Archive for May, 2012

My wife would make a stellar super villain or assassin. Her super-power is her brain used in tandem with hypnotic and alluring eyes of death. Because she is a genius, I have to work extra hard to stay alive at home. Every moment I live only increases the possibility I may be walking directly into a trap or ambush of epic proportions. Because she is currently incubating my daughter, I am extra vulnerable to her charm. The unavoidable draw of a pregnant woman cannot be overcome by any super power. Pregnant girls are the worst type of super villain. There are multiple incidents I can relay to you to justify these claims, and today I offer one of them up to you. I have titled this The Croissant Incident of 2012 as it happened in 2012 and deals with croissants.

My wife tried to kill me this morning. She had strategically placed a box of croissants, the huge box that you buy at the Sam’s Club or Costco, on top of the fridge. She is brilliant. She had it set up so that the croissant box relied upon the surface area of the door in order to stay up there. Think “bucket over the door trick” where the person opens the door causing the bucket to empty its contents on you. I saw her last night formulating this, but didn’t realize her evil villain tendencies until it was too late.

She acted as her own bait by looking at me with her deep brown eyes, rubbing her baby bump, where my daughter is currently incubating, and then asked for help getting the heavy stuff to her car. I’m caught. I should’ve known that she was plotting my death. I opened the freezer to retrieve three gallons of ice cream, which were no doubt going to be a part of my death celebration later at the school where she teaches. Like clockwork. The door opens removing a critical piece of surface area from beneath the croissant box; I am bent over leaving my head exposed to blunt force trauma; the box falls. The box weighs what seemed like 80 pounds, acceleration due to gravity 9.8 m/s squared, distance of 6 feet, box has a sharp point putting all the force into a small surface area. Punch all that data into a formula that looks something like this:

  (this photo is not my property, and I am not sure if I stole it illegally)

After completing the formula, the answer you will come to is: Really God Damned Hard.

The Croissant box hit me Really God Damned Hard.

What my wife failed to remember is that my skull is ten times thicker than the average mans, which is why I am capable of writing this blog right now and not dead.  Her longing to kill me was matched only by my longing to survive.

I came up dazed, grabbed the croissant box and put it so high none of us could reach it; it would do no harm to anyone as long as I was in the house. Saying nothing to my wife, I grabbed the celebratory ice cream, ran out the door and loaded it in her car. When I re-entered the house, I realized I had misjudged my wife’s longing for my death. There she is all pretty and looking very concerned over my recent near death scare. Her eyes grow twice their normal size, they are intoxicating. Must not look directly into them….I try to fight it by yelling, “What in the hell would you want a freaking croissant for!” What she says next is genius. “I told you that wasn’t a good place for the croissants……”

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


I just want to go to sleep.  I want to count down from ten to one, but never make it to one because the drugs are so good.  I just want to be put to sleep and wake up in a room to see a nurse’s kind and gentle face looking down on me like a dream saying, “Hello Mr. Phillips, you’re all done, it was an absolute success.  We’ve phoned your wife and she will be back shortly; you can go home; what a great day.”  I want to see pastel colored walls that soothe the soul and leave me longing to return to this sacred instance again later.  I want the entire evolution to feel like those television shows that document people who die, have an out of body experience, and when they come back they almost wish they had stayed in the euphoria that was death.

This would be my perfect trip to the dentist.  And this cannot happen, because dentists work directly for the devil.

If there is a dentist reading this, and you feel offended, I want you to know that it is nothing personal; it is just a harsh reality I have learned after long days of anguish and torment—and these are just the days leading up to an appointment.  Furthermore, I encourage all dentists to start their own blog, and in your blog, you can discuss pathetic weaklings like me.  I know much has happened since the days where you just got a man drunk off whiskey, tied his arms down, and went to town on his molars; and yet, I still feel like this is pretty much what happens when I visit the dentist, except nowadays it is frowned upon to get patients drunk.  So, in some aspects, it is worse today.

To some extent, I feel like dentistry is a voodoo science part of the medical system.  Maybe more so, like it is a learn-as- you-go profession, which absolutely scares the hell out of me.  Plus, and this is huge, who becomes a dentist?  Well, why did you become what you are?  Usually this is answered with a comment along the lines of, “because I really enjoy helping people, and I am interested in the human mouth…”  I don’t know, but it definitely has the connotation that dentists are comfortable sitting in a dentist chair, so they are already out of touch with me from the get go.  They are out of touch and indifferent to my suffering.  They all have the same look on their faces that my father had one time when I fell off of my bike rounding a corner too fast.  After hydroplaning three hundred feet and removing the skin from all points of contact with the asphalt, I proceeded to enter a state of shock where I ran around in circles screaming like a bitch.  My dad’s ever sympathetic attempt at helping his mortally wounded son was to yell at him for embarrassing him in public under the “men don’t act like little bitches” clause of the fatherhood code.  That tone with which he dealt with me is the same tone that dentists talk to me when I enter their torture lair.

I actually have to train to go to the dentist’s office.  My regiment is as strict as any of my workout routines I utilize to get this startlingly handsome and built physique….anyways.  I am going to walk you through what goes on in the days leading up to any random appointment forced upon me by radical zealot dentists seeking to oppress innocent people with their black magic.

First Exercise:

Similar to water boarding except at a dentist’s office there is never any break for a confession, just torture.  The exercise involves me filling my mouth with water, leaning back in my chair and holding the water in my mouth as long as possible.  I hold the water in my mouth until I cannot stand it and then spit.  I repeat constantly.  This simulates the following:

I have this inability to remain calm while saliva, blood, and dental waste fill up my mouth.  It is like a claustrophobia that sets in the second my head goes back and I realize that 1).  I am not getting the volume of air I want to get into my lungs through my nostrils, and 2).  I have a diminished ability to swallow properly.  I would rather be buried alive.  This claustrophobia causes sheer terror in my soul.  I lose my mind.  Time slows to a near standstill; I lose the ability to make the oxygen I am breathing enter my bloodstream.  Everything is shutting down.  My vision tunnels.  I want to cry, I want to seek refuge anywhere else in that moment.  I want out of this hell chair. Now.

Second Exercise:

Clench my hands together overlapping my fingers like a man in deep prayer.  (Note: I have already been praying about this dentist trip for days, so I do not pray at this moment.  However, I resume praying on the drive to the dentist’s office).  No, I squeeze as hard as I can for as long as I can.  This simulates the following:

From the second that lady that keeps handing the dentist instruments of torture lowers my head below parallel; I begin clutching my hands together in terror.  I have actually made my front two joints on all of my fingers physically separate from my hand during a cleaning.  It is not from the pain that may ensue, but from the onset of the aforementioned claustrophobia setting in.

Third Exercise:

This is a compound movement that begins with the second exercise.  I have to practice breaking my hands apart and then, using my right hand, which is permanently in the clutching position at this point.  Once broken apart, I practice extending my index finger into a hook position.  This hook position is, in my head, the universal “put that suction thing in my mouth and cease all work” signal.  I brief the dentist on this prior to the initiation of the hellish journey to clean teeth.

These exercises have helped me through many trips to the dentist.  I have contemplated having all my teeth removed down to the gums to avoid repeat trips to the dentist.  What can I say; I am weak and need help.  If a dental procedure is optional, that means it won’t happen.  Lord, have mercy on my soul.

I just wanted you to know because I have been holding it in for years….

My wife screams, cutting into our nightly silence, as we sat watching this evening’s Jeopardy episode, “What is ‘The Hilt!’  That’s in all my erotic novels!…like, take it to the hilt!”  I am not sure that I was more impressed by, the confidence with which she answered the question, or by the fact that she sounded kind of like a drunken pirate when she said it.  I think I have written this before, but I refuse to re-read my posts because they all make me flustrated about my grammatical errors and misuse of words.   So I am going to say it again.  My wife, “Whitney” is a gold mine of material, especially pregnant Whitney.  

A few things happened today that had to be discussed, and here they are for your viewing pleasure. 

I am innocent in all of this, I swear…maybe. 

My wife scootched over to the dining room table to find her seat for dinner.  Upon her arrival at the table, she had the difficult task of moving her glass from the position she held it in as she walked to a new resting place on the table.  I heard her giggle and swear.  I looked back just in time to see the puddles of water that formed on the table from when she misjudged the friction levels the table would have upon the cup of water.  Apparently, and understandably so, because of the difficulty of the task, the cup caught on the table and spilled.  I would have been embarrassed too.  Most likely, I would have cleaned the table in silence hoping that Whitney never even knew it happened (a trick I use every time I do anything questionable around here).  My wife’s reaction was as follows, “I just did the stupidest thing in the world—something Heath Phillips would do.” 

It is hard when you hear this to wonder how much this statement encompasses.  Does she mean that most things I do are stupid?  No, that can’t be true.  This is my sweet Whitney. This is the same girl who was reading 50 Shades of Gray the other night as I was reading someone’s blog, and judgmentally looked up from her ever intellectually stimulating smut novel, and said “I read books, maybe you should think about doing it.”  I immediately let out my well known sigh that lets everyone around me know I have been offended.  The breath is the same breath I use when I don’t get my way, and probably the same breath all husbands use when their wife is right about things, which happens altogether too often. 

Spoiler Alert:

The book, for any man who reads my blog, is about a guy named Christian Gray, who apparently is into some form of bondage lifestyle.  All this guy wants is some bondage, and then BAM he falls in love.  The End.  I think Hollywood is going to make a movie out of it.  I am going to see it; I already know this.  After the show we will go buy leather chaps, hand cuffs, and those spanky bottom things….Awesome.  At least that is the ending I am shooting for.   

I have a confession to make.  My wife and I have this horrible inability to watch the abused animal commercials. I think this makes us good people.  I am a man, and I am trying to keep my experiences of outward crying at a level my dad would allow.  Most of my crying is on the inside.  So, on the TV pops up the commercial where Sara Mclachlan sings “Arms of an Angel,” and then pictures of puppies come on, and then everyone in the house starts crying.  Well, I was looking out for her.  Its dinner time and I don’t want this woman, who is carrying my baby to break down in tears of sorrow.  I notice what is going on and in mid-chew I yell to her, “Whitney, look at me, don’t watch.”  Without skipping a beat, she replies, “AND WATCH YOU CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH OPEN.  LIKE THAT’S BETTER!”  

She has me figured out though.  Her next statement was, “I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years….now go blog about it.”

A very small percent of the American population has worn or will ever wear the uniform of the United States military.  The military is a peculiar thing and the people within it maybe more so.  These likely young 18-25 year old warriors fight with happy hearts and volunteer to do so.  A common theme among those who joined the military when I did and before, is that we did so under no pretense of war; did I believe that war was an impossibility; would it have been a game changer when confronted with the option to enlist or not?  I don’t know.  I doubt that I was ever that pragmatic about my decision making when I was 18.  But who knows.  One thing is certain: The men and women who have joined after 2001 joined in a very different climate than I did.  There was no question about where they would be in the short months after basic training was completed.

Today is Memorial Day, and as I sat down to write my seemingly random thoughts on mundane subjects, I knew that I couldn’t do it.  My wife was sitting next to me reading, and I, unbeknownst to her, was looking at her and remembering a Memorial Day weekend a few years ago when I got to travel home to see her during a break from pre-deployment training for the Marine Corps.  So, I tell you never take me seriously. I lied.  There is nothing funny in the following paragraphs, nothing made up, or exaggerated. But, it is worth reading, because it is real.

I sat in my seat of the airliner waiting impatiently for word from the pilot to get it together and complete his pre-flight checks.  At this point in my life I had been in the military for ten years and was used to travel, but nothing felt as good as getting home, and it never happened fast enough.  After a short time, the pilot came over the speaker and said everything was ready and that we were next in line for takeoff, but that he wasn’t moving from parking.  His voice, in a noticeably solemn tone, then told us passengers to look out the left side of the plane and to see what was keeping us on the ground.  I, along with other passengers, scrambled from our seats to see two service members making their last voyage home to rest transferring from one plane to another.  A Marine escort stood by, seemingly unshaken, watching his brother or sister in arms being moved ceremonially.  I scanned the personnel working.  I noticed the man who drove the   luggage vehicle had stopped, removed his hat, and stood motionless as the small procession made its way from his right to left.

All of the angst involved in flying home faded into the background.  For a second, we weren’t the most important thing happening, and maybe for a second we all agreed about something.  We all believed that we should witness this moment, and I believe that each one of us knew that seeing that moment would change us.  It wasn’t about politics or feigning support for a war you didn’t agree with.  It was about humanity, it was about knowing that these young men and women had the convictions necessary to look death in the eye because they believed in something.  I can assure you that both of these heroes were somebody’s child, father, mother, brother, or sister. They had written letters home and described their plans for post deployment.  I can guarantee you that the people they served with were their extended family, whom they loved, fought, cried, and laughed with the same way your children do, or you did with your siblings.  I know that when these Marines needed a confidant, they turned to their family members in uniform and found the solace they were looking for.  I know that the friendships they made were forged in battle, and that their spirit would live on in the men and women still fighting.

We don’t take the time to remember in some attempt to glamorize war.  We don’t remember so that we can win support for the politics of war.  We don’t remember our fallen brothers, sisters, and sons—daughters, husbands or wives because we are blindly patriotic.  We remember because in doing so we acknowledge the price of commitment.  We don’t remember in a “why did it have to be them” mentality, but in a spirit of understanding that where these young men and women went, fought, and laid down their lives, they were among their closest family.  In remembering, we are reminded that these men and women made decisions to be where they were and the badge they wear on their souls is the highest honor a military member can wear.

I was sitting down and enjoying my morning cup of coffee and watching the news. The show I was watching had an interview session where guests were talking about something that I can’t remember. I can’t remember what the topic was because the person being interviewed planted a bomb in my head, a verbal IED that exploded leaving me confused and helpless. The guest was asked a question about where the product she invented came from to which she replied, “We were on a worldwind vacation.”

Worldwind Vacation. Worldwind vacation. As these words tumbled from this misguided woman’s mouth, I just kept thinking about how many young children are wandering the planet now thinking that that is the actual statement. I wanted to reach into the screen and choke the woman out while yelling, “WHIRLWIND. IT’S WHIRLWIND, YOU CRAZY FREAKSHOW!!!!” I wanted to interrogate this woman and ask her what she thought the statement meant just to see if she even knew what she was conveying. I would have been even angrier if she had the right definition, but couldn’t put it all together and come to the startling conclusion that her root words didn’t add up.

Worldwind, you make me sick. This woman was in her thirties, so for just less than three decades, this woman has been pilfering the minds of everyone she has ever entered into conversation with. If I had the chance for retribution, I would make it such a huge scene that all of the innocent victims of her verbal belligerence would dance in the streets at their new found mastery of the English language.

I have a sneaking suspicion that if I peel back the layers and peak into the day to day conversation this woman partakes in, I would find her using statements like the following:

1) “Supposebly, the movie is going to begin at around noon.” Seriously. People who use this phrase have taken the word “supposed” and then dropped the “d,” added a “b” and threw on an “ly” to complete the new adverb. I also know that some people use this thinking that it is “supposably,” which they write off as being a combination of suppose and able. This combination operates under the idea something is able to be supposed. I am not a genius, that is my wife, but I understand that if you drop the “ly,” and the remaining word doesn’t exist you have made a mistake at some point. I am not trying to make this a worldwind lesson in grammar, but help me help you.

2) “Supposably, irregardless is a word, regardless of the fact that it conveys the same idea that regardless already does…” Seriously, people. Irregardless. The worst part is that I have said this word on accident and I hazed myself on the spot. I felt like I committed word adultery on the real word, regardless. The use of irregardless when combined with supposably should have made you stop reading this, but you are shamelessly continuing because you love me and feel like you have to read in case I run into you in public and we have a worldwind conversation about my blog’s subjects.

3) Somebody once told me they were a “diamond in the roth.” The saddest part about this statement is that I actually doubted my own version of the statement. “Could it be for years I have been saying ‘diamond in the rough’ when it is actually roth? “ I was a nervous wreck. In this worldwind moment in my life, everything I thought I was came into question.  Needless to say, it was a very roth period in my life.

4) “I get really flustrated when people use the wrong words.” This is just moronic. So because the word, flustered exists, and it means to be confused, or overwhelmed, when you get irritated and unhappy with something, it must be flustrated, right? I don’t want to be overly critical or roth on you, but supposably, you all should care about sounding stupid.

5) A coworker told me that a situation I was dealing with was a “Blessing in the skies.” I just stood there looking up……

6) “Fill out the form perbatum.” I feel like people who use this just aren’t listening to what is going on. But, this word could make sense, I guess. Still, it doesn’t exist, and supposably that should be enough for us.

I want to end this on a different note. Pacifically speaking, I want you to no that using the improper word happens and sometimes it is inavoidable. Irregardless of how rushed we are, we need to take the thyme out of this worldwind life to get things write. So, when you sit down to dinner and eat you’re pasketti, during you’re dinner conversation, speak good english, and you’re kids will grow up right. I just wanted ewe to no, because I have been holding it in for years.

I haven’t been single in years, and I am happy about that.  My wife is cool and we got this thing down.  I remember dating being generally weird.  We, and maybe this is mostly men, make dating extremely awkward.  Case in point, if a date is going horrible, and even if we sense that the other person is loathing every second, we will still try to initiate physical contact.    I think it is our, “no matter how obvious it is that she is not interested, I might as well try and get something out of it” attitude, but it is what we do; and will do.  We actually take this with us into marriage and use it at the most inappropriate times, like, “oh, my wife is vacuuming; she must also want me to attempt to have sex with her.”  (It took me years to listen to one fact my father conveyed to me years ago:  Never stop your wife from vacuuming……..just saying.)   

Further, I think that what should happen across the board for dating is something similar to what happens with online dating, except in my method, there will be pure honesty.  You should develop a profile that you just hand to a girl you want to ask out.  When writing the profile, you should have to be tied up to some kind of electrocution device that shocks the hell out of you when you mislead the general public.   My personal profile that my wife answered years ago is added here for your perusal.

Heath Phillips

Height: 73 inches

Weight: 220 Lbs of fun

I can pick heavy things up and move them from one place to another place.  I am somewhat handy, except with cars and other overly complex mechanical machines or instruments.  I don’t get nervous, nor do I have to be drunk when I karaoke.  I have no problem standing in front of a big group and speaking.  I am not scared of zombies.  I will try most foods.  I fear nothing, except falling from any height backwards and being impaled upon another object.  I am not addicted to methamphetamines.  I have been in fights where I have won.  I have been beaten up pretty badly in fights I have started.  I can tell when a guitar is out of tune, but cannot tune it.  I understand the game of baseball.   I have issues with people and their behavior, specifically in bathrooms and other public arenas.  For instance, I hold my breath when people walk past me until their wake of air is done wafting against me; I don’t like breathing in people’s smells.  I am also a firm believer in courtesy flushes.  I am a ginger with an aversion to the sun; as such, I shy away from scenes where I am forced to remove my shirt, as it will badly injure those around me who aren’t wearing eye protection.  There was a small stint in my life where I dabbled in role playing games, specifically Dungeons and Dragons; I swear it was just experimentation.  I am a lot sexier when not compared to conventionally sexy people.  I get hotter the longer you know me because I have a decent personality.  So, if we dated for three months, by the end of the third month, I would be at a conventional sexy level equal to movie stars like Philip Seymour Hoffman or Paul Giamatti.  I enjoy self deprecating humor.

Beyond the initial profile you set up, there should be ground rules, or some sort of pre-date contract that sets out exactly what is going to happen on the first date—defines the limits, sets out clear, concise guidance that a man cannot confuse. 

The process would begin with the male; he would drum up a list of events that he believes will be a sufficient first date.  It would look like this:

1730:  Pre-date phone call to confirm timeliness of my arrival.

1745:  I depart my house (see attached route).

1800:  Arrive at your house (I will put a stick of gum in my mouth, and check mirror for nose issues).   I will come/not come to your door (female circle appropriate answer).

1900:  Female will receive a gift to confirm that I am willing to impress her with the fact that I can afford flowers that I bought on way to pick you up at Walgreens (see attached route).

1900-1930:  In car conversation:

List off limit topics here:

Anything related to public restrooms (see There’s a Bathroom on the Right)

Relationships with moms

Bad habits to include farting and/or diarrhea

Your workout routine

1930:  Arrive at destination; eat.

2000-2030:  In car conversation (see list of off limit topics).

2030:  Arrival at home: 

Male requests:  End of night kiss; hand on butt; expected call back in three days.

**If at any point in the date, the female wishes to revise the physical contact portion of the date, which would for the betterment of the male, this contract is null and void.

The contract is then sent to the woman who then either makes her changes and returns it, or sends it to an anonymous third party to sign into law.  It should be like how congress would work if they actually did stuff. 

There are those among you, most likely women folk, who are thinking that this would take the excitement of the first date away.  You are absolutely wrong, and this is why the contract does not start with you.  There is nothing exciting about wondering whether this woman you are thinking of kissing is going to destroy your entire self-concept when she puts her palm on your sternum, stopping your forward momentum and politely giggles and says, “I had a good time, call me” which, actually means, “I would kiss you, but you are the most disgusting little creature I have ever seen. I hope we never see each other in public; please don’t call.” 

These simple changes to the dating world ease the pressure on all involved.  I just wanted you all to know, because I have been holding it in for years..

If we hang out, I am not going to spend the entire conversation bringing you down with negativity. On the contrary, if we hang out, it will probably be the best night of your life. We will break bread together, sing camp fire songs, enjoy excessive libations, have the ceremonial pouring of malt liquor onto the ground in memory of our fallen homies, and finally, we will have an overly emotional moment where we tell each other how cool we are.

That being said, and just so we don’t have to go over this if we ever do hang out, I am going to be negative for the next few minutes.

Public Restrooms:

When using a stall in a restroom there are rules, and these rules are sacred. Firstly, upon entry, the stall is one hundred percent sovereign territory of the individual who occupies it. It is like the land grab from that Tom Cruise movie Far and Away; it’s simple, we go into the bathroom and look for the cleanest, roomiest, and most accommodating piece of property and we stake our claim. There should be no question about this, and the mere fact that I have to outline this is reprehensible. We need to get it together and start acting like human beings who have a clue.

The worst violator of this rule is the brilliant person who, with malice, attempts to open my stall’s door. I actually feel a burning anger and contempt well up inside when people do this to me. Because of a complete lack of situational awareness, this intrusive person has compelled me to leave my silent comfort zone and say, “Somebody’s in here.” Three words: Seems simple and a non-issue, but I ensure that I say these three words in such a manner and tone that it actually conveys something more like, “Somebody’s in here, moron, the first clue should have been the feet under the door, and maybe, even more so the fact that the door was shut. Additionally, I am sure I heard you tug at the door once, meet the resistance of the lock and then tug again, which speaks to your strength. You are so pathetic that you initially thought you just didn’t pull hard enough to overpower the industrial strength stall hinges, so you pulled again, but gave it everything you got this time. You should go to the girl’s bathroom where you belong.” The second pull possessed near enough kinetic energy to overcome the lock, which would have been catastrophic, because it is followed by the intense fear that I will be exposed in the most vulnerable position known to man. When a person is in the middle of his or her business they are helpless. I have tried to think of my defense if I were ever attacked while in a stall, and come to the realization, that what I would have to do in my defense cannot and should not be written here.

The second rule that needs to be addressed is in relationship to the personal space rule we are all familiar with. We know that you need to select urinals based off of proximity first, and subsequently, availability. If the only available urinal is the middle one, and all stalls are taken, you may take this urinal and it will be an understood and necessary violation of personal space, and therefore appropriate. Of note: It is unnecessary to stand around just to avoid being too close to another individual if it is the only option. This just makes you look scared, indecisive and generally weak-sauce, go ahead and jump on the open urinal. However, there are a couple of instances that need to be avoided at all costs.

1) Conversation: If you enter into a conversation that starts after initiating urination and the conversation is with a fella you have never met, you are wrong—choke yourself. If you initiate this conversation, you are the worst type of offender.

2) If all urinals are open and you utilize the stall for a “stand-up,” you are a conspicuous consumer. You are everything wrong with America. All you needed was a urinal, and instead take a stall because of your insatiable appetite to consume. You are wrong—choke yourself. If you violate this rule and urinate all over the seat, you are the worst kind of person.

3) If all urinals are open and you take the middle one, you have just caused a wrinkle in the space-time continuum, and you are wrong—choke yourself. This is a move that is completely selfish and is either evidence of no forethought on your part, or a lack of self decency.

4) If you look somebody in the eye after you complete your business, you have forced yourself into a wash of your hands. I have told you before in my writings that I believe my nether regions are cleaner than any public restroom, but these are the rules and you must comply. This rule does not apply to “sit-downs;” business of this type shall always end in a hand washing.

5) If you are alone in the restroom you are allowed one flexing session, but be quick about it. You must be careful to never skyline yourself while in the laboratory.

6) Never use the cologne that some restrooms have set out for patrons. This cologne will make you smell like every other dude who has gone to the restroom before you.

7) Avoid going to the bathroom where they have a guy that works in the bathroom. This gentlemen guilts you into buying everything he is peddling. He will lay out a towel for you to dry your hands and then expect a dollar. So, if you are like me, you didn’t want to wash your hands in the first place, and now you’re doing it and paying to do it….. Not to mention, I think he tells the strippers if you don’t wash your hands………..

These are just a few items that are on my mind about public restrooms; I just wanted you to know them, because I have been holding them in for years…

….. I went to a movie last night called “my wife’s ultrasound.” It was wonderful and interesting. I was excited to get to see my daughter in there doing all kinds of aerobics and military drill. My baby seemed to have Olivia Newton John’s, “Let’s Get Physical” in her head, because some of her moves looked like 80’s dancing. All the requisite things appeared on the screen, legs, arms, hands, etc. I saw her eyes, and she looks to have my ears, poor thing. She was sucking her thumb, which I coincidently quit only like a year ago, which even more coincidentally, caused me to wear headgear and have braces for two thirds of my ginger childhood—double bonus.

Everything was beautiful, then I realized that the along with all the extremities and organs that were supposed to be there, there was one important piece I hadn’t thought about: My daughter also has a vagina! What? If there has been one thing that has been more confusing to me, I cannot think of it. I feel like I now have to just give her over to her mother and just watch from afar. Boys are so easy, we got franks and beans. There is no mystery; keep the thing clean, right? Nuts and bolts; what you see is what you get. Boys realize what they have there and we keep our hand glued to it for the next 65 years, only stopping to eat, and if we had our way, we would only free one hand.

For boys our problems with the vagina start right away. We hear about the mythical vagina; we are trained to seek it, but in the end we have no clue what to do with it. There are men right now reading this who will smirk and say, I never had that problem, and I say you, sir, are a liar. We fear the vagina. The vagina is like what my dad has going on with his home entertainment system: A wonderful visual and audio experience that draws in the man’s attention; we all want it; we envy it; we always think another man’s entertainment system is better than ours…Pretty much everything in the living room revolving around my father’s 1000 inch screen and double Dolby 7.7 surround sound is awe inspiring, and I know it. I want it. I want it something awful, but there’s a problem: I don’t understand the remote control. Of course with someone standing over us, giving us specific directions, we can get the thing turned on, but without this, we are just pushing random buttons and hoping something magical happens.

As we move into our fathering years our problems change drastically. What I just covered becomes even scarier, because we want all boys and men to stay away from anything relating to our daughters. I don’t want boys drawn to my daughter’s entertainment center. I have had multiple imaginary fights that happen 15 years from now. I have no problem killing a high school kid. So let it be written and let it be done.

I also believe that maintenance is something I don’t clearly understand. Men have it so easy. If it hurts when you pee, drink more water, and try to avoid getting kicked in your junk. These are the only two rules that I follow and am aware of. That’s pretty much my advice to myself at least. I was raised with four women in the house, and I have new found respect for my father.

I have a bunch of questions for my wife, who also has a vagina. I need to learn. The next 18 years are going to be crazy.

Sometimes this is what modern poetry sounds like to me:

Oceans of darkness pervade the space between you and I.

An audible sigh. Disappointment.  A lie.

Moments of pleasure follow mark’ed pain.  (And at this point they run out of gas….)

And strain; purple rain falls mainly on the plain.

Running after the rails of a crazy train.

Giving way to sun spread ‘cross all of the lands,

Shiny happy people holding hands

Determined, seven seas touch the shores of the sand.

We’re an American Band, determined to get up and stand

Up, don’t give up the fight. A freebird takes flight,

But Tuesday’s gone and it’s Saturday Night.

Like the Bay City Rollers every letter’s a word.

Every word, is a word, except those not heard

These are just thoughts, not a word

To your mother like that one time by Vanilla Ice;

Think twice.  It’s just another day in Paradise,

But not like the city, Axel Rose, what a pity?

Do the Ditty Ditty, if you want to,

I only have eyes for you, I take two

Steps forward, you take two back,

Too many steps could cause a heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack.

You oughta know by now, in my mind

I’m going to Carolina, don’t stop rewind,

Remember when Firehouse was looking to find

The love of a lifetime?  We are not the same,

Is this burning and eternal flame,

Because you never even call me by my name.

Say my name, say my name.  She’s married to Jay-Z

Bruno Mars sings the song about being lazy-

Purple Hazy, Britney Spears sings about being drove crazy,

Who’d a thought she’s white trash like Skynard and Duke, Daisy.

I have a tendency to wear my heart on my sleeve,

You can check out anytime, but you can never leave.

Hotel California, in case you don’t believe.

Like that one song where the guy breaks at the bend,

This poem will transcend

 Val Kilmer’s Jim Morrison said this is the end.



Possible subtitles could include:  An educator’s thoughts on the application of Biggie Smallz’s sage advice to those in the Rock Slinging profession for non-rockslinging public school teachers.  How Notorious may have unlocked the keys to education, but was too gangsta to know it.  Or, finally, the Mo students we come across, the Mo problems we see.

If you have denied your Hip Hop roots and have somehow let yourself go through life without familiarizing yourself with Notorious BIG’s song, use this link and address this issue now.  I have to lend you this warning.  If you are a pale white guy (insert my picture), I do not recommend blasting this song, windows down, volume up, driving through town.  You will solicit unwarranted attention.  If you are a girl, as always, you can do no wrong, do whatever you want, we will still only want you more. 

Let me also say, that this song is freaking awesome.  The problem with the song is that it is so good, but tends to be inapplicable to the small population of people who have decided to work in different career fields than the crack world. 

What you are about to read are the thoughts and ideas of an anonymous 5th grade teacher, who  may or may not moonlight as my wife.   I say moonlights because teachers are the most amazing individuals in the world, and their job at work can be all consuming.  Anyhow, she may or may not have taken the time out of her Saturday (the day teachers dedicate to boozing it up) to help breakdown the lyrics of The Ten Crack Commandments, so don’t read this for me, read this for her….she deserves it, I mean c’mon, this woman has been portrayed as a multitude of things in this blog to include a pregnant zombie and has unwaiveringly supported my exaggeration; she warrants your attention (of course, she is undead, so she is void of emotions, but instead possesses only a primative urge to feed on men’s souls). 

According to the anonymous teacher, the song opens up with a classic “elementary style” attention gainer of counting to a specified number.  The specified number, if ever reached, will cause the bowels of hell to open up and suck into it all of the children in the classroom who are misbehaving.  We, like well-trained 5th graders, are all fully attentive at this point in the song. 

Biggie then goes on to give you a reason to believe what he is about to convey.  He establishes that he is a subject matter expert, and then lays down for you his first commandment.

1.  “Rule numero uno:  never let no one know / how much dough you hold / cause you know / The cheddar breed jealousy….”

Teacher’s take on this:  If a child brings money for lunch or an upcoming field trip, it is important that they are careful with it.  Children are not necessarly theives, but it is better to not play with the money in front of the other kids, because they might cause another kid to get jealous.  So, keep your money in your backpack, or desk.

2.  “Never let ’em know your next move /  Don’t you know Bad Boys move in silence or violence / Take it from your highness (uh-huh) /  I done squeezed mad clips at these cats for they bricks and chips.”

Teacher’s application of the second holy commandment:  Don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.  Stay ahead of the game.  (I am unsure whether my wife fully understand the second crack commandment).  Bricks have no place in the classroom except to hold the door open when the children exit the building in an orderly fashion.  Chips are delicious, though. 

3.  “Never trust no-bo-dy / your moms’ll set that ass up, properly gassed up / Hoodie to mask up, shit, for that fast buck / she be laying in the bushes to light that ass up”

My wife’s take:  It’s you against the world.  Hoodies tend to take away my hourglass figure, and there might be snakes in bushes, so why would anyone go in there….

4.  “Number four:  know you heard this before / Never get high, on your own supply”

Teacher:  Don’t eat the chocolate out of your treat box.  It’s for the rewarding the kiddos. 

5.  “Number five:  never sell no crack wher you rest at / I don’t care if they want a ounce, tell em bounce”

Teacher:  If you are a pampered chef consultant, don’t throw the parties at your house, when the chopping veggies thing breaks, people are gonna come looking at your house for another.  (not a direct link to teaching, but it makes some real sense.) 

6.  “Number six:  that god damn credit, dead it / You think a crackhead payin you back, shit forget it”

My wife says, don’t loan out any pencils, notebooks, folders, markers, crayons, scissors, glue, toys, or books, unless you’re okay with not getting them back.

7.  “Number seven:  This rule is so underrated / Keep your family and business completely separated / Money and blood don’t mix…..”

The teachers take:  Don’t party with students’ parents.  And don’t post any questionable pictures on facebook!

8.  “Number eight:  never keep no weight on you / Them cats that squeeze your guns can hold jobs too”

Don’t pretend to care about teaching just during an observation.  Always teach with integrity, like you would if the parents, principal, or superintendent were in your classroom watching you.  The principal may show up in your classroom and realize you’re not really that great….

9.  “Number nine shoulda been number one to me / If you aint gettin bags stay the fuck from police / If they think you snitchin ain’t tryin listen  / they be sittin in your kitchen, waitin to start hittin”

Wife:  If you cry to the principal too much about other teachers, you will likely never be let into any of the social groups, because the other teachers will think that you are going to air out their business to the principal.  In the teacher’s lounge, you will be left alone, and will likely get a hate note in your box at work….

10.  “Number ten: a strong word called consignment / Strictly for live men, not for freshmen / If you aint got the clientele say hell no / Cause they gonna want they money rain, sleet, hail, or snow.

When having a class party, kids should only take what they can eat.  Save some pizza and soda for everyone else.  Plus, if anyone vomits after the party (because they didn’t listen to me), I have to wait for their parents to come get them.  Not fun. 

The Ten Class Commandments…..with a random reference to Pampered Chef parties.