Archive for the ‘wife’ Category

>Cupid in da Hood

Posted: February 18, 2011 in holidays, sad teaching stories, wife

>Even though I’m divorced, my ex-wife and I are still friends which is good because this means that she still sends me crap that she gets from students and their parents at the inner-city school where she teaches.

It’s all about the blog, people.

This Valentine’s Day was no different.

This is the first picture/text message I get on Monday from her:

“Well. First time for one of these as a Valentine’s Day gift”


This is one of those cellophane-wrapped fruit trays you get at the grocery store when you don’t have much money but know you’re supposed to give your kids fruit at some point this month and child-protective services keeps telling you that “gum is not a fruit even if it IS watermelon flavored.”

Granted. It was a nice gesture from someone who didn’t have to get my ex-wife anything…

…but it’s funny to see what they come up with.

Then, I get this:

“Look what one of my kids used as envelopes to put her valentines in.”

Kid at school: “Here you go! Happy Valentine’s Day!!”

Mom at home: “Has anyone seen my court summons?”


The kid needed envelopes so, VOILA! Pretty envelopes that are even a romantic color!

Well, they DO say necessity is the mother of invention.

Hopefully the parent can invent a way to get out of going to jail for not paying these fines.

>What I Did in Child Impact Class

Posted: September 27, 2010 in divorce, drawings, wife, wtf

What’s the answer to the title of this post?

Hint: It had nothing to do with paying attention to Child Impact Class.

Let me explain.

As part of the divorce decree, my ex-wife and I had to attend a MANDATORY seminar called the “Child Impact Program” which had more to do about how to treat your kids during and after a divorce and much less to do with how hard you can hit them before they cry.

I was thinking, like, a medium speed closed-fist punch and/or a 5 mph bump with a subcompact sedan but then the teacher was all “Are you serious?” and I’m all, “Ha. Um. No.” and then he turned all red and was pretty adamant about being serious here because this was, after all, about the mental health of the children during this very difficult time.


THAT kind of “impact.”

So..noting the seriousness of this class, here is how I spent my 3-1/2 hours when the ex-wife ( “Co-Parent”) and I weren’t making fun of other people or getting yelled at for “disrupting the class.”

Teacher = ASSHOLE.

Anyway…here’s what my 3-1/2 hours of fucking around consisted of:

(click to enlarge images)


So, basically I started doodling as I’m wont to do when I’m bored or at work (redundant).


Once again, my fascination with fangs comes out and I’m not sure where that comes from because I’m totally Team Jacob but I have to tell you the picture of the teacher is pretty much spot-on except in this sketch he’s not expressing his disappointment in me.


My ex-wife didn’t think the “raising kids” thing was funny so I took the time to write next to it, “not funny” with an arrow just so I could apparently remind myself that – sometimes – she still doesn’t get me.


So it was during the above doodle (SUCK IT, PICASSO) that my ex-wife and I were laughing at something and I wasn’t even looking up because HAVE YOU SEEN HOW AWESOME THIS DOODLE IS?! and the teacher yelled at us for not paying attention.


Teacher = ASSHOLE.

So, by the time I was putting the finishing touches on my tornado/muppet scene on the back cover the teacher was wrapping up and we left class learning one valuable lesson:

Getting divorced is a PAIN IN THE ASS.

Next time, I’m bringing a sketch pad.

Lavender Wiggly and Coconut Balls

Posted: July 23, 2010 in rants, wife, wtf

My testicles smell like a goddamn fruit basket.

Actually…now that I think about it…

…the scent of Kiwi actually makes sense.

Let me explain.

I was taking a shower the other night, as I’m sometimes wont to do, when I realized that it was my monthly duty to use some type of soap product.

Now, a man’s typical prerogative (you go Bobby Brown!) is to wash his hair only.

He then lets the soap clean the rest of himself off via gravitational pull.

(Mental Poo: Funny AND Scientific! Where’s my Fucking NOBEL PRIZE?!?!?)

The theory is that the soap cleans as it goes…

…scrubbing away as it drains down his body…

…towards the sperm-clogged drain.

(hey…first thing’s first)

I looked down at the soap dish in the shower…

(after five minutes of trying to remember where it was)

…and saw a simple, sad, soap-Chiclet sitting there.

“This won’t do,” I thought. “There’s barely enough there my sphincter.”

After stuffing the soap-chip up my anus, I began rummaging through the endless bottles of crap in the shower looking for some type of soap-substitute.

Body washes.

Shower gels.

Washing-Gel Body-Shower Gel-Washes
(now with Retsin!)



The lube is for something else.

HEY! The Chiclet came out!!

I’ve digressed.

I now had approximately six bottles of crap to choose from in which to suds myself up.

Here’s where sharing a bathroom with the wife rears an ugly reality:


I’m not sure WHY women like to smell like fruit, but the bottles of shit I had to choose from included the following scents:

1) Coconut

2) Lavender (I actually think this is a flower..but the last time I checked I wasn’t gay, so I’m not entirely sure)

3) Green Apple

4) Icy Pineapple

Icy Pineapple.

I have no idea what a fucking icy pineapple is.

I’m sure that where pineapples actually grow, there’s no ice and, as such, the inventor of “Icy Pineapple” is just making this shit up.

All I know is that, personally, I don’t want to smell like an Icy-Pineapple-Apple-Lavender-Coconut-Jackass when I go play poker with the guys.

In fact, I’m not sure why anyone would want to smell like this…

I mean, don’t you attract BIRDS?!?

Regardless, I made my decision that day, based on the fact that I didn’t want to smell like potpourri…

…and decided to go with the Chiclet.

No Icy Pineapple for this guy.

No sir.

Today, I smell like sphincter.

The Nifty Snowman Sweater

Posted: July 21, 2010 in rants, wife, wtf

What the HELL is a “Nifty Snowman Sweater?



The wife and I were cleaning out our kitchen “junk drawer” the other day.

I believe EVERYONE has a drawer in their house/apartment (or box/glove compartment for you homeless readers out there) like this.

You know the one. The one drawer in your house that gathers all the shit that you don’t know where else to put it.

Me: “HEY! There’s my bologna sandwich from 1982!”

My bologna had a first name.

It was Jimmy. And he really freaked me the fuck out.

The contents:

Keys that unlock things that may or may not exist anymore.

Empty gum wrappers.

7,000,000 pens.

3,000 pencils, 12 of which actually have usable points.

5 working calculators.

2 broken calculators.

A small dog that may or may not have starved to death in there circa 1994.

And then there are…

Sticky notes.

Ah – sticky notes.

Some sticky notes have phone numbers on them with no names.

Some have names on them with no phone numbers.

In our case, one sticky note struck me as peculiar:

“Gotta get me one of those nifty snowman sweaters.”



I looked at my wife – it was her writing.

Me: “What is this?”


Wife: “I have NO idea.”

Me: “When have you ever used the word ‘nifty?’ And why the Hell would you describe a SNOWMAN sweater that way?”

Wife shrugs.


If she had found this note earlier, one of us would probably be wearing a fucking nifty snowman sweater right about now.

We dodged a bullet there.

Speaking of bullets, I found three of them in this drawer.

Interesting, since we don’t have any guns.

Nifty guns, at least.

I’m going to do this quick.

Please note, ladies, that this will be the first time I ever actually warn you of this.

Every other time is really just a complete shock and doubt on your part on whether or not the two Tequila shots were really worth the effort.

I’ve digressed.

Here goes:

Recently, I moved out of my house and into a one-bedroom apartment.


My wife and I are divorcing.

It is amicable.

We are still friendly and, honestly, haven’t gotten along this well in YEARS. It’s amazing the freedom you get when you realize that you don’t have to actually try to make someone happy. It’s so much work.

I hate work.

We will share custody of the children.

She is taking care of the dog.

I am taking care of…

I’m taking care of the FUCKING HAMSTER ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!?


Because nothing screams “bachelor” like a guy living alone except for a hamster in a bright pink cage.

I can’t wait to grow a scraggly beard and fashion a hat out of newspaper and then go get the mail down the hallway with the hamster following me in her little ball while I scream “TODAY IS THE DAY, IZZY, WHERE PUBLISHER’S CLEARING HOUSE MAKES ME RICH!” or something like “Maybe your pirate outfit has arrived!”

Trust me.

In this apartment building, this will only make me fit in MORE.

I’m not looking for sympathy. Or apathy. Or anything else that ends in ‘thy’ unless it’s ‘porn that is filthy’ at which point you can email me at the address in the ‘contact me’ section.

I have a lot of time to watch porn now.

I just wish the hamster would stop staring at me. Makes me feel icky.

So in the future you will hear about me filling out the paperwork and about my neighbors who all have a desire to wear cut-off tank tops and our divorce procedure which includes a mandatory ‘child impact seminar’ that required us to fill out a questionnaire about custody in which we needed to sign a section agreeing that the kids wouldn’t be exposed to druggies or alcoholics or alcoholic druggies which means now my dad can’t come to visit and also pretty much guarantees that I just lost $200 on this crack-whore next door because there is no provision in this section that says ‘..unless you lock the children in another room whilst you get toothless blowjobs..’

So. Yeah.

Band-Aid torn off.

A new adventure begins.

With a hamster in tow.

Isn’t that just fucking great.