My Birthday Reflections On Life And Death; A Plethora Of (Six) Haiku.

Frozen dog shit steams

One less tissue is wasted
Evidence of God

Unavoidable
Red Velvet beacon of light
Death and Life collide

Outback Steakhouse calls
Slaughtered steer sing like sirens
Happy Birthday Me

Sony Dream Machine
Dog lovingly licks my shin
The morning sun waits

Rare seat on the train
Abe Lincoln versus Zombies
Transit nirvana

Vagina spews life

Bloody demise of pigeon
Particles whirling

Stuck Together At 30,000 Feet.

I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to have sex with my wife in an airplane bathroom.

At first, the thought of it seems quite steamy but it's fleeting at best.

I think escapades such as this are best reserved for people like Rebecca De Mornay back when she was stealing glass eggs or Mickey Rourke before he metamorphosed into a bloated and rubbery abomination of himself.

I am not judging people who have, or plan to copulate in a flying toilet. As a matter of fact, I respect their zest for adventure.

I am not a germaphobe by any means.

I have eaten unrefrigerated, three day old spaghetti and meat sauce straight from the pot. I have I have defecated in the Penn Station restrooms. I have consumed sushi on a Monday God dammit!

But there is something about the airplane water closet that sucks the sexiness right out of me.

Maybe it's the close quarters. To begin with, it's tiny and awkward. I can't even urinate without hitting my noggin. I would not want to put myself or my wife at risk of sustaining head trauma.

Maybe it's the turbulence. At my age, I make it a point not to engage in any activity that can make me dead. Even worse, I could break my Johnson. I'm sure that's possible. Hell, the door could fly open and expose us to first class. First class hates when commoners use their restroom. Especially for whoopee and such.

What if there was an emergency and the plane were to fall from the sky in a fiery heap?

Have you seen the movie "Alive"?

Do you remember when the fuselage split apart and people were being sucked out the back of the plane, strapped to their seats? I don't want to fly out the back of a plane, stuck to my wife, with her yelling at me in free fall, my Luckys twisted around my ankles.

This would not be a dignified way to die.

Oh and it smells like minty piss. Yankee Candle does not make products that smell like minty piss. There is a good reason for that.

People are meant to make love on velvet sofas or picnic blankets. Carnal Knowledge is best experienced in romantic places like Best Westerns or your mother's basement.

Call this prudish gentleman me old fashioned but it's not for me.

Unless of course I was married to Rebecca De Mornay.

Where The Dick Is Supposed To Be...

For almost five years, I've been "writing" this blog.

It is called Out-Numbered and it was aptly named.

I am a man. I have a wife and two daughters. I live with them in a house. I am outnumbered.

The reason for the brief history is because over the past few years the dynamic of my family has slowly changed.

Balance.

About three years ago we welcomed a special needs lizard into our home. He is paralyzed from the waist down. At the time, the vet said that the prognosis was not good. My daughter cried.

Today he eats, he climbs and he shits on newspaper just like my two daughters. The only difference is that my daughters don't shit on newspaper.

His name is Cookie Monster and he is a boy.

I am almost positive he is a boy. It's hard to tell. He has some circle things where his dick is supposed to be. The interwebz says that means he's a boy.

Granted, a boy with no dick but I'll take it!

He has an incredible will to live and he has taught my family a great many things. Caring for a special needs lizard is no small task. He has to be hand fed, bathed and quite often moved from spot to spot in order to make it easier on his fragile body but we wouldn't trade him for anything in the world.

Cookie Monster is a miracle.

About two months ago we welcomed a four month old puppy into our home.

He is healthy, happy and he shits in the yard just like my two daughters. The only difference is that my daughters don't shit in the yard yet.

His name is Cody and he is a boy.

I am positive he is a boy. It's as clear as day. He has a little doggie dick right where it's supposed to be and he spends a good portion of his day humping a furry pillow. It reminds me of when I was a teenager.

This dog has completely changed our lives.

There is more joy in the house. There is less yelling, less stress and my wife is sounding like a mental patient again filled to the brim with love and affection. It spews out of her like hot magma in sentiments like, "hello poochie magoochie" and "hello puppy wiggles".

Doggie Goo Goo Ga Ga.

It's like having a baby all over again and it feels nice.

Have you ever stared into the eyes of a puppy? It can be a very spiritual experience. It's like he knows what I'm thinking. He doesn't judge me. He has no expectations. His love is completely unconditional.

Spiritual people might say that about God.

I've heard people say that they can feel God's presence in their dog.

That always sounded melodramatic to me but I'm thirsty so I'm taking small swigs of the Kool-Aid.

DOG

OGD

DGO

GOD

There are only three letters to work with and only so many combinations.

Whether it's true or not, I now have balance in my home.

Three vaginas and two and a half dicks living together in not so perfect harmony.

Progress not perfection.

I'll take it.

Puppy Parts And A Fear Of Dying Part Two...

And then there is death...

My oldest daughter is turning ten this week.

She is pretty and smart and fragile and strong. She is an open book. She is a puzzle with a million pieces. She is an old soul tethered to a dark past. She is a bright light shining through a gray sky. She is inexplicably unique yet she is exactly like me.

Oldest: "Daddy?"

Me: "Yes baby."

Oldest: "I don't want to turn ten."

Me: "How come?"

Oldest: "I just don't want to."

Me: "But it wouldn't be any fun staying 9 forever, would it?"

Oldest: "I don't care."

Me: "Don't you want to do all the things you can do when you get older?

Oldest: "Like what?"

Me: "Well you can drive. You can go to the mall on your own and with your friends. You can fall in love. All kinds of great stuff."

Oldest: "I don't want to get married and I don't want to have kids or grand kids."

Me: "Wait a second. I want grand kids."

Oldest: "Stop it daddy. I'm being serious."

Me: "Baby what's wrong? Talk to me."

Oldest: "I don't want to get old."

Me: "Baby, ten isn't old."

Oldest: "Yes it is. When I turn ten I'll be half of twenty and when I'm twenty I'll be half of forty and when I'm forty I'll be half of sixty."

Me: "Sweetheart, half of sixty isn't forty. It's thirty."

Oldest: "You know what I mean daddy."

Me: "I'm teasing. Baby, what are you afraid of?"

Oldest: "I don't want to die."

She starts to cry. 

Every time she cries over the real stuff my soul tears just a little bit. I don't mean stuff like losing a bracelet or messing up her homework. I mean the kind of stuff that can make you grow or the kind of stuff that can break your spirit. It's such a fine line. I feel like my job as a dad is to make sure the latter doesn't happen. I have to try and spot her on the balance beam of life. But I know that's impossible. No one has that kind of power. Not even a dad.

Me: "Hey, you have a long way to go before you die. I hope we both do."

Oldest: "But what if we don't?"

Me: "I try not to worry about that stuff pal. It's not up to me."

Oldest: "Are you too old to have a ten year old?"

Me: "I don't feel old."

Oldest: "No. Are you old for having a ten year old?"

Me: "I don't think so. People that are a lot older than me have ten year old kids."

Shit. She's afraid that I'm going to die too. Tear...

Oldest: "Are you afraid to die?"

Me: "Maybe a little. It's normal to be afraid of dying. When I was a kid I felt the same way. I think we only get afraid because we don't know what's going to happen to us."

Oldest: "I guess so. I wish only bad people had to die and good people could live forever."

Me: "I hear ya but that's not the way it works."

Oldest: "I don't think I want to talk about this anymore."

Me: "That's OK. Thanks for telling me how you feel baby. It means a lot to me that you can talk to me about this stuff. It helps me."

Oldest: "Why?"

Me: "It just does. You're a good kid. I love you."

Oldest: "Can we get frozen yogurt?"

Me: "I'll ask mommy."

Puppy Parts And A Fear Of Dying Part One...

My daughters are so beautifully simple and yet complicated at the same time.

The way they look through me. The way they walk from the house to the car. The way they brush their hair after a bath.

Everything about them makes me wonder how on earth I could have had anything to do with any of their inherent goodness.

Sometimes it makes me laugh out loud and sometimes it takes all of my will to hold back the tears.

My wife and I made the decision to adopt a puppy a few weeks ago. It was a surprise to the kids.
For obvious reasons, my only condition was that the puppy had to be a boy.

The other day, my little one asked me where the puppy's penis was. I pointed at it.

Little one: "That doesn't look like a penis."

Me: "Well, that's what a doggy penis looks like."

Little one: "It's hairy."

Me: "Sure is."

Little one: "Why is it so hairy?"

Me: "Because dogs are hairy, so their penises are hairy."

Little one: "But you're hairy?"

Me: "Not that hairy."

Little one: "Where are his peanuts?"

Me: "His what?"

Little one: "His peanuts."

Me: "You mean his testicles?"

Little one: "What are tensicles?"

Me: "Testicles. It's another name for his peanuts."

Little one: "Where are they?"

Me:  (pointing) "Right over here."

Little one: "Can I touch them?"

Me: "No way."

Little one: "Why?"

Me: "Because you can't go around touching people's testicles."

Little one: "But he's not a person. He's a dog."

Me: "You know what I mean. You can't touch them."

Little one: "Why are his tentacles so far away from his penis?"

Me: "Testicles sweetheart. They are called testicles."

Little one: "Why are they so far away?"

Me: "I'm not sure. That's just they way they are."

Little one: "They're so small."

Me: "That's because he's a puppy."

Little one: "Where's his butthole?"

Me: (maneuvering the puppy) "Right back there."

Little one: "Eeww it's hairy."

Me: "Yes. It's really hairy."

Little one: "Can I have a snack?"

Me: "Absolutely."

Fuck The News...

"14 dead, 50 wounded in shooting at Colorado theater during premier of the new Batman Movie."


"Long Island Daddy reads five year old daughter classic fairytale before tucking her into bed."


"Naked man allegedly eating victim's face shot and killed by Miami Police Officer."


"Family pet lizard turns three years old. Mother and children sing happy birthday to him and shower him with love and affection."




"Maryland student, 21, admits eating housemate's heart, part of brain."


"Five year old swims by herself for the first time without the help of floaties. Family and friends stand nearby and cheer!"


"Tom Cruise Leads Paparazzi on High-Speed Chase through Manhattan."


"A man and his nine year old daughter pay a visit to his 85 year old grandmother and have lunch."

I'm slowly losing my faith in humanity.

I'm quickly coming to realize that the news in the mainstream media trigger dark thoughts in my head. The thoughts get caught in my brain like a dragon fly, helplessly trapped in an intricate, impenetrable web spun by an unassuming but lethal spider.

I need to shut off the television.

I need to disconnect the wi-fi.

I need to shut down the smart phone.

There is no "Impending Zombie Apocalypse".

There is no "END TIMES".

I need to make my own news.

I need to make my own news and report it.

We need to make our own news.

Good news.

Please make your own news and report it.

I'll read that.

The Absence Of Winter...

It is 9:31 pm on Saturday and it is uncharacteristically quiet in my home.

The sounds of my fingers hitting the keyboard is reminiscent of a brook, tucked away in the backwoods, behind the Log Cabin I haven't built yet, on the land I will probably never own.

I find that today, I am quietly mourning the absence of Winter in New York.

There have been no snow days.

No backaches from shoveling.

No snow angels.

No snowball fights.

No need for hot chocolate.

No vacant stares into the night, transfixed by snowflakes falling in front of the streetlights.

I haven't once uttered the words, "don't eat the yellow snow" to my daughters.

Not even a trace of the scent of a burning fireplace hangs in the air.

Hell, even Carvel is still open but Carvel is always open, so I guess that doesn't count.

Why is there no Winter?

I wore shorts and a t-shirt today.

My Sweaters weep pathetic woolen tears every time I open my armoire.

"Stop crying you sissy Sweaters!"

"But you have forgotten us and besides, it's terribly hot in this armoire."

"I haven't forgotten you Sweaters."

"Then why leave us here to sweat with the corduroy pants?"

"It is not I who has forgotten you Sweaters. It is Winter that has abandoned you."

"Why would Winter abandon us? We are but Sweaters in an armoire."

"I have no answers for you Sweaters. Just be grateful you are not sleeping with the mothballs."

I suppose Winter has someplace better to be.

Perhaps the Bangles are also quietly mourning the absence of Winter, whilst counting all of their money...

"Look around

Leaves are brown

And the sky

It's a hazy shade of Winter.

Look around

Leaves are brown

There's a patch of snow on the ground." - The Bangles

Majority Rules In Israel...

Today my former accountant sent me an email saying, "I thought it might interest you to know that your column is featured on an Israeli website."

Shit yeah!

I'm Jewish.

This is a big deal.

My Grandma is gonna bust a nut.

My Rabbi is gonna blow a Shofar.

But I can't read Hebrew.

No one I know can read Hebrew. I'm assuming my former accountant can read Hebrew. After all she sent me the article.

So I did what any technically savvy Dad blogger would've done.

I went to Google Translate.

This is what I entered in:

הרוב קובע: ככה זה כשאתה מוקף בנות

ג'ייסון מאיו קרא לבלוג שלו 'הרוב קובע' כי הוא נמצא במיעוט. יש לו אישה ושתי ילדות ולכן, הוא אומר, מדי פעם הוא הופך לרכרוכי במיוחד. באחד הפוסטים המצליחים שלו עשה רשימה של הדברים החיוביים שהכניסו בנותיו לחייו: " שני חיוכים שובבים, עשרים ציפורניים עם לק, הופעות מחול, סיפורים לפני השינה, דמעות של שמחה, צחוק מתגלגל, הרים של בובות, הכל ורוד, אהבה מחודשת לקאפקייקס, נדנדות. בלי בנותיי הייתי עכשיו איש עצלן, אנוכי, וטמבל".

This is what Google Translate, um, translated:

Majority rules: That's when you're surrounded by girls
Jason Mayo his blog called 'majority rules' that is in the minority. He has a wife and two kids and so, he says, occasionally it becomes very flabby. In one blog most successful of his made ​​a list of positive things they brought his daughters to his life:"Two mischievous grins, twenty nails with nail polish, dance performances,bedtime stories, tears of joy, laughter, mountains of dolls, all pink, love renewed cupcakes, swings. without my kids I was now a lazy, selfish, and stupid ".

First of all, my blog is not called "Majority Rules". This actually pisses me off simply because it's a much cooler name than Out-Numbered.

Damn those clever Israelis!

Secondly, what exactly is "it"? And why on God's earth would "it" "occasionally become very flabby"? This makes me sound like an out of shape pedophile. Which coincidentally is frowned upon in the Daddy Blogger community.

And lastly, I absolutely and resolutely deny ever having claimed to "love renewed cupcakes".

This website doesn't seem credible. In fact, it's flat out slanderous.

The good news is that I am apparently HUGE in Israel.

If I were a single gentleman, I would fly out to Israel TONIGHT and get me some sweet Israeli tail.

What is sexier to Israeli ladies than an American Jew Daddy Blogger?

Nothing.

Not Netanyahu.

Not Matisyahu.

Not even Billy Crystal.

I would have a whole different life over there.

I could be the next Jerry Lewis but not in France and not Jerry Lewis.

I can see it now.

Arm in arm with a young Golda Meir, strolling through Tel Aviv, shopping for designer open toe sandals, eating at the finest Falafel cafes, skinny dipping in the Dead Sea.

They would compare me with King David* and King Solomon**.

But it's not gonna happen.

Not now. Perhaps not ever.

I'll just have to settle for being that American Jew that writes that crazy Dad Blog, "Majority Rules".

DAMN THOSE CLEVER ISRAELIS!

*before David offed his friend and stole his wife.

**before Solomon became a douchebag and slept with hookers.