Archive for the ‘parenting’ Category

>Before all the men and women out there start freaking out that I’m about to post the pictures of their vaginas and penises and (not respectively…in most instances) and – in some cases – weird monkey fetishes let me be clear that I’m NOT going to do that because I download that shit to my computer as soon as I get it and/or print it out to make a tasteful-yet-functional masturbatory mobile that hangs over my toilet (Patent Pending).

Perhaps I’ve said too much.


NO.

This is about my new phone which has a touch screen and a ‘drawing’ program which my kids have somehow found and…

..well..

..here’s what I find on my phone.

I open the drawing program because I needed to draw a penis I think (I can’t remember day-to-day) and realize that there are NINE DRAWINGS on my phone that I did not do…and not a single one of a penis.

Phew.

1) I’M NUMBER ONE!

I look at the first drawing:


Fuck yeah, that’s right.

#1 Dad.

#1 Dad who lets his kids go through his phone apparently without his knowledge because “Good Parenting = Ignoring your children” and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD KIDS PLEASE DO NOT GO THROUGH MY PICTURES OR VIDEOS.

I need to lock that friggin’ thing.

2) Peace Out

The next one I come across is this one:


Ugh.

Yay. Yay for peace.

I’m a Republican so coming across this type of shit just pisses me off.

3) Enter the Comedian

Next up is one from my son:

4+4=ate

I’m impressed with what he did here because he was able to combine math, art and comedy all in one fell swoop.

Kind of like how Hitler did it but with less math, comedy and art and more, you know, genocide.

So I guess nothing like Hitler AT ALL.

Speaking of disturbing shit…

4) WHAT. THE. HELL

So I continue to scroll through my pictures when..

..I find…

THIS:

Bloody Lake.

So it was kind of like, “Oh look daddy YOU’RE #1! and we should celebrate world peace with maybe some silly humor but DON’T TURN YOUR BACK DOUCHE OR WE WILL KILL YOU KILL YOU KILL YOU DEAD AND THE LAKES WILL TURN RED WITH YOUR BLOOD.

Um.

*delete

*delete *delete *delete

While I’m at it, I’m getting rid of the pictures and videos, too.

You can all breathe a sigh of relief now.

Glad someone can.

Moog out.

>A Confession to Make

Posted: May 2, 2011 in kids, parenting, religion

>I’m Catholic and when I say “I’m Catholic” it means “I’ve been told I’m Catholic but you won’t see me step foot in a church unless you’re getting married or you’ve died but now that I’m thinking about it you won’t see me if you’re actually dead but then again I’m no doctor.”

But it also means that my kids take Catholicsm classes.

Part of this, for my son recently, was doing his first Confession.

He’s SEVEN.

SEVEN.

We couldn’t think of anything for him to confess because he’s awesome so the night before, well, we started thinking of things he could say.

Enjoy.


Awesome.

During the ceremony they were all, like, “The parents can come up and do confession as well,” but I seriously didn’t have four days to spare sitting there and I wasn’t sure if they’d actually allow pizza delivery.

The fact that we made it into the church without getting hit by lightning is an actual miracle in and of itself.

Excuse me, now.

I have a stageghost to rob at gunpoint.

>
Alternate title for this:

Why Sometimes I Love Having Kids

Two conversations with my 7-year old son and 9-year old daughter:

Conversation #1: ARGH!

In the car:

Payton: “Cam has a pirate booty.”

Cam: “No I don’t.”

Payton: “Yes you do! You have a pirate booty. HAHAHAHA!”

Me: “Payton, do you even know what a booty is?”

Payton: “It’s a rear-end.”

Cam: “NO IT’S NOT! IT MEANS ‘TREASURE.'”

Me: “Cam’s right. A ‘pirate’s booty’ was his treasure.”

* pause

Payton: “Then Cam’s bum is a treasure.”

Me:

* blink

Cam: “Yeah. My bum is a treasure. A STINKY treasure.”

Honestly…I thought this was going to climax at the part where Payton declares my son’s bum as a treasure but somehow he managed to bring it to an entirely different level.

Awesome.

******************

Conversation #2: Blick by Blick

Scene:

The three of us are in a toy store called Josh’s Toys in the mall.

We’re looking at an entire row of Lego sets.

Me: “Wow. Look at all these Legos. This kid Josh must sure love Legos.”

Cam: “Well…who DOESN’T love Legos?”

Payton: “That would be most of the Chinese.”

You know, I didn’t even bother to ask any more.

Sometimes, it’s better that way.

>My kids stay with me three or four nights a week so to keep track of shit I have to do for them (like make lunches and bring them to lessons and then there’s those sporadic feedings) I have a calendar on my fridge where I jot stuff down and then THEY IMMEDIATELY ERASE EVERYTHING I WRITE and replace it with shit like this:

Awesome.

Actually my kids are awesome. Both of them. YA.

I feel like I should call for oil now for some reason.

Moog out.

>So I posted about how my parents used to kind of drug me into a stupor when I was a kid which, honestly, probably explains A LOT..

..but some people didn’t believe me.

*********************

UPDATE:

If you thought I was making this shit up, here’s an email I sent to my mom while I was writing that post trying to figure out the name of the shit they were giving me was, and what was actually in it that they were apparently trying to kill me with.

Here’s what I remembered was in it:

1) HOT Water
2) Orange juice
3) FUCKING MOLASSES WTF
4) Booze. Lots and lots of booze.

Why you can’t get this shit in a juicebox, I have no idea.

But that’s all I could remember was in it, so I emailed my mom:


OH. Lemon. Sorry.

I was missing the obvious miraculous healing properties of “Vitamin-C” in this adolescent version of a Harvey Wallbanger.

Also, based on my mom’s email, my family lineage includes a long line of parents trying to turn their small children into alcoholics.

Consider the torch passed, mom.


Oh, look.

ANOTHER INGREDIENT.

Nice.

Molasses AND honey.

Two. Natural. Laxatives.

Because once the kid wakes up in a week, it would probably be a great idea if he shit for three days just to make sure all the demons are out.

Makes sense.