Bad Dad.

I’ve been a little distracted lately, what with the Middle East crisis, the Russians invading Ukraine, and going to the strip club every night to find a drywall installer(see previous post, “Oh, Sh@#!”).

Unfortunately, this translates to me forgetting to do my assigned tasks once in a while.  Like, oh, I don’t know. . .forgetting to make my son’s lunch.

See, at 9 years old, the Wyatt-Baby is a little high maintenance. . .he expects lunch in his lunchbox, clean clothes to wear to school and, heck, he even expects me to wear pants when I drive him to school (what’s the big deal? I don’t get out of the car).

Well, 2 days in a row, as I am screaming for him to finish getting ready to leave for school, I realize I have forgotten to make his lunch. That means I have to set my beer down, take his lunchbox out of his backpack, and blame his mom for the failure to make his lunch(of course, she’s not in the room).

Well, yesterday after school, Wyatt uncharacteristically emptied his backpack and put his lunchbox on the counter.  This morning, as I walked in the house after a long night of looking for the drywall installer, I noticed his lunchbox still on the counter, but with a note attached.  See Wyatt’s note.

Naturally, I ignored it.  No, no, not really.  I pulled Wyatt aside and whispered that his Mom wanted me to “forget” his lunch so we could save money for Mommy’s new shoes.  Quietly, I told him that  I would continue secretly making his lunch, but please don’t tell Mom.

He immediately smiled and held out his hand.  “Give me a dollar and I won’t tell Mom you said that.”  Having experience with this kind of extortion (he is his mother’s son), I immediately retrieved a dollar’s worth of change from the jar where I put the money I earn as a male stripper on the Senior Citizen’s Home Circuit.

As I counted out the change into his grubby little paw, he shook his head in disgust and told me to keep it, since  I obviously needed it more than him.

Well, I could go on about that wonderful little boy, but instead I’ll give you the short version.  I made his lunch, mixing a little dog food into his peanut butter(he likes crunchy peanut butter, but it’s too expensive-don’t tell him!), and hustled him out to the car so we wouldn’t be late.

Of course, I forgot to wear my pants again.  Unfortunately, as I found out just a short while ago, he had the last laugh.  Apparently, he reported me to the DARE officer at the school.  Said there was a strange man with no pants driving around the school.

I have a meeting with the principal tomorrow to try to get permission to be allowed on the school grounds again.

She said to make sure I wear pants.


Oh, Sh@#!

About a year ago, we discovered a leak behind a wall in the kitchen. Some day I’ll tell you that story. Needless to say, every time my neighbor turns on his waterfall next door, I leap up in a panic screaming, “We have another leak! Run!” Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I dream of that leak and wake up as my bladder releases and soaks my wife’s side of the bed.

Last week, I took Friday off to get the laundry done (yes, I do the laundry – sexist pigs!). I walked into the laundry room with a load of clothes in my arms – some reds, some whites, some dry cleaning only. . . you know, the usual load for a hot water wash.

As I was shoving the load into the too small washer, I stepped in a wet spot on the throw rug in front of the washer. Thinking Bear the Hairy Chihuahua had an “accident,” I grabbed my wife’s silk blouse (it was the closest thing) and bent to wipe it up.

Well, as I was swearing about how useless silk was as a rag, I felt a drop on my head. At first, I thought it was one of the few remaining hairs on my head falling out. But then I felt another drop and, knowing I didn’t have that many hairs left, started muttering to myself, “No, please! Please, please, please. . .”

As I stood there muttering to myself,  adding bleach to the washer, water slowly dripped down my face. I realized it wasn’t just my tears, so I closed my eyes, put the silk rag, er, shirt in the washer, and pressed some button on the washer to start the load, then walked out of the laundry room.

I sat down in the living room to watch some HGTV, determined to pretend nothing was wrong, hoping it would go away. Unfortunately, some poor schmuck was remodeling his kitchen after a water leak. Not wanting to relive my own nightmare, I got up, threw up in the bathroom, then walked, dry-heaving all the way, back into the laundry room.

My life had been running too smoothly, lately: the bill collectors hadn’t located my new phone number, yet; the car still had three cylinders working; the dog only threw up on special occasions, and; my wife hadn’t noticed I traded in the diamond from her wedding ring for cubic zirconia. I figured it was time.

I looked up. To my amazement, the paint covering the drywall was bulging with about 32 gallons of water. “Oh, Sh@#!” I yelled. Since I rarely yell or swear, my 18 year-old figured something was up. I heard him drop his bong out of surprise, then yell at me for disrupting his video-game. Fortunately, his “girlfriend the stripper,” who was studying pre-law at the local community college on a grant from Strippers Without Borders was there, and came running in her stilettos to see if I was okay.

Ultimately, with her help, I was able to make a small puncture in the bubble and drain most of the water into a 30 gallon trash can. Man, that girl was strong. Even in stilettos, she needed no help carrying that trash can outside and dumping the water.

After I took a much needed donut break, I proceeded to take my wife’s expensive bread knife (well, it kinda looks like a drywall knife) and cut a hole in the ceiling. Then I cut a bigger hole. Then I grabbed some wet, moldy drywall and broke off a piece. Then I realized what a mess drywall makes, and had another donut.

Well, you get the picture. Ultimately, me and the stripper (Kandi with a “K” and an “i”) were able to figure out there was a leak. I held the ladder while she climbed up and. . . er, never mind.

Any way, Kandi fixed the leak for me (who knew she was a stripper AND a plumber AND a pre-law student?) But she doesn’t do drywall.

Kandi says she has some co-workers that can do it. So, later, I am going to Bill’s Discount Stripperia to hire a drywaller. Sweeet!