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Category: Psykosity Pstories

On Becoming A Dad (Part One)

It was snowing the night my daughter decided to finally leave the comfortable confines of the womb, almost a week late, establishing a pattern she would hold to this day. The roads were passable, but they were getting slick, but in spite of the typical January snowfall, I thought surely, this child had to come soon.

I was off the road by this time; the band I was working with was rehearsing for an album, the sessions for which were to start a few weeks later and, well, I was not going to miss the birth of my first child. As I drove home through the fluffy, huge flakes falling heavily onto the ground and piling up quickly, I flashed on some of the scenes of my marriage during this pregnancy:

I remembered the day we found out my wife was pregnant. We had just decided to try to have a child only a couple of weeks before. I remembered standing up, punching my fists in the air, and shouting “Ninja Sperm!” as I hugged and kissed my laughing bride, because I am nothing if not classy at all the important times in life.

I took her out to a nice little deli to celebrate but, after we ordered, she got sick before the food had gotten to the table. She was cramping and throwing up, so I took her to the hospital. Just a case of dehydration, it seemed. All was well.

I remembered coming home a few months later after a recording session and finding her on the floor of the corner of the kitchen. She had taken an entire loaf of bread, taken the crusts off every slice, molded the remains into a ball, and was sitting on the floor eating it like a large apple.

Cravings, you know.

I remembered waking up in the middle of the night and finding my wife, seven months along by that time, sitting on the edge of the bed sobbing.

“Honey,” I said, reaching out to caress her shaking shoulder, “What’s wrong?”

“I-I-I-d-don’t,” she gulped pitifully, “I-I d-d-don’t have anything t-to w-w-wear!”

“But Sweetheart, we bought you a bunch of new clothes just a week or so ago!” I said, trying to calm her.

“T-t-they’re as b-b-b-big as CIRCUS TENTS!” she cried.

My mother had come to stay with us in hopes of being here for the birth of my parents’ first grandchild. I remember the day we called them to tell them the news: it was met with stunned silence. For some reason, without saying as much, I felt like many people in the family didn’t think my wife and I would last as a married couple, and I felt like all of our doubters, possibly my parents included, thought that we would be completely unsuitable as a mother and father to a newborn. Still, in a very short time, they came around to the idea and were looking forward with great excitement at the prospects of being Grandparents. (I asked my father how he felt about being a Grandfather. He said: “The only problem I have with being a grandfather is waking up every morning next to a grandmother!). Mom had been staying with us for the better part of two weeks. If the baby didn’t come in the next day and a half, my mother would have to go back home to Dad and would miss out on the birth.

My wife hadn’t been able to sleep on the bed since shortly after the night she woke me up crying about her wardrobe. She slept on the couch and I slept on the floor beside her. The couch was a gift from my parents. In fact, all the furniture was from my parents. When we moved into the apartment, we had our clothes, dishes, my guitars and amps, and not much else. We did like the situation we were in for a time; we bought a futon mattress to sleep on and positioned things on the floor in such a way that things only made sense when you sat on the floor and found everything within easy reach.

However, as my father explained: “You cannot have a pregnant woman sitting on the floor, son!”

I came home from the rehearsal that night intending to slip quietly into the apartment, not wanting to wake up my wife on the couch nor my mother, who was sleeping in our months old bed in the bedroom. Nevertheless, I found my wife awake.

And angry…

“Honey?” I said, as soothingly as I possibly could. “Are you o.k.?”

My lovely, diminutive wife was levitating at least five feet over the couch. Her eyes were glazed over to an almost otherworldly white, and her head was spinning around three hundred and sixty degrees.

“YOU DID THIS TO ME!” she said with voice that rang through the apartment as if it had come from the very heart of hell.

“Is it time, Honey? Do you want to go to the hospital now?”

Her eyes turned red and lasers SHOT out of her eyes, burning two holes right through my forehead! She spit what seemed to be pea soup at me! Tables and chairs were flying around the room!

“I HOPE YOU PASS A KIDNEY STONE THE SIZE OF A VOLKSWAGEN!” she hissed as she raised up farther into the air.

Just then, my mother appeared behind me, looking up at my wife floating in the air, dodging plates and cups flying all around her. She was clothed, had her coat on, had my wife’s coat over her arm and was carrying my wife’s suitcase. My Mom had been a nurse since before I was born. I depended on her professional expertise.

“Get her in the car! Let’s get her to the hospital!” she said, ducking and just missing getting hit by the coffee table flying just over her head.

I turned to grab my coat.


Hit in the face by a frying pan flying at me from the kitchen stove!

There was no doubt about it. I was about to become a Dad…

A Family Heirloom From Dear Old Dad

My Sister and Brother-In-Law, whose name is Robert, once purchased a hill just outside of a small, Mid-Western town of Paragon.

I’m not kidding.

Meanwhile, three states away, my father was getting screwed by the company he worked for.

Royally screwed.

Royally, Bend-Over-The-Counter-And-Spread-Your-Cheeks, maliciously and with great evil and greed SCREWED.

He floundered about after that for a while. This was a man who started working on the floor of a bearings plant and ended up as Division Vice President of Operations. My father was helping to run the company internationally, but that company was bought out by another, bigger company who let go the previous management, people like my father, who was just shy of his retirement. He tried consulting work. He managed a bar. Eventually, he got used to the idea of being retired.

So he and my mother bought a plot of land from my sister and brother-in-law and built a lovely home right beside the plot of land at the base of the hill where Robert and my sister had their prefabricated house that they purchased to live in while Robert acquired the equipment needed to build their dream home on top of the hill.

Have you got all that?

The dynamic between my father and Robert during the time that they lived in adjoining lots at the base of the hill was always in flux, and always verging on the volatile. Robert is quiet, strong, reserved, and my father was kind of loud, kind of brash, and because of his successful career, a little arrogant. My father told Robert once that his daughter was the apple of his eye, and that if he ever hurt her, he would kill him. On the other hand, one time they were discussing my sister, and my father, who apparently was a little irritated, said, “Well, I said what I said because I’m her father. She is my daughter.” Robert replied, “Well, I’m her husband. I’M the one railing your daughter.”

From there, a frosty detente was reached. For my father, his relationship with Robert had to change for the good of his relationships with his daughter and his wife. For Robert, he realized he loved my sister and also loved and appreciated our mother, so a decent relationship with my father was important to the happiness of his own house.

Unfortunately, my brother-in-law’s quiet resolve almost COMPELLED my father to poke at him until he got a response.

Now, I’ve gotten to this point and read this from the top, and I realize I am not really doing my father much good here. For the record: he was a very kind man with a very giving heart, who lived for his family and worked hard to raise us healthy, happy, and well adjusted. I love him very much and I miss him terribly. He is a Marine.


However, like all of us, sometimes he could be an asshole.

For instance, my father took to waiting in the very early morning, sitting grimly on a large rock that sat between their mailboxes, with a huge blanket around him. Eventually, Robert pulled up and saw his father-in-law sitting on a rock at four in the morning, head down, covered in a blanket.

Robert rolled down the window and asked, “Jack! What are you DOING?”

“I am going to a RAIN DANCE!” said my father, grinning manically with his eyes wide open. “THIS is the DANCE…of MY PEOPLE!”

With that, my father craned his head back, his face up to the heavens, opened his mouth, and began to loudly chant: “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHEY YA HEY YA OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHEY YA HEY YA…”, standing up and flinging off the blanket, he started to dance.

He was completely naked.

All 6’1” and 360 pounds of him.

Dad kept that up for almost two weeks.

Then, there was the time Robert came home to find the yard filled with pink flamingos. Another time, Robert found the doorstep festooned with flowers that had been thrown away by the caretakers of the cemetery down the street.

There was the time Dad put dead fish in Robert’s mailbox. There was the time Dad told Robert he knew all there was to know about construction equipment and building your own home, so Robert let Dad “help him”. Of course, Robert was not happy when Dad messed up Robert’s backhoe because he had no idea what he was doing.

A few days after Mom and Dad bought the lot beside my brother-in-law and my sister, Robert got a package.

It was from my father.

The box was pretty big. Perhaps it was that wide-screen TV? Inside, another box.

Inside that, another box.

Box after frustrating box, Robert kept opening boxes until he got down to a small jewelry box. He opened it, found a white rock and a note from my father:

“Dear Robert:
I want you to know that you are more to me than a son-in-law: you are truly a part of my family. This is why I have decided to bestow upon you a family heirloom. What you hold in your hands is a piece of what is known as “Snow Quartz”. It is very rare and very valuable and was picked up by my great-grandfather as a memento of the place where he was standing when a miracle occurred and kept him from being shot to death fighting for the Union in the Civil War. Please take care of it for me.


I know that Robert was amazed and astounded when he received this present, a beautiful gesture of love and trust from his father-in-law. Maybe it was time to reappraise the relationship with him, maybe cut him some slack.

He proved he was amazed and astounded by the heirloom because he went to a jeweler and paid to have the stone put into a gold setting so Robert could wear it on a chain around his neck.

He paid a lot of money.

Like “a couple of hundred dollars” lot of money.

A few months later, Robert was helping my Mom and Dad move into their new house. It was hot. Robert took his shirt off. Dad saw the chain around Robert’s neck and caught a good glimpse of the stone in its setting and began to chuckle. My mother looked at the stone around Robert’s neck, and back at my chuckling father.

“What?” said Robert incredulously. “You sent me this treasured family heirloom to look after, I thought it would be safer to keep it around my neck. It’s not every day that someone gives you a piece of rare Snow Quartz. Even the jeweler was impressed!” he explained.

Mom sighed, rolled her eyes, put both hands on her hips , turned to my father, and grumbled: “You didn’t TELL him, did you?”

Dad stood up, wiped the smile from his face, walked over to Robert and put one of his big, meaty hands on my brother-in-law’s shoulder. “Robert, I love you like a son. You love my daughter, she loves you. I admire your work ethic and I meant everything I said in that note about how I feel about you.” My father was grinning and frantically trying not to laugh; looking down at the stone Robert was wearing around his neck, and said, “But that is one of my kidney stones that I had taken out when I had that surgery nine months ago.”

Dad put his arm around Robert and chuckled a little as he led Robert to the bar, so he could have a beer. “Look, I KNOW that this isn’t a rock picked up from a Civil War battlefield by one of my ancestors, but look at it this way: I gave you an actual piece of myself. That came out of my body! Out of the kidney, actually! That rock was blocking my URETHRA! I couldn’t PISS because of THAT ROCK!”

And that’s partially why I am the way I am.

“Camping With Dad: Round Two” Part 2

(The story so far: Marge suspects she is pregnant with Kevin’s baby, while Murphy is planning a coup and toppling Herb from his position at Moonbat & Stein. Meanwhile, Angie is in jail for…wait, that’s a different story. THIS story involves my father, after recovering from a heart attack, decides to take my brother and myself on a fishing expedition into the Canadian wilds. This decision, already fraught with problems, starting with having to fly to the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles from anyone else, in a Buddy Holly Memorial Death-Plane, gets instantly worse when my father forgets to take our food off the airplane. We rejoin the three drunken idiots desperately trying to catch something…ANYTHING…to eat.)

Camping With Dad: Round Two: A Struggle For Survival pt. 2

By day three, the situation had turned grim.

The company that ran the fishing “expeditions” had three canoes for their clients to use. We put the first one into the water and it immediately sank. In the second canoe, some enterprising wasps had built an impressive nest that looked more like some kind of planned community for insects that was so big they had lovely little manicured lawns and tiny garden fountains…

Late in the afternoon of the second day, we managed to find an unopened can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew that had dropped out of the gear of the previous clients. Or, maybe it had slipped out of the pack of a soldier during the Great War. Or, maybe God had dropped it on the day when he invented dirt. In any case, we managed to heat it up on that night’s fire and gobble it down like food was going to be outlawed the next day which, considering the fish weren’t biting at all, was not far from the actual truth.

We bobbed up and down in our shabby but watertight canoe, fairly close to the shore on the huge, miles long lake; sunburnt, drunk, hungry, grubby, and silent. My brother Mike was using my Dad’s brand new, and very expensive, rod and reel. He went to cast and, for some unknown reason, he let go of the rod and the very expensive rod and reel splashed into the lake.

“Mike,” grumbled my Dad, “go in there and get that!”

Mike dutifully went over the side and into the water.

Fully clothed.

Wearing heavy military boots.

It was the boots that gave my brother his biggest problem. Mike was my little brother, but he had grown to be one inch taller than me at 6’3” and a half and out weighed me by about 50 pounds of solid muscle. He and I were both excellent swimmers, but the heavy boots kept pulling him down in the water which was only a few inches deeper than Mike was tall.

“Dad!” he yelled, splashing around frantically, “Hand me an oar!”

My Father grabbed one of the oars and swung it over the side of the canoe.


The blade end of the oar hit Mike on the side of the head so hard the sound of it echoed off the wall of trees on the other side of the lake. Dad and I were frozen in shock watching my brother’s arms frantically flail, trying to get his head above the surface and, when he did, he was spitting water, coughing…and laughing.

Suddenly, the weight of the entire nightmare of a trip hit me, and I started laughing, which got my Father laughing. Still, my brother was drowning, so Dad lifted the heavy oar back out of the water and swiveled it over to my brother.


Dad hit my brother on the head with the oar again. This left Dad and I in hysterics, and Mike was now in deep trouble. I wanted to jump up and leap into the water to save him, but I was drunk and laughing so hard, I FELL into the water.

Now, there were TWO potential drowning victims, dead from drowning, extreme hilarity, and bad weirdness.

The lake was cold, and even under the surface I was laughing and beginning to choke on the intake of water. I reached over and grabbed my brother and could tell as I wrapped my arms around him to get his head above the surface that he was still laughing uncontrollably while simultaneously taking water deeper into his lungs.

I managed to get behind him, get my arm around his chest, and haul him up to the surface, and, as I swam a few strokes to get back to the canoe, Mike and I were coughing up water, taking deep breaths of life sustaining air, and still laughing.

Later in the day, Dad caught a bass big enough for us to gut and fry up that night. It would be the last meal we would have in that God forsaken place.

On the fifth day, when the Death Plane deposited us back at the airport in what passed for civilization, we immediately went into the bar, ordered up a bunch of beer and some burgers and fries. The food was cooked by a tough looking woman; a woman who seemed to have seen a lot of life in her life: maybe she rode with a motorcycle gang in her youth. Maybe she had even helped stitch up wounds suffered during a gang rumble. She looked like she probably had a fantastic figure back in her day, but now her life was making the greasiest, most gut busting hamburgers for starving survivors of the fishing “expeditions” while selling bait to smarter guys who just fished local lakes and rivers.

Without washing her hands.

The fries were droopy. The burgers were gross.

To us though, it was Nectar Of The Gods.

Hark! The Herald Halls Did Ban Me

In the 1980’s, in Colleges and Universities across this great nation, you would’ve found two types of people: Idea People, and People Who Would (usually) Drunkenly Cry: “THAT’S a GREAT IDEA! LET’S DO IT!”

I am an Idea Guy. It’s a role that I am most comfortable with: sitting contentedly in the shadows, just outside of the outrageous and the scandalous goings on, with a drink in my hand, sending suggestions for even more bad behavior into the huge pile of human stupidity before me; like a coach on the sidelines of a football game. If the coaches were allowed to drink during the game, and if “football” were more like having some drunken idiot throw an empty keg through a closed third floor dorm room window.

Not to say that I haven’t actually participated directly in my fair share of depraved comportment, as any loyal reader of this blog would know.

In fact, the story of how I got banned from a major American University for life should, as it is often said, start with the words: “One day, I was drunk and…” because no great story ever starts with: “One day, I had a salad and…”, but in fact, the story begins at the beginning: I made a bad decision.

I graduated early from high school. I had all the credits I needed halfway through my senior year and decided I was done with an experience that had been, on the whole, a screamingly tortuous twelve-year Hellscape. The morning after I got my diploma in the mail, my father who had, over the previous few years, grown sick of my nonsense, woke me up and said, “I don’t care whether you get a job or go to college, but you CAN’T STAY HERE!”

Fortunately, I had made some contacts playing underage in bars and strip clubs around the area, and I received an invitation to play on a tour of blues clubs in New York and all along the East Coast with Big Pete Pearson and The Detroit Blues Band.

I was on the road for the better part of the year after that, and when the tour ended, I came home to find my father “worried about my future”, as fathers are inclined to do.

“You need a back-up plan, son,” he said. “You need to have something to fall back on if this music thing doesn’t work out for you.”

Higher Education, he proclaimed, would fix all of my problems: it would give me a career path, a way through the dog-eat-dog world to an island of success where food was plentiful and drinks were served everyday by scantily clad girls wearing…

What was I talking about?

Oh yes: College. Fortunately, I had graduated high school with a 3.89 grade point average (it would have been a straight 4.0 through three and a half years of high school if it wasn’t for my grades in Gym classes and one explosion in the Chem lab…), so I qualified for a couple of scholarships and, with funding secure for the first couple of years of College, I enrolled.

Of course, this was complete folly. The LAST thing I wanted to do was sit in classrooms again, listening to some fart huffing educator drone on with the effect on my consciousness and attention span of an Ambien Daiquiri. I had been out in the world! I had played clubs in Harlem with Big Pete where I was probably the only white face for blocks, with an audience of people who were, at first, upset a kid like me was on the bandstand. Upset, that is, until we started playing.

Big Pete tipped me $100 that night, after the gig.
That was one of the proudest moments of my life.

Immediately, there was trouble. I had enrolled in the music program, much to the consternation of my father, and being a guitarist who had endured a bit of classical training, I wanted to audition for the school playing an Andres Segovia arrangement of Torroba’s Sonatina, but the Dean of Music rejected this outright; claiming the guitar was not a true classical instrument. After much angry gnashing of teeth, I auditioned and won a place in the music program by playing the piece on guitar anyway, and then banging out Moonlight Sonata on piano.

Then, I found out that I could not live off campus. School rules forced me into the dorms for the first two years of my college experience, ostensibly to gain a sense of camaraderie, focus, and “school spirit”, things which filled me with the urge to wretch.

Also, I was not allowed to have a car the first two years I was there.

Indeed, after twelve years of school, I was to go out into the world as an adult only to be caged in a prison made of forced prolonged adolescence; obligated into a living situation with rules, people to enforce those rules, and no way to escape.

I was put into a dorm room with a roommate that turned out to be a rather devout Muslim from Turkey, who wore silk shirts and frequently smelled of cheap cologne and lamb kabobs. I made friends with two guys down the hall who always had weed and had a huge hooka in the middle of their room; it was the entertainment center of our floor, and my roommate’s hatred of me increased as he dutifully faced Mecca and prayed the four or five times he was required while I sat in bed smoking huge joints for breakfast and blasting Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix music.

But the war REALLY started between the dorm floor’s RA and I. A resident adviser or ‘RA’ is an upperclassman who is available to college students living in dorm rooms and resident halls. A resident adviser is a person who those living in the dorm can supposedly go to who may be more comfortable to talk to than an older adult in a sterile on-campus housing office.

The RA, or “Resident Assistant”, was a guy named “Steve”, a big, smarmy, sweaty jock type with a crew cut and an overly eager and condescending attitude. We instantly took a dislike to each other. In the first of what would turn out to be MANY “consultations” regarding my attitude about dorm life, my loud guitar playing, my constant use of obscenities, the unending smell of marijuana coming from my room, the complaints of my roommate, and the one night I came in late past the dorm curfew and took a piss on the door of his room, I told Steve outright that I wanted him to kick me out of the dorms, so I could live like an adult in off campus housing.

He refused to kick me out, however. “I want to see what makes you tick,” he said.

A-HA! The gauntlet had been thrown down!

I was subjected to a heart-to-heart counselling session with Steve and two other Resident Assistants, and I confessed all. I told him that I was a compulsive bed-wetter, had an unnatural sexual attraction to pumpkins, and that I had been abducted by aliens when I was six and taken to another dimension where I learned Great Universal Secrets. I started walking around the dorm floor naked. I superglued Playboy centerfolds to the walls of my dorm room, which of course thoroughly disgusted my roommate.

Still, I was caged, treated like a child.

In the meantime, the war raged with the Dean of the Music School. I had started a band by then, and was put on academic probation for sneaking the band and its equipment into the music building after classes and holding rehearsal on the stage of one of the performance rooms. Forced to play piano in the rehearsal rooms, I would loudly bang out “Chopsticks” over and over again, or play some Fats Waller boogie-woogie piano number which would send the Dean into an apocalyptic fit. I once turned in a five-page paper seriously arguing that Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 23 was written by the composer as a celebration of his penis.

I stopped going to classes and started playing the clubs in town with the band. I would put up flyers advertising our next performance all over the music school; all of which would immediately be torn down.

Meanwhile, back at the dorms, my stoner friends on the floor started having Theme Parties. We had “Come As The Person You Most Hate”, where I jimmied Steve’s door, raided his closet and came as him. We had “Zombie Celebrity” night, “Come As Your Favorite Virus”, and the infamous “Steve Is Pregnant-Baby Shower”. It was during THIS party that the empty keg was thrown out of the window, though not by me. I just told the hulking drunken dorm mate that it would be a good idea to get rid of it out the window while the new keg was being tapped.

It wasn’t MY fault the idiot didn’t see that the window was closed…

It was the “Underwear Party” that turned out to be the penultimate disgrace in my college career. Somehow, a soccer ball was found. In the middle of the madness of drunken male and female students prancing around the floor in their underwear, the inevitable alcohol fueled fornication, and the general degenerate madness, I sat in my chair at the edge of the hormone infused, thoroughly liquored throng wearing my special “Kiss Me Here” boxer shorts and suggested that it would be fun to get a soccer game going in the hallway.

That little proposition ended up costing almost ten thousand dollars of damage to the dorm hallway and a couple of the rooms before the police showed up to break up the party and it earned me notification by an angry and red-faced Steve that I would be put before the Dean of the College and the student court two days hence.

Then, the next night, I was drunk with a couple of friends on the top of the parking garage that had been built next to the music school. It was getting dark, and I needed a piss. I decided, after taking a quick look over the side and seeing no one there, that I would piss over the side of the parking garage just to see how long it would take for the stream to hit the ground. Unfortunately, there was time passed between me checking no one was walking below me, and me actually getting ready to relieve myself. Unbeknownst to me, the Dean of Music came out of the Music building. He had been working late, probably gathering notes on his various complaints about me to be presented the next day at my “hearing” when he felt…a sprinkle…of liquid…on his head.

THAT was the final nail in my educational coffin.

The next day, I stood before The Dean Of The College, members of the student body Senate, and my parents; whilst wearing a dark blue suit with white sneakers and a tie that had a naked woman painted on it. The file Steve threw down on the table before me was two inches thick. The Dean of Music was apoplectic, as was my Father. My Mother, on the other hand, who understood my desire to quit this College nonsense and go out to California to find success making the most of my musical talents, found the whole event humorous, and she even chuckled a few times as the long list of my outrageous acts perpetrated on the hapless RA and my antics antagonizing the Dean of Music were read out.

But even she was a little mortified when it was revealed to the gathering that I had, in fact, accidentally pissed on the Dean of Music’s head.

That was it. Banned for life. I was never to be allowed to step foot on the campus again.

I left for California two days later.

30 Years Of Marriage: Axiomatic Observations About Life With A Woman

Situation Report: The Dog and I are locked in the “Bunker”, also known as “My Office”. Outside the door, we can hear the heavy thud of angry footsteps as my wife walks through the house, mumbling under her breath. I can’t discern what she is saying: possibly reciting prayers, asking the good Lord to “give her strength”, possibly reminding herself that she could easily bury me under the back stairs and no one would ever know.

Mood: Grim. The Dog looks up at me and through the look in his eyes seems to say, “Dude! What did you do? I spend most of my day licking my own privates, but even I wouldn’t have done that!”

What can I say? I wanted food and something to drink. She had just mopped the kitchen.

“Don’t walk on my floor!”

Does she think she married Spiderman? Does she believe I have the power to hover? Are we in some sort of weird role-play where she is the put-upon housewife and I am some sort of Mission Impossible Secret Agent that has to dangle from the ceiling to get a sandwich and a beer? Did I just say all those things to her out loud???

Yes. Yes I did.

As far as I know, the kitchen is a part of the house that BOTH of us own.

I know. I’ve checked the deed. Both of our names are on it!

Don’t get me wrong; I love my wife with every fiber of my being. She is my soulmate, and I am the luckiest man alive to have found her. However, the Dog and I are VERY hungry, our supply lines have apparently been cut off, and our reserves are dwindling rapidly.

Before I married my wife, I knew NOTHING about women. Now, thirty years later, I know NOTHING about women, but I have learned a few things about living with one of these brilliant and mystifying creatures:

Behind every angry woman stands a man who has absolutely no idea what he did wrong.

Been there, done that. Then, I went there several more times because apparently, I never learn.

Every time I talk to my wife, I have to remember that “This conversation will be recorded for training and quality purposes”.

Some things are better left unsaid, and I usually remember that right after I said them.

There is no point in my trying to understand women. Women understand women and most of the time, they hate each other.

Arguing with my wife is like reading the Software License Agreement: in the end you have to ignore everything and click “I Agree”.

Angry women can see into the future. They can remember stuff that hasn’t happened yet. Also, angry women can see into parallel universes: they can remember things that never happened in this universe.

Women always have the last word in an argument. Anything that a man adds after that is the beginning of a new argument.

A man is forced to be decisive. Right or wrong, you have to make a decision because life is paved with flat squirrels who couldn’t make a decision, and she will always answer, “I don’t know, whatever you want, honey.” Every. Single. Time.

Whenever my wife says “First of all” during an argument, I flee, because she has prepared research, charts, data, and is fully able to use all of it to destroy me.

A wise man once said: nothing.

That’s it. That is the totality of my knowledge regarding the female sex.

Always remember and never forget: Life is short. Smile while you still have teeth.

Random Thoughts From Inside The Bunker

The dog and I are locked up in my office aka “The Bunker”. The wife is upset with me…again…something about not listening to her, or something. I didn’t hear her.

Situations like this give me time to contemplate bettering myself: I thought I was just in a bad mood, but it’s been a few years now, so I guess this is who I am now: A complete and total jackass.

Good. Now that’s over, I have time to think about really important things:

Rhinos are really chubby unicorns, and giraffes are sky camels.
It’s dangerous to make plans. The word
“premeditated” comes up a lot in courtrooms.

I don’t like camping. Me in a sleeping bag is like me being essentially a soft taco in the bear world.
Sawdust is man glitter.
My last words on this earth will probably be: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Being an adult is like riding a bike, except the bike is on fire. Everything is on fire. You are in hell, with bills.

How soon after waking up is it OK to take a nap?

EVERYONE is crazy, so I need to relax and remember: it’s not a competition.

I am not anti-social. I’m selectively social. There is a difference.

Have you ever met a person and immediately felt sorry for their dog? I have.

When, exactly, is “old enough to know better” supposed to kick in?

Up to now, as far as I can tell, I’m immortal.

My plan B is always my plan A with more alcohol.

Spilling your beer is the equivalent of letting go of a balloon.

Sarcasm is better than aggravated assault.

A quiet man is a thinking man. A quiet woman is furious.

Dear Spell-check: I am never trying to type the word “ducking”.

And then Satan said: “Put letters in math” and he called it algebra.

There are people who need a pat on the back and then there are people who need a push down the stairs.

These days, common sense is a superpower.

That’s enough for now. My brain hurts, and the dog and I are hungry.

We have a plan to get us past enemy fire and through to our supplies: he is going to pretend he doesn’t speak English and I am going to pretend I’m deaf.