Hairapalooza...

Hair hair everywhere
Don't look now! It's right in there.
It's in the sink, it's on the floor
It's in my bed, it's on the door.

Where it comes from
I don't know.
It comes in bunches
IT'S ON MY TOE!

My wife and kids
Don't seem to care.
I'll bet it's in their underwear.

I pick it up when no one's looking
Sometimes when my wife is cooking.
If I don't clean it, no one will.
And soon the hair my house will fill.

It sticks to everything it touches
It seems to like the hairy brushes.
It's slowly driving me insane
It's clogging every bathroom drain.

I wish my wife and kids would try
To keep their hair in short supply.
You'd think we have a little pup.
It's plain and simple, sweep it up

It must be them that shed this hair
For I don't have that much to spare.
It's on my butt and on my chest
I'm like an ape I must confess.

It's not a zoo or barber shop
It's not a barn with pigs and slop.
I'm very close to giving up
Don't make me have to fuck shit up.

Thank You -
The Management

Editors Note: I want to make it clear that aside from the hair thing, my wife happens to keep a clean home. The hair seems to be an occupational hazard that must be endured by myself and other husbands that father daughters all over the world. We shower almost everyday, so the hair is very clean. We also have a cleaning lady. We recycle the hair on a daily basis and use it for mulch in our vegetable garden. We are green like that.

The Barefoot Contessa Is Eating My Soul...

Before I start, I want to qualify that the love I have for my wife is infinite.

Moving on...

I love Giada De Laurentiis.
























I want to put my Meatloaf in her oven.

I want to eat her Quiche.

I want stuff her Cornish hen.

I want to fill her Cannoli.

I want to Braze her Short Ribs.

I want to glaze her Donut.

I want to baste her Brisket.

I want to tenderize her Rump Roast.

I want to eat her muffin top.

I want her to strain my my Linguine.

I want to sip her Citrus Cream Smoothie.

I want to grease her pan.

I want her to roll my Meatballs.

I want to Filet her Fish.

I want to warm her scones.

I want to spread her Pine Nut Pesto.

I want to butter her Broccoli Rabe.

I want to frisk her Pollo Frito.

I want to cook her Goose.

I want to Jubilee her Cherry.

I want to slather her Scallopine.

I want to sautee her spinach.

I want to Pork her Chops.

I want her to squeeze my lemons.

I want to fry her calamari.

I want to stir her Stracciatella.

And then their is this person...
























I have no ill will towards her. She is just not my type.

My kids however, can't get enough of her. They watch her show all of the time. She has taken the place of Hannah Montana, ICarly and Caillou; which is a good thing considering I hate that annoying, bald, whiny, little shit.

But she is causing me problems.

You see, we can't get through a meal without my daughter critiquing her food.

"The meatloaf is wonderful but it's a bit dry and could use a little more pepper."

or

"The salad is delightful but the dressing is bland. It could perhaps do with a pinch of salt."

Screw you buddy. Your Mom worked her ass off on that meatloaf. Eat it and keep quiet before she takes it out on me.

The other thing that's killing me is her new found love for cooking her own dishes. The concoctions are horrible. They make no sense and they taste like shit.

For instance...

Recipe #1 - Fruit and Water

1 cup of blueberries
1 cup of strawberries
1 tsp of sugar
2 cups of water

Wash the blueberries and the strawberries in the sink and dry them with a paper towel. Place the blueberries and strawberries in a bowl. Fill the bowl with water. Add the sugar. Place in the refrigerator for two minutes. Take out the bowl of blueberries, strawberries, sugar and water. Drain out the water. Then re-wash the blueberries and strawberries. Place the re-washed blueberries and strawberries in a clean bowl. Place in the refrigerator for two minutes. Take out the bowl of blueberries and strawberries. Serve.

OK. Obviously I told her how delicious and creative this was but this is the dumbest fucking thing I've ever seen. Why don't you just wash the God damn fruit and throw it in a bowl? Now all I have is a big mess in the kitchen. Who's gonna clean that shit? Her? Yeah right. And who wants to eat all that fruit anyway. I might as well eat it on the damn toilet.

Recipe #2 - Crack Cookies

5 Chips Ahoy Chocolate Chip Cookies
2 Dark Chocolate Candy Bars
1 Can of Whipped Cream

Place the Chips Ahoy Chocolate Chip Cookies on a platter. Break the Dark Chocolate Candy Bars into quarters and place them on the platter. Slather the Chips Ahoy Chocolate Chip Cookies and Dark Chocolate Candy Bars in whipped cream. Place platter in the refrigerator for two minutes. Take out the platter and serve.

How original is this? It's like she didn't even try. Also, these things are like crack topped with Methamphetamine. Not to mention that I'm gonna wind up weighing 400 lbs by the end of the summer. I mean she can read. She can use a computer. Why not google some real recipes? Take some notes while you're watching the Barefoot Contessa? I'm just sayin'

Recipe #3 - Lemonade

3 Lemons
2 Tablespoons of Sugar
1 Cup of Water

Squeeze the 3 lemons into a glass. Add the sugar to the glass. Add water to the glass. Stir. Add 3 ice cubes. Place in the refrigerator for two minutes. Remove from refrigerator and serve.

Holy Shit!

It's Lemonade and it's good.

Way to go kid!

Maybe this Barefoot Contessa ain't so bad after all.

I just hope that if my daughter becomes the next Giada, I can keep the pervs at a safe distance...

Taylor Swift And One Hundred Angry Clydesdales...

This past Saturday night I took one for the team.

What team you ask?

I have no fucking clue what team. But I took one for them.

Sometimes I feel like I'm a shitty Dad. I usually feel this way when I come home late from work or I'm preoccupied with something. Then there are times when I feel like an awesome Dad. It's always because of some little thing; like making my daughters laugh or giving them piggy back rides.

Then there are times when I pretty much invent new heights unto which I can soar above all other parents because of how unique my approach to fatherhood can be.

Saturday night was one of those times.
May 15, 2010 - Nassau Coliseum, Taylor Swift Concert

Out-Numbered - Hey bud. You hungry?

7 Year Old - No. Let's just get into the concert already.

Out-Numbered - Dude. Chill out. Taylor Swift doesn't go on for another hour and a half.

7 Year Old - How do you know?

Out-Numbered - Because Kellie Pickler has to go on before her.

7 Year Old - Who is Kellie Pickler?

Out-Numbered - She's the opening act.

7 Year Old - What's an opening act?

Out-Numbered - It's the lame music that comes before the good music.

7 Year Old - If it's so lame, then why do they even have an opening act?

Out-Numbered - Because without an opening act, there would be no time to eat chicken fingers and french fries.

7 Year Old - Can we get back stage passes?

Out-Numbered - No.

7 Year Old - Can we meet Taylor Swift?

Out-Numbered - No.

7 Year Old - Can we sit up close?

Out-Numbered - Nope.

7 Year Old - Can we do anything?

Out-Numbered - Yes. We can eat chicken fingers and french fries. There's the restaurant. Let's go.

7 Year Old - Fine.

Because the Nassau Coliseum is a total piece of shit, there aren't many options in the way of culinary experiences. So you do what every other patron of this 40 year old dump does.

You eat chicken fingers and french fries.

Lots of them.

And they are terrible.

My stomach doesn't like terrible...

Inside the concert. Kellie Pickler yodels like Alfalfa with a pair of tits and makes me want to take an ice pic to my cerebellum...

My stomach doesn't feel so great and I'm not sure it's entirely Kellie Pickler's fault.

Out-Numbered - Hey pal.

7 Year Old - YEAH!

Out-Numbered - I think I need to use the bathroom.

7 Year Old - WHAT?

Out-Numbered - Take your earplugs out.

7 Year Old - I CAN'T HEAR YOU!

Out-Numbered - TAKE YOUR EARPLUGS OUT!!!

7 Year Old - Oh. Sorry.

Out-Numbered - Come on. Let's go.

7 Year Old - Where are we going?

Out-Numbered - I need to go to the bathroom.

7 Year Old - We're gonna miss Taylor Swift.

Out-Numbered - No we won't. I promise.

7 Year Old - Fine.

I drag my kid through a sea of 10 year old girls and their mothers. The best Long Island has to offer; pre-teens sporting fake cowboy hats and cheap blue eye shadow. They look like a cross between Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy and Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver. It makes me want to start bitch slapping every parent within a one hundred foot radius but I must poop. First things first.

Out-Numbered - Hurry up.

7 Year Old - Where are we going?

Out-Numbered - To the bathroom.

7 Year Old - The boys bathroom?

Out-Numbered - Yes.

Clenching Sphincter

7 Year Old - No way. I'm too old to go into the boy's room.

Out-Numbered - I can't leave you out here by yourself.

7 Year Old - You'll be two seconds.

Out-Numbered - It might take longer than that.

7 Year Old - Dad, how long does it take you to pee?

Out-Numbered - Just come with me.

I drag her into the men's room. It's jam-packed. I tell her to close her eyes and hold my hand. She complies begrudgingly.

We enter the handicapped stall together.

7 Year Old - It smells in here.

Out-Numbered - Shhhhh. People can hear you.

7 Year Old - It smells like pee.

Out-Numbered - Don't touch anything. Just stand in the corner and face the door. Keep your eyes closed.

7 Year Old - Why do I have to keep my eyes closed?

Out-Numbered - Because I'd like some privacy.

7 Year Old - I've seen you pee before.

She peeks through one open eye and catches me wiping the toilet seat.

7 Year Old - What are you doing?

Out-Numbered - Just turn around and close your eyes.

7 Year Old - Why do you need to wipe the seat to pee?

I can barely hold it in. It's gonna be close. I feverishly try cover the seat with toilet paper.

Out-Numbered - TURN AROUND!

7 Year Old - DAD! ARE YOU POOPING?!!

Out-Numbered - YES! LEAVE ME ALONE.

7 Year Old - Oh my God. You are so gross!

Out-Numbered - Shhhhhh!

7 Year Old - Oh my God! Get me out of here! You are disgusting!

Out-Numbered - Please. Stop it.

Release the chicken fingers and french fries with the fury of one hundred, angry Clydesdales.

7 Year Old - DAD! I can't believe you're pooping with me in here. OH MY GOD. I want to throw up.

Courtesy flush

Out-Numbered - Here take my phone and play Brick Breaker.

7 Year Old - Are you serious? Get away from me.

Out-Numbered - Just take it.

More angry Clydesdales.

7 Year Old - YUCK! It smells in here.

Second courtesy flush.

Out-Numbered - Please take the phone and play a game.

7 Year Old - Can I listen to Taylor Swift on Pandora?

Out-Numbered - No.

7 Year Old - Why not?

Out-Numbered - Because it's rude to play music with other people around.

7 Year Old - Dad, are you kidding me? You're pooping with me in the bathroom.

Out-Numbered - Fine.

7 Year Old - Cool.

And so the night began... A father and his daughter share a special moment. A sweet and unforgettable moment on a perfect Saturday evening at the Nassau Coliseum. In the men's room. In a crowded stall. Listening to Taylor Swift...

Looking back on it now, I suppose it was my daughter that took one for the team. Still, it was better than the opening act.

The Winning Letter...

Judges took about two and a half hours to decide between the 53 letters received in the 1987 Mother of the Year Contest co-sponsored by Merrick Life and the Merrick Chamber of Commerce Saturday morning. The winner was Luba Mayo, whose son Jason wrote the winning letter.

The Winning Letter - May 7, 1987

My name is Jason Mayo and I am a student at Calhoun High School. I'm 16 years old, and I think my mother is super. Maybe I should rephrase that to "Superwoman". Most of the letters you have read in the past have probably been typical writings from those who love their mother just as much as I do. But I think this mother is deservant of a superior honor such as your Mother of the Year (award).

My mother is different. My parents have been divorced for almost eight years now, and it took me this long until I could appreciate what she has done for my brother and me in the past and present.

Throughout her motherhood she has cared for us in the kindest way, and helped to round our characters in the finest way possible.

She works very hard as a teacher in Queens, and she puts forth an incredible effort in her profession. She is also attending school to get various credits for her higher degree. Besides working and going to school, she is a friend above friends to those that she cares for. It's hard to describe the strength she possesses within, by just describing her actions. She not only accepts and succeeds at her title of mother but she must at times be there as a father because we are at home a family of three. She could have quit on us because we've seen not only good times but bad. But it's her strong hearted character that keeps our family not a family of three but a family of three together as one.

It's hard for me to tell her how special she is to us and how thankful we are for her guidance, but I thought you could help me by presenting her with a title as rewarding as that of Mother of the Year...

It's May 12th 2010 and I'm almost 40 years old. I had forgotten about this letter. When I read it this morning I realized that not a lot has changed. When my parents got divorced things changed in our house. I was 8 or 9 years old and I didn't know how to deal with it. I isolated myself. I still do. I pretty much turned into an angry asshole as a teenager and treated my mother like shit. I yelled and broke stuff and I let her know how much I hated her. I was pathetic.

I remember the day I wrote this letter. I sat on our green and yellow flowered couch and thought about all the nasty things I said to her over the years. I thought about what a horrible person I had become. I thought about all of the words that I couldn't ever possibly take back. You can never take them back. I wanted to tell her that it was all a front. A defense mechanism. She had become my personal, verbal punching bag. I never knew how to express my feelings in person. No matter how hard I tried, I could never get the words out. I was a tortured soul. The only way I could get it out was to write. If I could put it down on paper, the words would live forever. Everyone could see my true feelings. Maybe it would wash away all of the bad words that were floating out there in the ether.

I remember what my mom said to me when they told her she had won the award. She said, "Son, you never have to get me a Mother's Day present ever again." That's not true mom. A son's love shouldn't be a gift you receive once a year. It should be something you feel all the time. Something that goes unspoken. I'm sorry for all of the years of pain. I'm sorry for all of the mean and terrible things I've said.

I still have trouble saying all of the important things to you in person but I promise you, I'm working on that. I'm trying to build the courage to make things right. I want to start the healing. I want to mend this relationship with you. You've done nothing wrong and I love you.

When I asked my mom to bring me the letter from the contest, her only concern was that I don't show her picture. She didn't care about her 80's perm or the outfit she was wearing. She was regretful for not having my brother and I in the picture with her.

This is the kind of mother she is and I want her to know that I appreciate that. I always have...

Happy Mother's Day.

Happy Mother's (MILF) Day

From the Out-Numbered family to your quaint, happy, little family and Hot Moms all over the universe (including sexy alien bitches).



HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!!!

Routines...

I have a routine in the morning. Following this routine works for me. It makes me happy.

It goes something like this...

I wake up at 6:00am and snooze for 10 minutes. This is when my wife and I get to spend time together. We are sleeping but we spend time together nonetheless.

At 6:09 my Dream Machine scares the living shit out of me and I scurry out of bed like a rodent.

I pee sitting down because I am part woman.

I put on my smelly shorts and my socks from yesterday (Because I care about the environment) and walk downstairs.

I make myself a glass of strawberry Muscle Milk Light because I think it will help me get bigger muscles. It pretty much just gives me Diarrhea.

I walk into my home gym and turn on the local news. I don't care about the news but the anchor woman is MILFY.

Depending on the day, I either run 3 miles or lift weights. Either way, I look like a douche because I am hairy and never get bigger, stronger or faster. I feel it is a waste of time but if I don't exercise, I tend to sweat a lot through out the day. I am not sure there is any correlation but my scientific hypothesis would be that it gets the sweat out and it takes about a day to make more sweat.

After I exercise, I eat 3 pills that I buy at GNC because I think they will give me bigger muscles. More diarrhea.

I sweat all over the floor.

I wake up my kids by turning on the lights and blasting their clock radios.

They hate this but continue sleeping to spite me.

I walk upstairs.

I get undressed and make a doodie.

I look at my fat hairy stomach while sitting on the potty and stew with resentment because the exercise doesn't seem to be working. I hate being hairy.

I shower for 15 minutes. First I wash my hair with Axe shampoo and wonder if all of those girls in the commercials with attack me when I leave the house because I smell so great. They never do.

Then I wash my chest. It is hairy.

Then I wash my arms. Then my under arms.

Then I wash my privates and my butt. When I wash my butt it makes that funny swooshing noise. That always makes me laugh and my wife says, "I hear you washing your butt." This makes me laugh again. We have a very open relationship.

If I have time, I wash my legs and my feet.

I get out of the shower and put on my contact lenses. If it is raining, I wear my glasses.

Then I put on my Axe deodorant and wonder if all of those girls in the commercials with attack me when I leave the house because I smell so great. They never do.

I spray on one of 4 different colognes because men wear cologne. I smell like my deceased grandpa. I am sentimental like that.

I get dressed. I always wear sneakers and I like fitted t-shirts. If you wear small shirts your muscles look bigger.

I then go downstairs and wake up my children for a second time. I tell them they will get a treat if they get dressed themselves. In order to get the treat they must also brush their teeth.

I go back upstairs and poop for a second time.

My daughters wait for me outside of the bathroom door. They try to scare me but I hear them talking about trying to scare me. They are not good at this. When I come out of the bathroom they scream boo. I make pretend I am scared but it is starting to get annoying. I hope they grow out of this soon.

I ask if they brushed their teeth and they say they have. I bend down to smell their mouths and their breath smells like garbage but I have to trust them.

We pile out of the house. They race to the car and fight over who wins. They have terrible sportsmanship. I am just happy they don't fall. That would take too much time and I don't know where the nearest hospital is. I must Google this.

We get into the car and listen to the Disney Channel. The music is awful. It makes me want to punch Micky Mouse in the testicles but I am not sure if he even has testicles. I would assume he does. Mini Mouse is still dating him. I then wonder if Mickey Mouse and Mini Mouse actually have intercourse. I must Google this.

I drop off my older daughter. She makes me hang her upside down in front of her friends. I am the cool Dad.

I drop off my younger daughter. We race to the door. I let her win. This makes me angry. I know I am faster than her. I should beat her one day just to teach her good sportsmanship. Life is hard and full of disappointment. She needs to learn this. I will start by beating her in a running race tomorrow. I will stretch before the race. It's important to be limber before a running race.

I walk out of her school and look back into the window. She likes this. I wave to get her attention and all of the kids gather around the window. I then make pretend I am walking down the stairs. Then I make pretend I am taking the elevator. Then I make pretend I am using the escalator. They laugh hysterically. I am the funny Dad.

Example:



I then walk to Starbucks. The barista knows me. I go there every day. He has my Venti, iced decaf, black coffee waiting for me. This is my favorite part of the day.

But today I decided to stray from my routine.

As I step away from the counter with my coffee, something hits me.

I want a bagel with butter. I have never done this.

I ask him for one.

I walk away from the counter and add the usual 2 packets of Splenda to my coffee.

I walk back to the counter and he hands me my bagel with butter in a paper bag.

I wish him a well weekend.

I walk to my car and get inside.

I am early for my train so I take out my bagel with butter.

There is no butter on the bagel. There are 3 squares of butter in the bag. They are cold and hard. There is no knife.

I panic.

I have to butter my own bagel? This is bullshit.

I put the bagel on my lap and open the butter packs. I try to spread the butter with my finger. It is too cold. I try to force it and the bagel breaks in my lap. I get butter on my shorts. I am covered in crumbs. I arrange the 3 squares of butter on the bagel. I close the ripped bagel. My car is a mess. I am a mess.

A man should NEVER have to butter his own bagel with his finger.

I should never have strayed from my routine.

Fuck you Barista. You ruined my day.

Peter Gabriel Is A Farty Old Englishman...

I'm going to apologize up front because this post might be a bit melodramatic.

On second thought, fuck you! Melodrama makes the world go round. I learned this from Beverly Hills 90210. I am no Dylan McKay but here goes...

On Sunday evening, my wife and I took a little jaunt over to Radio City Music Hall to see Peter Gabriel in concert. For anyone that knows me well, it's no secret that I am and have always been a huge Peter Gabriel fan. I own all of his albums from the time he was in Genesis through his last solo endeavor. In college I even paid Sean Walsh $100 to paint one of his album covers on the back of my denim jacket. I'm not proud of this. In hindsight I looked like a douche and it was stolen. Twice.

I was introduced to Mr. Gabriel by my good friend Dr. Scott in sleep away camp. I remember it like it was yesterday. That summer, my favorite band Queensryche had just released their second album, Rage for Order. It was a masterpiece as far as I was concerned. I listened to it pretty much every God damn day and I'm not sure my bunk mates agreed with my self-righteously skewed sentiment of Queensryche's superiority. They seemed to be powerless against my over zealousness and I also had a brand new boom box. The kind with the automatic reverse on the double tape deck.

It was 1986 and unbeknownst to me, there was another new album on the market. Dr. Scott was like my doppelganger in a way. We both loved music to the core but our tastes were completely opposite. I was into heavy metal. I adorned the walls of my top bunk with centerfolds torn from Circus Magazine; sporting the likes of Van Halen, Judas Priest and Manowar. Dr. Scott was into new wave. A sorry sack of pussy music, I thought at the time. The sounds of Morrissey, Husker Du and The Alarm, wailing like drunken sea lions, bellowing for herring on a wet rock.

I remember the exchange. It's still very vivid in my mind. He offered Peter Gabriel's SO, not unlike a peasant would offer a sacrificial lamb. It wasn't Metal so I was suspicious and I couldn't understand why he wasn't content listening to Queensryche on an endless loop.

Fuck it. Dr. Scott was a good friend and good friends deserve to be patronized.

So I listened.

And listened.

I was instantly transfixed by the urgent call of Gabriel's voice. His raspy tone was sad and desperate but not hopeless. I trusted him as an artist instantly.

Then "Sledgehammer" came on and it sucked.

But once that was over, it happened again.

The connection.

I found myself lost in the words and the melodies. It was as close to spirituality as I had been.

Then "Big Time" came on and it sucked again.

I still wish he hadn't written those two songs but the experience moved me enough to want more.

Over the next several years, I methodically sought out each and every piece of music that Peter Gabriel had ever been attached to. From studio albums to bootleg tapes, nothing was too rare. No song unattainable. I was infected and I wanted nothing to do with a cure.

For me, listening to Gabriel was not unlike an addict abusing his choice of substance. It provided an escape. It made me feel numb. I thought I could relate to his tales of heartbreak and pain. I was able to lose myself in the landscape of words that seemed to touch me in a place that I had never been touched before.

OK that didn't come out right at all.

As a matter of fact, this whole melodrama thing reeks of bullshit. I'm making myself out to be some sort of pansy-ass jerk off. Why don't I just fast forward to the part about my high school girlfriend and the dozens of nights I would lie in my bed, listening to "Don't Give Up", writing breakup poetry?

No way man. I won't do it. I've come too far.

I'm 39 years old and I have other things going on in my life. I don't need some farty, old Englishman getting all up in my brain.

Ugh. I can't lie to you people. I tried but I can't. When it comes to Peter Gabriel, I am and will continue to be a pansy-ass jerk off and I incessantly need he who is a farty, old Englishman to sing to me on special nights like the night at Radio City.

He still moves me and I will always need to be moved.

For every emotional experience I've ever had in my life, there is a Peter Gabriel song that accompanies it.

Seeing him in concert was like lying on my deathbed. I saw my whole life flash in front of my eyes. The good, the bad and the ugly.

His lyrical stylings provide relief, like the cool side of a warm pillow.

Shit. There's the melodrama backfiring on me again. I'm obviously having a really hard time wrapping up this nonsense. I've written like four endings already.

How about this one?

Peter Gabriel will forever hold the key to my heart. I like him almost as much as clam chowder...

Nope. That doesn't work either.