Dad, I’d like a hamster for my birthday.

A hamster? Really buddy? Tell you what, before I make any rash “heart breaking” decisions I want you to try this simple exercise.

Clench this piece of bacon between your teeth and let it hang down to your chin.

Now, lean forward and shake your head vigorously from side to side.

There you go- shake it good?

Quit screaming buddy, that’s not an angry bacon-eating badger; that furry “ball-of-love” hanging from your lips is actually the “Must-Have” Puppy your Mom and I felt obligated to purchase in order to make your childhood complete.

Remember him?

Of course you do- he’s the guy who’s poop you promised to clean up. He’s also the guy that you promised to walk everyday after school. If I remember correctly you actually came to blows with your brother over who would get to walk him most. Funny, your Mother and I didn’t even participate in that fight but somehow we won? isn’t that strange?

So forgive me if I’m a bit perplexed by your request for a Hamster. The puppy is five times the size of a hamster and given the relative size of his brain (compared to that of a rat’s) is likely 10-times more intelligent. In fact, he’s so smart you could probably teach him to do all the tricks a rodent can do (eat garbage, befriend crack addicts, carry Bubonic plague) in a single afternoon. So you see Honey, having a puppy is just like owning a hamster- only more rewarding and hygenic.

But honestly Son, I don’t think a hamster’s in the cards this year; and just to avoid any tertiary discussions- the same goes for kittens, parakeets, baboons and koala bears. Truth be told, I wouldn’t let you have a friggin “Sea Monkey” if it came marching out of my ass banging a pair of cymbals and singing the title track from “Ghost”.

You have a puppy- his name is Carlo Rossi- cherish him, for he is a great and gracious being who loves you dearly in spite of your silly talk of usurping his position in our home with a Hamster.

I just learned that if you eat a bunch of thread all of your poop will come out linked together like a giant string of cultured pearls. Apparently it’s scary as hell too, because no matter how fast you run to escape you can’t gain any distance on your poop because it’s attached to your ass like a kite tail.

Yes, I agree this is a nasty predicament to be in and the guy that gets recruited to cut the string will likely feel the same- but the good news is everyone else who witnesses you running through the back yard trying to outrun your own excrement is going to think it hilarious. Don’t be surprised if they break out their cell phones in an attempt to memorialize your plight on “You-Tube”.

I don’t eat string so this has never happened to me. And though my boys have flushed an entire roll of dental floss down the toilet creating somewhat similar results to the plumbing in my home- I don’t think they’ve actually ever eaten any- at least that Connie and I know of. But my youngest boy- Carlo – well let’s just say he has a craving for hemp that his digestive tract doesn’t support. Luckily, Carlo also likes to consume toilet paper so the whole cycle of events that unfolded in my backyard was a wash. Sort of a “self licking ice cream cone” if you will.

I’ve finally figured out why new born human infants aren’t graced with a full set of teeth fresh out of the package. Our latest addition to the family, Mr. Carlo Rossi Groah, has been the source of my new found enlightenment. Carlo is a puppy. Carlo has a full set of razor sharp puppy teeth. His razor sharp puppy teeth are strategically located behind his uber sweet smelling puppy breath- an aroma my wife finds irresistible. My theory is that puppies were provided “puppy breath” to assist them in luring their prey closer to their gaping “Puppy suck-hole”- sort of like when a hunter douses himself with “Buck Scent”. Only instead of attracting a horny moose, puppy breath attracts human faces- in my home the potential for nostril reconstruction surgery looms in the not too distant future.

But nostrils aren’t Carlo’s only snack food. Apparently there are all kinds of other great tasting morsels laying around my home that I was never even aware of- for instance:

1. Window sills- I don’t know what kind of wood our builder used to spruce up our window ledges but holy shit does it appeal to Golden Labs! Carlo simply cannot get enough. I took the advice of a friend and slathered it with Cayenne Pepper- but Carlo likes his household trim MUY CALIENTE! In fact, all I achieved from my efforts was a puppy who eats window ledges and farts balls of fire.

2. Shoes- The neat thing about Carlo’s taste for footwear is he believes they’re a dish best served with feet still inserted- so beware when you walk in my home. My advice- remove your shoes before you knock; when the door swings open toss them in; wait 30-seconds and then rush past the feeding frenzy. It should go without saying that when come to the Groah house wear tasteless, cheap footwear- like CROCs for instance. Personally, I believe if you wear CROCs beyond your fourth birthday you deserve to have your feet eaten any way- so don’t act surprised if I encourage Carlo to attack.

3. Little metal door stoppers that screw into your base boards to prevent door knobs from puncturing holes in your sheet rock. If you’re going to own a golden lab I suggest replacing all of your plastic door stoppers with the high end metal ones- they can be salvaged once your dog has his morning BM.

4. Every plant I own. Thank God I’m not growing pot in my back yard- I would have lost my ass. Carlo has eaten every piece of vegetation that I own and that which he chooses not to eat he pees on. My dog must have battery acid in his bladder because my grass has turned to sand and I actually saw a tumbleweed blow past my back door. Friggin awesome!

5. Toes (I’m guessing because they remind him of shoes)

6. Furniture of every description (though he does display a certain fondness for quality hardwoods). My guess is if Carlo ever went to a 5-star restaurant he would forego the menu and request a Restoration Hardware catalog instead- but at least he has taste (good pun I need to write that shit down).

7. Children- Cayden is the perfect snack item because he giggles when you bite him- how fun is that for a puppy. Cayden is like the toy inside a McDonalds Happy Meal- taste good and entertains- perfect.

Funny thing is Carlo won’t bite me- I know I should be relieved but strangely I’m a bit offended.

You may not be aware of this but I’ve been known to dabble in documentary film making. Connie has all of the talent when it comes to capturing “stills” (that’s artistic talk for pictures)- but as far as cinematic skill- it’s all ME baby!

I’ve embedded a little number that I’m submitting to the Cannes film festival this year- I like to call it “zoomy, za-zoom-zoom; bike ride to Armageddon”.

If you’re moved to tears- it’s okay. I intentionally engineered this film to tug at the heart strings while at the same time encouraging the viewer’s soul to soar like an eagle far, far above all of the ugliness that one might experience on a 50-mile morning commute along the DC beltway- I may be projecting- but the bottom line is this movie will change your life. CIAO! “the Shane”

Man I’ve been really, really bad about keeping up on this thing- but, when life gets busy you have to prioritize and sadly writing stupid shit on the internet doesn’t rank as high as most other things competing for my limited free time.

That being said I realize if I don’t stop and jot things down they’ll be forever be lost in the abyss that has become my aging memory. I’m sure some day (most likely when I’m back to crapping my trousers and gumming my food ) I’ll have time to indulge in some well crafted creative writing; but for now I’ll have to be satisfied with simply cataloging some key events- bad grammar and all. So my compromise- short “Groah” family blurbs.

Cayden gave up walking about 3-months ago. He now propels himself from place to place with a series of cartwheels, summersaults and head stands. Pros- he’s becoming very agile and his shoes will last forever. Cons- it takes him an hour to travel 10-feet, he’s constantly dizzy and he’s covered in rug burns.

The world will end in 2012. I know it’s true because someone posted it on my wall after requesting a herd of sheep to complete their “Farmville Livestock challenge”.

Kids curse at a younger age than I remember. They even use the “super-duper” bad ones, which I will not list as they make me blush.

Mack performed in his school’s talent show for the second year in a row. Last year a lovely rendition of Green Day’s “Time of Your Life”; this year AC/DC “Back in Black”. I can only imagine that next year’s performance will include flames, flying rodents and a blood sacrifice.

I work a lot- good thing I like to work otherwise my life would suck!

I test drove a Lexus ISF (sports car) even though there was no way I could afford to own it. It’s kind of like a fat kid watching porn- you know you ain’t ever going to get it so why torture yourself.

California vacations are awesome- except for the “Simpsons” ride at Universal Studios. That thing generates more “G’s” than a space shuttle flight simulator and each time I got off I had to check my phone to make sure I hadn’t been transported into the future.

Mack no longer believes in the Easter Bunny. Can’t say I blame him; a colored egg shitting rabbit is a bit of a stretch. Had I been responsible for creating the mythical Easter beast I would have chosen something a little more logical- like a “Tootsie Roll” crapping wombat.

Cayden started drum lessons. Yes, we’re actually paying money to have our youngest child do something that he’s done for free his entire life- i.e. make a horrendous racket by vigorously beating on things with a blunt object.

Baseball season has started and Mack was selected to play on an advanced team.

Baseball season has started and Cayden is the only kid in league history to ever cartwheel, summersault, and headstand his way to a double. Personally I think the opposing team was simply to entertained to make the play.

Mack demonstrated his ability to mow the lawn. Like most men he failed to realize that once you show proficiency in a task that task forever belongs to you- I also learned this bit of knowledge late in life.

Summer is upon us- I know this because Connie’s mood has improved significantly and my 1st Mate’s uniform is back from the cleaners. I’m hoping that this will be the summer that we select a name for “her” boat. So far I can’t seem to come up with anything that hasn’t all ready been used; “USS Titanic”, “USS Minnow”, “ USS Exxon Valdez”. Connie didn’t appreciate my input.

This year we purchased (2) IPod Touches, (1) IPad, and a smart phone. I don’t know how to use any of them but did enjoy the personal note and autographed black turtleneck from Steve Jobs in appreciation for making him richer than Europe.

I have 360 Facebook Friends- none of which came to my rescue when I was stranded on interstate 50 for 5-hours with a blown water pump.

Mack’s favorite breakfast is French toast.

Cayden’s favorite breakfast is shrimp flavored Top Raman (the kid’s in second grade but eats like a college freshman).

Connie and I let our kids play inappropriate Armageddon themed X-box games. All you self righteous types can hate on me if you want- but when the world ends in 2012 at least my kids will be familiar with the landscape.

We decided to get a puppy. To clarify, use of the term “we” does not include present company- somewhere along the way I got evicted from the decision making loop.

I wonder if I’ll be allowed to name the dog?

I woke up early this morning to make sure I made it to the Pentagon by 7:30am.

I worked hard all day long in what some would consider an important job.

I dropped off my dry cleaning.

I made dinner- to be honest I warmed up left overs, but I still nourished my family and that should count for something.

Kids are clean.

I snuggled with both of them- twice.

They fell asleep knowing they’re loved.

I got the dishes done and a load of laundry folded.

I did all of those things, but if asked what my single biggest accomplishment of the day was I would say “I fastened a rubber chicken keyring to Cayden’s book bag”.

Okay, strange I know but hear me out.

Before Cayden got in the shower tonight he reached in his front pocket and pulled out a keyring with a little rubber chicken attached to it. 

From what I gather he had to trade something “way cool” to get it- but luckily the Gods were pleased with him today and he was now the proud owner of an inch long rubber chicken keyring.

Rubber chickens are friggin funny.

Not as funny as monkeys- but then again I haven’t read a single Internet story of a dude getting his genitals ripped off by a rubber chicken- I think Cayden made a solid trade.

Cayden asked me to attach it to his book bag- “important stuff Dad, don’t forget”.

I put his prize in my pocket without ever acknowledging him.

Funny thing is, if I was Cayden I would have repeated my request.

I would have pushed until I got a response because rubber chicken keyrings are important and I wouldn’t leave anything to chance.

“Listen old man I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth- THE KEYRING GOES ON THE BACK PACK, GOT IT? NOD YOUR HEAD YES!”

But Cayden didn’t say a word. 

Trust.

It took the kids 45-minutes to fall asleep tonight.

I ironed my pants and shined my shoes.

I brushed my teeth, washed my face and put on some jammies.

I emptied the change out of my pockets and in the pile of change was a rubber chicken keyring.

It’s likely that no one will recognize the work that I do, how good dinner tasted or how crisp my pant crease are.

But tomorrow Cayden will recognize that what’s important to a little boy is important to a little boy’s Dad as well.

For at least one more day I’m deserving of his trust.

The most important thing I did today was put a rubber chicken keyring on my son’s book bag.

Every neighborhood has at least one crazy resident- but our neighborhood “Crazy” tops them all.  Meet “Muffy” (I changed his name and erased his face to avoid being sued for slander)

In case you’re wondering, I didn’t Google “Insane transgender gentlemen drinking soda” and steal the image to give my post merit- this joker actually lives down the street from us and can often be glimpsed walking down the middle of our community’s main thoroughfare.  I won’t comment as to how I came in possession of the photo- let’s just say I know people who know people.

If there’s any doubt as to ”Muffy’s” level of insanity- the “7-Up” inspired mini-skirt should pretty much clear it up for you.  Coupled with the fact that he accessorizes with bow ties and pocket protectors and you have proof positive that Agent “A” is one strange ranger.  I’m not going to comment on the gladiator sandals because right after “300″ was released on DVD I ran out and purchased a pair for myself.  However, to my credit, I never teamed them up with young lady’s active wear nor did I own a bow tie.

Rumor has it that he’s totally harmless- to which I reply “BULLSHIT”.  First of all, no man wears a skirt in public unless he’s looking for a fight.  Secondly, I’ve personally witnessed him cursing at the stop sign in front of my house and having words with the my neighbor’s mailbox.  He also tried to challenge my driveway to a fight but when I walked out to break up the altercation he scurried across the street and began Olympic power walking towards the shopping center.  Those are not the actions of a “harmless” person.  Rumor also suggest that old boy goes “commando” during the warm summer months- that, in and of itself, is enough to cause me severe mental anguish further discreditting the “harmless” theory.

Aside from having arguments with inanimate objects Muffy spends most of his time walking from his home to our community shopping center.  His normal route takes him straight down the middle of the street much to the chagrin of the 15 or so vehicles unlucky enough to get stuck behind him.  Apparently, Muffy is unable to hear motorists spitting vulgar obscenities at him because not once have I ever seen him react to their taunts.  I find it perplexing that he’s capable of hearing every word my stop sign utters, but a car horn at 5:00 am gets no reaction?  Selective hearing or schizophrenia- I’ll let you be the judge. 

He didn’t always walk, when we first moved here he was actually motorized via lawn tractor.  My first “Muffy” sighting was him motoring down the road on a lawn tractor wearing a hard hat, safety vest, suit jacket and cargo shorts.  He had a brief case strapped to the back of his tractor and he appeared quite determined to make it to the office on time.  I guess I should have known right then that he was legally insane, but he moved with such purpose that it didn’t really register.  It wasn’t until the police took away his “lawn mower operator’s license” that I realized that maybe not all of his bolts were tightened to the correct torque- i.e. he’s friggin crazy.

I’m guessing that someone out there in the blogosphere is just itching to submit a comment designed to make me feel petty and small for ragging on someone less fortunate than I- okay, I got it- point taken- you win.  But come on, do you really expect me not to say anything?  If you do, then you give me way to much credit.  Besides the way I look at it if he can stroll past my home with his balls dragging behind him like a couple of oranges in pair of pantyhose then I can most certainly blog about it- so step down from the moral high ground and cut me some slack.

I’ll leave you with this, if you’re down in my neck of the woods and happen to spot what appears to be Abe Lincoln wearing a Mylie Cyrus “Baby Doll” Tee, construction boots and a ballerina tutu take a deep breath and relax, you haven’t gone crazy- you’ve just met my neighbor.

I was helping Mack with his “5th grade“ vocabulary words the other evening after dinner.  All that was required was to write a sentence for each vocabulary word.  I often help Mack with sentence structure because if I didn’t lend a hand, every sentence would sound like this “I have good nation“, “He has a solid” or better yet “My butt is lubricated” (you can probably see why I choose to help him).  Here is how the drill went the other night.

Dad- Dude, The word is environment- “Mankind cares for the environment by recycling garbage” (how’s that for being uber-PC?)

Mack- Too long Dad, how about this- “The environment is nice” (brief and single syllable is Mack’s mantra)

Dad- Right-O buddy I can live with that

(The next word on the vocab list was ptarmigans- I’m not shitting you- I’ve read the word 50 times since that night and I still can’t friggin say it correctly)

Dad-  The next word is p-tarmeeg-ans, fart-nar-geums, puntang-a-reemis, ptarmigans- WTF is a ptarmigans?

Mack- Is that spelled with a “ck” or just a ”k” Dad?

Dad- Dude, seriously, what the hell is ptarmigans?

Mack- I don’t think that’s an appropriate sentence either Dad

Question, in what world does a 5th grade boy actually find the opportunity to use a word like ”ptarmigans”?

The answer is- none, unless you reside on planet “Nerd” where warring tribes scrabble to the death as a means of resolving  ancestreal feuds.

I’ve been alive for over forty years, traveled to more countries than I care to remember and not once in my life span have I ever found the opportunity, or need, to use this word in a sentence.  Come to think about it, I’ve never heard anyone else use this word either- not even on Discovery channel!  So the question is why is our school system cluttering the limited space left in my kid’s brain housing unit with completely useless words?  Why don’t his educators teach him a word that MAYBE he’ll have a opportunity to use? I think both questions are completely reasonable?  But before I rant further let’s find out just what a ptarmigan is.  Who knows maybe it’s an up-and-coming word that everyone will be using in the very near future- you know, sort of like “Holla”, “Aiight”, “Fo-Shizzle” or even “Snap!”.  It could be that I lack hipness and this word is on the verge of being the next big thing.    Drum roll please- So just what is (are) ptarmigans?

Oh look, it’s a frigging bird.  Now that’s a word my son can use- why not put that on his vocabulary test?  I bet you if he replaced “ptarmigans” with “bird” in casual conversation he would receive a lot fewer ass kickings.

Now that I know what it is let me see if I can correctly use it in a sentence-

“Ptarmigans taste like chicken.”

“Last night I watched the classic Alfred Hitchcock film The Ptarmigans.”

“Look at all of the ptarmigans flying south for the winter” (makes me think of those creepy-ass flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz)

“A giant ptarmigan shit on my windshield” (again imagine a flying monkey dropping a deuce on your vehicle just after you had it waxed)

“A-well-a ptarmigans, ptarmigans, p-ptarmigans the word
A-well-a don’t you know about the ptarmigans?
Well, everybody knows that the partimigans is the word!”

That shit doesn’t work either- but if you replaced ptarmigans with the term “bird” that little ditty turns into an iconic song that very nearly defined an entire generation.

Bottom line I don’t like this word- nor do I like those people who do.

BTW, if your some sort of Bird-Guy, don’t bother trying to explain to me why this word is necessary- I ain’t buying what your selling and I will only ridicule you for trying to educate me.  I am un-educatable when it comes to making things more complex than they need to be.

Here’s my moment of tolerance

You like “po-tay-to” and I like “po-tah-to”,
You like “to-may-to” and I like “to-mah-to”;
You like “ptarmigans” and I say shut up it’s a friggin “BIRD”

Guess not, no tolerance tonight- where’s the wine?

Subject #1- “Let me poke you in the butt”

Subject #2- “No, it’ll hurt”

Subject #1- “Don’t worry I’ll only stick it in a little bit”

Subject #2- “No way- you’re not putting that thing anywhere near my butt”

Subject #1- “Come on, I stuck it in my butt and I didn’t feel a thing- watch” (sticks it in his butt- Doesn’t even flinch)

Subject #2- “You barely stuck it in- I don’t trust you, you’ll shove that thing all the way in if I let you do it to me”

Subject #1- “Fine- can I stick it in your arm?”

Subject #2- “Ehh- sure, why not”

You should be completely ashamed of yourself for the dirty thoughts you’re having right now.

The above listed dialog is nothing more than my son trying to convince his best friend that being stabbed in the hip with a cocktail sword isn’t really all that bad.  Okay, I get it- a little strange, but not nearly as strange, or disturbing, as what you were likely thinking when you read it the first time.

Here are the facts:

Connie and I treated Mack and his best buddy to sushi the other night.  We ordered them some Japanese dumpling thingies as an appetizer and as fate would have it they came with a whole glass full of those cute little cocktail swords.  You know the ones I’m talking about- the little swords used to skewer the olives that adorn your favorite martini.  My boys don’t drink martinis so they have no idea of their intended purpose.  My boys do engage in sword play however, so that’s exactly what they used them for.

Unable to claim a clear victory (because it’s difficult to draw blood with a 1.5 inch plastic saber) they decided to take turns voluntarily stabbing each other to identify the toughest ten-year old at the table.  Eventually they got around to stabbing each other in the butt.  The conversation that started this post is exactly what they said to each other. 

Connie and I were laughing so hard we couldn’t speak.  Not because we have personal experience with that conversation, but because, like you, we’re immature and inappropriate.  Its kind of like when you’re at the zoo and you see a monkey pleasuring himself- you know you shouldn’t laugh or encourage their behavior but you can’t help giggling like a school girl because it’s friggin funny- inappropriately so, but funny none-the-less.  For the record I also laugh uncontrollably when monkeys fling poop or playfully wrestle each other (at least that’s what I tell the boys they’re doing).

If I could have gained my composure I would have ended the banter before the rest of the restaurant’s patrons became offended, but sadly every time I opened my mouth to end it Mack would say something even more inappropriate.  I’m truly ashamed of my lack of discipline- but not ashamed enough that I won’t share this experience with as many people as I can- because like I said, it’s friggin funny.

Next week I promise to share with you the discussion Cayden had in Home Depot about the size of his “Caulk” (I’m not making this shit up)

I had a rough time last night getting the “Man-Apes” into bedtime mode.  It wasn’t an a-typical evening.  You say “Brush your teeth”, but what my boys hear is “hey guys, it would be really delightful if you ran through the house like your asses were on fire until you broke something of substantial value”. 

Note- they’ve never actually been able to ignite their asses- but they have mastered imitating the behaviors of someone who has.

I was tired last night (which is understandable when you get up at 0430 everyday). 

I may have been short of patience (which is uncommon because I consider myself the most tolerant person on the planet).

I may have raised my voice (actually it was more reminiscent of a ”Brave Heart-ish” bellow for “Freedom”.  Sorry for the Mel reference- I don’t like him anymore either.)

I don’t like to yell.  It’s a sure sign that my boys have achieved the upper hand- they made me react to their “jack-assery” and in doing so gained control of the situation.  BTW, they know exactly what they’re doing- pushing Dad’s buttons is completely intentional.

I like being controlled by a pair of pre-pubescent boys about as much as I like seeing Lady GaGa sporting ground beef panties.

But my disdain for falling into their trap didn’t alleviate the guilt I felt for sending them to bed knowing I was angry.  Rule of thumb, never send your kids to bed on a bad note.  This rule can also be applied to spouses- but if your married to a meat-head like me be willing to break it on occasion.

So after the lights were flipped off and the kids settled down I climbed the ladder to Cayden’s bunkbed to make amends.  Just as I was about to lay down Cayden spoke up.

Cayden- “What are you doing Dad?”

Dad- ”I thought I would come up here and snuggle for a minute”

Cayden- “Are you done being mad?”

Dad- “Yes Son I’m done being mad, can I come up?”

Cayden- “You can come up, I want to snuggle too”

I laid down next to Cayden and he wrapped his “way-to” skinny arms around my neck.  I apologized for raising my voice and he offered this bit of wisdom in exchange.

Cayden- “Don’t worry about it Dad, not even Tony Hawk is pefect”

He’s right. 

Every parent makes mistakes.  

If we respect our kids enough to ask them to forgive us- they probably will. 

Because they know, that not even the great Tony Hawk is perfect.