Dude always loved coffee. Probably since birth. Maybe even before that. And the Internet was much smaller back then, so we didn’t have a million opinions on how to do parenting properly. So we fed him coffee. And decaf is only consumed by the spawn of Satan, so we gave him the real thing. *insert gasps of a thousand moms
Relax. He’s fine. Sort of. He has a weird twitch every time someone says ‘coffee’ or when he sees a Starbucks. Even though I suspect the Starbucks-twitch has nothing to do with the fact that they serve coffee but more with the fact that girls hang around the place like antelope around a pool of water during the dry season. Continue reading
I’ve mentioned that Dude loves drama. And not in the way the Kardashians or any one of the other Housewive-shitshows like drama. He likes to act. In a play. On a stage.
Their high school puts on a play every year and Dude has been lucky enough to get a role every year since he joined. It’s four years now. What can I say? The apple falls very far from the tree. Like miiiiiiiiles…
It all good, except for the little known fact that he has been cast as the villain in the last three plays he was in. Portraying revolting creatures, crafted from the foul scraps left over when they drained the cesspool of humanity. Kids who are degenerates of society. Continue reading
I don’t know what’s up with our office kitchen but if the fridge is not a gestation chamber for toxic waste, then the teaspoons are eloping.
We are constantly having to stock up on teaspoons. Like doughnuts at a police convention. A lady in the office even started marking them with nail polish because that is what some women do when they want to secure their possessions from theft. I’m not sure how it prevents the theft from actually taking place but who am I to judge what goes on in the mind of the female gender. It’s not like the nail polish is radioactive and can induce a coma on contact, it’s just red nail polish. Or maybe it’s rose pink. Or it may even be dark coral. No, I think it’s magenta. Or you know what, it fuchsia, it’s definitely fuchsia. Or… Just. Let. It. Go. Continue reading
I’m 6’4″. That’s tall. In any country. I’m proud of my height, I’ve worked damn hard to get this tall. It took countless awkward moments throughout puberty and then some. My length allows me to be heavier than most people simply because the weight has a wider distance of distribution. Or at least that’s what I like to believe. It enables me to do things that normal people can’t. Like getting the sales items that’s normally hidden on the top shelf of a grocery store. You didn’t know? I’m able to spot my friends from a mile in a crowd. And then avoid them. It allows me to have a perfect, unhindered view at any concert, whilst people behind me normally start swearing as soon as I stand up.
My length does make certain things a little more problematic. Like taking a bath or buying a standard pair of jeans or walking around construction sites or being stuck in an economy seat for eleven hours with the rest of the cattle. My biggest frustration for being tall is having to drive a normal sized car. Which is why I don’t. And which is why Wife does. Continue reading
Sucks in a get-over-yourself-such-is-life kind of way. They are notoriously difficult to write about because when I do, I end up looking like a slobbering idiot with tears streaming down my face, splashing all over the keyboard, ruining the electronics and causing a short circuit that leaves the whole office building without power for three days. It seems electricity and water does not make a great pair.
Not that I write any posts at work.
Luckily these unfortunate occurrences I’m referring to only happens annually. Like today. Continue reading
If you’re stuck working with people in the same office building and the company who you work for does not provide you with a cafeteria, where a person can escape the daily grind and have a freshly prepared lunch, then this post is for you. To the rest of you spoiled brats, go ahead and mock us, the disadvantaged individuals.
We are condemned to a reality of having to pack our lunch. To pre-prepare whatever we want to feed our face with, and bring it along to our place of torture. To satisfy the need to eat with hurried scraps because of the time restriction in the morning, due to you having to dress, shave and dump the used food you ate yesterday. Not to mention the stuff you have to do to the kids to get them to school on time. Wife has given up on packing my lunch because I am, in her words, “full of shit.”
This post is teetering in the wrong direction. Continue reading
Parents have a crappy job. It starts with wiping of said substance from the soft posterior of the little angels we bring home from the hospital and then it goes downhill from there. Fast. I’m not referring to the countless moments of joy and regret kids provide parents with on a daily basis. I’m specifically referencing the task of forming, sculpting and trying to raise responsible adults who will do more than simply wipe their own butts one day.
I’m talking about discipline. That’s the tough job. The part of parenting I hate. The having to say “No” part. The part where you create boundaries and then struggle for the rest of eternity to make them stay within those boundaries. And for every parent it’s different. Some of us have narrow boundaries, whilst others have boundaries as wide as the universe itself. There’s no right or wrong. To make matters even more complicated, it’s also our job to decide when we need to make the circle bigger, to expand the boundaries, even if it’s just a little at a time. And we need to make them bigger because the aim is to reach the point where you can demolish all the boundaries and simply let them fly. Or at least fall out of the nest without breaking their neck in the process. Continue reading