Message to my 7th grade AP math teacher:

Ms. Harvey:

Would you please put some damn clothes on so I can study these quadratic equations? For god's sakes, this class is hard enough as it is without you prancing around in your tight-fitting preppy purple Izod shirt and your MASSIVE bosoms poking out every which way but Sunday.

I can't keep my mind on these VARIABLES... I've never seen nipples so strong... look like they're gonna spear right through the knit. Come on, boy! All you gotta do is solve for x and you can write your own ticket with this lady!

Spaceman, put the pedal to the metal and get the hell out of here!

Bounce, bounce, bounce off the atmosphere of my heart, you sweet thing! 

I'm taking you home with me. We're gonna get married, you and I. 

But we gotta fly, cuz the authorities are on the hunt for your missing person. 

I'm gonna be your loverbeing. 

I'm gonna show you the way to the center of the sun I'm gonna get you high. 

I'm GONNA MAKE YOU SAY GOODBYE... to that fool you call your man. 

He's such a stupid man-boy human with hairy arms and an unclean mouth. He won't stand a chance when I vaporize his brain. Not a chance in hell when I'm done with him. 

He's a dead man... a dead, stupid man-boy human with hairy arms, an unclean mouth and a soggy brain steaming in his skull. 

That's how much I love thee, my sweet earthling. You make me perform difficult tasks, tasks that creatures beneath us might consider unpleasant. 

The restraining straps aren't too tight, are they? 

Now hold on, Sugarpie... we gotta go.

Strange encounters with a first-time dad

“Don't look at Daddy's dick, sweetie.”

My 9-month-old daughter sat on the tile floor and watched me as I brushed my teeth. I did it just the way I had done for years – naked at the sink... and her gaze started to bother me. If that weren't bad enough, she climbed to a standing position, supported herself against my leg, and reached skyward for my cock!

Now, I had done nothing to provoke this – a guy's gotta brush his teeth. None-the-less my baby's searching hand had forced me past some terrible, unspoken line that prompted a full body spasm of defense far out of proportion to the threat.

I imagined a parade fathers: my dad, my grandpa, Governor Bill Ritter, the neighbor down the street, the social worker – all of them advancing on me, spurning, reproachful, disgusted, shaking their fists in a violent revulsion:

“YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH! NEVER LET THE BABY NEAR YOUR SHAME!”

No, no... of course not. The baby will be punished severely.

But wait a minute... That's not right.

I couldn't be the first guy to have blundered into his daughter's innocent curiosity about her daddy's junk. How had other fathers dealt with this? How did my dad do it?

To answer my own question: he didn't have to. My brother and I didn't pose the same kind of threat. Of course we weren't allowed to go grabbing and pinching his dick, but neither of us ever wanted to (Well, I guess I shouldn't speak for my bro.)

No, I mustn't be brutal about this. I mustn't be harsh, but what do I do? Think, man!

I told her, “Don't grab Daddy's junk, sweetie.”

That made her mother laugh, so I rolled with it and it grew into a running gag. But it didn't end there. Daddies have to change diapers, you see? And in case you didn't know, baby girls have tiny little crevices that are impossible to avoid when wiping up all the poop that seems to ooze out of their butts all the time.

I'm just doing my job, see? There's crap everywhere and I've read that women must be careful when wiping their asses so they don't get that nasty shit stuck in their junk, see?

So I do my best to clean my sweetie's junk – get the bits of blueberry and applesauce crap out of there so she doesn't get an infection or the clap or some kind of unpleasant yeast infection (I'm unclear about these maladies).

And I can't help but notice she's gazing up at me in a relaxed way. Staring right into my eyes. So I wonder if maybe she isn't enjoying this, which on the one hand is A-1, top-shelf, royally effed up... but on the other hand, who wouldn't like to have someone else hand-wash their privates?

Where do I sign up...? Just keep my Dad the hell away from me.

Apparently, incest hadn't entered my baby's mind at all -- probably because she has no shame. Nor should she. She's perfect in every way. Innocent on all counts.

I'm the one who must navigate the murky paths of shame for her. I'm the one who worries this could be weird (it's not.) I'm the one who has to remind himself that it's okay for a father to clean up his daughter after she's crapped all over the place. It's more than OK – it's required.

So maybe I've got a few hangups. Nothing serious, I hope. I can't be the only one.

Rap machine: test number one.

My lyrics don't rhyme
They never did and never will.
Poetry hates me
'Cuz I possess disdain
for quatrain and refrain
for hexameter and hyperbole
for simile
for meter.

My lyrics haven't the time to rhyme like fine wine between thine... hind... legs?
Senseless and fence-less, what-a-mess I've made of my pencils... and my papers.

My lyrics can't rhyme cuz they're slime and haven't a dime.

They're street, baby.

Romertopf: German for bone-dry pork loin.

Bought a Romertopf at a yard sale a few weeks back thinking it would be a perfectly eclectic addition to the family kitchen. You know -- delicious roasts on a bed of hearty vegetables... that kind of thing.

Well, I've learnt a lesson, and learnt it well:

You can't have delicious roasts on a bed of hearty vegetable just because you buy a two-dollar clay pot at a yard sale. No, sir. You still gotta know a thing or two about cooking.

Don't believe those Romertopf recipes that say you can't overcook meat in a clay pot. Trust me, you can.

It was so sad, too. It's a tragedy when pork is treated so badly.

You're such a beautiful Retro-Tech vintage stereo: I'm the only one who loves you.

Just look at her. She's gorgeous, ain't she? Can't stop gawking at her HUGE KNOBS, can you?

Neither can I.

Born 1978-1980, I remember the day she came to the house. She was unpacked with care, and BAM! -- just like that, the family was finally cool.

At least in my eyes.

Felt the same as buying an iPod three years after all your friends bought theirs. It was like: "Cool stereo, man! Yeah, thanks. We like it because of the quality."

When the parentals got divorced, we kept her in our house. My dad bought an identical model for his house -- only newer, and also a kick-ass dual tape deck. By that time, she had grown old and tired. No longer a novelty, but just a device to make sound.

They just don't make 'em like that no more. Can't believe I'm saying that, but what the fuck, it's true. Circuit City's like Houston and Las Vegas getting hitched at an outdoor wedding in a trailer park -- gawdy graphic displays and thousands of tiny buttons.

I'm not trying to launch the Space Shuttle, here. I just wanna rock a little. Click, click... BANG! Know what I mean?

Anyway, I had break out the lighter fluid and contact cleaner, dissassemble her piece-by-piece and clean out the 30 years of dust inside. She works like new. I think I'll call her Beulla.

Drunk behind the control stick

"I'm telling you, that planet came out of nowhere! I was just cruising along, you know, lookin' at the stars, and WHAM! Just like that -- I was, like, "SHIT! Did I just hit a planet?!"


Spaceman peered at the trooper's prowler stationed outside his cockpit, but he couldn't see the officer inside. They had been communicating over TicketNet, the official communication platform used by traffic officers in this sector of the galaxy. It was new technology, and it was quite effective at insulating officers from the influence of a traffic violator's emotional appeals. Spaceman was unable to catch a glance from the cop. Spaceman felt he needed every advantage he could find. He was stoned to the bone.

"I mean, there was NOTHING I COULD DO. It just happened so fast," he added.

The officer's voice, laden with static in the speaker: [How fast were you traveling?]

"Oh, not fast... The speed limit, you know... Maybe a little faster," Spaceman stammered.

[How much have you had to drink?]

"What? Nothing. Totally. Well, a couple of beers, like, maybe an hour ago..."

[A couple of beers, sir?]

"If that."

[Would you move your face closer to the cockpit window so I can scan you with the Booze-a-tron?"

"Now officer, I really don't think any of this is necessa..."

[I'm not going to ask again. My lasers are trained on your cockpit. Should you refuse to cooperate, I will be within my rights to open fire... ]

"Wait, wait, wait, wait! It's not like I did this ON PURPOSE! It's like I said, it couldn't be helped! Nobody could have avoided this."


[You hit a planet, sir. You've caused considerable damage on the surface. Many people down there are upset. Now please, move your face to the cockpit window. I need to scan you for intoxicants.]

Spaceman slowly moved his right hand to the thruster control by his thigh. The cop's prowler seemed small to him, possibly only a local bird. It was possible he could get a big enough jump on him to reach the sector boundary before they called in reinforcements. His thumb hovered over the thruster release.

[If you attempt to flee, sir. You will be killed. Reinforcements are already dispatched. You won't make it.]

Spaceman slumped in his seat.

[I've engaged my Imbecilitron, sir. The device reads minds of thugs and idiots like yourself. No offense, sir -- I personally don't think you're an imbecile. However, the device only functions in the presence of certain brainwaves found predominantly in beings of low intellect. It's so effective, in fact, that we were alerted when you entered the sector. We knew you were going to do this long before you did. All we had to do is wait.]

An ode to Botas Rodeo: America's Garage Band

Never a lead repeated, never the same beat twice
Never a ballad sung softly, as our tube-amplified strings scream so loudly!

when our fingers fumble o'er the frets and sticks of our quality instruments,
We sometimes stumble, mumble, and produce a clever lick.

Listen!
You might detect a hint of brilliance,
buried beneath all that lack of practice.

Hey...
They don't call it "garage sound" for nothing.
And besides, we're not trying to re-invent the wheel.

We just want to rock...
most Thursday nights,
from about 7 p.m. to midnight.

And if you're anything like us,
you'll be fucking amazed
that four married white guys could sound as good as we do...

Let's make a new list, for lack of anything better to do...

An exercise in thee, thine and thou:

1) How I lust for thee.

2) Methinks thine loins burn for me...

3) Wouldst thou slather thine loins with Cool Whip (registered trade mark) and permitest me to enjoy thine delights?

4) Art not thou horny?

5) Wouldst thou accept my deepest apologies, then?

An uplifting, positive list: Horrible things that never happened.

So, I was walking down the street today when the thought struck me like a 15-pound, spiral-cut, smoked ham lobbed into my face from a passing car:

"I didn't get killed by a terrorist today."

So I continued with that groundbreaking thought:

"Say! I don't think I've EVER been killed by a terrorist, nor do I know anybody who was."

What a lucky man I must be.

I have been spared from the obvious, imminent threat of terrorism for all these frightening years. Not one suicide bombing, not one hijacking, not one hint of jihad. I've also never been car-jacked. Hell, I've never been jacked in any way.

I've never been shot by a teenager wielding a legally purchased firearm, nor have I had the need to kill a drug-crazed child-molestor in self defense. My baby, who has yet to be molested, has never come close to strangling herself in a large plastic bag. She hasn't drown in a swimming pool, either. And I'm certain she's never been abducted and held hostage by a strange family of scary foreigners.

But wait, there's more:

- None of my friends have been killed by drunk drivers.
- I haven't gotten divorced
- I don't live on the street, feeding my wife and baby from restaurant dumpsters.
- I haven't been forced into a life of gay prostitution.
- My family hasn't been kidnapped by desperate escaped convicts, forced to be the unwilling passengers in their stolen Chyrsler Newport as they flee from an angry convoy of police officers.
- I haven't contracted cancer, AIDS or herpes.
- I have never -- even in childhood -- been offered a candy apple with a razor blade hidden inside.
- I've never drown from intense cramps caused by swimming immediately after eating.
- High taxes have never forced me into bankrupcy.

It goes on and on like that. Terrible things that scare the crap out of me -- not one of them has ever happened.

I'm beginning to wonder if they ever will.

Pushin' buttons all day long... pullin' levers all night!

"That's the way we do it around here, Deuce Fuego. We work hard for our rewards."

"But the big dance is tonight, Mister Foxtrot! Jane Hamilton is waiting for me! I got to go!"

"Just 'cause you want to dance all night with Mary Jane Panty-dropper don't mean there ain't a ton of work to be done around here. Understand what I'm sayin' Mr. Wiggly Hips? Mr. Kevin Bacon?
If I were you, I'd dance myself over to the chicken shredder and get busy! Them leghorns ain't gonna shred themselves."

"This sucks, boss. After I get done shreddin' these chickens, I'm going straight to the ballfield, where I'm gonna shoot myself in the face with my uncle's sling shot!"

"Sounds like a fine way to wrap up an honest day's work, Deuce."

Geosynchronous orbit is a lousy place to pressure your date for sex

I've taken this girl about as far as she will go. She sits there in the passenger seat, tiny tee and short skirt, legs crossed and hands clasped tightly on her lap. We're 22,000 miles high in geosynchronous orbit over her parents' house, and nudity doesn't appear to be an option.

"The force is strong in you. Why don't you join me on the dark side?"

Her head shakes no.

"We could do wonderful things together."

No, again.

"I'll let you fly."

No.

"You know, I flew a thousand astronomical units to get here tonight. I'd have thought you might show some appreciation, but I guess I was wrong. It tears me up inside. I'm tempted to kill the engines right now. If I do, we'll both plummet to Earth in a fiery ball of sad, sorry death, but at least we'd be together forever. Is that what you want?"

It's late. Past her curfew. She just wants to go home.

"Fine, then. I'll take you home. But don't wait around for me to come calling. This extraterrestrial don't phone home no more."

This baby will whup yo' ass...

... if you don't step off now.

A couple of points

1) Although I'm still sexy, my vision is no longer perfect.

2) I am now 37.