Posts Tagged ‘family’

Did you have bad parents? If so maybe you’ll enjoy this piece I wrote about the 10 things parents do to ruin their kids’ lives.

10 Things Parents do to Ruin Their Children’s Lives

Whenever someone wins an award they normally thank God, their parents, and Harvey Weinstein. I’m going to skip over the first and last because I am no expert on either of those guys. Let’s instead focus on parents, more specifically how they can ruin their children’s lives. By the time a person becomes an adult they usually have an opinion on their parents, whether or not mommy and/or daddy ruined their chances at happiness. There are many ways parents can ruin their children’s lives. Here are ten of them.

1) Divorce:

My parents are divorced. I wouldn’t say it ruined my life, but it surely never helped me sleep at night. The saddest fact about it was that their divorce took seven years to complete. For two fatalistic people, they sure did plan to die before finishing the paperwork. The lengthy divorce was more a matter of procrastination than dividing up assets, which may delay the divorce process in wealthier families. For some kids though, divorce can destroy them. They will feel unloved by one or both parents and some may even think it was partly their fault. I was one of the lucky few kids who always knew my parents loved me, even if their divorce proved to me that love is painful.

2) Selling the family house:

When you buy a house and have kids it’s an obligation to keep that house forever. You should die in that house, or at least in the driveway or after falling from the roof into the neighbor’s yard. Not having a home to retreat back to whenever things go wrong in life is an unsettling feeling for me. I like to go with the Metallica attitude of “where I lay my head is home” to ease my fears. Times are tough so I understand why some parents, mine included, will sell a house. Understanding why someone does something still doesn’t mean it isn’t ruining someone’s life. Where am I supposed to keep the things I no longer want, but am too sentimental to throw in the trash.

3) Missing important life events:

A good parent to me is someone who does whatever they can to not disappoint their child, within reason of course. My older sister will still bring up the fact that when she was younger our parents missed seeing her in a baton twirling competition or whatever you call their “games.” My sister gave up her dream of turning into a professional baton twirler because of this. I was not alive yet, but if I had to guess my parents most likely had a scheduling conflict between the competition and a nearby bar’s happy hour.

4) Abuse:

Child abuse is never a good thing to do. That may seem like a “needless to say” statement, but unfortunately it’s not. I know mentioning child abuse completely ruined any fun you had reading this. I still felt I couldn’t ignore it completely. Then again, not attending your daughter’s baton twirling competition is pretty abusive so call this redundancy to the previous item on my list.

5) Giving life to the kid:

Nobody asks to be born. For some kids the worst thing you can do to ruin their lives is to give them the life. Whatever plain we exist on before we enter this world is probably a lot more peaceful. So I guess the lesson to be learned with this one is to not even have kids. Sorry for ruining your time-killing plans for the next power outage.

6) Having more kids:

Children can be incredibly jealous creatures. That’s actually not fair. All people can be incredibly jealous creatures. Introducing a new child into the picture can create dire consequences. I’m no expert when it comes to being a parent. I have had every virtual pet I have ever owned die on me. For further information on how having more kids can ruin your kid’s life, please see the first Rugrats movie. Those kids almost get eaten by wolves because the parents decided to have another kid.

7) Behaving childish:

I have often wondered at what age or life event most or all of a person’s childish behavior should be placed behind them. I still have no answer. The only reasonable moment I can think of is when you become a parent. After you are a mother or father it’s time to accept responsibility for your mistakes more than ever before. Behaving like a child sets a bad example for your kids and it will create a cycle of idiots in your bloodline. There are enough of those already.

8) Providing poor guidance:

Schools may have guidance counselors, but it’s really the parent’s job to guide kids through life. The best advice I ever received from a guidance counselor was to start seeing a therapist. Thanks passing the buck lady. Parents need to make an effort to provide their children with a healthy and happy lifestyle. Letting your kid balloon up in weight is terrible, something that specifically happened to me. What my parents could have done differently was not reward me with food. A good report card meant a trip to Dairy Queen. I was a really smart kid too, one who always got good grades because I loved my ice cream. Where did it get me? By the time I was in high school I was overweight, depressed, and a B student. I would have been better off forced into a daily exercise program, which would then lead to receiving a college scholarship.

9) Not being supportive:

The absolute best thing anyone can do for another human being is to support them. Where do you think calling a male friend “bra” comes from? It’s from the support they give each other. Especially at a young age, you should let your kids know they can do anything. Society will beat them down enough over time where they will think more realistically the older they get and realize that Weekend Shift Manager isn’t as heartbreaking of a career choice as a few other things.

10) Forcing anything into their lives:

New beaus following a divorce, activities they don’t want to participate in, a religion they do not believe, or anything else within reason should not be forced onto anyone. Of course at a certain age your child may develop a fetish where being forced to do things they “dislike” is something they pay cash to a strange lady on the street for, but that’s unrelated to this and completely goes in another direction. Kids are smarter than we give them credit for. Encourage them to do something rather than nothing, just never force them into a situation where they are uncomfortable every moment of an extracurricular activity. My entire life is an uncomfortable moment. There will be plenty for your kids throughout their lives, don’t go adding to it.

Here’s a fake news story I wrote a while ago. If you want to read much more well-thought out fake news stories then I suggest going right here.

“Find Your Own Damn Seat Pregnant Lady!” Says New Study

A new study by the Department of Medicine Stuff says that pregnant women have been taking advantage of an old out of date theory that they require special treatment. As it turns out, the study proves that pregnant women need to do things for their own damn selves.

Brock Taylor, Director of the Department of Medicine Stuff, says that pregnant women benefit more by being more independent and not asking others to give up their seats for them on public transportation.

“Pregnant women who choose to stand are far less likely to be pains in the ass,” says Brock Taylor who requested we refer to him by both his first and last name at all times.

“It had long been believed that the extra weight they carried was hurting their legs. Not true. This helps build strength and furthermore reminds them not to get knocked up.”

David Killbaby from the Population Control Agency (PCA) says that he hopes this new information can help do his job better for him.

“I joined a government agency because I was too dumb to be a janitor,” said Killbaby. “I hate my job and I’m hoping if more pregnant women suffer they will be less likely to have kids again in the future. Less kids means less work for me to do.”

Killbaby is not worried about losing his job either as he is a government employee and the son of a politician.

“If they tried to take away my job it would surely end in bloodshed,” said Killbaby.

Additional findings in the study say that pregnant women might be best at eating less while carrying. Studies suggest overeating during pregnancy makes a baby crave food once it’s out which could be why there are so many fat kids these days.

Brock Taylor and his team are working hard to get this information to the public. An interview has been scheduled on a local cable access channel in North Dakota as well as an appearance on Brock Taylor’s brother’s podcast, One Hour with Lenny Taylor.

“It’s important for each individual to take a stand against these pregnant ladies,” said Brock Taylor. “For too long I have been forced to stand on the train and smile at them when they pass by. They also get premium parking too. Our hope is this will finally make things even again, just how our Communist forefathers intended.”


Whenever I hear some people talk about their grandparents I wonder what I did in a past life to get such lame ones. Fond memories of them are very few. I consider myself to have five grandparents total, one not being a blood relative. These people are:

Mom’s Side:

Pop-Pop (dad)

Mom-Mom (mom)

Nanny (Pop-Pop’s second wife)

Dad’s Side:

Grandpa (dad)

Grandma (mom)

So how exactly did they underachieve according to my expectations?

1) Grandpa and Grandma both died before Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. I never met either. To no fault of their own, they had no direct impact on my life whatsoever, other than maybe torturing my orphaned father’s soul. Take your vitamins old people. I missed out on possibly having good elderly kin in my life.

poison-skull-crossbones-medicine-bottle-20332961(Not these pills you old goofs!)

2) Mom-Mom buys the worst holiday gifts. For my birthday I usually get a card with a forged signature from my uncle. For Christmas I usually get different jams or syrups she bought while on a vacation. Two years ago I received Hawaiian honey. Who needs to travel to a beautiful exotic location when you can get their honey brought directly to you?

3) Pop-Pop was a giant racist. That’s not to say he was nine feet tall and hated Serbians. The giant part was in his racial intolerance, not physical stature. The man came from a different era and saw more atrocities than I ever have, having fought on Japan soil in World War II. The closest I have ever come to war was when I was constipated for a week.

activax(The best part in the Halloween movies was when Jamie Lee Curtis was hiding in the closet and then she farted from all of the Activia she was eating and then Michael Myers stabbed her and she shit herself more)

4) Mom-Mom had an obsession with lighthouses for years. Whenever we needed to buy her something, it would be lighthouse related. Then one day she decided she no longer liked lighthouses. What do you get an old-lady who doesn’t like her favorite thing in the world anymore? Probably a coffin. Losing interest in things you used to love is definitely a sign you are dying soon. Three years later, Mom-Mom is still kicking, with the help of a home health aide of course to move her legs.

5) Nanny seduced Pop-Pop when he was married to Mom-Mom and they ran off together. This is totally lame and set off a history in my family of failed marriages. She is a big reason why I have trouble believing in true love. At least she sends me more money on my birthday and Christmas than Mom-Mom does.

cantbuymelove(Sometimes Nanny and I would do this same pose and wear these outfits)

6) The last time I saw Pop-Pop before he passed away he said two incredibly offensive things to me in a single sentence. The sentence, “Hey Tommy, how much do you weigh?” As a fat child, this offended me a lot that he would want to know my weight. As someone not named Tommy, this offended me even more that he could not get my name right.

7) Mom-Mom once took me and my younger sister to Wendy’s for lunch. The place was so crowded that she made us sit at a table with two random old people none of us knew. The male old person yelled at me for taking the tomato off my hamburger. I felt bad about myself. If only I had eaten that one tomato maybe I would not have been so fat.

solarsystem1(A picture of me as a kid. I’m the chubby one in the Neptune Blue shirt)

8) Pop-Pop was a bit of a yeller too. He never raised his voice to a frightening level, but I do remember getting reprimanded for not understanding how elbows do not belong on the table because they will knock my glass of orange juice onto the floor. Pop-Pop knew how to ruin breakfast.

9) For the past however many Christmases, instead of getting my older sister presents, Mom-Mom takes out a chart and knocks off the money my sister owes her. I’m not exactly sure if this chart is physical or mental. I like to think she has it attached to a clipboard hidden away with the Christmas decorations. I would like to think if I ever become a grandfather that I would not hold my grandchildren to their debts.

So do you have cool grandparents or lame ones?

Today is Father’s Day in America. It’s also Sunday and June 10th. Now I just looked at the calendar and realize it’s June 16th. I totally missed that job interview by almost a week. I thought maybe today was a better day than any other than to write about my dad. He reads my blog sometimes and he’s a miserable old coot so maybe this will make him smile, something he says he’s been incapable of ever since I was born. I’m kidding. He says that about my sister’s birth.

What should you know about my dad? For one, his name is Robert. He has the same name as the scientist who invented Boyle’s Law. His middle name is Eugene and I’m pretty sure he was named after Robert E. Lee even though I’m totally making that up. His social security number is 867-53-0900 and his favorite food is whatever he can find at 2 in the morning.

boyle(Yeah I don’t get it either)

My dad is a strange man and it’s clear when you meet him where I get much of my personality from. People who have known my dad for a while will say things to me like “You are so much like your father” and I die a little on the inside. Nobody wants to be exactly like their father. They want to be better than their father. Freddie Prinze Jr. didn’t shoot himself in the face at 21 for a reason. He wanted to be better than his daddy.

The things my dad love most are his children, his girlfriend, his dog, his strange secret life, having diabetes, going to work, old Jodie Foster movies, and his cigarettes. My dad is a chain smoker who doesn’t have a deep voice. I can’t imagine what he would sound like if he didn’t smoke. It makes me wonder what I sound like. I’ve never smoked a cigarette and I have my dad to thank for this. Whenever a man can turn a sneeze, into a cough, back into a sneeze without taking a breath and then end it by yelling “Oh fuck!” I have to respect it.

cig(Don’t take this out of context, but I just gave my dad an erection)

The best thing my dad ever said was “I hate my fucking life.” He said it a few times that I was present. The first time he said it was while at a baseball game he dropped a Benny Agbayani baseball card that he was trying to get autographed. The second time he said it was while we were driving to a baseball game and we got lost. He pulled over and screamed “I hate my life. Sometimes I just wish this car would blow up with me inside!” The funniest part, we were still an hour early to the game.

Going to baseball games with my dad was the one thing we did most together. Most of the time we would get cheap tickets, go inside before the game and get autographs, stay inside for an inning and eat, go outside of the stadium for a few innings while he smoked and wait until we caught at least three foul balls hit over the roof, then go back inside to find out who won so we’d know whether the players would be in a good mood or not. So I’m not really sure if we’ve ever actually seen a baseball game together, but we have been there.

One time my dad almost poked Curt Schilling in the eye with a pen. Another time he took a piss next to Phillies announcer Harry Kaalas. We’ve been to stadiums in Philadelphia, New York, Boston, Baltimore, Trenton, Scranton, Syracuse, Pittsburgh, and a few other cities together. We’ve been to the baseball Hall of Fame twice and we met Willie Mays together. It cost him $100, but that’s a small price to pay for your son’s love for the week.

willie mays famous catch(Everyone always talks about this Willie Mays catch and never about the Mormon in the lower right hand corner)

There is still a lot I don’t know about my dad. For instance, why does he never get a new haircut? He’s had the same hair forever. I also don’t get why he’ll go to concerts like Dropkick Murphy’s then go see Sara Bareilles. I’m not even quite sure what his job is. From what I’ve gathered, he yells at people all day long and has to “work up the courage to not eat a bullet.” I’m not sure what that means.

My dad is like any other dad so long as the other dad isn’t perfect. My dad poops (I’ve smelt it), curses (I’ve heard it), takes naps at 9 o’clock at night (I’ve seen it), and complains about being in constant pain like all old people seem to do (I’ve heard this one too). He’s cynical, maniacal, economical, comical, satirical, fallible, uncontrollable, sometimes unbearable, always despicable, and mine.

Happy Father’s Day dad. Take a break from being so miserable for a day. I’ve got a whole lifetime ahead of me to do it for you.



For the second year in a row I was unsure how to approach this topic. When one of the next things I plan to post on this blog is about how I think a popular 90s song is about blow jobs how do I cover such a sensitive subject as I plan to today?

Today is the two-year anniversary of my mother’s death. In this time I’ve had time to experience everything there is to when you lose someone. I’ve felt sadness, anger, and most of all annoyance at everyone else for a million difference reasons. I’m saving my rant on how most people come off as complete idiots when death is involved for something else. I’ll just say the best thing I feel I’ve ever written is based on this terrible thing that happened to me. I entered it into a contest so cross your fingers they’re not looking for an Asian woman to win like so many other contests are. Diversity can bite me.


(This is one of the first pictures that comes up when searching for diversity. Look who’s missing. The inventor of the light bulb, the car, the airplane, the telephone, the computer, every founder of America, a lot of great people, etc. Why are white males the bad guys now?)

I don’t bring this up for sympathy (okay, maybe a little). I bring this up because it feels strange not to acknowledge. I have also met so many other people through this blog in the last year and it’s always a weird thing to bring up. I almost always try to tell anyone new I meet that I no longer have a mother because eventually it will come up. Indeed I have been guilty of making it more awkward than it had to be. What can I say, I enjoy making people think I hate them.

I could go on forever about my reaction, experiences, and whatnot from the day of, the days that followed, up until now. It’s something I think about almost every day. It’s not so much a sad thing anymore. It’s just something that happened that I can never change or live regretting having done things differently. Her death happened sudden and unexpected which I won’t say is harder, but the shock takes a while to wear-off. And no, she was not shot. Would I have really titled this bullet points if she had been?

With all that said here are some random bullet pointed memories I have of my mom. They’re all nice ones. Today’s not a day to behave like a huge dick, maybe only an infant penis.


(He was very offended by my comment. Or she was. I don’t know. All babies look-alike)

-I was so fat when I was younger my mom would put my baseball uniform over the back rest of her rocking chair to stretch it out. They didn’t make baseball uniforms big enough for my fat boy’s body. We had to improvise.

-I was still so fat when I was younger my mom had to improvise once again when in 5th grade we were given orange safety patrol sashes to wear. Safety patrol was a program the 5th graders were involved in where we did things like collect morning attendance or do the announcements. I’m not sure what my job was. I faked sick the day we selected so I never had to do anything. Anyway, my mom asked the school for a second safety patrol belt so I could actually fit in it. She somehow programmed it so it was now larger and her fat son could appear more normal.

3 col for tara

(Like this except orange and close to 100 pounds bigger)

-To get me to stop biting my nails (which I don’t do, I pick them) my mom would take away my action figures (we called them guys) and put them in something called Guy Jail. Guy Jail was usually a box. She would check my hands once a week and if they didn’t look improved she would take some of them away. She only did this once, most of the time they were hollow threats. I remember crying so hard when I saw Foot Soldiers from the Ninja Turtles falling into a box that used to hold a window fan.

-My mom was not very athletic as most straight mothers tend to not be. Still, she would go out in the backyard with me sometimes and throw a tennis ball to me. Most of my spring, summer, and autumn afternoons/days were spent throwing a tennis ball against our back wall imagining out an entire fictional baseball league. She hated how throwing the ball against the wall would break the shingles so she got involved.

-For over a year my mom and I would watch Jeopardy together and keep score. We got so into it she bought me the video game. The problem with the video game was she couldn’t figure out how to type her answer. It was very aggravating having to type it out for her. I felt like I was helping the enemy.


(I thought video game graphics were supposed to be good. Does Alex Trebek really look like this now? He looks terrible)

-My mom only got to see me perform stand-up comedy once for some reason. I think she was afraid I might not feel comfortable. It was one of my first times on stage and it went very well. She enjoyed it despite the fact I was so green all I talked about were dicks and shitting on people.

-The last time I saw my mom alive was when she came to my work to give me new bed sheets and a mattress pad. The mattress pad is waterproof and because of this she put it in a bag so no one would see. She figured my coworkers might think I wet the bed. I have those bed sheets on my bed right now. She’d be very upset how much they are due for a wash.


(LEGO Jesus walking on water. I forget how this was relevant but it’s awesome)

There are a lot more memories, but you get the point. The saddest thing about losing someone is all you have left are the memories and there are never any new ones. The best thing you can do is build up as many memories as you can. Write them down, share them with others, and never forget how even when everyone else seems to be against you that there still are a few people who care, support, and love you more than you will ever comprehend.

Related Reading: Favorite Things

Caring for others is a huge part of the human experience. Having a love/hate relationship with others is another big part of life. I have a love/hate relationship with my dog. I take care of him because I know it’s the right thing to do, but I also fantasize about tricking him into running into traffic. It wouldn’t be very hard. All I would need to do is chase after him with a vacuum or running DVD copy from a Fourth of July celebration. He hates loud noises. I think he fought in Nam. Maybe that’s what he dreams about when he squeals and kicks his feet while in dream land.

(Tom Berenger also hates loud noises. The flash of paparazzi cameras gives him seizures. Good thing nobody cares about him anymore)

Sometimes I sit myself down and wonder if anyone cares about me. It can be a tough question to ask yourself. “Does anyone really care about me?” Of course people care about you. Your boss depends on you. That creepy fat woman you always see on the bus adores you. Even your government needs you once WWIII breaks out. All of them care. I care. Your existence gives me more hits to my blog. Everyone has a purpose. Yours might simply be numbers.

There’s caring about someone and then there’s caring for someone. Caring about someone means you don’t want them to die. That’s about the extend. Caring for someone means you go out of your way for them. You make sacrifices. When they feel pain you feel it too. Hopefully we all have people in our lives where this goes both ways. I like having people around who I can cry in front of and my tears alone make them cry. It’s powerful. It feels like we’re playing Simon Says. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery after all. Why is it? Because if you behave like someone it means you want to be them. You want to share the emotions with them no matter how bad. It’s a true sign that someone cares.

Even bigger than caring about someone or caring for someone is just plain old caring. You don’t even need to add anything else to it. Caring is much harder to find. I don’t think anyone truly cares. Before you stop yourself and do your best sighing voice with your hands on your hips getting all uppity, let me explain. I’m sure you care about me. I’m sure you care for me. Caring to me is caring about what I care about. Are you following along? It’s complicated. If it wasn’t complicated then I wouldn’t be writing about this to try to figure it all out. I had an epiphany while walking into WalMart about this. I get a lot of epiphanies at weird times. I also had another one very inconveniently. To keep things PG I will just hint that something that should have been hard went soft at the worst possible time. Use your imagination.

(I had showed up expecting to play hardball, but my friends wanted to play softball. I didn’t bring the right mitt!)

There are plenty of things in life I care about that are specific to myself. I care about the way I look. I know that seems shallow on the surface, but who doesn’t care about the way they look? Ugly people. That’s who. I just like to not only be told how awesome I look, I also like when people make an effort to make me look better. Buying me cool clothing or telling me when I have a stray nose hair can help me out with this. I also don’t really like being told I am handsome. Handsome men smoke cigars, gel their hair down, and sexually harass women with a smile. I don’t smoke anything, I barely comb my hair, and when I sexually harass a woman it’s with a baseball bat, not a smile.

(Winston Churchill with a cigar in his mouth looking very…handsome? Okay, there goes my theory about handsome men smoking cigars)

Another important thing in my life which is much less shallow are the people in it. Friend(s), family, and people who can be used for car rides places are all very valuable. It’s important that these people respect each other even when they don’t get along. I have had friends in the past who hated each other. It never bothered me much because I enjoy fighting and it never affected my friendships. At the very least it takes knowing who the important people in each other’s lives are to show that you truly do care. A name isn’t that hard to memorize. Half the guys I know are named Mike anyway. Know the role players in someone’s life and they will know you love them.

A big part of my life is writing. Like sometimes I worry it is what my social life has completely become. Not that I don’t mind most of the time. Words on a computer can’t cancel on you when you plan on going to the beach. A sentence has never told you she overslept when you were supposed to go out to breakfast and you really knew she was out hanging with someone else. I love when people take an interest into what I’m writing. Even if they think it’s terrible I appreciate any interest. Things I write are important to me because they are a part of me. Anything I write is me trying to communicate. When people do not take an interest then I feel as if it is no different from me speaking to them and being ignored. It’s a hard thing too because I am always interested in reading other people’s work. Sometimes it’s to see a train wreck. I would pay some people I know to try to be entertaining. I know they would fail. They were not born a monkey with cymbals like I was.

(All I’m missing is the fez and swollen pink feet)

Not only does it take an active interest in what is important to me to show you care, it also takes trying to get to know every little thing about me. I could never care about someone who doesn’t try to psychoanalyze me. I analyze everything. You should be the same way. You don’t have to be psychotic about it like I can get. What I believe is important is that you not only understand what I do, but also why I do it. Who was mean to me when which causes me to do certain things? I can never deny someone into my life who tries to “figure me out.” Here’s a little hint if you ever try to do such. I’m not as complicated as I seem to be. None of us are. We all want the same basic things. Mostly, someone who cares.

Immaturity is running rampant. Like an ad for a 1950s horror film, citizens are dashing out from theaters everywhere to get away from it. Being immature is fine. I’ve been known to say a silly goose thing here and there. When immaturity becomes a problem in my life is when you say things a 13-year-old might say. What do 13 year olds complain about most? Their gross start of puberty bodies! After that though it’s their parents. How much they hate them. How unfair they are treated. Unfortunately some people take a while to outgrow this hatred. Some people need to read this post and take away from it to grow the fuck up.

It’s fine to hate your parents. Lots of parents are scummy. I don’t believe everyone is even meant to be a parent. Charlie Manson would never be a great dad. Yeah he got his little family he put together to do whatever he wanted, but that doesn’t make someone a good parent. In order to be a good parent you have to be as much friend as you are authority. You need to know when to talk about feelings and when to roll your eyes at your kid for being such a shit. It’s hard and anyone who can pull off not having kids who completely hate them deserve an award. May I suggest a mug declaring they are number one?

(Excuse me, but I don’t believe Sylvester was a father .What’s a cat who wants to eat a wise cracking bird have anything to do with fatherhood?)

I never much hated my parents. Sure, there were things they could have done better. My mom could have bought me a jet ski and my dad could have paid for me to have jet ski lessons with a topless model. I will never forgive them for letting me down. To be perfectly clear I have no problem when someone complains about another human being. I think it’s necessary. When it becomes constant and excessive is when I get annoyed. Especially when it’s people you can leave. I remember Louis CK once saying something about how if you are ever in a relationship and you’re not married with kids then you should just leave. He’s right. Things are going to get worse. It’s true with parents. If you’re out of high school, leave. It makes your life harder sure, but no longer will you have those bullies in your life who seem to be preventing you from moving on.

Most parents really do want the best for their kids. A lot struggled to show it for whatever their issue is. I always know somebody is irresponsible when they complain to me about how their parents won’t let them do something. Sometimes the irresponsibility comes from the child not being trustworthy. Other times it comes from the child not being adult enough to find a way to do whatever it is anyway. If your parents don’t let you drink it probably means you have a problem with alcohol. I don’t know. Maybe a few months ago you got alcoholic poisoning at a concert in New York City. If you nearly died from doing something I cannot blame your parents for making you limit yourself. I once almost died during a bank heist. My parents told me not to go anywhere near a bank anymore because they were afraid I might get shot at again. It was annoying, but they were right. I probably would have killed another clerk if given the chance.

(I was the one in the brown suit disguised as Gary Busey)

When I moved out it was because I had no other options. More kids need to be put in this situation. I guarantee if my childhood home was still owned under the family name I would still be there. I never would have had reason to leave. It was comforting. Secure. Like a mother’s womb. As much as you mama haters will never admit it, you feel this comfort too. That’s why you let your parents boss you around and you never do a thing about it. Didn’t everyone used to run away from home and start rock bands? I know some people ended up dead in the streets. Still, live a little and take a chance. If you die you won’t care anyway because you’ll be dead.

The way you behave around your parents can to a certain degree represent how you behave around other people in your life. I hate yellers. Anyone who yells at anybody really scares me. My dad used to yell. It was scary for the first 5 seconds then he would start to drool. This made the whole thing humorous. People who have shouting matches with their parents means they do not have something called reasoning. You can’t reason with your own parents? Learn about compromise. And if they won’t budge then work your whole life to say “fuck you” when you turn 18 and get the heck out of Dodge. Stop being a wimpy baby. I always knew I didn’t want to turn into my uncle (58 still living at home) so I saved every penny I could and made sure I could make it on my own. I know not everyone has a creepy uncle to help inspire them to grow-up and plan out their futures. What a strange purpose in life for him to have. All he was supposed to do was be weird and make me look at him and say “yeah, that’s not going to be me.” Maybe someday he’ll date someone who can legally drink.

(My uncle would date anyone in this high school picture. Maybe not the gay guy on the far left. You always know a guy is gay when he has a lot of female friends and when holding the Asian one is stuck on armpit duty)

Take away from this that you cannot blame your parents for everything in your life. Especially once you get to a certain age. When you’re unhappy change it. Nobody deserves to be around people they don’t want to be near. Turn your childish hatred into motivation to become something greater. Quit complaining about your mama and your papa. You’re not them. They don’t have as much control over you as it seems. Don’t make yourself a whiny slave. Sojourner Truth had a cruel master and you never heard her once bitch about how her owner won’t let her go to the Blink-182 concert dressed like a whore.

It has been said it takes more than getting bent over a table than squirting a kid out from between your legs 9 months later to be a mother. It takes hard work. Dedication. Perseverance. A few more cliché words. Most of all it takes love. The unconditional kind. What does unconditional mean? It means without condition. Under no circumstances will they ever not love you. This isn’t always the case. Not all mothers are great. Some are mean and nasty. It is you, horrible mothers, who I would like to call out today. No longer will you psychologically damage your children. When I’m through you’ll have nothing to do but become an alcoholic vegetable obsessed with Jerry Springer storylines.

(My favorite Springer feud by far. Slut on the left was angry at slut on the right because an obese midget was the lust of both these drama queens)

A good mother supports their children’s decisions. When their dumb kid makes a bad decision they find a way to calmly tell them that they shouldn’t go to school for art because they suck. They’ll say something like “You’re so much better at cleaning up vomit. What’s wrong with being a janitor? You’ll be close to home and you always make kids smile.” We expect positive ideas from our moms. We like to be told that our dead animals will meet us in heaven. Even if that animal was a racist rabbit, we still buy into the adorable lie that we will meet again on the other side.

What a bad mother does is pour negativity into your life. The worst and most common thing I hear about is a mom who calls her daughter fat. What kind of monster would do this? When I say monster I mean the mom, not the morbidly disgusting daughter. Shouldn’t you encourage your child instead of poking? Join a gym together. Show support. The excuse I hear moms give for this is that “boys won’t date you if you’re fat.” Umm hello? Haven’t they seen that Marilyn Monroe Meme about her thighs touching? It’s a Meme for Chrissakes! The keeper of knowledge. If your child’s weight is so important to you the don’t pester them about it. Kids don’t respond well to that attitude. They get it enough at school. By the way, that Meme is irrationally irritating. Marilyn Monroe wasn’t known for having a nice body. The Kennedy’s fucked her face, not her stomach. There are much better examples of “curvy women” other than Marilyn Monroe. Don’t let someone who was an average actress, let men mistreat her, and blew her brains out be your role model.

(Well, yeah. For starters I’m not even sure who the person on the right is. How about you use a fair example next time before you try making some profound feminist statement. Like use someone recognizable)

I won’t go much into moms beating their kids. That’s just so incredibly heinous. Why would you hit your own kid? There are so many children in the world. If you really need to hit one, pick an orphan. They’ve got no one to tell. Horrible moms are more the verbal abusers of parents. I guess that’s true for people in general. Women fight more with words than they do with fists. Estrogen is much lazier than testosterone. There’s no excuse ever to hit your kid. You need a chair just to prop them up to get a good jab in there. When you need a milk crate for someone to stand on in order to beat the shit out of them, you shouldn’t do it.

Invasiveness is something else I don’t like about horrible moms. They’re snoopers. They go through their kid’s things and use it against them. This would be illegal if the government did something similar. You think the Patriot Act sucks? Try having a mom who reads your diary or flips through your porn collection of Ebony & Ivory. Usually people who lack the ability to give others privacy are so clingy to their own personal lives. You can’t lock your bedroom door but their door will always be locked. They’re hypocrites. The one thing a child can always spot is someone who says one thing and does another. Telling a kid they cannot eat Fig Newtons means that you better damn well not get caught eating Fig Newtons.

(I’m much bigger than a squirrel. If he can eat 4 of them I should be allowed at least 20 per serving)

I like to think deep down inside that horrible mothers do it out of love. They over-worry about their kids. They’re only looking to protect those things that tore their bodies apart, you. Horrible mothers are worried that you will make the same mistakes that they made. The only way they know how to stop you is to occupy your time with all of the bullshit they put you through. If you’re a mom, don’t be horrible. Treat your children with the same respect you would give to a dog, but slightly better. It’s not hard. If you think it is then probably are more than a horrible mother. You are a horrible human.

Imagine this opening paragraph appearing like the opening text to Star Wars. You know, that yellow slanted moving font that was impossible to read. Anyway, long ago in a town about 35 miles away, there was a family that lived next door to me. No. Not that family. The other side. The ones that were actually a family and not a woman who liked to cut down trees and sleep with men who drove dirty trucks. The ones on the right if you’re looking at my old house are the ones I’m talking about. This was a family who declared war on mine. Things never got out of hand, but they were entertaining enough for me to write about. Okay, that was not as epic as I had thought it would be. Kind of like the entire Star Wars franchise.

(Sorry, but I like the Ewok movies better. They got oozies!)

The family in question consisted of a mom, a dad, a daughter, and a son. The ideal for any family who is not Chinese. Their ideal family would be a son, a son, a son, and a robot. This family was nothing close to ideal. They were wretched. Being mean and aggressive was the way they chose to live their lives. And that brought out the demons in us all.

Mainly battles between our two clans took place over cat poop. They insisted that our cats were pooping on their property. I would argue today that the banks own property and that they should take it up with them, but back then I still had hope that Democracy was real. I’m sure our cats really were pooping on the lawn and I can see how that might be annoying. Even more annoying was when they would put the cat poop in a bag and leave it near our mailbox. No stamp was ever placed on the bag so it wasn’t like they were trying to send it anywhere. It would be ridiculous if they placed the stamp on the actual poop. How’s the mailman supposed to see that? Eventually things toned down and I’m sure there was a lot of yelling between parents that I never paid attention to. Our cats died and a few times we still had cat poop arrive at our mailbox. I think one time I threw it onto their roof. I don’t remember for sure. I do remember once when they were out at a soccer game I accidentally dropped a stink bomb and before it could fully shatter I broke it on their front door. They arrived home to a horrendous smell. A wonderful victory at my own hands.

(Holy shit! That finger print on the lens looks like a ghost cat. Children with large unibrows covering their eyes attract ghost cats too)

Another issue between us was that of balls traveling through the yards. We had an unwritten policy about returning balls to each other if we found them in our yards. Until they didn’t return one of my balls. Then it was fair game. My first dog Baylee popped a blow up ball of theirs. Another time, good o’le McGwire grabbed it and took it up to our deck. I remember sitting on the back deck while the kids next door were outside. At this point I was scary looking and fat. They weren’t about to ask me for their ball back so they just stood there hoping I could read minds. I can’t. So the ball sat on our deck until it slowly deflated itself. A perfectly good ball ruined because they were bitches.

(Who am I kidding? My backyard never had nearly this much grass. Only my family gets this)

I only remember going into their house one time. Their backyard, a few times, but actually inside once. I had returned home from school and neither of my parents were home. It was probably St. Patrick’s Day, Cinco de Mayo, or a work day when “mommy and daddy need a drink to help them with stress.” The neighbors let me hang at their house for about a half hour. All I remember doing was hiding under a blanket with the girl who lived there. Nothing happened. I didn’t want it to because I already knew their dirty secret. They were gummy bastards.

What is a gummy bastard? A gummy bastard is a next door neighbor of mine. More specifically, the family who had these strange things on the tops of each of their heads. The dad had it, the daughter had it, and the ginger son had it. I must have been playing a game of lice check with the daughter when I first noticed it. A big red deformity poking out of the top of her head. I poked at it because that seemed like the only thing to do. It felt like a gummy bear. But we certainly couldn’t call the family the Gummy Bears. They were not bears. They were bastards. Hence the name, the Gummy Bastards.

(I’d be a bastard too if my head contained delicious snacks I could not lick)

I’m not exactly sure why we really hated each other. I guess that’s just what neighbors do. You find things to be disgusted about one another. It’s natural though. When you are forced to see the same ugly faces everyday only feet away from where you rest your head at night, you’re going to grow to hate them. They were everything my family wasn’t. They were social, had family friends, athletic kids, their father smoked cigars instead of cigarettes like mine, the mom jogged while mine watched Dawson’s Creek, the daughter’s nickname was Cookie for some diabetic reason while my sister’s nickname was bear for reasons that made sense at the time, and their son was a Ginger while I had the hair color of champions, dirty blondish brown. All that separated us was a damn fruit snack on top of the head. Could it have been the source of their bastardness? The hair to their Samson. The genitals to their Ron Jeremy. The being married to the executive of E! to their Chelsea Handler. I can only speculate what it was. What I do know is that they were animal hating bastards. I hope a loud black family moved into our house you gummy bastards.

Imagine me sitting in a chair, possibly dressed nicely. I have a tie on because ties let you know that a man doesn’t have to treat a woman nicely. He can pay for sex if he wishes. That’s how much of a hot-shot I look. Perhaps I have a Bluetooth on too. I’m not talking into it. I’m too stupid to figure out how to use it. Sometimes I go out and walk around the park pretending I’m talking to someone. My made up friend Rico isn’t on the other end and the joke I’m pretending to laugh it doesn’t exist. I’m a crazy person trying to look cool. My pants are fancy, my shoes actually laced, and I’m wearing false teeth over my real ones to look more presentable. Try getting into an argument with dirty natural teeth. You probably won’t win. You need some milky whites to attain a flawless victory.

Why am I dressed up so fancy? Well because today is a serious day. One year ago today my mom passed away. I’ve been debating for a while whether I should write anything about it. It doesn’t really go with the theme of this blog, you know, shit humor, but if there was anybody who appreciated shit humor it certainly was my mom.

I didn’t know exactly what it was that I wanted to write about here. I figured it was a safe bet to write about some of her favorite things. Mostly what we enjoyed together or that one of us pretended to like more because it gave us some bonding time. Or in some cases we really didn’t just want to say how stupid the other one was for having awful taste.

Professional Wrestling

I don’t know how much my mom really understood about the WWE. At times I think she didn’t realize it was scripted or that The Undertaker was not dead and actually named Mark. She’d yell at the TV that what the bad guys were doing wasn’t fair. She always rooted for the good guys which annoyed me because I’m a smark, someone who roots for the bad guys. I’d almost want to punch her when she’d clap for HHH beating someone else. I hated HHH. His nose is gigantic and he’s a backstage goon who refuses to lose. Her favorite though was The Rock which I can’t argue with. Weird thing is neither of us watched wrestling when The Rock was popular. I think she mostly was into looking at him in tiny underwear more than anything else. One year for her birthday I got her a set of action figures of The Rock. Her last birthday 2 years ago I bought her a collection of “The Best of The Rock” a 3-DVD set. I mostly bought it because I wanted to watch it first then give it to her. I don’t think she ever did watch it, but that was probably a good thing. I never realized how much he lost. Mostly to that big nosed asshole HHH. Fuck you and your initial moniker.

 (Next year Wrestlemania should take place inside his right nostril)


This was another thing my mom paid attention to because I want into. We even got a dog and named him after Mark McGwire we were so into the 1998 season. More on that piece of shit dog later. We’d watch Phillies games together all the time in the late 90’s. During those years the team would lose about 100 games a season. You don’t need to know a thing about sports to know they weren’t very good. Her favorite player was the Jewish catcher, Mike Lieberthal. I’m not saying the team sucked because they had a Jewish catcher and their star pitcher was a Republican whose son had ALS, but I don’t hear it argued enough that they probably should have signed more Puerto Ricans. The last baseball game we watched together was during the 2009 World Series. I so totally could have hooked up with a girl that night who was into me, but I couldn’t let my mom down. We needed to see the Yankees buy their way into another championship. I don’t regret it at all. That hot chick probably would have tried to change the way I dressed. My mom once told me she was proud of me because I always wore clean clothes. It didn’t take much to impress her.

 (Mike Lieberthal rookie card)

The Popcorn Zoo

Last year on Mother’s Day my sisters and girlfriend (my girlfriend, I don’t share her with my sisters you creep) went to the Popcorn Zoo. I’ve mentioned it before, but I will repeat to you that it is a zoo of abused animals where you get to feed them popcorn. I know, holy fucking shit right? This exists! You can throw popcorn at bears and watch them eat it. The best animals there are the deer. They used to have some that had three legs. I have fed three-legged deer movie theater snacks. How many people can say that? Probably like a couple million because the zoo has been around a long time, but still I bet no one in Australia has ever done that. Have you ever seen a map? That’s a big place. I have done more in my life than everyone in Australia. My mom’s favorite animal there was Ferdinand the cow. He sent my mom a postcard one time because she made a donation to get him a bell or whatever it is cows need donations for. Feeding animals and not having to pick up the poop afterwards is one of my favorite things to do. That’s why the Popcorn Zoo will always be a place near and “deer” to my heart. Get it? Because I mentioned deer–

(Me feeding a goat a nutritious snack)


My mom would always rush home from whatever she was doing to catch the reruns of her favorite shows. I don’t think she watched a first run television show since the Ron Perlman shows Beauty and the Beast was on while I was born. Her favorites were King of Queens, Two and a Half Men, and Wings. What a Three Stooges combination of mediocrity. Strangely enough the only one of these that I ever watched a lot of was Wings. I kind of got into it too. It’s about two brothers who work for an airline on Nantucket. I know this sounds like the beginning to a dirty joke, but I swear it was a pretty tame show. Basically it was Taxi but with airplanes. They even had a silly repairman played by the bad guy from Spiderman 3 who was also the bad guy in George of the Jungle. Isn’t Thomas Haden Church also a prick in real life? You’d think with the last name church at worse he’d be a con-artist.

 (This is what cool people looked like in the early 90s. Y2K should have destroyed us)

McGwire the Dog

Lovable, sweet, adorable, and exciting are a few words I would never use to describe McGwire the Dog. When my mom passed the family was left wondering what we should do with McGwire. It was unanimous that we’d put him in the garbage disposal and blame it on a black guy who broke in. Then we realized none of us are fancy enough to own a garbage disposal so he came to live with me. He’s okay I guess. When I came home last I could smell him immediately. Sometimes he smells so bad I want to pour sour milk on him to make things better. And to torture him a bit for waking me up and being an overall fatass. He licks my couch a lot for some reason. It’s not even like there are food remnants there. I think he’s just trying to annoy me for when I sit down and my arm rest is soaking wet. But I guess he’s all right. He snores really loudly which gives me some background noise. It helps me avoid from being able to think. It helps keep away some demons.

(He looks like a fat deer on a giant lesbian shirt)

Those are just a few of the things my mother enjoyed. I could go on forever really. She liked bounty paper towels, Leslie Nielsen movies, and not using the Internet. Really, my mom probably didn’t go online since 2004. She used prepaid phones like a drug dealer and had no clue who the Chocolate Rain Kid was. She lived very simply. The only thing more I could have wanted from her was more time. One more conversation, one more trip to the movies together, one more blabbering voicemail that went on for 6 minutes about a joke on the Nick Swardson show that I didn‘t know existed, and one more of everything else I loved about her. I have a good memory and not much had to be blocked out involving her. She yelled at me twice that I remember and apologized after both. One time was because I was eating chicken instead of helping with the Christmas tree setup and the other was because I couldn’t match up a pair of black sweat pants with the black tuxedo that Alfred the Butler wore on a shirt I had which contained all of the Batman characters. I was only really nervous one time about sharing something with her. It happened when I was suspended from school for 9 days my junior year of high school for making a parody of the school newspaper. To be fair it was a book that she gave me that inspired my troublemaking ways. When she found out that I had been suspended from school there was no yelling. She high-fived me instead. That’s how I knew I had an awesome mom. She had never met the principal and even she knew he was an asshole.