And now for something different

Once upon a Sunday morning, while I slept in, only slightly snoring,
My dreams of boats with two stroke engines, and Victoria’s secrets galore,
Were rudely interrupted by sounds of crapping, most flatulent crapping,
As of some Beagle quietly mapping, mapping her placement of morning spoor.
My wife will clean it, I hoped, quietly she will sweep and mop up the floor.
I rolled over and continued to snore.

I still had small hopes to spoon, after all it was the middle of June,
This day is Fathers day and for me, poor me, it’s times four.
I listened for mopping, impatiently waiting, hoping for spit swapping,
Yet instead I heard waking, waking toddlers, treading through canine spoor.
“Oh those kids, those loud kids, (thanks to my potency), times four,
Mopping will last forevermore!”

Brilliant light then came streaming, accompanied by toddlers screaming,
Panicked, afraid, I hid myself and prayed, ‘please no more!’
My prayer unheard, I smelled the Beagle turd, as on they came beaming.
“Not today!“ I cried, “Go away!“, I lied, “I’m asleep, close my door!”
The smell increased, they smelled long deceased, these children coated in filthy spoor.
It’s a nightmare, I wept, only that and nothing more.

I’ll escape, I‘ll fish all day, I planned, and up I jumped naked and tanned,
I stiff armed a child, and leapt over something piled, nearly missed avoiding some spoor.
Quickly, I dressed, tired, angry, and sexually repressed,
Yet If I hurried quicker, I might slip slicker out the back door.
“Children move now! Please I am begging you! I implore!”
Still, on they came, covered in spoor.

Failing to sleep in, spoon, or fish, I resigned to question the children four,
“Where is your mother?, HEY DON’T HIT YOUR BROTHER! The store?
“AAARGH!“, cried I, look at this sty, you’re all covered with disgusting spoor,
I sank to my knees, and begged them please, tell me I’m dreaming.
Then I heard a rumbling, as if something rolling and tumbling,
And I knew, it was the garage door.

Scared more than ever, I thought only of heather, or escape to a distant shore.
I knew my only chance would be to dash when SHE stepped in through the door.
While it may be a day for Dad’s, she wouldn't tolerate my letting these tads,
Crash and boom, causing destruction and doom through piles of Beagle spoor.
I braced myself for what was to come, I just stood there quiet, deaf and dumb,
I stared afraid at the garage door.

The door opened and there my wife stood, her features were fierce, not good,
I could see she was accosted by the smells that wafted anywhere wafting could,
So in an effort to avoid the incredible yelling and additional smelling in store,
I dashed forward half naked, kissed her cheek and then stated
Honey, my dear, I love you, I’m off to go fishing, I’ll be thinking of you.
By the way, for my Fathers day, could you clean up this spoor.
 
As I began to drive away, there came a cry of a feminine sway, “NEVERMORE!
YOU’D BETTER ENJOY TODAY, FORE TOMORROW YOU’RE BLOOOD AND GORE!!”
I smiled and laughed, my eyes dancing, soon I would be casting these cares away.
When came a new rumbling, louder this time, causing my good mood crumbling,
I turned back, giving up fishing with pain, I could plainly see, it was going to rain.
“Honey I am back, to help you wash the spoor.” (forevermore)

Kids aren't Bats, They are Dogs

Dear Dad,

               I would like to call your attention to a recent scientific study in Switzerland that deduced human children must actually be a species of bat. A bat that inevitably matures and evolves into a more primate like being. Swiss science has shown that while underdeveloped and unable to fly, most children still believe they can fly and will attempt doing so, often with disastrous ends. Numerous tests also confirmed that children must be blind as they constantly bump into objects, typically breaking them. The subjects studied emitted high pitched squeals that seemed to be an attempt to locate food sources. Subjects were often found sleeping with their heads hanging upside down over the edge of their beds. In a country wide test four out of every five Swiss children were observed eating bugs and it is speculated the remainder ingested their insects more secretively. Subjects were often awake in the middle of the night when humans are supposed to be asleep. The study is quite convincing.

               The only problem that I have with this study though is that bats have exceptional hearing! I think I can prove that human children do not actually hear. I believe that children have a mechanism in their brain that interprets sound waves based on decibel levels and then auto-react based on those interpretations. Actual hearing noise and understanding it doesn't happen until late adolescence. I have a story that I believe backs this up and thus disproves Swiss theory.

              As a parent I have noticed that my children do stupid things when I yell. They immediately react to my yells in a manner that has nothing to do with the words I am yelling. For example if you yell at a child to ‘COME HERE’ the child will run away. If you yell ‘CLEAN YOUR ROOM’ the child will sit down in the middle of said ‘dirty’ room and wail that they are thirsty. When I yell ‘CLEAN YOUR ROOM’ my four year old son gets thirsty and my five year old daughter immediately has to go to the bathroom. When I yelled ‘GIVE ME THE WRENCH’ to my son (ten at the time) he looked up at the ceiling and spun around in a circle. I can’t believe that all four of my children are mentally inferior, and since they are decidedly not bats, (no pun intended) I believe they must be reacting to sound levels interpreted by their small underdeveloped brains. They do not actually hear words.

            This is how I got a fish hook in my face! Let me explain.

            I took my eleven year old son fishing. To be a ‘cool’ dad, I let him steer the boat under the power of an electric trolling motor. Since it only propels the boat at 2 mph top speed, I figured what the heck.

           I spent the majority of the fishing trip yelling through clenched teeth over clenched butt cheeks.

“CAMERON TURN LEFT”

“CAMERON WATCH OUT TURN!”

“CAMERON TURN AROUND THE TREE, DON’T DRIVE THROUGH IT!”

“CAMERON THE BOAT DOESN’T WORK ON LAND, TURN IT!”

            You get the Idea. Naturally Cameron’s wee sized neural center associated my decibel level with a need to counter steer the boat. Later that afternoon my fishing line became snagged on a lily pad. I observed that the boat was headed strait for the snag. Good I thought, no problem here. As I leaned over the bow of the boat with my arm under water and my face close to the lake surface, I yelled over the wind at my son quite clearly, “CAMERON YOU ARE DOING GREAT, JUST KEEP GOING STRAIGHT!

             Cameron’s brain was very quick to deduce the boat needed to be turned sharply to the left. The fishing line tightened, the root of the lily pad gave way. My head snapped back from the force of the lily pad striking me, and dangling from my cheek was some new jewelry with the shape and texture of a rubber minnow.

             Cameron hasn’t been fishing with me for a few weeks now. His brain deduced from my decibel level that he should take up video games for a month or two before renewing his fishing experiences.

             Long story short the Swiss are incorrect. Children are not ‘bats.’ Children are also not deaf. They just don’t hear the way we do. It is obviously far more likely that children are dogs. My dog also only reacts to the tone of my voice, unless I say ‘Hot Dog.’ She seems to understand that. All four of my kids seem to get that one too.

Love,

          Your loud and newly pierced son.

Specifics Bob

Dear Dad,
                As my small town was surrounded and being attacked by spring rain storms, I spent this past weekend indoors. On Sunday morning to make myself feel gloomier, I decided to watch the weekly bass fishing highlights on ESPN. During what seemed a very long hour of watching men enjoy themselves out on the water, being paid to fish, it occurred to me that my life sucks.

               Watching what I like to call ‘Standard’ sports on television never gets me down. I know I could never have been a professional Football, Basketball or Baseball player. I am an average to smaller than average sized dude who can’t dunk, pitch or trade hits with three hundred pound men.

               I can Bass fish my butt off though. I’m actually quite good at it. I catch ‘trophy’ size fish pretty regularly everywhere I try. So I watched this ‘Bass Master Elite’ program on ESPN and began to get angry. Not jealous, just angry!

HO HO HO Now I have a machine gun!

Dear Dad,

               For Christmas this year I would like to give you the gift of the ultimate Christmas movie. You may be thinking to yourself that you have already watched it. Possibly you have witnessed Peter Bailey’s realization that all is well. You think you know that a BB gun is all little Ralphie needed to be happy. You cheered when Clark Griswald added twenty percent to his holiday bonus. Maybe you enjoyed Tim the Tool Man Taylor getting fat and growing a beard. Yet after all your holiday movie viewing you have yet to watch the one true Christmas movie. I am of course referring to the 1988 classic brought to us by ‘John McTiernan‘ starring ‘Bruce Willis‘ and ‘Alan Rickman.’ The one and only ‘Die Hard!’

               Bruce Willis not only provided us with an everyman type of hero, he also gave us a holiday movie with a real message. Let’s look at it shall we. The movie starts out with Christmas music and a giant teddy bear. The movie ends with Christmas music, a dead terrorist and a giant teddy bear. Our hero John McLane finds himself in the worst possible situation. His holiday hopes of wooing his wife back into his bed have come crashing down around his head. Visions of sugarplums are replaced by German terrorists with English accents and automatic weapons. Terrorists that turn out to be just burglars. Burglaring John’s holiday lay.

Missouri Hise and the Temple of D.M.V.

Dear Dad,

               It has been a life long dream of mine to own the cheapest versions of all the cool things rich people have. Over the years I have accumulated many ‘cool’ pieces of crap. Homeless people have long been envious of me. It’s to be expected, everyone loves a treasure hunter. I thoroughly enjoy my life as king of the lower middle class.

               I bought a boat this week. It is called a ‘Bass Raider 8.’ Not because it is the eighth model of a bad-ass bass boat, but because it is eight feet long. Essentially it is a rectangular canoe. It has two highly placed swivel seats and an electric trolling motor. While I don’t dock it at the local marina, I truly couldn’t be happier with myself. I can’t wait to do some raiding!

Flushed but Not Forgotten

Dear Dad,


               Too long have we men labored under the delusion that in our homes there lies in wait a throne. A cool porcelain seat, surrounded by four soundproof walls through which no nagging hails can pierce. A place of solitude and peace. A room where the magazines rule and time has no meaning. Well, it DOES NOT EXIST! This scrap of suburban lore has been smited like the dragons of old. The throne rooms of our forefathers are overrun by piles of dirty laundry and yellow bathtub ducks. Ducks that mock the precious few moments we have to ourselves. No matter how many times we gather the laundry and stomp on those ridiculous ducks, the next day will find more mildewing pairs of toddler whitey tighties and a smiling, squeaking, water squirting damn duck! A truer tale about man and his throne should be told.

In honor of the Halloween season I present you with 'A Trip to the Zoo'

Dear Dad,

               I decided to take advantage of my time in the great metropolis of St. Louis and invite my wife and children to join me at the zoo. Money is always an issue in my family and I felt that the zoo was the answer to my children’s complaints of never getting to do anything. The zoo is free after all. I called my wife from my hotel and made the arrangements. I would escort the five of them through the FREE wonderland that is the St. Louis Zoo!

               I stayed in St. Louis that Sunday. While my wife was getting the children ready and preparing to endure the two and a half hour car ride with four sleep deprived yet excited children, I slept in. At the last possible moment I drove the ten minutes to the zoo. There I paid eighteen dollars to park in the parking lot as opposed to seven miles away for the free pre zoo marathon so many others were partaking in. I called my wife and prepared her for the eighteen dollar lot entry she too would have to fork over.
My wife got there (late of course) and after she chewed a bit of my butt off for looking so chipper, we gathered the children and like Dorothy and her fellows we skipped into Oz hand in hand. Colton my three year old son informed me that he JUST WANTED TO SEE AN ELEPHANT!