For a long time, I have restrained myself from writing about the art of fatherly child-rearing. As a man who is simultaneously creeped out by and afraid of accidentally breaking babies, I felt that I had no right to criticize or make suggestions about the beautiful act of raising your children in such a way that they don't turn out to be stupid assholes.
That all changed earlier this week when I read the Bible.
I'm just fucking with you. No, actually, I read “Fatherhood” by Bill Cosby. I was stuck in the waiting room of a Toyota dealership in Downeastern Maine for four and a half hours, and it was the only thing to read that wasn't an AARP pamphlet or Golfer's Digest. He's not just funny. He's very wise.
Anyway, this life changing event has now given me carte blanche to delve into the world of child rearing essays, as I am now clearly an expert on the matter. So here goes:
My horrible, hypothetical child, Rasputin Caligula Von Hateful, was refusing to eat anything other than hot dogs the other night. I would offer him some broccoli and he would say “No Daddy! I want a hot dog!”.
“Broccoli is expensive, My Boy.” I would say. “I provide this for you instead of blowing all our money on Rogaine and issues of Swank.”
“I want hot dogs!!” replied my little ingrate.
“And I want a child who isn't wearing adult diapers at twelve because he is afraid of being sucked down the drain when he flushes.”
“That was cold blooded, Daddy.”
“EAT YOUR FUCKING BROCCOLI!!”
“I WANT HOT DOGS!!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!”
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
“SNUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHH!!”
“BAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”
This exchange further degraded into noises I cannot even begin to replicate in text for several hours. Needless to say, Li'l Raspy did not get his hot dogs and I spent the evening screaming into a pillow until blood from my lungs had created a nice Shroud of Turin-ish image of Vin Diesel. Nestling on a bloody Vin Diesel put me into a nice, deep to sleep, which allowed me to think of a solution to my ungrateful son's desire to only consume tubular hog anus.
The next morning I dressed Rasputin in his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit, strapped him into his young adult car seat (I just don't trust him) and took him on a road trip, promising him that it would end in hot dogs if he behaved. I am by no means a tyrant. My definition of behaving when it came to my hypothetical child was that he couldn't make eye contact with me, he couldn't refer to me as Filthy Uncle Farty Ass, his pants had to stay on when he was in the company of other human beings and he couldn't eat things he finds on the floor of my car. Rasputin, being a horrible, insolent child failed spectacularly on every single rule.
The joke was on him, however. As he sat there writhing in his intentionally demeaning, oversized car seat, trying to get his pants completely off while stuffing stale floor jerky into his mouth, staring and calling me Filthy Uncle Farty Ass, I just smirked.
“You're a good boy, Raspy.” I said. “Don't worry. You may be a horrible failure... at everything, I may have already written you out of my will in favor of a random derelict I met in the restroom at that rest stop, you may have been told never to come back to multiple Presbyterian Churches, you may have been born with a set of genitals never before documented in the annals of medicine that required countless expensive reconstructive surgeries before we could broadly apply a gender to you which in turned doomed you to attending a shitty day care with knock off Winnie the Pooh characters on the wall instead of the elite and therefore expensive Feshington Acres Child Care, thus dooming you to moving your lips while you read your Betty and Veronica comics, but dammit, you are getting hot dogs!”
I drove all morning, zipping down I-95 and I-93 until we reached a decrepit looking street in the middle of Manchester, NH lined with porno arcades, tobacconists and the world's filthiest Laura Ashley outlet.
“Daddy, it smells like kitty's pee-pee, throw up and shame.”
“Yes. Yes it does. Welcome to Libertarian Country.”
We strolled into a charming little rats nest called Manchester Chaw and Porno. The balding nineteen year-old at the counter with three fingers on either hand and a rather disconcerting neck tattoo of Styx guitarist Tommy Shaw took one look at my son and said “Dude. That better be a fuckin' dwarf dude, and even if it fuckin' is, I ain't selling him any granny homo porn. Because we're all out.”
“Please just look at the floor, son.”
I went up to the counter, quickly purchased three items and led my son back out to the car.
“Da-da what are Barely Legal Ginch Lickers and why do they deserve an entire magazine devoted to them?”
“Ah ha ha ha! Seriously, don't call me Dada! You're twelve and it makes me drink.”
I opened the brown paper bag and pulled out a pair of snacks.
“What are those, father?”
“This,” I said, dangling the item in my left had closer to his face, “is a Sonora Firecracker.”
Rasputin stared at the squishy, small, red, wrinkled sausage inside the plastic sleeve.
“And this,” I said, switching up my display, “is a Daisy Pickled Sausage.”
Again, my unwholesome child regarded the discolored, waterlogged processed meat inside the clear plastic tube.
“They look like hot dogs, daddy.”
“They are hot dogs, oh my unfortunate son. Pickled hot dogs. You are going to have yourself a good old fashioned Tijuana Sword Fight.”
“What's a Tijuana Sword Fight?”
“I'm glad you asked, Son. You are going to eat both of these pickled sausages. You are going to take a bite of one, and then the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. Pausing between each bite, you are going to evaluate the subtle differences between each one. If you can eat them all, you get the special prize that is still in the bag.”
I don't think it had fully dawned on my doddering simpleton son what he was about to consume, because he tore into the packages with gusto. Immediately, my car was filled with an aroma very fitting of Manchester, New Hampshire, and Rasputin's hands were dripping with hot dog juices and vinegar. Despite the bitterly cold, January weather, I was forced to roll down the window to avoid being overpowered by the pickle-eggy-assy stench emanating from the questionable meat clutched in my child's hands.
Just as my son was about to put the Sonora Firecracker in his mouth, a look of terror and revulsion filled his eyes. He made a groaning noise, flung the sausages onto the dashboard, rolled down his window and proceeded to vomit his breakfast all over Manchester's unfortunate, cracked and filthy tax free sidewalks. Amazingly, the undigested Alphabits landed in just such a way that they formed an incredibly well-written and insightful synopsis of the Dudley Moore and Daryl Hannah movie “Crazy People”.
Rasputin immediately declared himself a vegetarian and I called him a pantywaist then made him walk the 95 or so miles back to Portland.
In case you were wondering, the third thing I purchased was a strip of firecrackers which I used to terrify him into no longer playing with his American Girl dolls in the cat box.
Ah, fatherhood!
Monday, January 25, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
Sexy Teen Vampires
What follows is an excerpt from the latest book in my sexy teenage vampire series, "The Dark Matter Saga: Book Nineteen – The Movement". I have no delusions of grandeur in regards to the quality of my writing. I just know that it will pretty much make me a billionaire. Because, holy shit, America fucking loves shitty, sexy teen vampire bullshit.
Enjoy!
CHAPTER 7:
Rumor's heart was pounding. Her thighs were shaking. Her glasses were fogging up. This was easily the grossest outhouse in all of Turner Falls. The wretched smell of three years of backed up sewage wafted up from the dank hole and coated her nostrils like a thick, greasy paste.
It reminded her of Durmitt... for some reason. Oh God, where was Durmitt? Handsome, sexy, perpetually sixteen as played by a twenty eight year old with a lifetime membership to a hair removal... store.
Her heart began to beat faster. She grew flushed. Then she smelled the putrid stench of stale human waste again and remembered that she had to offload a two-days camping topped off by a night of binge drinking deuce.
"Oh Jesus" she muttered as she sat down on the cold, damp, poorly attached plastic toilet seat that covered the hole.
Suddenly she smelled that lovely, familiar lilac and fresh baked cinnamon roll smell she now knew was the smell of sexy teen vampires. The rank odor of archaic shit faded away and she was filled with loving warmth.
"Oh Durmitt, I knew you'd come to comfort me!"
"Oh. Yeah. Sure. I'm here to... comfort you... and not watch you poop."
"I can't see you Durmitt. Are you invisible?"
"No. I'm just watching you through a hole my creepy uncle drilled in the side. You just get comfortable and start pooping."
"Oh, well, I thought you might be able to turn invisible. You know, because you smell like lilacs and cinnamon rolls, have the power to fly, can throw a car, have laser eyes, are bullet proof, can breathe underwater, read every language known to man and can actually drink a person's blood without breaking the skin."
"Less talky more squatty, Babe."
"Durmitt, when will you make me a vampire? I really want to be with you forever."
"Not now, Sugartits, Now is for pooping. So poop."
"Durmitt, have you ever loved someone as much as you love me?"
"No."
For a long moment, both Durmitt and Rumor were silent. Then the stillness of the night was broken by a loud, splattery fart followed by a splash.
"Oh God, Durmitt. I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"I love you Durmitt."
"Yeah, whatever. I think I'm going to go off and mope somewhere."
The cinnamon bun smell faded away, and once again Rumor was alone in the dark, smelly outhouse. It occurred to her that Durmitt had been depressed and strangely fixated on her bowels lately. Vampire's were so sensitive!
Durmitt had a craving for some chaw and an issue of “Sweaty Guzungas and Ass”.
Enjoy!
CHAPTER 7:
Rumor's heart was pounding. Her thighs were shaking. Her glasses were fogging up. This was easily the grossest outhouse in all of Turner Falls. The wretched smell of three years of backed up sewage wafted up from the dank hole and coated her nostrils like a thick, greasy paste.
It reminded her of Durmitt... for some reason. Oh God, where was Durmitt? Handsome, sexy, perpetually sixteen as played by a twenty eight year old with a lifetime membership to a hair removal... store.
Her heart began to beat faster. She grew flushed. Then she smelled the putrid stench of stale human waste again and remembered that she had to offload a two-days camping topped off by a night of binge drinking deuce.
"Oh Jesus" she muttered as she sat down on the cold, damp, poorly attached plastic toilet seat that covered the hole.
Suddenly she smelled that lovely, familiar lilac and fresh baked cinnamon roll smell she now knew was the smell of sexy teen vampires. The rank odor of archaic shit faded away and she was filled with loving warmth.
"Oh Durmitt, I knew you'd come to comfort me!"
"Oh. Yeah. Sure. I'm here to... comfort you... and not watch you poop."
"I can't see you Durmitt. Are you invisible?"
"No. I'm just watching you through a hole my creepy uncle drilled in the side. You just get comfortable and start pooping."
"Oh, well, I thought you might be able to turn invisible. You know, because you smell like lilacs and cinnamon rolls, have the power to fly, can throw a car, have laser eyes, are bullet proof, can breathe underwater, read every language known to man and can actually drink a person's blood without breaking the skin."
"Less talky more squatty, Babe."
"Durmitt, when will you make me a vampire? I really want to be with you forever."
"Not now, Sugartits, Now is for pooping. So poop."
"Durmitt, have you ever loved someone as much as you love me?"
"No."
For a long moment, both Durmitt and Rumor were silent. Then the stillness of the night was broken by a loud, splattery fart followed by a splash.
"Oh God, Durmitt. I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"I love you Durmitt."
"Yeah, whatever. I think I'm going to go off and mope somewhere."
The cinnamon bun smell faded away, and once again Rumor was alone in the dark, smelly outhouse. It occurred to her that Durmitt had been depressed and strangely fixated on her bowels lately. Vampire's were so sensitive!
Durmitt had a craving for some chaw and an issue of “Sweaty Guzungas and Ass”.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The Riddle of Steel
Hello, Fellow Miserable Assholes,
First of all, you may have been wondering where the Hateful Man has been for the last 3 months. I wish I could say something awesome; like that I was going door-to-door, clotheslining anyone who actually purchased “Confessions of a Shopaholic” or waging a letter-writing campaign to inform people that Susan Boyle is really just Morrissey. Sadly, neither one is actually the case.
In truth, the Hateful Man has a job – a job that requires him to work a lot between late October and early January. Before you even ask, no, I am not a mall Santa Claus. I consider mall Santi to be a form of plushy-ism and I am not okay with that. No, I just manage a shipping department somewhere. It’s an awesome job, one I love, but it keeps me very busy (occasionally to the tune of 60 hours a week) which prevents me from spewing half-crazed vitriol about how much I hate stupid people for months on end.
So, the big news in the world of Hatefulness is that I have finally found a religion that I can actually endorse as a Hateful Man.
It was not easy finding such a religion. I had to consider the pros and cons of a wide variety of churches, cults, covens, sects, branches, clutches, hives and small cities in Texas. Religions after all are, for the most part, fundamentally hateful to begin with. The problem is that they are often the wrong kind of hateful.
As a Hateful Man, I fully and freely endorse Crom. Yes, Crom, the patron deity of Conan the Barbarian.
Why Crom? Quite simply, he does not give a fuck. Seriously. Crom does not care. He gave you the courage and strength to persevere at birth, and if you do not use it to your fullest extent, that’s your problem, not his.
What does Crom actually expect from you? Well, mainly, he doesn’t want you to bother him. If you plea to Crom for help, you will be lucky if he merely chooses not to listen. If he has to get off his mountain to help you, you better be fighting the entire Mongol horde, armed only with a gnarled tree root that you had to rip out of the ground, otherwise he’ll take it out of your hide.
He’s not big on the whole temple/singing of praises/gathering thing, either. Think about it. If you constantly had to hear children and atonal parishioners droning off the lyrics to “(your name here) loves me” or “A Mighty Fortress is Our (your name here)”, you’d probably be pretty irritable.
Crom will not redeem your sins. For the love of being a total dick to people, do not ask Crom to forgive you. He won’t. It’s annoying and disrespectful. You might as well ask him for a piece of gum and to validate your parking pass while you’re at it, because he won’t do any of those things. What you do with your life is your business, and if you do something to fuck up your chances of getting into Valhalla, Crom is not going to help you.
Speaking of Valhalla, you may be wondering what you can do to garner Crom’s favor, and what benefits come with this? Well, as stated earlier, the big thing is that you do not bother him. If you are to earn Crom’s favor, you need to bring attention to yourself through hard work, struggle, courage, cleverness and sheer brutality. Do not sit around waiting for other people to solve your problems – solve them yourself.
The second thing you need to do is figure out the Riddle of Steel. What is the Riddle of Steel? Basically, it’s the question of whether you should have more faith in the weapon in your hand or the hand holding the weapon. When you die, Crom will ask you for your own interpretation of the answer. Answer wrong and Crom will mock you and kick you off his mountain. Answer correctly, and you will earn Crom’s grudging respect and he’ll get you into Valhalla. Seeing as how Crom apparently is some kind of proto-Celtic deity, not an Aesir or Vanir, this is no small favor. Motherfucka gots to pull some strings, homey. That hook-up takes some fuckin’ work.
Does Crom have any holidays? Again, he does not want to be bothered, so no. He’s too brutal for greeting cards and warm feelings and shit. In fact, the fact that you even have feelings really makes Crom not want to be associated with you. But really, when was the last time you actually enjoyed a holiday? I suppose, since Crom is proto-Celtic, you could toast him on St. Patrick’s Day. But if you’re already drunk enough that you’re making toasts to deities, you’re probably just going to make an ass of yourself and will wind up getting on Crom’s nerves. Plus, if you or anyone around you yells “woo!” while toasting him, you’re automatically on his Valhalla Black List. Crom hates it when people yell “woo!”
Basically, Crom is a Hateful Man, and he doesn’t expect you to put any effort into actually worshipping him. It’s the perfect religion for people who do not really want a religion, don’t like other people, and don’t want to sing, but still want an afterlife. Choosing Crom just makes sense.
First of all, you may have been wondering where the Hateful Man has been for the last 3 months. I wish I could say something awesome; like that I was going door-to-door, clotheslining anyone who actually purchased “Confessions of a Shopaholic” or waging a letter-writing campaign to inform people that Susan Boyle is really just Morrissey. Sadly, neither one is actually the case.
In truth, the Hateful Man has a job – a job that requires him to work a lot between late October and early January. Before you even ask, no, I am not a mall Santa Claus. I consider mall Santi to be a form of plushy-ism and I am not okay with that. No, I just manage a shipping department somewhere. It’s an awesome job, one I love, but it keeps me very busy (occasionally to the tune of 60 hours a week) which prevents me from spewing half-crazed vitriol about how much I hate stupid people for months on end.
So, the big news in the world of Hatefulness is that I have finally found a religion that I can actually endorse as a Hateful Man.
It was not easy finding such a religion. I had to consider the pros and cons of a wide variety of churches, cults, covens, sects, branches, clutches, hives and small cities in Texas. Religions after all are, for the most part, fundamentally hateful to begin with. The problem is that they are often the wrong kind of hateful.
As a Hateful Man, I fully and freely endorse Crom. Yes, Crom, the patron deity of Conan the Barbarian.
Why Crom? Quite simply, he does not give a fuck. Seriously. Crom does not care. He gave you the courage and strength to persevere at birth, and if you do not use it to your fullest extent, that’s your problem, not his.
What does Crom actually expect from you? Well, mainly, he doesn’t want you to bother him. If you plea to Crom for help, you will be lucky if he merely chooses not to listen. If he has to get off his mountain to help you, you better be fighting the entire Mongol horde, armed only with a gnarled tree root that you had to rip out of the ground, otherwise he’ll take it out of your hide.
He’s not big on the whole temple/singing of praises/gathering thing, either. Think about it. If you constantly had to hear children and atonal parishioners droning off the lyrics to “(your name here) loves me” or “A Mighty Fortress is Our (your name here)”, you’d probably be pretty irritable.
Crom will not redeem your sins. For the love of being a total dick to people, do not ask Crom to forgive you. He won’t. It’s annoying and disrespectful. You might as well ask him for a piece of gum and to validate your parking pass while you’re at it, because he won’t do any of those things. What you do with your life is your business, and if you do something to fuck up your chances of getting into Valhalla, Crom is not going to help you.
Speaking of Valhalla, you may be wondering what you can do to garner Crom’s favor, and what benefits come with this? Well, as stated earlier, the big thing is that you do not bother him. If you are to earn Crom’s favor, you need to bring attention to yourself through hard work, struggle, courage, cleverness and sheer brutality. Do not sit around waiting for other people to solve your problems – solve them yourself.
The second thing you need to do is figure out the Riddle of Steel. What is the Riddle of Steel? Basically, it’s the question of whether you should have more faith in the weapon in your hand or the hand holding the weapon. When you die, Crom will ask you for your own interpretation of the answer. Answer wrong and Crom will mock you and kick you off his mountain. Answer correctly, and you will earn Crom’s grudging respect and he’ll get you into Valhalla. Seeing as how Crom apparently is some kind of proto-Celtic deity, not an Aesir or Vanir, this is no small favor. Motherfucka gots to pull some strings, homey. That hook-up takes some fuckin’ work.
Does Crom have any holidays? Again, he does not want to be bothered, so no. He’s too brutal for greeting cards and warm feelings and shit. In fact, the fact that you even have feelings really makes Crom not want to be associated with you. But really, when was the last time you actually enjoyed a holiday? I suppose, since Crom is proto-Celtic, you could toast him on St. Patrick’s Day. But if you’re already drunk enough that you’re making toasts to deities, you’re probably just going to make an ass of yourself and will wind up getting on Crom’s nerves. Plus, if you or anyone around you yells “woo!” while toasting him, you’re automatically on his Valhalla Black List. Crom hates it when people yell “woo!”
Basically, Crom is a Hateful Man, and he doesn’t expect you to put any effort into actually worshipping him. It’s the perfect religion for people who do not really want a religion, don’t like other people, and don’t want to sing, but still want an afterlife. Choosing Crom just makes sense.
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