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!”


[[[[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 …


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”


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.


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]]


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