My Big Fat Hog has no Fashion Sense

Posted: June 3, 2009 in kids, motorcycle, parenting

The Gods of Rain shined down upon me that day.

And no, not just because I look friggin’ awesome with my shirt off in the downpour…

…all glistening and muscly and shit..

Wow. Look at that.

Gave myself a boner.

No…the Rain Gods came and washed out the local soccer fields.

Dutifully canceling my daughter’s soccer game.

This, in and of itself, is worthy of one of those manly Marine shout outs:


How Charo got kicked out of the Marines with that magnificent set of cans, I’ll never know.

Regardless, the cancellation of her game freed up my Sunday.

Doing shit around the house is pretty much out of the question, as I’m not really very good at anything.

Me: “Honey…you know how I suck at doing things around the house?”

Wife: “What did you do?”

Me: “You might want to pack. I think the lawn is on fire.”

Stupid sprinkler system.

So, instead, I took the kids to the closest Harley Davidson store.

That’s right, bitches…I’m a Harley man.

All five feet of me.

Moooooog: Not being even the slightest bit menacing since 1968.

Regardless, I had a $50 gift certificate from Christmas (thank you baby Jesus!)

…and told the kids I would get them new shirts if they came with me.

Bribery: Making kids do shit they don’t wanna since forever.

Jesus H. Christ.

Today is turning into “Mental Poo: Tagline Edition.”

I’ll stop now.

Moooooog: Stopping his irritating tagline shit since two seconds ago.



My wife wanted to go with us, but she didn’t come back from the gym in time.

So, as we were leaving, I left her this note:

(click to enlarge…that’s what she said):

On a related note:

My wife sometimes just cries out ‘WHY!?’

So, we get to the Harley store and my kids pick out their shirts.

My daughter has a wonderfully tasteful pink short sleeve shirt, with ‘Harley Davidson’ embroidered around some flowers.

Yes, I know what embroidery is.

Don’t judge.

My son?

Here’s what my son picks out:


Totally appropriate for Kindergarten class.


I can’t find shit.

Every fucking shirt in the rack is XL, XXL, XXXXL….

Jesus H. Christ.

I’m five-foot-two…160 pounds…

(of sheer muscle-filled shortnicity!)

..and there’s not a single fucking there here to fit me.

Me: “Jesus H. Christ. Apparently, I have to be six-foot-eight, 720 pounds to ride a fucking Harley.”

This went over well with the six-foot-eight, 720 pound guy who was working the service counter right behind me.

Giant: “Ahem.”

Me: “No offense.”


Like I want to die looking for a goddamn t-shirt.

So, I employ the kids.

Me: “Guys…go through these racks and find anything that says ‘MEDIUM.'”

30 seconds later, my son comes around the corner.

Cam: “I found one!”

He’s holding this:

Me: “Um…thanks, buddy. But daddy would never ever ever wear that.”

Outside of the bedroom.


Then my daughter comes up:

Payton: “I found this.”

Me: “Oh…what did you fi..”

She found this:

Me: “Now we’re talking!”

I mean…um…

Me: “No, honey…no.”

Maybe I should have been more specific when I said ‘find a medium.’

I probably should have waited for my wife.

Stupid untamed Harley spirit.


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