My Daughter Embraces my Gynecomastia

Posted: October 8, 2009 in drawings, kids

I’m thinking of going with the underwire model.

Let me explain.

You see…my daughter likes to draw.

First, it was me shitting on a rocket toilet.

And now…

This shit.

Mark your calendars, folks…because…

…today…you get…


Kind of.

You see…

…aside from the occasional high school photo…

(complete with vest AND mullet…that’s right…LOOK OUT, LADIES!!)

..I’ve never posted an actual photo of myself.


Through my daughter’s artisan craftsmanship and unparalleled artistic abilities…

I give you her sketch of:


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



I think I need to start breaking her goddamn fingers soon.

Or enroll her in art classes.

I haven’t decided yet.

Parenting means making the tough choices.

Let’s dissect this fucker, shall we?

Let’s start with the head.

(I’ve often dreamed of saying that…you know…without paying first)

Jesus H. Christ.

It’s like I’ve been manufactured by Spalding.

I’m assuming I’m smiling because they’re giving me royalties.

Also, apparently, I have a small shoe for a nose.

Showing this to my wife, she says:

Wife: “Well..she got the hair right.”

She’s funny.

And when I say, ’funny’ I mean ‘cruel.’

I cry sometimes.

Going lower, it gets better.

(dammit…there’s ANOTHER thing I usually have to pay up front for)

My arms?


Look at those goddamn pythons.

FINALLY…something that’s accurate.

Welcome to the gun show, bitches!! BAM!! KA BAM!!

I love myself.

Usually, in the dark with lube and ‘Busty Cops’ on Cinemax, but whatever.

Back to the sketch.

And…the arms.

My arms are not only big in this drawing…

..but they are riddled with what appear to be giant tumors.



And this is a nice touch, too, honey…

They are apparently attached ABOVE my shoulders by some type of hinge.

How frigging cool would that be?

Fold those suckers up and I could fit into a carry-on when I fly.

You know…a little better than I do now.

Airfare is outrageous.

(click to enlarge)

My daughter then drew my abs.

Daughter: “…and these are your ribs…”


I haven’t seen my ribs since I was 12 years old and 160 pounds and laying on the beach with my cousin’s friend trying to make her like me and I was sucking that fat shit gut of mine in SO HARD that I almost fucking passed out and I swear a Japanese guy on the other side of the earth saw my belly button poke out of the ground.

Japanese guy: “biiing booowaannng kungpao gwanngg”

(I see fat American outy! Mel Gibson likes peas!)

That may be an incorrect translation.

But now…let’s focus on my greatest attribute.

My chest.

I love my chest.

And you can too for only $10 an hour.

(good marketing is the key to a healthy business)

Especially now that it’s shaved and looks like a two-day unshaven scruffy Christian Bale (left side) and ½ hour unshaven scruffy Christian Slater (right)

You know…if they both looked like tits.

Holy shit.

I just realized my pecs are both Christian.

I should probably stop trying to get them to participate in my masturbation routine.

Yes. It’s a routine.

Where was I?


I love my chest.

It’s big and all muscly and does tricks and smells like strawberry shortcake.

Not Strawberry Shortcake the cartoon character.

That would be weird.


My kids often ask me to make my chest bounce to songs like ‘the ABC song’ or ‘In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida’ or the guitar riff to ‘Iron Man.’

My pecs fucking rock.

However…according to my daughter…

..they less ROCK and more look like female porn star implants.

Nice, kid.

So, this is about as close as you get to see what I look like.

However, as a last visual aid for you, I’ve come up with a composite based on my daughter’s sketch.

It’s at the bottom of this post.


I’ll be over here, making the Christians dance to Black Sabbath.

They’ll hate that shit.


Well…here’s what I came up with:

Holy fuckshit.

I think ‘breaking the fingers’ is gonna win here.

Moog out.


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