writing about it in my journal, I mean blog. How did I ever get laid, seriously?

Lick your own cone.

Maybe this is just a personal problem, but I just don’t want my taxi driver eating a double scoop waffle cone as he weaves in and out of traffic. It isn’t the fact that he got the second scoop, I cant fault you for that. The combination of vanilla and chocolate ice cream is delicious, but the waffle cone just screams…I don’t give a fuck. A sugar cone, fine. One of those bullshit Styrofoam type cones, no problem. But hell that waffle cone might as well be a turkey drumstick from the renaissance fair. This isn’t just the occasional lick; a waffle cone takes some serious cone to ice cream management.
To clarify here is my acceptable and unacceptable list for taxi drivers.
Ok – Single stack burger or anything from the renaissance fair other than a turkey leg,
Not OK – anything that is in a bowl, anything you would want to lick your fingers after consuming, Mexican food (I would be forced to make a stop at taco bell), food found at a carnival (not because of the food, but I don’t want someone driving me around that just got off “The cyclone” and is now going at a funnel cake).
Food approval list is subject to change if taxi is a mini van or the windows don’t open. Ironic foods are automatically approved i.e. a Chinese guy trying to eat a burrito or old guy eating a fun dip or cotton candy.

Ok ok, it's hot.

Insert obvious statement about how hot it is in Chicago today. Respond with statement about how it is hotter in Arizona right not. Retort with they don’t have the humidity we have right now. Try to end boring conversation with statement about how the lake help keeps the city cool, Phoenix doesn’t have that. Kill the conversation with a reference to the 2011 Blizzard that shut down the city. Become a complete asshole by referencing a blizzard that you were a part of in 1988 in Buffalo that was way worse.
I pulled into a parking spot today and there was a woman sitting in the passenger seat of the car next to me. She was a robust woman and was clutching two ice cream cones. One was almost finished as she took a giant bite out of the cone, but the second one was un touched. Remember…its hot. Immediately after taking a giant bite out of the cone in her left hand, the cone in her right hand caught her attention and her head whipped around. She leans in…eyes get giant…tongue extends…hand moves towards mouth (as to reduce actually moving) and she takes a giant lick…OF HER HAND! I guess some precious ice cream was on the verge of being lost to the heat, but there she was to save the day!
In Subway today there was an employee speaking some Indian language, to which I applaud his intelligence. But someone needs to tell him one of the phrases he uses in his native tongue sounds a lot like ‘maybe I like dick’ in English.

Watch out fellow parents...

My lack of experience or knowledge on a particular subject has never stopped me from making comment or passing judgment, but now that I am a father I feel that I am entitled to pass judgment. Stupid parents beware; you are now in my sights.
A few things to note:
I don’t like your kids and don’t expect you to like mine.
Your baby is ugly.
The grocery store is my special time and that is ruined when your kids are running around pulling boxes of cookies off the shelf.
At what age are farts not cute? Five week old Emerson, cute. Thirty year old Adam, not cute.
At what age does looking at someone in the eyes and farting become creepy? Five week old Emerson, not creepy. Thirty year old Adam, super creepy.
I am totally fo making social and political commentary through my kids clothing. One day when they are running on the super conservative republican platform for Senate I can release the baby picture of her wearing a pride shirt that says ‘my gay uncles love me’.
Totally off subject. I saw an ice truck this morning with a tag line ‘healthier than ice at home’. BUSTED! You got me dead on. The half urine half water ice I am making at home really isn’t good for me. Bagged ice it is for now on.

Common Sense Zombies

Can I make a second comeback?  How about a mid term revival in hopes of rediscovering my hatred of people?  Well not all people.  In fact this specific post is dedicated to two of my favorite fans, yes that’s right, FANS!  Audrey and Brandon verbally (one of them physically, you guess which one) molested me for my lack luster performance since February…and yes they remembered that I had not posted since February. 

I stopped to think about my absence and for a fleeting moment thought to blame society for their renaissance of common sense, and then I left the house this morning and remembered, people are fucking stupid. 

Walking into the pediatricians office this morning carrying my 5 week old baby in the car seat the woman at the elevator…’oh my gosh, is that a baby?’  No Sherlock, it’s a cat dressed up as a baby for Halloween three months early. 

At Starbucks this morning waiting for my drink to come up, no one else waiting for a drink but someone in line ordering.  The barista pops up with a drink in hand, ‘grande iced americano’.  The twerp in line had just finished paying and jumped over and grabbed the drink.  ‘He Sherlock, that’s my drink’.  (normally I would not have been so quick to kill him, but he just looked like an assbag) ‘oh no, I ordered an americano, its mine’.  ‘well for the first time in the history of the world two people ordered the same thing at Starbucks.  I just happened to order mine before you even walked in here.’  The guy had no idea what was going on, took the drink and left.  For some reason I thought to let it go and then he left his drink unattended at the milk and sugar station.  Mistake.  I walked by grabbed it and hid it behind three canisters of creamer (the barista caught me and started laughing).  As I walked out the door ‘I think that guy stole my drink!’  ‘Sir, sir, calm down, its right here’.  His panic attack made my day. 

Needless to say, I was inspired to bring a little irrationality back to the world.  So I am headed to the grocery store and Target.  I don’t need anything, just figured it would be a good place to screw with some perfectly ‘innocent’ by standards.  Common sense zombies. 

I would like to thank Audrey and Brandon for their loyalty, but more importantly their inspiration to remember just how stupid people are and that it is my job to remind them…not so subtly.  

Hug an old naked guy

I have been gone for so long I was beginning to think that my writing career was over, and then I joined a gym…and baby I am back!

Per usual there were a couple of old naked guys walking around in the locker room dropping every other item on the floor and then taking a painfully long time to bend over and pick them up, just another day at the gym.

Well then I spotted this guy about five feet away from me that seemed to be taking up a lot of space around his locker.  Towel obviously nowhere in sight, shoes, shirt, bag etc spread all over the place as if his locker had exploded.  Well I guess it was time to get dressed, but for some reason old men don’t start by putting on their underwear differing to start by putting on their knee high black socks.  Not a good look.

Well this particular old guy thought he was still nimble enough to pull of the flamingo move, you know where you just stand in place and lift one foot in the air attempting to quickly slip on a sock, bad idea.  The guy got his sock about half way on and then lost his balance.  He took several hops trying to regain his footing, but with no success he reached out for something to brace his fall.  Unfortunately the closest thing to him was a 30 something year old man trying to change out of his work clothes.

Before he knew what was going on he was tackled by this half sock wearing naked old guy jumping around like a Mexican jumping bean.  The old guy struggled to get his balance as the young guy frantically tried to push the naked guy off of him.  This ballet dance went on for several seconds before the kid finally broke free.  The two just stopped and looked at each other in total shock.  And then in an moment of complete and utter weakness, showing no sympathy for either party I turned and lowered my head to cover my face and said…’get a room’.  The locker room was a blaze in laughter, except for two of course.

Good toliet paper, no poop hands.

Have you ever noticed how commercials for some product never really talk to you about water their product actually does?  While I find most car commercials terribly annoying at least they get to the point…here is our car driving around in different weather conditions.  Doesn’t it look cool?  The products I am talking about are things like beer and toilet paper.  We delicately dance around the big picture points of their product while showing us a bunch of random crap.

Let’s take toilet paper.  Why on earth are you showing me a couple of cartoon bears in the woods with rolls of your bounciest double ply product?  First, I know bears don’t use toilet paper.  Second, If a bear did need to wipe his ass he would probably use a tree and wouldn’t try and find a softer more absorbent tree.  Why can’t we get right down to the point…

                “Charmin double ply toilet paper...It will keep you from getting shit all over your hand.”

Or a beer commercial

                “Look, it’s cheap and will get you wasted.  If your friend Sara drinks three of these she might just sleep with you.”

Snip Snip!

There is an ad on the radio station right now for the best new year’s resolution…get a vasectomy.    “It was the best new year’s resolution I have ever made.”  What?  The commercial goes on to tell me how I can get in and out in just over an hour and head back to work afterward with no pain. 

First, even if the procedure is not too painful, I don’t think I am headed back to work.  “Hey Adam, how was your lunch?”  “Great!  I had the flow of sperm cut off from my genital so I can no longer procreate.  What time is that staff meeting?”  I don’t think so, I would be headed home to watch the Lord of the Rings marathon to try and block out the fact that I just had a tube up my ding dong.

Second, is your new year’s resolution really to get a vasectomy or is it to stop getting hookers pregnant?  I think the snip snip is a means to an end so that the world no longer has to see your ugly children running around the playground without any pants on.  I get that this is the best way to prevent knocking someone up, but I can think of much better resolutions than this.

Happy New Year