2015 Graduation Manifesto

Dear Diary …

Here we are … at the time of year when many of the young minions of Zackmerica make that fateful walk down the aisle away from childhood and into young adulthood. Graduation season is here. And notice that I don’t say “Dads and Grads Season” … cuz as a father … Father’s Day gets the shaft as it is compared to Mother’s Day, and I re-FUSE to let you lump me and all the other Dads in with grads just because it happens to rhyme. But that’s for a different Anger Diary … back to the graduates.

Because another thing you see this time of year is different celebrities giving graduation speeches at colleges and high schools throughout the county. And since nobody’s offering me these speaking gigs … I’m gonna just do it here.

For the record I’m not angling for an invitation to speak … I don’t really like leaving the house … so don’t offer. Also … I’m gonna be the one that tells the truth … the cold hard truth … so your school probably wouldn’t like the dose of reality I’d give you anyway. Plus … I’d hate it if only one lucky school got my wisdom, and I would deprive all the other schools. So if I give it to you here, then EVERY school gets it.

So without further ado, here’s my advice to graduating seniors everywhere … DON’T LEAVE!!!! The world is a terrible place where they make you do responsible things and fun goes to die! OK first I should probably … breathe. Second … I should probably clarify before we go any further … that advice applies to college. High school? Adios suckas! You’re on to bigger and better things. Forget that place!

I mean … high school was FINE … but college … I don’t wanna bum you out or nothin’, but those are the best years of your life. It’s all downhill from there baby!

I mean … yeah … you get to do all these exciting things in your life like get married, have kids, have a career, blah blah blah. But college really is this glorious time where you have minimal responsibility mixed with just the right amount of independence that allows you to play video games 7 hours a day, as well as two or three solid nights a week of beer pong. All while not really being bothered by anyone.

And your metabolism? Oh my God, I might miss that more than anything. Come home from a night of fun .. eat a calzone at three o’clock in the morning … wake up at noon … do it all again the next day. Now I inhale the smell of a calzone … “Oh that acid is gonna give me heartburn!” And not just the heartburn, let’s not forget the general fatitude that it’s going to cause on my Dad Bod at the same time. College … you can eat calzones three times a day and you look exactly the same. Adulthood … you know what you get? Diabetes.

The other thing that college has that you’re never gonna have again is immediate access to a social circle with a seemingly endless supply of new friends and love interests. College was that time where I felt like you met new people ALL the time. Some of ‘em became lifelong friends, others just became topless friends that you saw once or twice and then can’t even remember their names today. Yeah … that all gone.

Now you to go places like “work” … and then you go home. So the friends you got … that’s all you got. Now I’m not saying it’s IMPOSSIBLE to meet new people, but they aren’t just layin’ around all over the place like they used to. Now you gotta actually make an effort and say things like “Hello … Perhaps we should hang out socially some time? That would be lovely.”

And later you have kids …. forget it. Now you only hang out with the parents of kids that your kids are friends with. So you barely even like these people, but you have no choice because your little booger eaters are on the same soccer team, and they have a trampoline in their backyard and your kid wants to jump on it. So now your conversations are even worse, “Oh and what do you do for work?’ “Oh that’s nice … um … OK that’s all I got.” That’s what your life becomes.

Now I know what you’re thinking … “This is terrible advice!”

But it’s not. This is what the real world is like kiddoes. And the reason I tell you this is not to scare you, but to make you realize that you don’t need to be in such a darn hurry to grow up. I hear it all the time from these college kids “Oh I can’t wait to get out of here … I’m so done with college.”

Oh you precious … precious little … IDIOT! You have no idea what you’re leaving right now … stop trying to leave it so quickly! You got your whole stinkin’ life to grow up … sit back and enjoy the awesomeness that is your time right now and you can deal with the rest of it later. That, my friends, is your REAL graduation advice.

Till next time Diary .. I say … Goodbye.

Facebook the Sewer

Dear Diary …

Facebook is an amazing thing. It has revolutionized the way we communicate, and really has helped make the world become a better place. Oh who am I kidding? It’s a sewer! Like straight from the sewage treatment plant, festering full of every human germ of the world, and all the horrible things we say and do. It’s terrible!

Diary … I don’t even like talking to people, but Facebook has made even ME long for the days when all we did was talk face to actual human face, and not on some cesspool of a website that has become this place for everybody to spend all day whining and complaining about every little thing in their life.

And the biggest problem I have, is that it’s made people feel WAY too important. They think they’re like, Kings and Queens of their own little Kingdom … lording over their flock of dedicated Facebook friends.

Acting all important … like we’re all sooooo privileged to hear about your daily whining about your sinus infection, or about how one of Logan’s teachers was mean to him, or how it’s 32 days till your big beach trip.

Look … it’s fine if that’s the stuff you wanna post. I don’t care. The problem is that you THINK I care. That’s what always drives me nuts when I see this message …

“Just a did a big Facebook purge on my friends list. Congrats on making the cut.”

You know what? When I see that message, I’m actually BUMMED that I made the cut. And what are all of us supposed to say … those of us that made this magical cut?

“Oh thank you Lord of the Facebook for allowing me to still see your posts about how you wish it was Friday already and how you only got 3 hours of sleep last night. Rejoice to thee that I can be one of your chosen ones!”

Need I remind you that there’s only one true King … ME. King Zack. Nobody else.

So go ahead and post your little insignificant things. Just remember that’s exactly what they are … insignificant.

OK … moving on Diary …

The warm weather is finally creeping in, and soon we’ll be smack dab in the middle of the hot days of the summer time. So with that in mind, I offer everyone a piece of advice … especially men.

When inevitably somebody comes to your door … pizza guy, FedEx person, random kid selling coupon books for his school … can you please do us all a favor and put a shirt on before you open the door?

What sane person answers a door shirtless?

Immediately the whole normal balance of society and social interaction is thrown off. You have no shirt on!

I know you might be hot … but human beings put shirts on before they answer the door. Especially for strangers!

I really do feel for delivery people … the stuff they have to see .. stuff they don’t even wanna see … stuff they can’t un-see. Why are you doing this to them?

And they must be amazingly strong individuals, because how is it that we don’t hear more stories in the news like “Longtime pizza delivery guy decides he can’t take it anymore and stabs his own eyes out?”

I don’t care what anybody does in the privacy of their own home. Sit around shirtless … smoke weed … marry a goat … whatever. As long as it don’t affect me, then I don’t care. But when you cross that plane … the doorway of your house … that’s the threshhold to the outside world and society. Put a dang shirt on!

Till next time Diary … I say … Goodbye.

Build-a-Bear Hell

Dear Diary …

I’m all about making this world a better place. So this is a teaching moment. Cuz you are doing it wrong, and I’m gonna teach you how to stop doing that. And this time … you mean well … but you’re screwing it up … so I’m gonna help you.

See … cuz … I have kids. And most of you that I’m trying to help … you don’t have kids. And you’re buying things for my kids … which I’m totally appreciative of … but you’re buying them the complete wrong things. I thank you for your generosity, but I’d also like it if your generosity didn’t turn into a big fat headache for me.

So … here’s the three things that you non-kid havers shouldn’t be buying for kids …

1) Anything loud or messy.

This is pretty self explanatory. Musical instruments, moon sand, Play Dough … ugh Play Dough. That’s the one you think “Oh I LOVED Play Dough as a kid!” … I stupidly thought that myself when I bought my daughter the Play Dough Burger Maker, and was then tortured with all that dried up nastiness stuck in the fibers of my carpet. And then I thought about, all my memories of Play Dough as a kid come from like … one experience. And then I figured out why … I played with the Play Dough Burger Maker one time, and then my parents threw that monstrosity in the garbage and I never used it again.

2) Things that take batteries.

You know me, Diary. I have a long-documented hate of toys that require batteries because they use to many of them and they die too quickly. No batteries!

… and this is the big one …

3) Gift cards.

Now I know what you non-kid havers are thinking “That doesn’t make any sense. A gift card is PERFECT because then they kid can get exactly what they want!”

Yeah well … you’re wrong.

Because the first thing a gift card does is make the child hate every single toy they currently own.

My daughter has too much stuff as it is … and on her birthday she got even more stuff. So now she really she NEEDS nothing. Problem is, somebody gave her a Build-a-Bear gift card. So now that’s all her little brain was focused on … “When do I get to go to Build-a-Bear to use my gift card?”

I’m still cleaning up the carnage of your birthday party. You’re surrounded by an orgy of toys … hundreds of dollars of toys. This should be enough for you!

“Yeah … but when do I get to go to Build a Bear to use my gift card?”

And then the extra problem … Non-kid haver says “Oh they can get anything they want” … Yeah well I can guarantee you this … whatever they want costs more than whatever you gave them.

$20 to Build-a-Bear … That’s like giving somebody a $100 gift card good toward the purchase of … oh … an entire house. $20 gets you nothin’. It might as well say “Guaranteed headache for Daddy” on it instead of gift card.

Look … I applaud these people for coming up with amazingly successful businesses … but when they depart this Earth, I confess that at least part of me hopes they end up in a place where they get attached to one of those giant Build a Bear tubes, and they gotta put their mouth on that tube, and then all that stuffing just BRRRMMMP right into their insides with that machine. And all the while with that awful loud Build-a-Bear music blaring into their skulls.

Diary … they sell underwear there. For bears!

Poor kids in Africa don’t have food, meanwhile we buy underwear for stuffed animals with our Build-a-Bear gift cards. ‘Murica!!!!

Oh and let’s not forget … you got a gift card for my one kid. But I got two kids … and my son is three … so the explanation “Well you don’ get anything because you don’t have a gift card of your own.” Yeah … that’s never gonna work.

So now I gotta buy him something. And he’s in full sensory overload in this explosion toys and goodies. Practically foaming at the mouth. And they’re too stinkin’ nice there! He picks out a bear, fills it, brushes it’s hair … because, yes, they have beauty stations … and then completely changes his mind as we’re going to pay.

“Oh that’s OK sir … We’re happy to accommodate your child whenever he changes his mind.”

Don’t do that! Now he’s just gonna think he can change his mind for the rest of his life … at the register, in the parking lot, at home the next day. No!

You’re like the grandparents of stores. Mommy and Daddy try to do the right thing, get the kids to eat his vegetables, and then you just fill ‘em full of candy when we aren’t looking.

You see what your gift card does to us? Now I’ve got a sobbing child, writhing around on the floor of Build-a-Bear. Happy Birthday!

Till next time Diary, I say goodbye.

No Hustle

Dear Diary …

We’re all in this together, right? The world is a crazy place. So if we don’t have each other’s backs … we’re screwed! Right?

It seems like the obvious answer to these questions is “yes … we’re all in this together,” but if we are, then why are so many of you showing no hustle when it comes to a green arrow?

You know … green arrow … at a traffic light. The quickest of the traffic lights. So when that thing turns green … you gotta punch it Margaret and show me some hustle so we can all make it thru this stinkin’ light together!

And this seems like common sense, but all last week I’m just trapped behind … slow … and … steady … take … my … time. C’mon man … I wanna get thru this light too! Move it!

Nobody hustles anymore … for anything.

At work … doo bee doo bee doo … doin’ my job … as slow as possible.

Crossing the street … walkin’ reaaaal … sloowwwwww

Pick up the pace slackers! You don’t have to move all crazy, but we’re on this Earth for a limited about of time, I don’t wanna spend my precious time waiting for your meatball sub legs to walk across the street. Hustle!

OK … moving on Diary …

I’m pretty sure every kid on Earth has the same thought about their parents … That they’re idiots. They all think we’re just dumb, oblivious humanoids that were only put on this Earth to make rules and mow the lawn.

I know that’s what my kids think … that I’m some fool that falls for their little games.

Like my son … he’s three … and he thinks he’s tricking me into giving him milk at times he’s not supposed to ask for milk.

Cuz what he does is he doesn’t directly ask for milk … he just says …

“Hey what’s in da refrigerator?”

I don’t know, what’s in there?

“Is it milk? You got milk in there?”

Yes … there’s milk in there.

“Is it cow’s milk? You got cow’s milk in there?”

Fine … here’s your milk. But don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing here.

My daughter takes a different approach … like when she wants a snack and it’s not snack time …

“Hey Daddy!”

Yes?

[[[[Mumble mumble Cheez-Its?]]]]

What was that?

[[[[Mumble mumble Cheez-Its?]]]]

Yeah … I hear Cheez-Its in there. And she just points her little finger at the box. [[[Mumble mumble Cheez-Its?]]

Fine … here’s your Cheez-Its. But again … let me be clear … you ain’t tricking me into this. I’m giving you these things because I choose to give them to you. Not because you’ve … [[robot voice]] tricked … humanoid … robot … Dad … again.

I might be dumb, but I ain’t THAT dumb!

Of course, when you think about it, they are getting exactly what they want at the time they aren’t supposed to have it, so [[[robot voice]] Maybe … I … am … the … idiot.

Till next time Diary … I say … Goodbye

The Best ______ Ever

Dear Diary …

I start this week with a warning, because this is a cautionary tale of trust, and how most people don’t really deserve yours. Here’s the deal … I fashion myself a bit of a foodie. I like food … I like eatin’ it. And I like makin’ it.

So as someone who makes food, I’m always on the lookout for delicious new recipes to try. Enter the internet … which is a phenomenal place to find recipes. In theory. The problem being, you don’t know the person on the other end. Much like when you think you’re having sexy chats with a pretty young lady, and turns out that lady is an ugly old dude with a porn-stache who’s got a thing for catfishing unsuspecting men like yourself. That’s what you actually get. So I’ve HEARD of course, because I would NEVER use the internet for naughty things. That’s just … um … wrong or something.

But back to the recipes …

Here’s the wisdom I pass along to you …

Any recipe that is titled “Best ____ Ever” or “Easiest _____ Ever” … anything like that … RUN AWAY! It stinks!

And here’s how you know it stinks … they say it’s the best. Because we can all agree … we got a lotta dumb people in this world … right? Probably more dumb people than there are smart people. So why in the world would we listen to their opinions? They’re dumb! So if they think it’s the “Best Lasagna Ever” … it ain’t. These are paste-eaters we’re talking about here, so clearly they have no taste. They eat paste!

You must get your recipes from a trusted source. And that trusted source is very rarely Pinterest. That place is just chock full of dingalings making lousy food and trying to pass it off as the “Best Ever.”

But I’m a sucker, and I keep going back. Lately I’m on this kick of making things that go in jars … hot sauces, simple syrups, pickles … stuff like that. So I see “Easiest Dill Pickles” ever. Oh and course they say “they are sooooooo delicious.” Excessive use of the letter “O” in their “soooooo” should’ve been a simple tipoff for me, but I dive in anyway.

And what do I end up with Diary? The nastiest jar of pickles I’ve ever tasted in my life. I open this thing … I kid you not … It smells like a horrible combination of dill and farts. And that’s what it tastes like too … Dill pickle farts. Horrible!

But it’s my own fault for trusting this goofy recipe in the first place. Lousy Pinterest … nothin’ but a bunch of wanna-be food bloggers coming up with their craptastic recipes thinkin’ they’re gonna be the next Rachel Ray. Out you go, Pinterest! Trust noone!

OK … Moving on Diary …

When I am King … as you know there are gonna be sweeping changes … and here’s another one to add to the list …

You know those signs on the highway that tell you the restaurants that are at the next exit? Well they are gonna be required by Zackmerica law to put in BIG writing how far away that restaurant is from the exit.

Yeah … I know they do it when you get OFF the exit, but you’re already committed at that point, so they got you trapped. And I’m done gettin’ trapped.

On my last road trip I pull off to get something … and the place is 3.7 miles away. I’m sorry, but that don’t count as “right off the exit.” And furthermore, I kept track, cuz I was mad, and it was 4.1 miles. So they LIED even!

Hooked and me and got me all ready for a cheeseburger, then dangled that thing in front of my face like donkey and a carrot for 4 stinkin’ miles.

Well no more of this in Zackmerica! You WILL put your distance on the sign BEFORE the exit. And anything over two miles … you ain’t even gettin’ on the sign, cuz you’re too far away! Don’t like it … move closer to the road. The end.

Till next time Diary … I say … Goodbye.

You Will Never Win the Argument

Dear Diary …

“Kids are great. I love my children. I’m so glad I have them.”

Those are the kinds of phrases we parents say to ourselves to talk ourselves off the ledge. The ledge that our children have walked us to, and are usually trying to push us off because they’re evil little monsters.

No no no … Kids are great. I love my children. I’m SO glad I have them.

OK … in all seriousness … the statements are true, but sometimes you just gotta remind yourself of them, because these little rugrats wear you out. Physically AND emotionally.

You ever try to argue with a tiny child? It’ll suck the life and energy right out of you because … you can’t win.

And yes … you can think that you’re older and stronger and smarter … “I’ll draw the line in the sand and I’ll win!” And yes, you may actually “win” … but you are thoroughly drained when it’s over. And the main reason is because trying to win an argument with a child is impossible, because they don’t argue with logic.

Take my son for example … he’s three. And he hates food. OK well not ALL food … he loves candy and hot dogs, but that’s about it. Actual food that’s good for you? Not so much.

So that’s why when you try to get him to eat an actual dinner, it becomes a fight.

“Don’t want dinner.”

Ok fine … but you have to at least eat one bite before you can have dessert. (I know … I’m soooo strict, huh?)

“No … all done with dinner.”

You’re not all done. You haven’t had anyway. You can’t be done until you actually start. So take a bite.

“No you say you!”

Huh? That’s his phrase … “No you say you!” What does it mean? It means argument over, because there’s no comeback from something that makes no sense at all.

“No you say you!”

Um … Yes … I say … me? (Yeah … I say me lost.)

And the other reason you can’t win is because, if you do try to come back with something like “OK … but you still have to take a bite of dinner,” his next response is …

pbbbbbbbbt!

And what will your rebuttal to that be? pbbbbbt … you ain’t got one cuz you just lost!

Can you imagine if you got to argue like that as an adult?

“Uh, yes, Zack we need to you to come to a surprise meeting right now please”

pbbbbbbbbt!

Yeah that’s what I think of your meeting … pbbbbbbbbt! What are you gonna do about it? Nothin’ … pbbbbbbbbt!

Ahhh … that’d be great.

Oh and it’s not just a stinky three year old … my daughter is six and she knows how to argue dirty too. Let’s say she and her brother are busy running thru the house playing a game where they are trying to chase and tackle each other. Now, we grown ups all know that this game is called “Somebody’s Gonna Cry,” cuz it’s a recipe for disaster, and a trip to the emergency room is just one end of a coffee table away.

So when you say “Can you please stop running? I don’t want you to fall and hit the coffee table.”

“No I won’t”

OK … but … I know you don’t plan on falling, but …

“I won’t fall.”

OK great … argument over. And of course, they do eventually fall. They always fall. Every game ends with at least one of them falling. And when they do, you can’t even rub it in with the “I told you so,” because all they care about now is a band-aid.

“Band-aid … band-aid! WAAAAHHHHH!!! I can’t hear anything you’re saying because I have a tiny bump on my knee and I need a BAND-AIIIIIDDDD!!!!”

Oh Diary … I remember when I used to be in control of stuff. I was the boss. Now, I’m the help. And I am NOT kind, I am NOT smart, and I am NOT important … cuz at the end of the day, I’m the one eating the poop pie and nobody else.

[[[sigh]]]

Till next time Diary, I say … goodbye

My Financial Ruin

Dear Diary …

I ain’t a rich man. So I don’t have a bunch of money laying around that I can waste and not worry about. Now don’t get me wrong, I ain’t poor. I’m fortunate to have what I have. But I tell you what … I’m eventually gonna end be poor after I’m done buying batteries for my kids’ toys.

Oh my God … everything needs a battery. Oh I’m sorry … batterIES … two, three, four, ten. And it’s not even size proportionate. My son has this little choo choo train … fits in the palm of your hand. Four batteries! The thing is the size of four batteries … so really it’s just a plastic train sitting over the top of FOUR batteries. And naturally, no matter how many batteries are in the toy, you know how long they last? Two seconds.

“Uh oh .. Thomas broken. Daddy you have battery?”

Diary … I counted … in a two week period, I put 22 batteries into kids’ toys. 22! Now I don’t know if you knew this or not, but batteries aren’t exactly cheap. I’m gonna go broke! And I’ll be penniless, and when you see me, sitting on the sidewalk … homeless … all dirty and wearing raggedy clothes … panhandling. You’ll say … what happened to you? Drugs? The war? Nope … batteries!

That and bubbles. Do your kids play with bubbles? Mine do. And they burn through those stupid containers. And by “burn through” I do mean “use a tiny bit and then spill the rest on the ground.”

“Daddy you have more bubbles?”

No Daddy doesn’t have more bubbles! Daddy’s gonna go broke gettin’ you bubbles.

Who knew soapy water cost so stinkin’ much?

This is why I drive a 17 year old car. I spend all my money on batteries and bubbles.

OK fine … moving on Diary … I don’t know if you knew this about me, but I don’t like being told what to do. I like to decide what to do. YOU don’t decide what I do. I do.

Like for example … These people who send you emails with uppity messages at the end of them “Please think before you print this message.”

Don’t you get all preachy with me, email … If I wanna print you, then I’m gonna print you.

And you know what? Now that you’re trying to tell me what to do, I’m DEFINITELY printing you. Twice. Don’t even need it, but you’re not gonna dictate to me what I can and can’t print.

I just dfon’t like going along with everybody else. You know what Diary … I might as well go on a gluten-free diet, cuz I’m against the grain, baby!

So the moral of the story here … if you want me to do something … you better either let me come up with it on my own, or at the very least, present in a way where you trick me into thinking it was my idea in the first place. That’s how my wife does it.

But if you tell me what to do? Nope … not doing it! Even if I wanna do it. Even if doing the opposite is going to negatively effect me. I’m doing it anyway!

Does it make sense? Nope. Do I care? NOPE!

Till next time Diary, I say goodbye.

In Search of “The One”

Dear Diary …

Throughout my life, I am forever in search of “the one.” And I don’t mean, “Oh that’s the love of my life, she’s ‘The One.’” I’m pretty sure I figured that one out already. Or really it’s my wife because SHE was lucky enough to find ME … Clearly “The one.” [[RIMSHOT]]

Kidding!

Anyway … this is more like that Morpheus dude’s quest in the movie “The Matrix” where he’s trying to find the chosen One to save the world. Except mine is not a hunt to find the savior, my hunt is to always find “The One” who’s ruining it for the rest of us.

This came to me while I was scrambling thru rush hour traffic on Friday afternoon to fight my way thru a jam-packed grocery store. Why? Because my daughter had a little performance thingie at her school and my wife and I realize “Oh crap … we gotta bring her flowers.” Yep … cuz I don’t know if you knew this or not Diary, but if you don’t bring your kid flowers and gifts to any and every assembly and performance and every little thing they do, you are the worst parents alive. Cuz everybody else’s parents do it. So unless you want a miserable, crying child at the end of the night, you gotta do it to.

And while I moved thru the crowds like a football game had just ended, I thought to myself, “Who’s ‘The One’ who did this?”

Because back in the day, this didn’t happen. When I was a kid, you did your little band recital, or chorus song, or dance routine or whatever, and then you went home. That was it.

But then one day “The One” ruined everything by spoiling their kid with gifts. And then somebody else’s kid saw that kid, and they were sad. And that parent felt guilty. So they next time, they got them stuff. And then everybody got suckered into doing the same thing. All thanks to “The One.”

Look … let me be clear … I like doing things for my kids and making them happy, but I wanna do it because I wanna do it, or because they actually earned it. Instead, I’m doing it because I’m afraid I’m gonna look like that schmuck who DIDN’T do it.

And it’s never-ending, there’s always some parent doing it wrong and becoming “The One” that makes things more of a pain for the rest of us. Like when I have to fight with my daughter over the yogurt she brings to school.

“Well blah blah’s parents [[By the way, Blah blah’s name has been changed to protect blah blah’s feelings]] Well blah blah’s parents pack her the yogurt with the Oreo cookies on top.”

“Yeah well blah blah’s parents obviously don’t care about nutrition, so too bad!”

Blah blah’s parents … being “The One” and making us all look bad cuz we don’t put candy in our yogurt.

We as parents all need to band together with an agreement of solidarity that our kids get nothin’. I mean … everybody wins here. We save money, and our kids aren’t spoiled little monsters.

But the problem is that MOST of us will agree to the pact, but there will always be “The One” that goes against us and makes us all look bad, because they’re the people that say things like, “Oh well my kids ALWAYS come first.”

You know what? I’m gonna blow your mind right here … my kids don’t always come first. Nor do they deserve to always come first. Sure I love them and will do anything for them, but some nights, they come like 6th or 7th. Shoot … I’m going out of town for a night away … just me and the wife on Friday, and I can promise you that the kids are gonna come about 23rd, right behind, “I hope this hotel has comfortable pillows.” (Oh yeah … and hopefully the kids are OK too.)

Just an observation here, but in my experience the person who says “Well my kids come first,” is almost always the same person on Facebook who’s life is a never-ending stream of drama and complaining … The school’s out to get me, my man cheated, my boss is a jerk … All with the capper of “Well I told them that my babies always come first no matter what.”

Hey .. I’m not saying “Don’t love your kids and be there for them,” I just saying … there MIGHT be a connection here.

Till next time Diary, I say … goodbye

Scratchy Toilet Paper

Dear Diary …

Now I know that people are entitled to their own opinions, and that’s fine. We can always “agree to disagree” on things and still live happily ever after. That said, I do think there are some things that everybody on Earth should agree on. No argument. End of discussion.

And it’s not because I think something like “Oh MY opinion is the right opinion.” I don’t mean that. I mean that the opinion is the ONLY opinion because there is no other logical choice.

Take the movie “Birdman” for example. It’s terrible. No argument necessary because there is no counterpoint here. You can’t possibly like that movie. I don’t care what some dorky Academy says. That movie is not good.

I have a coworker that says he likes it. And there’s only two possible explanations for his claim …

1. He’s lying and he’s trying to look cool. Or …

2. Medical. He has some, like, a tumor or something and he doesn’t know it, and it’s laying on the decision-making part of his brain, and it makes him think he likes “Birdman.”

That’s it.

OK … I guess MAYBE some small group of warped people like that movie, so throw that one out and forget I said anything.

Here’s one that we should all people able to agree on … Nobody wants scratchy, uncomfortable toilet paper, right?

That one seems obvious to me that we would ALL wants a nice soft toilet paper when we’re doin’ our thing. But then, in the real world, that’s not being practices. I go out of town this weekend and I stay at my friend’s house. Now this is a grown man with a good job … He’s a father for crying out loud. And yet … scratchy ol’ Scott is the only toilet paper in his house. what is wrong with him? Does he hate himself?

Now I was willing to cut him some slack … He’s a bachelor. The only two things he had in his fridge were pickles and beer. So maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing because his ex-wife did all the grocery shopping. Fine.

But the next night … we all stay at his brother’s house … who’s also a friend of mine. Now this guy … Family man … Wife … Nice house. His job? Scientist. I mean he’s even got the glasses. So he’s smarter than me … or so I thought. Because I use the bathroom and … hello … scratchy ol’ Scott again.

What is wrong with these people? What is wrong with anybody who buys this stuff?

And don’t play the poor card because …

1. They ain’t poor. And …

2. Even if they are, Angel Soft is like a dollar. And yeah it ain’t the best, but it’s soft. It’s in the name. Keyword: SOFT.

I mean, if you ain’t gonna treat your butt with respect, then how can you be trusted to appropriately love anything in this world?

There’s plenty of things we can disagree on all day long … politics, parenting, how to cook your steak … but scratchy toilet paper? C’mon! That’s a no-brainer!

Till next time Diary … I say … Goodbye.

Super Specific Booger Eaters

Dear Diary …

When you raise children, there are some experiences that you simply can’t even put into words. Like the feeling you get when … after a long day of running around … dealing with their every demand of juice … and snacks … and TV shows … and you’re doing this by yourself, because your wife is busy with work and hasn’t gotten home yet …

You finally get them upstairs … Tuck them into their little beds … pull the blanket up to their adorable little chins … and say “Goodnight … I love you” … Words cannot describe the feeling you get when they reply with “When’s Mommy coming home?”

Yup … love you too!!!

Oh hey … if you need anything, I’ll be downstairs on my hands and knees picking LEGOs out of the carpet while you’re up here dreaming away of swingsets and sugar plums. Have a nice night!

There are so many things I don’t understand about little kids … Like why are they SO specific about certain things? I get being BRAND specific about something. I mean … Helluva Good French Onion Dip … best dip on Earth. Dean’s? Pshht. I spit in your Dean’s. Dean ain’t got nothin’ on Helluva Good.

That I get … they taste different. You know what doesn’t taste different? The same food served on two different colored plates. I also have it on good authority that milk tastes exactly the same in a plain cup as it does in a cup with a picture of Queen Elsa on it.

I had an argument with my son the other day because he wanted his milk in a blue cup. No exceptions. No compromises. He did not want the cup I had.

Oh wait … did I mention that the cup I had was also a blue cup? Cuz it was! It just wasn’t the blue cup he was pointing at. Same brand … same shade of blue …

“No .. not that one. Want THAT one!”

Look here ya little puke … I could play three card monte like a street hustler with your cups behind my back and you’d have no idea which cup was which. Use the cup!

He drives me nuts, because he’s also a terrible eater. The kid eats hot dogs and candy … that’s it. Well … and fruit … but that’s it.

The other night I couldn’t get him to eat pizza. Pizza! And those are the ridiculous nights too as a parent where you’re not even saying “Eat your broccoli and then you can have dessert.” I’m sitting here saying “Eat your greasy triangle of cheese and fatitude before you can have a piece of chocolate.” Man I am strict!!!
And that little turd … he just wants the food to go to waste. That’s what makes him happy. Last night I make him a cheeseburger. Wouldn’t eat it. OK fine .. It’s delicious. I’ll eat it then.

“No! Leave it on da table. It stay right here.”

Why you gonna eat it?

“No”

Well then Daddy’s eating it … too bad!

I should point out by the way, this is a kid who freely eats his own boogers and then happily brags about them being “all gone in my tummy.” You’ll eat that, but you won’t eat the delicious food I make for you? You make no sense.

I mean … hey … maybe he’s full. I see some of those nasty things he digs out of his nose … they’re like the size of a grape. Maybe they’re really filling. I’m certainly not gonna find out for myself. But maybe they are!

I don’t. know. Because that’s ultimately what I do know above all else … I don’t know.

Anything.

Ever.

Till next time Diary … I say goodbye.