Archive for November, 2012


The restroom with the romantically lit changing table, nestled in the dark corner of the handicap stall was more attractive than practical to me. I should have known. It would, however, become the infamous locale of my first public diaper change. Like Chernobyl, Mount Vesuvius in Pompey, Mount St Helens, Omaha Beach, and so many other explosive landmarks related to less than happy occurrences in humanity’s illustrious history, this romantically lit changing table, nestled in the dark corner of the handicap stall would become a place of infamy.
Such an unassuming changing table extended from the rear wall of the roomiest stall, in an elegantly lit bathroom, where candles caused shadows to flicker and creep across the walls marking my movement from the entryway to my pending doom. Darkness came to gather in the corner of the stall and ultimately settled over the innocent looking changing table smothering any existing light and dulling it to an orange glow.
Reaching out my hand and placing the perfectly organized diaper bag on the cozy table, my finger grazed the top of the hard plastic meant to hold a soiled and yet sleeping baby girl. Sleeping for the moment….The resulting cold permeated through my hand resonating outward, inward, and upward following paths forged in the womb decades ago. It should have been the omen I needed to turn away–my impetus to seek refuge elsewhere, but inside the darkened catacombs of my brain, came a reassuring echo. The echoing voice should have been the omen I needed to turn away, because it was the same voice that has failed me repeatedly, relentlessly and reliably. The voice was there at the grocery store and told me to steal that candy and sealed my fate. I heard its words tell me to drink the beers that made me run when the cabbie came. The voice is pleased to meet you, I hope you guessed its name….
My daughter rested in my left arm with her head kind of hanging off of the side like a drunken sailor being carried back to his ship after an all night bender by the shore patrol. She wore a onesie covered in dancing kittens made of the softest fleece Target could import from China. I remembered the steps leading me to this moment, and the looks from the other diners at this fine establishment with an equally fine changing table, nestled in the dark corner of an elegantly lit restroom. My walk was met with the approving eyes of mothers at other tables. Their smiles seemed to say, “Look at you, fine sir, taking an active role in caring for this child…” I nodded at them in recognition of their recognition of my contribution to my child’s rearing. I was proud and knew that, in me getting this changing right, I was showing my wife that we were still normal and could function outside of our home. This moment had to happen, and I had to be successful, because the world hinged upon the outcome; the entire world hinged upon this single instant in my life.
Changing the child is a routine that offers little forgiveness. The child cares not whether she is wearing a diaper and will do her business even if it is not convenient for the individual changing her. I know that this is true because earlier in the day, Whitney had been very kind in explaining to me that my method for changing the child was flawed. I was surprised at the detail with which she was able to describe the flaws in my style; furthermore, I was surprised at the rehearsed nature of her suggestions. Whitney spent quite a bit of her suggestioning on the amount of time I leave the baby without any diaper beneath her when transitioning from old to new diaper. I remember thinking, “What does she know? I am a winner and I am not going to be trifled by suggestions.”
The stage was set; the players were in position, and the show was about to begin. You enter into the changing process happy. You are happy because you are doing something to help your child be more comfortable. I hate sitting in my own urine, and therefore, I do not want my child to sit in her urine–it seems logical that this child would be extremely happy to not be sitting in their own urine. I learned in the elegantly lit stall that a baby girl is just as illogical as a grown one.

All Hell Breaks Loose

My routine is simple: I undo the bottom portion of the onesie and fold it backwards so that it is not directly underneath what I call the blast zone. At this point, I am ready to make the move and remove the diaper. Things are going so well to this moment. I remove the straps from the diaper, grip her feet together and gently lift her little butt off of the soiled diaper to remove it. Again, complete success. Flashback to the cold I described earlier in overly, and unnecessarily verbose hyperbole. That same cold was about to travel through her tiny cheeks paralyzing her body and causing all hell to break loose even with the thin paper changing pad I put down to pad the plastic. The resulting chain of events has changed the course of diaper changing history. Initially, this baby girl was stunned by the cold and relatively silent, but her face contorted into that of an old man, and in the candlelit orange glow, I thought her face was a cherry red hue. To increase the cold factor two times, I forgot to warm the baby wipe with my hands before “prepping the landing zone” for the new diaper. It didn’t seem to increase the old man face, so I continued. In the slowest possible manner, I turned my attention to the new diaper.
Diapers come all folded in a manner conducive to packaging into the smallest container possible, and this in itself is not a huge issue, but the fact that I left the diaper in the bottom of the diaper bag, is. I pulled the diaper out, extended the diaper to the correct proportions for applying, and I looked back to beautiful baby girl. To my surprise, laying quiet and warm, on top of the folded up legs of her onesie, in a pool of her own urine, was my daughter. Urine. The amount of pee was unreal. It was like a urine-soaked crime scene. The folded up onesie had absorbed a great deal of the urine, but there was still excess enough urine to pool off of the sides of the table, making splashing sound as it hit the tile floor, which echoed through the elegantly lit bathroom. I picked up the child and looked onto the carnage from above. There was no doubt about it, my daughter would not leave the elegantly lit restroom in dancing kittens. Her onesie was the first thing to die that day–the second was my pride. Maybe Whitney would think it was normal for a changing to take 20 minutes….Maybe Whitney would not remember that it was dancing kittens, and would accept little monkeys without question. Maybe, if she did recognize these small details, she wouldn’t immediately connect the dots and ask if I waited too long to get the new diaper under the baby….
I cleaned up my mess. I wrung the urine out of the dancing kittens. The torque from my wringing of the fabric had left the dancing kittens looking like a bunch of white people dancing on the club floor. I dressed the baby in the spare onesie with little monkeys and said, “Monkeys look a bit like kittens,” and I walked out from the elegantly lit restroom into the cacophonous conversations of diners chatting on the path towards my table. I could see the look on Whitney’s face from forty feet away. I swear I saw her mouth the word, “monkeys?” inquisitive tone and all. How did this woman see monkeys from that far away. I tried not to make eye contact and just pretended all was normal. Whitney leaned in and smiled at the baby and said in a happy sounding, make your baby smile kinda voice, “daddy didn’t listen to mommy, did he……” I stayed quiet and thought, “stupid dancing kittens…..”

I just want you to know, because I have been holding it in for years……


Are you really surprised?

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This is what women do, people—all of them. If you are a female and reading this, I am not a she-hater, I love you, but I am acknowledging my conquering. Once a wild beast out gallivanting around the globe, I was lasso’d, wrestled to the ground, and hog tied by a fine ass woman. She was not mean or controlling; it took time, I didn’t even know it was happening, but flash forward to today, and all of my secret passwords are derivatives of hers.
I used to have my own PIN numbers, but at some point in the past, which I cannot put my finger on, I chose–let me repeat, I chose that things would be simpler if I just adopted hers. Not in front of me, but in a room, dark and silent, Whitney paid ceremonial homage to her conqueror heritage the day this happened. The ceremony was short, but respectful of a history full of women who have gone before her–all of them proficient in the art of domination.

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So, here we are, 2012, soon to be 13, and another one bites the dust. Maybe, another two bite the dust, fallen victim to fine ass women. In English classes, we do a lot of discussing and writing about characters suffering from the greek term, Hamartia. The term denotes an individual’s “tragic flaw,” but when one writes a greek term first and then defines it for his reader, he or she is immediately more credible. Trust me, I have made a living trying to illustrate my credibility. Well, people, here is a shocker, which I have alluded to before, most men are suckers for attention from fine ass women. A strange phenomenon occurs in a man’s brain when a fine ass woman engages him in any way, shape, or form. Ask my wife, who is a fine ass woman, we crumble, we invite you places, we make deals with the devil, and we entertain our darker angels. This hamartia doesn’t have to ruin you. If you can understand it, you can beat it. There exists men who do not crumble under pressure, but there are others who, when entertained by a fine ass woman other than the fine ass woman who conquered them, fail. This is their tragic flaw. Pictorially, and very simply,

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Heroes fail, and in the case of most heroic men, it comes at the hands of a woman…..

Luckily for us men, most women are like my wife and conquer kindly, and are not trying to bring down nations, at least to this point, but this essay is on the great and evil conquerors, and I am going to layout before you specific literary and historical females who conquered with malice. But understand this, woe is the man who doesn’t understand that the woman whom he loves, honors, and obeys, has conquered him with great efficiency and skill. Men, this is a woman’s world, and we are but victims of their device. Like the cat batting at a toy dangling helplessly from a string, we are hanging at the mercy of a woman. Understand your plight, men, lest you find yourself thinking you are actually in control .

Again, and for the sake of being repetitive as a literary device, because I have heard that this is what writers do, women are trained conquerors. They have been doing it since the dawn of time, billions and billions of years ago in caves, I am sure, and continuing throughout all of history to today. It is a trait of evolution that the female species has developed and passed down from generation to generation. Women are hand-made to bring man down, and they are growing more and more efficient in their role as trained conquerors. Some women use their power for good and kind of conquer their man in a manner in which we men do not even understand is happening…this is called marriage or long-term relationships. The best and nicest of women have conquered their man. There is the exception, of course, the bone headed man, that traipses around bragging of his unconquered status, but he is a rarity, and usually not functioning. They are the men who you can find in a studio apartment selling elves, dwarves, magic potions, and other World of Warcraft awesomeness on eBay.

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I guess in order to do this right we have to start at the woman who ruined it for everyone….

Eve

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And so it begins, and how fitting that the first woman ever would bring down mankind….I could be chilling on the other side of the fence separating the heathens from us angelic men looking out at a bunch of suffering women laboring through pain, and all other types of horrible things. All the women would be working on stuff and dealing with the whole living in sin thing, whilst I frolicked from tree to tree sampling fruit we were allowed to eat and hanging around with wild animals that live in harmony with me…..I have to believe that if Adam could have just stuck to his convictions, the man upstairs would have sent down a much less fallible female for him to hang around with. As each subsequent woman failed, they would be cast out to hang out with Eve. Instead, here we are partaking in a perpetual cycle of eating the preverbal apple, all suffering together.

Delilah

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One of my favorite examples of what Santana sings about in the hit song, “Evil Woman.” Taking advantage of a man while he sleeps is the lowest of the low. You know how this story goes, but I offer you a weird bit of irony. I once went to a show in Vegas that re-enacted the Sampson and Delilah story; however, this specific version of the biblical drama was enhanced with the addition of the usual Vegas-style topless girls. As the tragedy unfolded, and Delilah systematically brought down Sampson, I was systematically being distracted by a woman’s breasts. In retrospect, I find it amusing how easy it would have been to cut my hair and steal my strength. I am a weak, weak man.

Lady Macbeth

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There exists no better example of a woman exerting a diabolical level of control over a man. Macbeth, an already successful and affluent member of society, convinced by his wife that it was not enough, began killing just about everyone. The blood of children, women, and all sorts of innocent people flowed freely in this Shakespearean play, and this blood is on one woman’s hands. The best part of this play is the complete mental breakdown Macbeth experiences on his trek to placate his demanding and evil wife. A terrific read and worth your while, but more importantly, another example of women as conquerors.

Cleopatra

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Cleopatra was probably as smoking hot as any biographer currently bedding retired generals. What’s great about Cleopatra is that she pretty much conquered everyone by being smoking hot. It is really that simple….ask Julius Caesar.

As far as I know, there is only one man who cannot be conquered. Like the beastly leviathan that cannot be caught or destroyed, one man has withstood multiple women’s attempts, and thrived through it all.

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If you think about it, I left out so many other easy examples. According to my sources (wikipedia), there are about 3.3 billion women on this earth, and I just didn’t have enough time for a picture of all of you.

So, here’s to you, women, Happy Conquering!!!

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


I was going to do this long blog about how the conservative side of politics, of which I somewhat prescribe to, at least fiscally, will never win an election in America if they don’t rid themselves of their shackles to a platform that will only ever be attractive to 48 percent of the people in America. But, who wants to hear me talk about something that is so obvious; instead, I want to talk about something so much more awesome that has a broader appeal to the masses.

The United States Marine Corps.

Born in a bar, in 1775, the Marine Corps has become as much myth and legend as it is history. They wear their history everywhere they go and it is written in blood; in training, they learn about the Marines who built the institution with their lives and heroism. The battles the Corps has fought live in the colors on their uniforms–the blood stripe on the trousers, the swords in the scabbards at their sides. Marines are linked to one another throughout history, transcending time; the Marines of yesterday never die or fade away because their blood flows in the veins of today’s war hardened new breed. I like Marines because they respect a sacred institution with an equally hallowed tradition of excellence.

One could argue that America doesn’t need Marines, but I think it would be difficult to prove America doesn’t want Marines. Marines are a rare bunch of men and women that represent all that is good about this nation. Currently, they are young men and women who joined a fighting force knowing they would be in harm’s way, down range in a foreign nation, fighting an often unpopular war, but still they chose this profession. Historically, they have been anywhere there was a fight regardless of the odds and regardless of what these young warriors had to leave behind to do so. Marines do not understand the concept of an unbeatable foe. Marines cling to an image of a few Marines and a Sailor raising a flag on Iwo Jima, because it illustrates how they think, who they are, and that no matter the mountain, or the conditions, they will scale it and win. I like Marines, because they are winners. They are your sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, neighbors, and friends, and they are willing to give themselves to something bigger than themselves. This is a trait we should want for all of our citizens, and Marines embody it phenomenally.

Marines are the best kind of people. They work relentlessly and all they care about is accomplishing the mission. They hear a song, their hymn, and they pop to attention and do it because some Marine, somewhere, is fighting for them. Some Marine, somewhere, is waiving goodbye and leaving, again. Some Marine, somewhere, is hunkered down waiting for relief. Some Marine, somewhere, is celebrating the Marine Corps Birthday in a fighting position, but they are celebrating it all the same. That person is their brother or sister, and they celebrate with a happy heart. I like Marines, because they celebrate their service’s birthday more festively and reverently than their own. I like Marines because they are selfless to the core.

Marines will continue to exemplify what General Mattis described as, “Marines, no better friend, no worse enemy.” They knock on the doors of nations in desperate need of rescue, providing assistance to get them on their feet again; and in a moments notice, we they will kick down the doors and meticulously fight this nation’s battles in the air, on land, and sea. They are professional warriors. It is said that Marines are the most ready, when the nation is not-your 911 service when all other options have run out. Marines live in a reality where their life is only partly theirs. I like Marines, because they walk a line, and they do with honor.

A Marine’s family is steeled in the flames of the conflicting lives a Marine must live. A Marine’s life is only partly his or hers, and the victim is the innocent. The family of a Marine waits, sometimes for a call, sometimes for a letter, sometimes the family just waits. Sometimes what the family waits for and what arrives is a tragic example of sacrifice. A Marine’s family is as strong, if not stronger, than the Marine themselves. I do not wish “waiting” upon the worst of people. I like the Marine’s family, because they give their soul, on loan, to the country, and they do it with a happy heart.

Today, Marines across the globe celebrate their birthday. They will drink and toast to fallen brothers and sisters, and they will tell stories about yesterday’s heroes. Marines will listen to a chaplain say an intercessory prayer on the behalf of those forward. Marines will watch the oldest Marine pass a piece of cake to the youngest. Marines, today, will celebrate their birthday the same way yesterday’s Marines did in Korea, Europe, the Pacific, and numerous other climbs and places.

Happy Birthday, Marines. Semper Fidelis.


Lets be honest for a moment. We have all seen it, especially lately. Women have a voice in today’s society and it’s a good thing, I guess….Until they use it poorly, which I am about to illustrate to you. I put this all on women, because when I hear a man speak like what I am about to describe, I know they are simply brainwashed by a woman they are trying to make want to sleep with them. Trust me, I know men; we are all the same, and we will sell our souls to the first chance at luring a woman into thinking we are worth their while.

I am going to describe for you a couple of occasions when I think women have it all wrong. I suspect this will be a very popular post among females, and under this expectation, I have conducted a RealClear Politics Poll with statistics to back up my claims that women sometimes use their voice poorly, and the poll had shocking results. Of the three people I talked to, 100 percent concurred. Of the same three that I talked to, zero percent wanted me to use their name out of fear their woman would kill them.

Before I go any further, I need to write a disclaimer: The opinions presented in this blog are not the opinions of the writer and in no way can be attributed to Heath Phillips. It is also important to understand that Heath Phillips’ wife is beautiful and he loves her. She is also hot.

So under that premise, I present to you just a couple of things that women say as a collective that need to be curbed.

1. Women describe their baby’s age in months for entirely too long. There is a point where this becomes completely useless to me. I am good with numbers in lumps of three. Once you get to three of something, we need to call it something different. I think it is the Marine in me. No Marine really ever supervises on an immediate level more than three people. They may be responsible for more people, but they use a team of three to get things done.

Back to the point. When a woman is asked how old their child is, and the reply is “32 months,” my head actually blows up inside and it hurts my soul. I don’t even know how long 32 months is. Nobody does, and the ones who do, first had to do this mathematical equation in their head:

1 Year = 12 Months.

24 Months = 2 Years.

36 Months = 3 Years.

36 – 32 = 4.

12 – 4 = 8;

Thusly, the child is 2 years, 8 months old.

Right? Yeah, I don’t know either. Hey, and listen, just because there are those among you who can do that math faster than others, doesn’t make this okay either.

When I am elected into office on Tuesday, I will do away with months as a gauge for a child’s age and everything will be addressed by how it relates to a year. For instance, on Wednesday, my daughter will be 1/12 year old. On a related note: Women probably get this from when they were teens and dating and constantly bludgeoned their boyfriend for presents after every successful month they amassed in their torrid adolescent love affairs. If you are still using months to analyze the longevity of your relationship, there is a good chance the relationship is on shaky ground…..just sayin……unless this offends you…then just disregard.

2. Women say all kinds of things, but rarely do they say what they want. If a woman could get this one thing about a man, just this one thing, they would all have the man of their dreams; this one revelation is: Men actually don’t want to be on your fighting side. We want our females happy, so that they may want to enter into some form of relations with us. While at home, practice this today: “Honey, I would like ________,” and then fill in the blank with a want you may have. I know, this is revolutionary, but I make you this promise: Men will bend over backwards to give it to you.

On a related note: Men don’t want to make a decision that a woman’s happiness hinges upon when men think women already have a decision in mind and are just hoping we come to the same one. Make sense?
This is not fair, and actually sets you up for a trip down misery lane.

It is readily apparent to me that women conduct meetings and they come to certain agreements with one another–inter-gender treaties, if you will. At one of these meetings, women must have come to the decision that how much a man loves a woman is evidenced in their ability to decide upon a place to eat that matches the place the woman was already thinking of in their head. The aforementioned is why when Whitney says, “Heath, tonight you get to decide where we eat,” I always say Taco Bell, because it forces her to just come out and say what she wants….I am a brilliant man.

These are two specific instances where women are missing the mark. There are many men all over the world right now that are breathing in a collective sigh now that I have aired this out. We are lovers not fighters, and we are actively looking for loving at every avenue we come to. So we aren’t very good at the logistics of getting to said loving. In the end, all of us men are seeking the same goal…if we have somehow found ourselves actively arguing with you women over anything, it is just as much of a surprise to us as it is to you. I guarantee you that our goal before the fight started WAS devious in nature, because we are hunters on the prowl, but our intent was without malice. All we need is love…daily and nightly, and ever so rightly.

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