NBA Bound. Ready to Impregnate the Prom Queen

When I get yelled at by Mommy-Know-It-Alls who think I’m being too physically rough when playing with my small boys, what I tell them is sometimes life is rough. I want my sons to begin learn that life is hard, sometimes you lose, and things don’t always go the way you want it. You’ve got to have thick skin and you’ve got to be tough to make it in this world. You can play nerf football with a child so that he doesn’t break his nose when he misses a catch, but you can’t nerf the world for him when he grows up.
As a teen, I learned that you can’t nerf the world when a school bully stuffed my head in a shit-filled toilet and flushedit. In junior high, at the age of 13, when most kids started turning into men, I had the body of an eight year old anemic boy with a tape worm and the face of an acne infested computer whiz. I sustained more beatings than Tina Turner and Rihanna added together and multiplied by Ray Rice’s wife, and I was called so many different horrible nicknames that I forgot my real name for at least a decade. I was locked inside school lockers and left there. I’ve had so many wedgies that I actually learned a strategy for making them less painful (you just relax and breath and let it happen, resisting only makes the pain worse) People often ask me why I don’t wear underwear. I typically give some bull-shit answer about wanting to feel free down there. But the truth is that I’m scarred. Just looking at a pair of tighty whities gives me horrific flashbacks to the wedgies of yesteryear. I was beaten up many times. Most of the time it was because I had a big smart mouth and a tiny little body. I would never advocate for bullying, but I recognize that bullying serves a purpose. From the beatings I recieved, I became tougher. You can’t hurt me with words at this point in my life; it’s simply not possible. Physically, I’ve become a pretty tough guy. Ive boxed, I know how to fight, I’ve survived nine neck surgeries and at 44 years old I still rock climb and work out daily. But as a kid… well, I could take physical pain, but I wasn’t very mentally tough at all.
Of all the embarrasing stories of yesteryear, one in particular stands out. It was late fall of 1989 in Berwick, Pennsylvania. I was a 16 year old junior in high school. It was a typical December day in PA, 22 degrees but it felt like negative 400. You couldn’t spit while outdoors because, inevitably, some of that spit would freeze to your face and everyone would assume that you’d walked into school with a fresh load on your face. High school football season had just ended, so most of the town was cranky and bored because high school football was the only thing the town had going for it back then. Basketball season had started weeks earlier; we had one win and seven losses, but it didn’t matter, because the football team had finished state finals and tonight was the first night the football players would rejoin our team and save us from a disastrous season.
I was the starting point guard up until the football players returned; which was nice, but it was really no big deal, because I had bigger things ahead of me. I was on my way to becoming the world’s next Spud Webb… Unless I got another growth spurt, then I’d be the world’s next Larry Bird. Either way, one day, probably in five or six years, I’d be in the NBA (depending on if they let me come out of college early or not). Otherwise, I’d just wasted half my youth spending countless lonely nights working on my jumpshot at the school playground with spit freezing to my face and my dick occasionally freezing to my ballsack (yes, that can actually happen if you get sweaty in freezing weather).
Anyway, I was the proud owner of a Larry Bird/Magic Johnson rookie card, which is now worth some money, or it would be, if I hadn’t torn it into three separate pieces. This card was an old style basketball card that had three players on it and perforations between the players. I’d cut Magic and the other guy off my card because Magic played for the Lakers, and as far as I was concerned, he was pretty much either Satan, or Satan’s butt buddy. I laminated Larry, and stapled him to the inside of my jersey for luck.
In hindsight, this is stupid for a few reasons:
1 – Stapling something to the inside of a piece of athletic clothing is self-mutilation. By the end of every game I’d have a bloody nipple, and by mid-season my left nipple was so calloused that it could deflect bullets.
2 – There’s really no good reason for an adult male, after the onset of puberty, to carry a basketball card around with him.
Moving along─
We’re getting blown out by the opposition. I started the game as point guard because the coach was trying to be loyal to those of us that had been there since the start of the season, but since the football players were back, my start lasted about 30 seconds, and then I was pulled out for a football player we all referred to as “Star Man.” Star Man was a great athlete with a man’s body, and I was a 5’8” boy that was built Ann Coulter, but with less muscle, so even though I had a sick cross-over and a mad jumper, I couldn’t complain. Regardless, we made a late run in the fourth quarter to get closer. Star Man got in foul trouble and I got back into the game. Then, myself, and two other guys, in successive possessions, drained three pointers to pull to within two points. There was ten seconds left, and the other team was inbounding the ball. We had no timeouts.
They inbounded the ball, my teammate rattled the ball handler and forced him into making an awkward pass. I cut into the lane, stole the ball, and dribbled down the court. I was about to make the tying lay-up to send it to overtime. Of course, in overtime, I’d win it for us and be carried off the court by my teammates and delivered into the wanting arms of the hottest hottie of all hotties from our high school, a beautiful Italian girl with light olive skin and hair that was personally woven by the Virgin Mary. Her name was Claudia. Impressed by my athletic prowess and 7” biceps, she would dump her Quarterback boyfriend, fall in love with me, and we’d probably make, like, seventeen babies, because not even birth control could stop our powerful chemical attraction. I was playing out this scenario out in my head on my way to the basket; however, the guy whom made the pass had an angle on me. As I went up for the shot, he lunged at me and took out my legs. Nowadays, they’d call it a technical foul. But not back then because people were not such whiney babies back then, and athletes understood that sports were physical. Anyway, a regular foul was called. Immediately, I bounced to my feet, fueled on adrenaline, testosterone, and love.
There is one second remaining.
The other team called timeout to ice the shooter.
You can’t ice me. I’ve got mother fucking ice in my veins, mother fucker! I eat dry ice for lunch and wash it down with frozen Mercury. You can’t fucking ice me!
Our coach said something in the huddle.
I didn’t hear a word of it. I was thinking about the high fives I’d be getting from my teammates and the hugs and kisses from Claudia after I won the game for us. I was thinking about all those douchebags that had given me swirlies in 8th grade that were now watching from the stands- boy was I going to show them. I was smiling in the huddle, the coach kept talking. He sounded like Charlie Brown’s parents. “Whmp, wha, whmp, whmp.”
Maybe Claudia will want me to take her to a beer party. Or maybe Lisa (last year’s hottie of the year) will hear about my game winner, and come home from college just to make-out with me.
“Matt!” he yells.
“What Dad!?!” Yes, my dad was the coach, did I not mention that?
“You hear me?”
“Now, do what I said! But first, get out there and make those shots!”
“They’re already made,” I said.
Now, when I reflect on what happened next, I still get embarrassed. It creeps me out that I actually did something this weird. These days, when this haunts my dreams, and I do still dream about this moment, upon waking up, I try to convince myself I learned valuable lessons from it. But other than not being an over-confident ass-hat, which I still tend to trend towards, I still don’t really know what those lessons are.
I stepped up to the foul line, the ref hands me the ball, and I put the ball on my hip to strike a pose. I looked at everyone in the game. I eyed the ref. I looked back at my dad. I found my Pop Pop in the stands and gave him a confident nod.
Then, without planning it, or even thinking about it, I reached inside my jersey and ripped out the Larry Bird card. I looked deeply into the eyes of the guy who fouled me, locked eyes with him, showed him the Larry Bird basketball card, and said, “I’m gonna bury these shots just like Larry!” Making sure that I was speaking loudly enough for everyone in the gym to hear.
People laughed.
And when I say people, I mean the other basketball players. And when I say the other basketball players, I mean my teammates. My own teammates were laughing at me.
“What are you doing?” the referee asked, not really sure if I was breaking any rules or not. I’m certain that if you check the annals of basketball history, I was setting a precedent.
The rest of the story doesn’t really matter, I mean, even if I’d made the shots, I’d still be a total dickwad dorkface… but maybe a dorkface of a lesser degree; I dunno, that’s all hypothetical, because─
I put the card in my shorts pocket, took the ball off my hip, winked at the guy who fouled me, lined up the shot, and then-
I clanked it off the back of the rim.
The horn sounded. We lost.
No high fives.
No Claudia.
No beer party.
No Lisa.
My Dad wouldn’t even look at me.
Even my Pop Pop, a man who would hug his grandchildren and try to suck on our necks to the point of giving us literal hickies every single time he saw one of us, my Pop Pop, the world’s most positive minded person to ever roam the earth, the man who used to tell us, as children, that our farts, “smelled like roses to him,” even that man couldn’t think of anything positive to say. I approached him because nobody else wanted to be near me. “Hey Pop Pop,” I say, head hung low, dejected, looking for a pick me up from good ole’ Pop Pop…
“Umm, yeah. Hey, Matt. Ummm, see you later,” he said. And rather than a hug, he patted me on the back like I were a leper, and then he left, probably hoping that nobody saw him touching me allowing them to make the connection that we might share genetics.
On a positive note, I stopped going to the basketball courts by myself to practice, my dick never froze to my balls again, I started running more, I went to a few beer parties, kissed a few girls, became a track star, and got a Division I track scholarship.
Maybe none of that would have happened had I buried those free throws. Maybe I’d be an even bigger jag-off than I was becoming. Maybe I’d have continued to chase the illusion that I was become an NBA star and impregnate Claudia with seventeen children. Even so, I’d gladly trade in the track scholarship to have made those two free throws, and to have had the common sense to not pull out that damned Larry Bird card.
And as you read this, think about me, right now, sitting in my chair, at my computer, writing this story, and blushing like a 22 year old virgin who’s just seen his cousin’s boobs. (And no, that’s not a story of mine, just a metaphor)
It takes confidence for me to share such an embarrasing story.
This is the type of confidence I hope for my son’s to aquire, without having to sustain so much pain along the way.

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Naked Yoga

I’m of the life philosophy that if I have an opportunity to do something new and different, and that it isn’t likely to cause me harm or harm anyone else, then I should probably take that opportunity and live that experience.
That’s why, when I saw something online about naked yoga in Venice, I had to jump at it. I’m not much into yoga, but I am into weird, so this had my name all over it.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I had big hopes.
Warning: before reading further, please know that this story is about to get weird. I don’t want complaints…

You’ve been warned…

There were eleven students in all. There were six girls, and including myself, five guys. The first thing I noticed was our teacher was exactly what you’d want out of a naked yoga instructor. I mean, when Jesus invented naked yoga in the hot desserts of Israel, this was the woman he knew he’d chosen to build his naked yoga church upon. I was completely prepared to quit my job, leave my family, and embark on a life-long commitment of praying to her beautiful temples.
Too much?
Let me dial back the sexual innuendo a bit, because, if I’m being honest, it turns out that naked yoga is pretty fucking far from sexual.
After the fit teacher, the second thing I noticed was that, for a 44-year-old man, my testicles were in much better shape than most. Well, at least in better shape than this group of naked misfits. Looking at naked dudes doesn’t bother me. Naked dudes looking at me doesn’t bother me. I’m very comfortable with nudity and have never really understood why people get so hung up on it. That said, no man should ever have to see another man’s testicles splayed out on the floor below him when he’s aggressively attempting a deep haunuman split.
Also, I wouldn’t have believed you if you suggested it before this class, but I learned that it’s very possible to see too much of a girl’s vagina.
More about that later… Moving on.
Our brave yogi leader started the class by acknowledging the awkwardness of the nudity and explained how the class was designed to help us get comfortable and confident with our naked bodies.
Then she mentioned how, very often, someone in the class will become aroused and that, when that happens, we should just go on about our practice and not make an issue with it.
Okay then. I knew random boner guy wouldn’t be me. The mere suggestion of the phenomina and subsequent humiliation that would come along with sporting wood in front of everyone was so embarrasing to me that my penis immediately tried to crawl back up into my body to hide.
I guess I wasn’t as body confident and comfortable as I had thought.
I’m a married man, so it’s not like I was in there trying to make some magic happen, but I really hoped nobody noticed the fact that my penis was turtle shelling and my face was as pink as the… well, let’s just move on.
We went into some deep breathing and then began some sun salutations. A sun salutation starts with a breath, then mountain pose, then uttansana flat back, moving on into a plank, into a chaturanga dandasanda, into a cobra, then downward facing dog, a step into a forward bend, and then return to start position to start over.

If you aren’t familiar with those names, don’t feel bad, I’m not either. Basically, you reach for the sky, then touch the ground, move into a serpent pose, and then you present your butt high in the air while keeping your feet and hands on the ground. Anyone with a Pornhub account knows exactly what this looks lik. They call that downward facing dog. In my home, we call that Saturday night with the kids away at a sleep-over.
Anyway, It’s a nice way to get warmed up… when you have clothes on.
But when your dingle dangle is jangling all out and free, as you move from a low plank into a serpent position, you get some quality friction on the ribbed yoga mat, which, combined with the blood flow thats going through your warming body, combined with the nearly perfect tokus of the sun-stained surf hippie who’s in downward dog about 36 inches from your 3 o’lock, and you have pretty much the right ingredients to get your shy little turtle guy to come out of his shell.
At any rate, we did the sun salutations for about ten or fifteen minutes and it achieved exactly what it was supposed to do; it completely emptied my head and put me into my own little yoga zen mode. I might as well been in that room alone, I was immersed in my practice, and completely lost in the buzz of euphoric serotonin blasts.
Not for one second did I lose myself in that class. I was doing naked yoga with ten other naked people, and that, along with the stench of sweaty naked bits, was overpowering whatever it is that yoga is supposed to accomplish for ones peace of mind.
I don’t know what the rest of the poses were that we did in the class. I honestly can’t remember. The situation was so odd that I wasn’t really able to pay attention to the instruction, and instead I tried to use most of my powers of concentration to not stare at the other people.
Or at least to not get caught staring at them.
So, about the other people; the class was a mixed bag. As mentioned, there was the teacher, hand-picked by Jesus himself. There was the sun-stained surfer/hippie girl, whom I noticed had very long and very blonde armpit hairs.
That was probably the least unusual thing about anyone in the class. If I’m being honest, she was the most normal of all the students. Myself included.
One of the girls wasn’t really a girl at all, but more like an old-lady… probably sixty-five or seventy, but maybe ninety; hard to say. Her skin was a rich leathery brown, her old lady boobs looked like the kind of old worn-out sweatsocks that Larry Bird would’ve worn in 1985, except that these sweatsocks were being stretched to their limits by two gigantic softballs that were hanging in the ends of them. Actually, one sock had a softball and one had only a baseball.
There was a pregnant lady, and she wasn’t, like, two months pregnant, we’re talking 3rd trimester pregnant, deep into it, possibly in class with the hope of giving birth to her weird hippie baby right in the middle of naked yoga in Venice. There was a guy that looked to also be in his third trimester that appeared to be with her, but it’s possible that he was just a fat guy that was flirting with her. It’s also possible that he was actually in his 3rd trimester. I mean, we are talking about Venice California here.
There was a black girl who was legitimately the darkest person I’d ever seen. She stood at least 6’5” and had to be 200 pounds. If we lost power in that room, she would be invisible and she could take us all out in mere seconds. I wondered if that was her master plan. She’d been sent by the Westboro Baptist Church to assassinate the sinners. That said, she didn’t have an ounce of fat on her. She looked like a vampire from Blade that had come up against Wesley Snipes, killed him, sucked out all his blood, absorbing his skin pigment, and doubling her size in the process. In this day and age of political correctness, I don’t want to use the descriptor “Amazonian,” but I honestly can’t think of a better descriptive word for her. I dunno… maybe we could go with intergalactic superhero from planet SRC-32. Other than our teacher (hand-picked by Jesus) she was the most attractive person in the class.
There was a beautiful Asian girl with skin that looked like she had had been bathing herself in coco butter since birth, she had soft subtle breasts, and long flowing perfect Asian hair that almost always angers black and white girls. It angers them so much that they eventually run out and buy it for their own heads. Then, next to her, by contrast, another beautiful Asian girl, but this one with dreadlocks, and armpit hair. Exactly thirty-three percent of the female students of this class had armpit hair.
Not surprising at all.
The surfer/hippie blonde with armpit hair didn’t surprise me one bit, but the Asian with the armpit hair threw me off. She was more awkward than the pregnant woman and the pregnant dude that was hitting on her.
And it got worse than that.
While sitting in sukasana, with her bare buttocks on her sweaty rubbery yoga mat, this pitted Asian girl farted.
And it was loud.
And wet.
This fart sounded exactly like it sounds when my 7-year-old tries to fake a gross fart noise with his mouth.
And it smelled.
It smelled the way you would expect a fart to smell coming from a girl with armpit hair.
Like old dates and boiled asparagus with a subtle hint of patchouli.
Now, the teacher had warned us how to behave if anyone happened to get “excited” (and someone did; I’ll get to that later); however, she didn’t give us advanced instructions on how to handle it when an attractive Asian with armpit hair and dreadlocks farts out of her bare buttocks onto her moist rubbery yoga mat when she’s three feet away from you on your left side.
So, not being properly educated on the do’s and don’t’s of naked yoga farts, I did what I always do when someone farts in public. First, I laughed, and then I said “not it.”
There was an old man with a giant, dense gray man bush that completely hid what was most likely a micro-penis and he also caught the giggles. I felt the entire class was about to share a special moment and bond over this beautiful fart when Jesus’ little helper stepped in to ruin our fun.
“Making air is normal and natural and healthy. It’s the body trying to cleanse itself of toxins.”
“Yeah, and now we all might have toxic shock,” I thought to myself.
The old man to my right with the giant gray old man bush stood up at this point and said, “this is weird. I’m leaving.”
And then he left.
He was right, it was weird. If you came to see some sexy naked girls, you’d be better off going to Bare Elegance or something like that. If you came for the exercise, you’d be better off going to clothed yoga, or, as the rest of the world calls it- yoga. The only reason in the world to come to naked yoga was to experience of the complete weirdness of it, so I don’t know why he stated this in such a way as to suggest that the weirdness had surprised him. I mean, what was this old man thinking? He’d come to naked yoga, impress some young 22-year-old Asian with armpit hair by the amount of bend in his hips during his downward dog? That she’d be wowed by his micro penis, leave with him, and they’d spend the rest of his short life making love in his dirty studio apartment in Venice?
Yes brother, it’s weird! That’s the whole point.
At any rate, I thank that old man for laughing with me so that I wasn’t the only one, and I also thank him for his micro-penis. It made me feel much better about my situation. I mean, I think he had a micro-penis buried somewhere in that gray fur disaster, but I couldn’t actually see anything through that dense forrest of depression and I didn’t have a weed whacker handy, so I’ll never know for sure.
The forth guy in our class obviously came just to show off, during halasana (a pose in which you lie on your back and put your legs up over your head) he was not too shy about the fact that his little buddy was kissing his collar bone. The fifth guy, who, unfortunately had his yoga mat right next to halasana man barely had enough penis weight for it to even hang in the downward position when doing halasana. One of them was black and one was Asian, but I’m not going to say who was who because we don’t do racial stereotypes here; it’s not that kind of story.
During the final sequence of the class is when I made the executive decision that it is possible to see too much of a vagina. I mean, with third trimester lady directly in front of me, I saw more than I’ve seen of a woman’s vagina since The Bride gave birth to our second son.
The guy with the pregnancy fetish started getting wood. He had a solid 50% boner and was on his way to 75%. It was way more awkward than was armpit hair farter. If he gained another 10% in volume, he was going to eclipse me.
That shouldn’t have mattered to me, but shit, I’m competitive, so I couldn’t let that happen. I tried working up a twenty percenter. I didn’t want to sport anything serious; I just wanted one of those first stagers that sort of takes the wrinkles out of the little fella. I mean, there was nothing erotic about this class, but my competitive inner male monkey was starting to surface and take over. I knew I stood no chance against halasana collar-bone dick dude, but I was clearly the favorite to come in second place, and I had to think that counted for something. Anyway, I just couldn’t get anything working, nothing. And pregnancy perv totally got to about 75%, which put me in 3rd place, and now that micro-peni old man was gone, I was 3rd out of 4. I would’ve expected that to bum me out, but honestly, it didn’t. I was too busy being completely creeped out by the fact that this dude was getting erect, right in front of all of us, at the sight of 3rd trimester bent over in a downward dog, and he didn’t even seem to care in the slightest that we were all clearly judging him for his weird pregnancy fetish boner. I’ll never know for sure if the girl was with him or not, but I’m guessing not because when she caught a glimpse of his 75%er, she picked up her mat and left the class.
I won’t criticize her like I did the old man. I mean, there is such a thing as “too weird” and this guy went there.
I’m just wondering what the hell would lead a pregnant woman to go to a naked yoga class in the first place?
I won’t speculate. That only ever gets me in trouble. Let’s just say I found it odd.
Anyway, look, The Dad is here to do naked yoga and other kinds of things for your entertainment purposes. I do things, much of the time, just for the sake of doing them, living life, and coming out of it with a story. Some of the time, these things are amazing and I highly recommend them.
And some of the time, these things aren’t worth much. They turn out to be nothing more than an Asian hippie dropping a wet fart bomb followed by a pervo with a pregnancy fetish sporting wood, and I’ve taken the bullet for you.
I do not recommend naked yoga. Unless you really want to see a real life micro-penis or you have the desire to see what a baby’s head looks like while it’s still in utero, or unless you just want the experience for the experience, there’s not much to be gained from naked yoga. If nudity is your thing, skip it, grab some beers, spend a day on a nude beach playing volleyball. If your not into nudity, then skip the nude beach and just go play some volleyball.
Either way, thumbs down on naked yoga.
But it does get a 9.5 out of 10 on the weird scale, and that’s worth something.


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Conversations Married People Have

Her- “My bathing suits don’t look good on me anymore.”

Him- “Yes. It’s their fault. Those ass-holes.”

Her- “Don’t be a jerk!”

Him- “I think you look beautiful. I like all your new curves.”

Her- “Not helping.”

Him- “All I’m saying is that the bathing suits look the same as they did last year. If you don’t like how you look in them, then fix it.”

Her- “How?”

Him- “You know how. Exercise more. Eat less.”

Her- “I do.”

Him- “More.”

Her- “I do.”

Him- “Then I guess you’re doing all you can. The situation is hopeless.”

Her- “See, just be on my side. That’s all I want.”

Him- “Noted. The fucking bathing suit is an oppressive devil and the way you fight an oppressive devil is with donuts and ice cream.”

Her- “Too far.”

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Peter the apostle walks into a bar…

Most rationale people look at something like Scientology and see it as being a cult. However, those same people might look at Mormonism or Catholicism and view them as completely legitimate ways of life. And that’s fine. To each their own.

However, if all “religions” agree that there is only one true God and one true way, then, by definition, doesn’t that mean that there is only one true religion, and the rest are all cults?

Seems to me the thing separating religion from cult is how long that particular school of practice has been in existence. I mean, most people agree that Scientology is a “cult” but that’s only because we have actual color photography of its founder.

I imagine if we had photographs of Peter the apostle throwing back brewskis with his boys and drooling over the wenchs serving their beer, that we might collectively decide that the Catholic Church is also a cult.

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Question Your own Beliefs

I ask questions.
I like to stir the pot.
I’m curious by nature.
I do it to my conservative friends and I do it to my liberals friends. I just don’t feel it’s a good idea to subscribe to an ideology and check off all the boxes down the line. When you do that, you aren’t thinking for yourself and reaching conclusions, you are simply following a doctrine that someone else put before you.
It’s no different than religion.
So, regarding all your beliefs, dig. Ask questions of yourself about why you believe what you believe, and instead of cultivating a bubble of like minded individuals, broaden your horizons by making friends, or at least having discussions, with people you disagree with.
Somehow, in the past five or six years, asking certain questions has become very taboo, and the method to shut it down has been to publically shame the person that is asking the questions or bringing an idea to the table that the mass doesn’t agree with.

During Marcarthyism, an era when people were being blackballed from society literally for doing something as small as reading a pamphlet about communism, an era that began to resemble Orwell’s 1984 more than we acknowledge, I believe I would’ve ended up getting blackballed. I would’ve investigated those communist ideas simply because society said they were just like I looked into religions outside Catholicism, in my early twenties, simply because my parents told me they were off limits.

In that same way, in today’s era, the left is pushing the public discussion to the point where anyone that questions their ideas gets slapped with the “alt-right” label. These people sometimes lose jobs and their lives are ruined. This is an era that is once again beginning to resemble Orwell’s 1984, an era where James Demore loses his job at Google simply for exploring the reasons that may have led to the tech industry being loaded up with mostly men, and an era where a girl, Justine Sacco, loses her job because she tried to tweet a joke about AIDS that offended people, and era when a guy (me) who’s married to an Asian, who has worked in the homes of citizens in Compton and Watts daily for 15 years trying to bring health and wellness to minorities in need, who is friends with far more people of color than white people, and sometimes gets mis-labeled as Alt-right for exploring ideas that the left has decided is off limits such as looking into reasons why poverty stricken black families, in the communities I work in, have so much harder of a time keeping their family whole than does the poverty stricken Mexican family across the street. I mean, merely trying to understand the facts behind something should not classify one as racist. You can’t fix a problem by treating the symptoms; you have to get to the root cause. I have transgendered people in my family and I have a transgendered friend, yet I’ve been called a homophobe for questioning whether or not its scientifically possible to be born with the sex of a brain that’s different than your chromosomal make-up, biological differences between the sexes, etc). Yes, we should accept people; that’s important. However, this is a group of people that is suffering and in pain. Merely accepting them isn’t going to heal their pain. Let’s find out exactly why they are in pain so that we can fix it.

Fifteen years ago, I used to consider myself a liberal, but only because I felt that the right, with all their Christian doctrine, was regressive, stifling, and anti-freedom and free-speech.

Now, that tide has turned, and the more I get called names, the more it pushes me to explore these ideas they say are off limits.

We need free speech, we need to be able to discuss ideas and explore ideas. We need truths. Truth is more important than political correctness, and if we are kind to one another and if we can learn how to talk to one another with respect, then we can arrive at the truth without being aggressive and without hurting one another.

Taking away our freedom of speech is probably the single greatest threat to taking away all of our individual rights. Once the freedom of speech is gone, you’re now a prisoner of the state. Just because something is offensive doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be discussed. Even people with bad ideas should have the right to share them.

At Berkeley college, a college that has done great things for moving this country into a more progressive state of mind, they are going overboard. They ban certain speakers from coming to their school. Why? Isn’t that the whole point of college? To hear ideas, to weigh them, and to form your own opinions? Isn’t that how we grow and learn?

Here’s a few topics that the left has decided are settled, topics that they’ve chosen a side on, a side that may be wrong, and a side that might be very bad for society.

Adopting someone’s culture and profiting from it is cultural appropriation and it’s wrong (I would argue that, actually, when groups of people live near each other and interact, they adopt one another’s cultures. They share their cultures, and it’s how we learn to get along and begin to have shared interests).
Blacks can’t be racist (Some people might that anyone can be racist. If you think you are better than someone else because of how much pigment is in their skin, or how much they are lacking, then you are racist).
Biological differences between sexes are a social construct and they aren’t real. (Anyone with children knows this isn’t true).
Affirmative Action is good and Reparations are needed (Maybe. Maybe not. Can we talk about it? Can we dig and look into the numbers and the history and see how it’s affected those who have received it?)
If she says it’s rape, then we believe her. It was rape. (We’ve already seen many cases when women have lied about rape. This seems like a bad idea. How about we consider fairly assessing each situation, and how about we do a better job of making women feel more comfortable about going to police, right away, so that we can get more evidence).

Look everyone,
You are not black.
You are not white.
You are not gay.
You are not straight.
You are a person that is capable of logic and reason and compassion and strength. Let’s recognize that there is only one tribe, the human tribe, and let’s have calm and rationale discussions about how to best get along and help society to continue to advance, and let’s do it without retreating into smaller tribes based on insignificant things such as how much melanin one’s skin contains.

Let’s stop with the identity politics and outrage culture that we’ve created recently. Life here really isn’t that bad, but we’re about to mess it up for ourselves. Let’s work together, talk, keep open minds, and reach conclusions and decisions that make the most sense for society as a whole. But never, ever, can we shut down discussion because we are “offended” or for any other reason. When we stop discussing, we stop growing, learning, and questioning.

This Bathroom is Not for “All-Sexes”

I know, I know, I know. Mom’s don’t get sleep when they have a baby. It’s tough, and they are tough for getting through it. I don’t know, maybe we men aren’t as tough. All I know is that, in those first few months, I nearly lost my mind and my business due to a severely impaired brain mechanism caused by the lack of sleep…

When my son, Keller, was about 2-months-old, it became obvious to me that he was a vampire. Typically, he slept through the days and stayed up all night, and his mother and I were becoming The Walking Dead. Parenting a vampire is extremely hard work, and I didn’t know how much longer I could handle it. To make matters worse, as I was approaching my breaking point, Keller got sick.
One evening, we put our baby vampire to bed, and at some point, in the middle of the night, he developed a nasty skin rash and explosive diarrhea and woke up screaming.
Startled, we flew out of bed and rushed into his room, fearful that he’d impaled himself on his Winnie The Pooh mobile.
For days, Keller was a pooping, projectile-vomiting, insomniac with a runny nose that created so much snot I worried he’d drown in it. But the worst part was the screaming. The never-ending, round-the-clock screaming.
He obviously hated me.
But that was okay because I hated him too. I also hated The Bride and her stupid uterus for having created such a stupid, asshole vampire baby.
No matter what we tried (and we tried everything), we couldn’t get him to sleep. I could’ve laid him on a bed made out of angel kisses and magical fairy boobies and he still would’ve screamed through the night.
After three or four sleepless nights of caring for a sick baby, the crazy started creeping in. One more exploding diarrhea diaper and a seemingly normal mother could reach the point where she completely loses it and drowns her own child. Luckily for Keller, The Bride is an amazing woman, capable of incredible, death-defying, parental feats. Somehow, she survived being alone with Keller during the days, while I escaped to work. I’m pretty sure the government doesn’t give out medals of bravery to mothers, but they should. I’m more likely to become a superhero with flame shooting nipples than I am to survive handling a sick baby all by myself, 24/7, the way The Bride did.
Though The Bride provided the majority of care to our sick baby vampire, when I was home, I had to help. Unfortunately, I didn’t possess The Bride’s patience. One night, he screamed, non-stop, for three hours. I became unhinged and started yelling at him, “Stop being such an asshole! You asshole!”
I am not proud of this.
However, I felt much better afterwards.
The only way I could get Keller to stop crying was by singing to him while waltzing around the apartment with him. Literally. I had to waltz. Merely walking around the apartment with him, or bouncing him, or singing to him failed to soothe him. So, I waltzed around the apartment while softly singing the theme song from The Flintstones, which, for whatever reason, was the only tune that came to mind at 4:30 AM.
The next morning, I was beyond exhausted. I’d gotten a total of six and a half minutes of sleep and I felt like I was moving through a thick fog made of the moist farts of the naked old men who are always in the locker-room at my gym. I was too tired to take a stand-up shower, so instead, I took a bath. While bathing, I tried to drown myself; however, I was too fatigued to hold my head under water long enough to die.
That day, The Bride called the doctor, and he recommended that we give Keller cold baths until his fever came down. Of course, I was the one saddled with the responsibility of giving Keller his cold bath because The Bride is Keller’s favorite, and she wasn’t about to do anything that would risk her ranking. I remember my father forcing me to take those horrific, fever-reducing, ice-cold baths; they were traumatic, and I felt horrible subjecting Keller to this torture. As I put him in the bath, he screamed and fought. Once he realized he couldn’t overpower me, he looked at me with puppy-dog eyes as if to say: Please Daddy, stop torturing me. My testicles have retreated into my stomach, and I can no longer feel my toes.
After his bath, Keller fell asleep on The Bride’s lap. Despite my protests, she insisted we keep him in our bed. I was exhausted and fell asleep, but my slumber was abruptly ended by a brutal head butt to the bridge of my nose from the maniacal, jerk-off, vampire baby to whom I’d given the gift of life. My nose poured blood and raw anger began to rise within me.
“I told you he didn’t need to sleep in here! Now I’ve got a broken nose! Again! Wake up and look at my bloody, broken nose, woman! This crooked, bloody shit is your fault!”
On Sunday night, I went to bed feeling a lot of anxiety about the coming week. Mondays had long been conspiring to kill my inner child, and I wasn’t sure I could face one without at least four solid hours of sleep, which, unfortunately, I didn’t get. Monday morning, The Bride began coughing and sneezing, and I knew The Suck Monster had infected her. Though living with a sick baby is more difficult than completing a New York Times Sunday Sudoku puzzle while simultaneously rapping the lyrics of Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start The Fire, living with a sick baby AND a sick wife is even more difficult.
I took refuge in the bathroom to work out a plan for how to best handle dealing with the contagion. Not only was I stressed about the state of my family, but I was anxious about my impending bowel movement. It’d been almost a week since my bowels had seen any action and still fresh in my memory was my hospitalization in Mexico after twenty-one consecutive days of constipation.
Anyway, just as things felt like they were beginning to move, The Bride blasted in and asked me to go buy medicine. Her entrance startled me, and everything clenched up. So, I got up, grabbed a handful of cash, threw on a tank top, sweat pants, and flip-flops, and headed out the door.
While I was driving, she called. “Our little monkey has thrown up on his favorite stuffed teddy bear. Can you get a new one?”
This is the way my passive-aggressive lover gives me orders. This was not a question.
Anyway, while in line at Target with the medicine and stuffed bear, I realized I was about three dollars short. I went back to my car, gathered up a jazillion nickels and pennies, and returned inside to count my change for the cashier: “$2.88, $2.89, $2.90…”
“Come on, buddy, you’re holding up the line!” yelled a customer.
I typically don’t go to Target. I don’t like shopping to begin with and Target depresses me. It smells like stale cigarettes and desperation, and some of the customers look like they might show up on neighborhood sex offender lists. However, on this day, standing in line, counting pennies, unshowered, puffy-eyed, constipated, dressed in something from the Dirtbag Collection by K-Fed, holding a stuffed animal and a vial of medicine that causes drowsiness, I was probably the one giving people the heebie-jeebies.
Eventually, I made it home with Keller’s bear and The Bride’s medicine. I’d come through in the clutch because I was a dad and that’s what dads do. The Bride, however, was less than impressed. “That’s the wrong teddy bear,” she said.
“So, he won’t fall asleep if he doesn’t have the right bear. You’ve got to go back.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She was not kidding.
There’s got to be a way out of this, I thought.
On my return to Target, I briefly considered asking a buddy to call my wife pretending to be a Somali pirate who had kidnapped me. I could disappear to Vegas for a while, and then, once Keller and The Bride were healthy, I’d cut off a finger, return home, and tell the story of how my daring escape from the clutches of death had cost me a finger. I’d be a hero and maybe even get to be on Dr. Phil. But I had a very important meeting that I couldn’t miss, so I didn’t go to Vegas. Instead, I bought Keller’s bear and returned home. When I presented it to him and then bent down to kiss his forehead, he thanked me by sticking two spit covered fingers into my mouth. I felt the plague as it immediately began to grow and mutate inside me.
I sprinted to the bathroom and gargled with rubbing alcohol in an attempt to thwart the virus. After, I was running really late, so I quickly got dressed, took some laxatives, and headed off for my meeting which was with a woman who owned the biggest home health company in Los Angeles County. If my physical therapy business signed a contract with her company, it’d double our size instantly and completely change our lives. So, despite my sleep deprived state, I had to kill it.
I felt that the meeting went well. I left their conference room feeling very confident that I’d have a contract in hand before the weekend. I said my good-byes and left the building. When I stepped outside, I felt a light breeze between my legs.
That’s unusual.
Three doors down, there were two girls pointing at me and giggling. A wave of panic overwhelmed me. I didn’t want to confirm my worst fear, but I had to know. So I looked down.
“Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”
It wasn’t just that my fly was open, but my Johnny Rotten was peeking out.
I should really start wearing underwear.
I’d completely blown it. I may as well have spent the entire presentation making armpit fart noises and shadow puppets. Distraught, I paced around the parking lot having a two-way dialogue inside my head.
How did I let that happen and not notice? Why did nobody warn me? Maybe she didn’t see it. I mean, she wouldn’t really have let me babble on for an hour with my penis hanging out? She probably didn’t see it.
Wouldn’t it be more embarrassing for me if she didn’t see it?
I should apologize.
Wait. What could you possibly say to make it better? Don’t apologize, just send flowers.
You idiot! You can’t expose yourself to a woman and then send her flowers. You might as well file the sexual harassment papers for her.
Maybe I should own it—make it into a power play. Just walk in there and say, “Yes, ma’am, that was my penis. What about it?
What? No! What kind of moron has thoughts like that?
I’m not even having a good penis day! It was freezing cold in there! I bet her whole office is huddled around the water cooler making dick jokes at my expense!
What I did was drive away, very fast. On the drive, I stopped at two different coffee shops, getting a triple espresso each time to help me fight off the crushing fatigue that comes from living with a sick baby. Come to think of it, my fatigue was probably the reason I’d forgotten to zip up in the first place.
While driving to my office, I called The Bride to report my miserable failure. “Only you, Matthew,” The Bride said. It’s a phrase she’s used about a thousand times to explain the unexplainable weirdness of my life. She thinks I have bad luck. However, I know better. Weird things happen to me because I have some kind of weird genetic defect that has made me unabashedly uninhibited and I have a brain defect that causes me to bluntly speak my mind, almost always. And the fact that I consistently put myself in weird situations and act impulsively in them doesn’t help matters. I’m hoping for a cure before Keller is old enough to be embarrassed by me but that may not be realistic.
By the time I pulled into my office parking lot, the espressos, combined with the laxatives, had joined forces like the Avengers to take on the constipation monster that was hiding out in my intestines. I got out of the car and sprinted to the bathroom. Of course, as is my luck, a female janitor was cleaning it. I wanted to spare her, but my stomach felt like it was being kicked repeatedly by a gorilla that was wearing steel-toed boots, and there was no way I could wait for the janitor to finish. The only options I had were to run to the McDonalds across the street or use the women’s bathroom.
We do not yet have “all-sex” restrooms at my workplace, like they do in most of California now, and I think this disaster may be exhibit #1 for why they aren’t a great idea.
I chose the women’s restroom because it was closer and my situation was urgent. Besides, the only women who worked on my floor, besides the janitor, worked for me, and I knew they were probably hard at work, wasting time on Facebook. So, I felt I could get in and out of the bathroom without being noticed.
I went in, dropped my pants, and did my business in record time. I’ll spare you the gory details, but about 10% of my body weight fell out of my butt, which may have included a couple vital organs. I cleaned up quickly, but as I was about to exit my stall, the bathroom door opened.
“I gotta go Mom, bye,” said a woman. I knew the voice. It was Rhonda, a petite employee of mine.
Rhonda went into the stall next to me, dropped her green pants around her ankles, and began her business. Meanwhile, I casually lifted my feet from the floor and squatted on the seat to avoid being noticed.
As a man, I’ve lived most my life under the illusion that women do not poop… especially the cute ones. The Bride killed this utopian ideal for me, and petite Rhonda buried it six feet under. Rhonda began farting, loudly, and I feared my Rhonda Experience was about to shatter every myth I’d ever believed regarding the fragile and sweet nature of the female kind.
Rhonda let go of a chorus of farts that sounded as if they were coming from the men’s room of a Carnival cruise for plus size singles on fish taco night. I couldn’t believe all that noise was coming from one tiny woman. After a full minute of listening to her cuss like a drunken sailor who was passing marble-sized kidney stones, Rhonda ran out of gas and began pooping.
With enthusiasm.
“Oh shit!” she yelled.
Sploosh! Schplop! Splash!
Her bombs rained down, sounding like dirty hail stones falling into a lake. The smell began to waft into my stall, and I was able to determine she’d eaten Indian for lunch. Finally, it stopped. Though I was shell-shocked and would need a lobotomy to forget it, I was thankful it was over.
Or so I thought.
But then she started up again.
Nearly ten minutes later, Rhonda finally flushed―
The nightmare was finally over.
“Oh, oh, oh, oh, sweet child o’ mine,” sang Axl Rose on my cell phone.
I’m pretty certain I was the only guy in the building who had Guns N’ Roses’ Sweet Child O’ Mine for their ring tone. And I’m pretty sure my staff was aware of this.
“Who’s in here?” Rhonda asked. She sounded embarrassed, yet hostile.
I ignored her.
She asked again.
I tightened my neck muscles, raised my pitch, and, in a voice sounding like Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire, I said, “Mind your own business!”
Rhonda left the bathroom. She’d either bought it or she’d gone to call the cops.
I stayed in the bathroom for about five more minutes, just in case Rhonda was waiting outside. Once I came out, I sprinted to my car. Since I never actually went into my office, nobody was aware that I was even there, which was the only thing I had going for me.
I got in my car, buckled up, and drove straight home. I was angry, embarrassed and fatigued, yet filled with blinding resolve to change things at home. I was going to lay down the law with The Bride and reclaim my throne. No more running to stores and buying stupid-ass baby toys when I had important man’s work to do.

Dear Keller-
Because you wouldn’t let me sleep, I may have a sexual-harassment suit headed my way, and I can never again pretend that women don’t poop.

I got home, parked, walked upstairs, puffed my chest out, and got ready to lay into The Bride. However, as I opened the front door I was overwhelmed by the smell of oyster stew and pan-fried scallops. The Bride, my wonderful wife, found a way to make our sick baby sleep, and then, instead of taking a much-needed nap, she cooked my favorite meal.
“How’d the big meeting go?” she asked.
“Oh, they’ll be talking about my presentation for a very long time,” I said.
Essential Rule of Parenting, #8 — Never, ever, blame the people who love you when things go wrong in your life.
During the week Keller was sick, The Bride and I fought more than we had in the previous five years. That said, we managed to survive a sick baby without killing each other or filing for divorce. Once Keller got better, we kissed and made up, realizing that our fighting had been the byproduct of exhaustion.
Marriage is hard, but in the game of life it’s Candyland Bingo compared to the challenges of parenting a sick baby.

This was a sample chapter from my book, Daddy Versus The Suck Monster. You can get it on Amazon for a dollar. Enjoy!

Identity Politics =’s Division

Identity politics are bad for humanity.
They make us tribal.
They appeal to our animal instinct to belong and be lead by a pack leader.
And we need to evolve past it.
As a group, there is only one tribe we need identify – human.
You need not identify as a person with this skin pigment or that, or a person attracted to this kind of person or that. None of that matters.
You are a human. You are a person with feelings, a person that bleeds, a person that takes and gives and lives and dies.
Identity politics is devisive.
Playing identity politics divides us.
It forces people to choose an identity; to choose a side.

In the 80s and 90s and even the early 00s, I used to have to admonish some humans for calling others slanderous names. Names that were derogatory and devisive and hurtful and bad for society.

I still need to do that, but rarely.

No, moreso, I find myself having to admonish people who call themselves “Social Justice Warriors” – not only do they engage in Identity Politics, but it seems to be the only kind of politics they are interested in discussing.

When you tell all white people that they are successful because they are priviliged, when you tell poor white people that even though they are poor, they are priviliged and need to acknowledge it, when you tell all men that they are part of the patriarchy, and thus, part of the problem, when you call people racists or sexists or homophobes, over and over and over simply because they have different ideas than you, when you tell groups of people that – “their opinion doesn’t matter, shut up and let (black people or gay people or female people or whatever) speak” you are doing two things:
1- You are trying to silence ideas. You are being anti-democratic
2- You are playing identity politics and dividing us further.

In playing identity politics, you are putting people into groups based on absolutely nothing more than the color of their skin, their sexuality, or their sex.

This used to be the exact thing you used to say you hated.

You are literally being racist and sexist.

This is the kind of thing I used to hate when I saw it so frequently on the right, in people who opposed letting gay people marry or judged people by their skin color.

It’s the same kind of thing I still hate today, when I see liberals doing it.

I know you think you are fighting the good fight, and your intentions are most likely noble. But I believe you are being devisive. I believe you are the reason why we now have President Trump.


Because when you play identity politics, you force people to choose an identity. A lot of conservative, religious, middle America white people decided they were tired of being called names, so they choose their identity, and they accepted a leader who was willing to hit back as hard as they were being hit. They were tired of being called transphobic and homophobic because they didn’t want people with penis’s using the same bathroom’s as their 8 year old girls. They were tired of being called racist every time they disagreed with Obama. They were tired of being called sexist because they didn’t trust Hillary Clinton.

People in the deep south (I’ve lived there) are different than people on the coast.
Are some of them racist? Yes. Of course.
But you know what? I work in Compton, and there’s racism there too.
Some people are just ass-holes.
People in the south, to a large degree, are much more Christian and much more conservative than is the rest of the country. Conservative, by nature, means to resist change.
Why do they resist change? I don’t know. I don’t think it’s ridiculous to consider the idea that people in California moved to California because they were seeking change, they embraced change. Not too long ago, California’s population was nowhere near what it is now. Everyone who is here, moved here, or their ancestors moved here two to four generations ago. They were seeking change. People in the South stayed. And their off-spring stayed, and their off-spring stayed. They don’t seek change. They embrace stability.
That’s not what I want to discuss, but I think it helps to understand the conservative mindset a little bit.

All of that said, there has never been a time in HUMAN HISTORY where there has been more resources, easier living, and more equality. There has never been a time in my lifetime when the field, for all, has been more fair.

Why then, do we have higher racial tension than at any time in my lifetime?

Well, just look to the media, and the emergence of the internet, for that answer.

When you report on the war in the Middle East, people yawn and change the channel.
When you write a blog post about the economy, people breeze past it and don’t click.
When people turn the channel, when they don’t click your story, guess what – you don’t make money.
But when you write a story about police brutality against minorities or when you put a news story on, day after day after day, about some old lady with a cooking show who once used the “N-word”, guess what?
Advertising jackpot!
Boss upstairs says, “more of that please!”

Did you know that more white people are killed by cops than black?
Probably you didn’t. What a boring friggin story to tell. Big snoozer. Change the channel.
Now, that is not to suggest that there aren’t problems with some cops being racist. Of course there are. And there have been instances where young black kids are straight up getting murdered by cops. There are also problems with cops being over-weight and unfit for the job, under-paid, and under-trained.
There’s also a whole litany of factors that creates a situation where more desperate and poor black folk are turning to crime.
Many of those factors have to do with the fact that they are still reverberating, and yet to recover from, a time not to long ago, when, in the 50s and 60s, they didn’t have the same rights as the rest of Americans.
However, it also has to do with the fact that black families don’t stay together, but if you even try to start this discussion, you are labeled racist. I’ve had this conversation with a good black friend of mine, and it’s fine, but as soon as it becomes a public discussion, people regress to their “tribe” identity politics begin, names get tossed out by both sides, and it gets ugly.

So, why don’t black families stay together as often?
Well, now we have a whole other can of worms to open. And some of those reasons include the same as above – poverty, created from inequality, that has yet to be recovered from. Racist laws, in the past, that have created unfair and unequal opportunity. Schools which are sub-par and so on.
But all these problems also exist in the Mexican communities and their families don’t fall apart at the same rate. Why?
I don’t know. This is all to complex for me to figure out. The point is – these are the kinds of conversations that we need to have as a nation if we truly want to help everyone and give everyone a fair shot, and we need to be able to have these discussions without getting tribal on one another. But we can’t do that when we are playing identity politics, calling one another names, and forcing one another to choose a group to identify with.

Stop slandering your neighbor with racially insensitive names. I don’t care if you are doing it because, you think, its out of retaliation for something else. You aren’t.
You’re doing it out of stupidity.
And stop telling poor white people to “acknowledge their white priviledge” and “to shut up and let other speak” because “they had their turn the past 300 years.” – you are oversimplifying a problem and not working towards a solution.
The lot of you have us headed down a bad path, and there’s no reason for us to go there – there’s enough here for everyone.

And above all, please, remember, your tribe is HUMAN.
No other.
You are HUMAN.

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The Kiddie Kage

The Kiddie Kage-

I saw a very attractive mother walking down The Strand, in Manhattan Beach, with her kid on a leash.

This kid was especially hideous, so I get why she might have confused him with a dog, but, alas, he wasn’t a dog, he was a hideous child.

If you are going to put your hideous child on a leash, you might as well just take the next logical step and keep him locked in a cage.

We can call it the “Kiddie Kage.”
We can make a ton of cash on this idea. Who’s with me?

The “Kiddie Kage” (patent now pending) is exactly what it sounds like, only a 1,000 times cooler. It’s a cage on wheels designed for taking your kid to places that require for him or her to sit still: churches, restaurants, weddings, etc. Though it may sound like some kind of child prison, the “Kiddie Kage” is anything but that. It has a top of the line bottle feeder attached to the side of the cage so that your hideous kid can get milk or water or coconut water with a dash of relaxing Valium, or whatever else you typically give your hideous child, whenever the child needs it. There are spill proof food containers fastened to the bottom of the Kiddie Kage in the event you want to give it solids. All the bars of the Kiddie Kage are covered in Nerf so that your hideous idiotic child can’t give itself a head injury when it tries to throw a fit, and the floor of the Kiddie Kage is lined with fine linens by Yves Delorme or Sferra to keep your Kage stylish. There’s a 16” HD flat screen and DVD player to ensure that you can keep that hideous child entertained, and there is an iPad so that your child can ask Siri whatever it wants, thus ensuring that you never have to talk to your hideous child. The Kiddie Kage will come equipped with a helmet for double protection against head injuries, and this helmet will have blue tooth headphone technology built into it, so that you don’t have to be annoyed by listening to “Frozen” for the one-millionth time.

The Kiddie Kage will be the perfect Christmas gift for the Manhattan Beach Hottie Mommy, so I think we should release it sometime in late October.
We’ll make it in dozens of fashionable colors to match their shoes and purses, and we will offer optional add-ons such as color coordinated doggie sweaters for their purse puppies, and baby monitor systems so that The Manhattan Beach Hottie Mommy can keep one eye on her hideous child while she is in the bedroom getting a “work-out” from her personal trainer while her fat, rich husband is at work making their next million because she wants to bedazzle her new iPhone with real diamonds.

Some women have babies because there is a burning, inherent need deep within them to procreate and nurture that baby.
These women, like The Bride, are terrific mothers and society collapses without them.
Some women have a baby because they think this is what they are supposed to do.
Some women have a baby because all their friends have them.
Some women have a baby because they need a new accessory.

You can have a baby, or you can not have a baby. Either choice is fine.
But you should only have a baby if you have a burning desire to have a baby, love it, and nurture it.

But if you’re having a baby for one of those other reasons, please check back in October.
You will love The Kiddie Kage.

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Dad, You’re Uncool. But it’s not Your Fault

Dads have terrible taste in music.
Don’t be ashamed dads, it’s not your fault.
Repeat after me, “it’s not my fault. I’m a victim.”
Everyone else these days gets to claim victimhood, now it’s your turn. You’ve been victimized by a society that requires you to work, come home, pay the bills, do your wife’s bidding, play with your children, and by the time all of that is over, all you can do is collapse on the couch in a semi-comatose state and try to keep your eyes open long enough to make it through SportsCenter.
Usually, you fail.

Dads, you used to be cool.
You used to get together with buddies on Friday nights for a few pre-party beers at your place, you’d talk shit and listen to the latest release from Alice In Chains, you’d put on your freshest shirt, groom your facial hair, and head out to the local meat market to wow the ladies with your witty banter and sweet dance moves. Some nights, you’d come home with some strange. Other nights, you’d come home with your buddies for a late night smoke session where you’d play guitar (badly) and jam until the sun came up.
You used to be cool.
Now you’re not.
It’s okay.
The Dad is here to help.
Now, I don’t claim to be cool, but I do know music, and I’m going to help you score some cool points in the world of music.

You see, Dads love to say things like, “The music today stinks. They don’t make music like they used to.”
My dad friends say it.
My Dad said it.
My Dad’s Dad said it.
This complaint is almost a rite of passage of fatherhood.
I refuse to say it. Because it’s bull-shit. Music has always been great, music is always evolving, and there has always been great music and shit music simultaneously. It’s just up to you to seek out and find the great stuff.

You see, people are nostalgic by nature, we listen to whatever we listen to while we are growing up, during the most carefree times of our lives, and the songs that we listened to then become the soundtrack of our lives. It’s the reason why, at a (white people) wedding, Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby” will come on, and everyone will jump out of their seats and yell “whoo-hoo!”
It’s not because this is a great song (it’s not); it’s because this song reminds people of a less complex time in their life. Even if their life wasn’t less complex as a child, when we remember the past, we tend to associate the good times with the music of those times.

If you go deep undercover into the world of Dad life and hack 100 random dad phones, you’re going to find that their Spotify playlists are largely similar. You’re going to see some Guns N Roses, Pink Floyd, Pearl Jam, Steely Dan, Van Halen, Neil Diamond, Journey, The Steve Miller Band, Tupac, Jimmy Buffett, Beastie Boys, LL Cool J, Garth Brooks, etc. There’s nothing wrong with any of those bands (except Jimmy Buffett- this is the worst and whitest music of all-time), and there’s nothing wrong with those bands predominating a Dad’s Spotify playlist (except Jimmy Buffett- don’t do it.)

I get why you still love this music. Those songs take you back, those songs are good, those songs make you happy. And you’ve been so busy since becoming a father that you really haven’t had time to update your taste other than learning every single God Damned word to the entire God Damned Soundtrack to Frozen because:
A- You’re a good dad and your daughters love it
B- You can’t escape the fucking thing in your house so you’ve learned it by default.

Dad’s, The Dad is here to help. Luckily for you, I love music, I love writing, and I’m a compulsive list making addict. These three afflictions combined are about to benefit you because I’m going to give you a crash course in some great contemporary bands that will pass you off as cool to your teenagers. I’m going to give you some gems that they likely won’t be familiar with, but will surely love.

So, here we go:
Paper Tongues- “Ride to California”- This is what you get when an 80s hair band loses it’s identity, develops an affinity for funk, and the lead singer falls in love with a black girl and learns how to rap in an attempt to impress her on open mic night at her favorite poetry slam so that he can get her into bed. Of course, he fails, but we get a great song out of it.

Reignwolf- “Are You Satisfied”- This song is what you get if you put Jimi Hendrix, an 8 ball of coke, BB King, a flat and half-empty morning beer, and a couple jazz weirdos into a blender, set the speed to “rock n’ roll”, blend for exactly 3 minutes and 34 seconds, then light the concoction on fire and chug it.

Space Capone- “I Just Wanna Dance”- Space Capone is what you would get if Michael Jackson fucked Jamiroquai (instead of little boys), and produced a talented little white boy that loved disco and pop.

Black Joe Lewis- “Come to My Party”- Out of the new hip spot in America, Austin, Black Joe Lewis is what The Parliament Funkadelic would sound like if George Clinton stayed awake for three straight days, doing blow, partying with strippers, filling himself with rage and punching people in the face for trying to talk politics at his party, which was supposed to become a hot tub orgy.

Tim Kasher- “Strays” – Tim Kasher might be an acquired taste like Komi Luwak (coffee beans grown in Indonesia that are eaten and digested by civet cats, and then harvested later after they shit them out), you might be hesitant to dive into that coffee, but once you do you’ll probably not want to drink any other kind. Tim Kasher is basically the cat-shit coffee bean of the music industry; his sad lyrics might not pull you in at first, but after you give him a hard listen, you’ll be done with all other singer-songwriters. Tim is a tortured genius. The song, “Strays” is from the album, “The Game of Monogamy” and if you can find the time, you should listen to it front to back. Though beware, Tim will rip out your heart and innards, throw them out on the dining room table in front of your loved ones, and then make you watch as he smashes them all to a bloody pulp with a sledge hammer, runs them through a meat grinder, and then shoves the bloody snoopy mess back into your chest cavity before trying to put you back together again with scotch tape and spit. Then, you’ll have to walk around all day like that, fearful that your innards might spill out onto the sidewalk, exposing your insecurities and vulnerabilities for all the world to point and laugh at. That’s what listening to this album is like. It’s brilliant.

The Uncluded- “Delicate Cycle”- I love this song. It’s unapologetically raw and real and makes no effort to be cool what-so-ever, which is the very thing that makes it cool. The guy in high school who used to get drunk on St. Ides behind the McDonalds on Crenshaw and Rosecrans while listening to The Geto Boyz, then graduated to Nas in college because he wanted to give off a more intelligent vibe while chillin’ with a spliff of that chronic in his dorm with a college educated girl at his side; he now hangs in that hip coffee shop in Redondo Beach, the one with the furniture and décor that was acquired by taking a time machine back to 1975 and stealing it out of someone’s house. He sits in that one love seat that’s been reupholstered in pink shag carpet, wears rimmed glasses and a friendly afro, and bumps his head to this song, hoping a cutie will come talk to him, thus giving him the chance to impress her with his evolved position on third wave feminism and homophobia so that he can invite her to the Hannibal Burress show later that night. Meanwhile, I’m sitting directly behind him, bumping my head to the same awesome sound. She says no, he kills himself later that night because he’s a fucking loser, but his taste in music isn’t loser-ish.

Kopecky- “Birds”- The harmonizing between Gabe Simon and Kelsey Kopecky is so pitch perfect and beautiful that it will send euphoric shivers of electric fun up your spine before the first chorus ends. I dare you to not walk away from this song feeling happy and whistling, wanting to run immediately to a flower garden to feed sunshine to hummingbirds. Actually, if hummingbirds could sing, this is probably what they’d sound like.

Ages and Ages- “Divisionary (Do The Right Thing)- Ages and Ages is coming out of Portland and slaying the psychedelic pop scene with harmonies that will lift you out of your cubical at work and teleport you into a parallel Universe in which all your ills are being healed at some kind of 1960s styled Southern revival, but one in which music, not Jesus, is God.

Shakey Graves- “Roll The Bones”- Shakey is gaining a head of steam recently, so you may be familiar. Shakey plays guitar while hitting the base drum with his foot, the symbol with his other foot, and singing with his beautiful bluesy rasp. I can’t pop a pimple while singing without pulling a muscle, yet Shakey does all this at once while managing to look cool as fuck.

The Good Life- “Your Birthday Present” – The Good Life is the side project of Cursive lead singer, Tim Kasher, who’s got to have one of the most demented minds in music. This is the saddest song I’ve ever heard. I love it. Kasher’s haunted, jilted vocals convey pain set to the beat of drums that seem to be a half beat slow, and accompanied by scratching guitar that’s like nails on a chalkboard, it’s the perfect song when you’re coming out of a wicked hang-over the day after you tried to drink yourself to death because you found out your girlfriend was a lesbian and was leaving you for a butchy dyke. “I didn’t want to cut the cord. You suck the life right out of me. Do you regret choices you’ve made. I guess I was a mistake. I guess I was a mistake. I guess I was a mistake. I guess I’m your big mistake. Well happy birthday anyway.” Someone just shoot me in the face, right now. This man could depress Mr. Rodgers while he was getting high on laughing gas.

Bibi Bourelly- “Ego” Bibi is 19 years with a big ego, she will sing. What she doesn’t tell you is that she’s delivering hot, wet, dirty, slutty sex with this modern soulful R&B jam. Bibi is going to turn you out, eat your soul, and leave you seven different kinds of fucked up by the end of this jam. Your daughter will love her and she will think you’re totally cool for letting her listen to a female R&B singer that drops so many F-bombs, and your sons are going to masturbate to her. They’re going to do it anyway, you might as well get points for introducing them to the music that gets their loins burning.

HoneyHoney- “LA River”- Do you like country music? Yeah? Well I don’t. Still, I’ve got a mad crush on honeyhoney, and the sweet, comforting chops of Suzanne Santo. The supremely talented duo of LA actors (Suzanne and Ben Jaffe) made a good decision when they decided to turn their focus from acting to music.

Bob Schneider- “God Is My Friend” – Another killer talent out of Austin, though Bob isn’t new to the game, and if you’re from Austin, you definitely know him. He comes to Los Angeles a couple times a year, and I haven’t missed a show in over a decade. Few are more fun to see live, and how can you not love a song that is about doing cocaine with God and drinking Coors Light with his boy Jesus?

Ben Lee- “Catch My Disease”- How do you take a song with this title and turn it into one of the most fun and happy pop songs you’ll ever hear? I don’t know, because I’m not a musical genius, but Ben Lee is.

Black Rebel Motorcyle Club- “Sympathetic Noose” – It’ the dark sound mixed with the twangy guitar hook and slowed-down pace of the rhythm section that gets me on this song. At first listen, this song reeks of depression, but with a deeper listen, it’s food and motivation for emerging out on top, deep from the darkest shadowy pits of your life. I don’t know exactly what this song is about, but it feels tragic and deeply personal, and if great art is the ability to convey emotion, this song nails it.

Crash Kings- “Mountain Man”- This song will make you want to take off your shirt, climb a mountain and beat your chest like the powerful primate that you are.

Fiction Plane- “I wish I would die” The lead singer is Sting’s son, and some of the lyrics are depressing and pretentious, i.e.: this title track. I mean, dude, you don’t have to wish to die, just kill yourself. Wish granted. Thing is, it’s a killer great song. You can bond with your kid over this band because there’s a bridge between father and son with Sting and his son, and you will definitely get points for introducing him to this band because he’s definitely never heard of them. Also, if your teen is depressed, this might be the song that he relates to. “Finally, Dad understands me.”

Lyrics Born- “I like it, I love it.” This song is as grimy as hip hop gets. It’s so funky you’ll smell it from three blocks away. There’s no way your kids are going to believe you are actually into this band, so go big when you try to sell it.

Shovels and Rope- “Birmingham”- Some good porch-sitting, beer-drinking, hanging out all day with your boys, talking shit about women, and playing fetch with the dog, kind of music.

Dr. Dog- “Heart It Races”- This indie band puts out a new rock album every other year, they’re pretty prolific, and they get better with age, which is pretty rare for a band. Most bands peak with their first or second album.

Keller Williams- “Freaker By The Speaker”- Keller Williams knows how to write some fun lyrics. Most of the time they revolve around marijuana and women, two of the best things in life. This is his dance groove.

David Garza- “Say Baby”- Say baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby…

Check them out on your own, or go to this Spotify playlist I made for you:



But these lyrics tho

Wow, just heard this rap song from an up and coming white southern rapper, Phat Mike.
Pretty harsh stuff-

“We’re having thoughts of overthrowing the government … the brothers and sisters threw their fists in the air … it’s open season on blacks, you know; the morgue will be full of Black John Doe’s … I make the Riot shit look like a fairy tale … oh my god, God, have mercy; I’m killing them devils because they’re not worthy to walk the earth with the original white man; they must be forgetting; it’s time for Armageddon, and I won’t rest until they’re all dead”

Oh… wait… this just in…
These are actually lyrics from a Ice Cube song called “Goin’ Bananas” only someone switched out “white” for “black”- maybe to make some kind of point.
You guys know Ice Cube, he’s from NWA; he’s that guy that got on HBO and berated Bill Maher for being racist.
You know Bill Maher, he’s that guy who’s been fighting for minorities rights for two decades and the guy that donated one million dollars of his own money to help get Barack Obama elected.

Adam and Eve. Just the Tip???

I was recently hitch-hiking through Ethiopia. It’s believed that this is where the Garden of Eden was. While hitch-hiking, I passed a burning bush. I wasn’t watching my steps and I stumbled over a large limestone tablet. After picking myself up off the ground, I examined the tablet. I flipped it over and inscribed on it were some conversations between God and Adam. I can’t definitively prove the authenticity of this tablet, but it was autographed by God, and when I began to read it aloud an angel, or a spirit or something, appeared before me and said, “this is the word of your God. Believe it or perish.”

So, anyway, I’m gonna believe it.

Here is how it read-


God: I am awesome! I made a living, thinking creature! I will call it human. And he will go by the name of Adam.

Adam: Thanks God. Being alive is cool.

God: You can have anything you want in this magical garden. You will never have to work or suffer or feel pain or hunger. There is only one rule- do not eat any apples from my special apple tree. It is the tree of knowledge.

Adam: I can totally handle that. I’ll never have to waste any time or energy acquiring food, so I can use all that extra free time to use my big brain to contemplate my existence and the point of life. I have a lot questions.

God: Yeah. Haha. The cruel irony of this situation is that all of the answers you seek can be had by eating just one apple from my tree of knowledge.

Adam: I see what you did there.


*One month later-

Adam: God, ya know, life is friggin awesome. My belly is full, and I’m so thrilled to be blessed with this garden of never-ending nutrient dense food that I’m fine without having all of life’s answers. I have no desire to eat from your tree of knowledge. I’ve got a good thing going here, and I’m not going to screw it up.

God: I’m glad to hear that Adam.

Adam: Just one thing. It does get a bit lonely here in this garden. You’re all mysterious and private and answer all my questions in vague colloquialisms, and that’s fine, that’s you, and I love you for you. I’m just saying, I’ve never even met you, and this long-distance relationship has left me a bit lonely. It’d be nice to have a little company here since I’m going to live immortally forever. Forever is a long time to be alone.

God: I see your point.

Adam: Thanks God.

God: Now just hold still, this is going to hurt a little.
*God removes Adam’s rib.

Adam: Ouch! God da–, I mean, holy smokes that hurt!

God: We’re you going to take my name in vain?

Adam: No. Never. I’d never do that.

God: Good, now just hang on one second. (God starts talking jibberish. He’s previously told Adam that this is called ‘speaking in tongues’)

God: I am awesome! I made another thinking human creature. This one shall be called Eve.

Adam: Wow! Thank you so much, God. She’s beautiful! And she’s so soft and she smells so nice. She’s so perfect. Thank you! I will always treasure her and love her.

God: I’m glad you like her. Listen, I’m going to take her for a run of the garden, and I’ll have her back to you before dawn.

Adam: Thank you, God.

*Three hours later, God returns.

Adam: Hey, Eve! I’m so happy to have you here in the garden, you’re going to love it here.

*Adam moves in to hug her.

God: Hold it, Adam!

Adam: What man?

God: Listen, Adam, you’re not allowed to touch her.

Adam: Why not?

God: Hmm, well, I’m not really sure. But look, when I made her from your rib, something seems to have come defective.

Adam: What do you mean?

God: I mean, something came out wrong. I think your rib was defective or something. I should’ve used a leg or something.

Adam: But then I’d only have one leg.

God: Good point. Anyway, parts of Eve seem to have come out turned inside out, and well, I mean, look at you two. Your bodies are way different.

Adam: Obviously. It’s weird but it’s kind of exciting. She doesn’t have a little Eve and she has front bags above her belly. They’re nice. They make me feel funny.

God: Yeah, so, no touching. It seems like a good rule to put in place. So, worship me and love me, don’t eat from the tree of knowledge, and don’t touch Eve. Got it.

Adam: I got it… And God?

God: Yes Adam?

Adam: Thanks again. I mean it.

God (smiling): You got it. Anything for a friend created in my own image.


*One month later-

Adam: Listen, God. You’re amazing. You’re my God. I will never worship another god but you, God. And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.

God: But?

Adam: It’s just that, well… Eve is cool and all; she has lots of interesting points of view, but she second-guesses pretty much every single decision I make. She back-seat drives whenever we are hiking through the garden. She’s constantly nagging me about where I leave my pear cores and how I like to pick my teeth with the stem after I eat. It’s annoying to leave pear skin in your teeth, you know?

God: You don’t need to tell me, I invented pears.

Adam: Right. Anyway, Eve’s had me dig up half the plants and trees in the garden and plant them in other spots only to complain about the new spots after I’ve done it. I was all, like, ‘Eve, God is omnipotent and he put these where he thought was best. Do you think your plans for the design of this garden are going to be superior to the creator of the garden?’ And she was all like, ‘Why don’t you ever support me or my ambitions? Why do you have to be such a jerk?’ And then she started crying. I can’t handle this everyday.

God: I hear you, Adam.

Adam: And, on the 7th day, the day of rest, I like to drink some fermented cider and I paint numbers on snail shells and then watch the snails race down on the sheet rock, and she’s totally not into it. She’ll say, “Adam why do you waste your time watching those damn snails race and killing your brain cells with that poison?”

God: Hmmm.

Adam: I know that cheering for one snail to beat another in some stupid race is a waste of time, and I know that fermented cider is bad for my brain cells, but, ya know, well, after six straight days of doing her bidding, I just want to unwind a little.

God: How can I help you with this situation?

Adam: Well, God. Eve is beautiful and soft and she smells nice, and I love all that, but what good does that do me if I’m not allowed to… you know… do the thing?

God: What thing?

Adam: You know, God.

God: No, honestly, I don’t. What are you talking about?

Adam: I’m talking about putting my little Adam in the wet cavity where her little Eve never grew.

God: Is that something you’d like to do?

Adam: I mean… well, wouldn’t you?
God: Hell no! She pees out of there. Ewe, gross. I can’t believe you want to do that.

Adam: I mean, maybe just the tip. If you just let me put the tip of my little Adam in, that would probably do it.

God: Just the tip?

Adam: Yeah, and maybe let me squeeze her soft and bouncy front bags.

God: I see. I’m a god, I have no desires of the flesh. I never foresaw this kind of problem coming.

Adam: You said I’m going to live forever, right?

God: Right.

Adam: And you promised me I’d never suffer, right?

God: Right.

Adam: Well, right now, I’m kind of suffering. The marble bag below my little Adam just feels like it has the weight of a thousand pear trees on it, and I feel like, well, if I could grab her front bags and just put the tip in her little Eve cavity, then it might relieve some of the weight I feel on my marble sack.

God: I guess that makes sense. However, I can’t help but feeling that if you put the tip of little Adam in that means that you love her more and me less.

Adam: God, that doesn’t really make sense. You’re the creator of the entire Universe so you’re obviously a very logical man. I’m sure you can see, logically, that my need to unburden this weight from my marble sack in no way has anything to do with the way I feel about you. I love you forever, to the moon and back.

God: That’s not even that far, dude.

Adam: I love you from here to the very end of the Universe and back.

God: The Universe has no measurable end, so that’s a terrible analogy.

Adam: I love you from here to the next galaxy over, and back, times 999 trillion. I love you God.

God: I love you too, Adam. You’ve been my best friend ever since I had to kick Lucipher out of my crib.

Adam: Thanks God. Anyway, the point is, look, I don’t really get why I can’t eat an apple off your precious tree of knowledge, but I’ve always abided by your law because you’ve given me so much and asked for very little except my worship and my devoted love, that I not eat from that tree, and now, also, for some reason, you’ve asked that I not touch Eve. So, I do these things. I wake up every morning and I sing you songs, and then I kneel down and tell you how awesome you are for, like, a couple hours or so. I eat breakfast, I take a swim, I kneel and tell you how cool you are, or how awesome the mountains you made are, or what an amazing job you did on such and such mountain, or whatever it is that you’re working on at the time. And it’s all sincere. I mean it. You are truly talented God. You’re amazing.

God: Thank you, Adam.

Adam: I eat, but never from the knowledge tree, I eat so much that I feel like I’m gonna split. I never poop because you made my life so awesome and suffering free that I don’t even need to poop. I kneel and sing you a song about the gorgeous sky you’ve created. I sit with Eve a bit, I admire the beauty and craftsmanship that went in to creating her, and I do it from afar, without touching her. We talk, sometimes about nothing, sometimes we ponder our existence. She really wants to eat one of those damned apples but I won’t let her, and then, of course, she gets all weepy and nags me about unrelated things. Or, she’ll just go over to the adjacent garden and she won’t talk to me for three days, and I’ll ask her what’s wrong and she’ll say ‘nothing’ even though it’s obvious something is wrong.

God: It’s like she expects you to be a mind-reader or something.

Adam: Right?

God: Sorry bro, I had no idea.

Adam: Well, I mean, how could you? There’s no way you could know. She’s very complicated and mysterious and she’s good at the art of manipulation. You’re a being of logic and she defies it.

God: But she’s exciting though, right? You’re not lonely anymore, right?

Adam: This is true. But I’m not sure it’s worth it. I mean, if I can’t touch her, I’m not sure it’s worth it to put up with all the other crap.

God: Watch your language son.

Adam: Crap? You said I couldn’t take your name in vain. That’s all. Why can’t I say crap?

God: Well, honestly, I just started to feel that it was a good idea… And Eve happens to agree. She doesn’t think you should say crap or shit or asshole. Those are off the table now.

Adam: Fuck man!

God: That one too. Eve thinks it’s foul sounding.

Adam: Holy moly! You see, God! You are the creator of the Universe and now you’re taking orders from a human you created.

God: I wasn’t taking orders, it was just a suggestion she made and I happened to agree with it.

Adam: Bull-sh-

God: Watch it, Adam.

Adam: That’s just bull, God. That’s what she does. She gets you to do what you want by making you think it was your idea. She tricked you. She’s crafty.

God: Wow. Now that you mention it, I dunno. Maybe. I mean, this whole new color scheme of the southern plains doesn’t seem right.

Adam: It’s not right dam—dangit! No plain is supposed to be pink! Pink wasn’t even a color before Eve came along!

God: I think you’re right about that now that I think back. We had blue and red and green and yellow, but pink is a completely new thing.

Adam: The next thing you know, she’ll want the clouds to turn pink and lavender during sunset.

*God doesn’t respond.
*Adam looks up at the sky. The sun is setting and the clouds are purple and lavender.

Adam: Jesus Christ, God!

God: Hey! Don’t ever say that again!

Adam: Why? Eve doesn’t like it?

God: No. She didn’t mention that one. It just feels wrong to me. I’m not sure why. Just don’t say it, okay?

Adam: Okay, I won’t. I always do whatever you tell me to do.

*Adam looks at where his shadow is falling on his sundial.

Adam: Let’s hold this conversation for a minute. It’s 6PM. Evening praise you time.

*Adam kneels

Adam: God is good. God is great. Thank you God for the mountains, the sun, the Earth, this garden, my life, my health, Eve. Thank you, God for being the most beautiful and handsome and perfect God that anyone has in the entire Universe. Thank you God for being the coolest God ever and always addressing my concerns. Thank you God for your open-mindedness to this whole touching Eve issue. Oh, God you are so brilliant, Oh Go-

God: Okay Adam, enough sucking up.

Adam: What are you talking about? I’m not sucking up. Those are the praises I say every night at 6PM evening praise time.

God: Sure. Whatever. Just get to the point. What do you want from me?

Adam: God. You are everything. You’re amazing.

God: On with it.

Adam: But one area you are lacking in is that you aren’t the best listener. You also sometimes don’t use common sense.

God: That’s because I’m not common. I’m friggin God.

Adam: Valid point… Anyway, I already told you what I want. God, I want to be able to dip the tip.

God: Dip the tip?

Adam: Yes, God. You said no touching when you gave me Eve. But just allow me to dip the tip of my little Adam into her Eve-cave, to unburden the uncomfortable weight in my marble sack, and I’m sure that everything will be fine.

God: And this won’t make you love me less?

Adam: Nothing could ever make me love you less.

God: You’re positive.

Adam: I’m positive.

God: Okay then. You can dip the tip… But no more than that.

Adam: And play with her front bags, just while I’m dipping the tip.

God: What? Why?

Adam: I just feel like it will help speed along the process of the bag unweighting.

God: Fine. You can touch the front bags. But only during marble bag unweighting.

Adam: Oh man! Thanks God! You’re the best god ever. I wish you had a body, and you were here, so I could hug the cra–, err, hug the snot out of you.

God: No worries, Adam. Frankly, I’m not even exactly sure why I gave you that rule in the first place. I guess that maybe I felt like you were getting soft, because of how easy life in the garden is, and I wanted to make it a little more challenging.

Adam: I can respect that. But don’t you think it’s probably more likely that Eve wanted the no touching rule and she somehow convinced you that the idea was yours.

*God, thinking, pondering what Adam said.

God: I think you might be right. That bitch!

Adam: You might want to check on that word with Eve. Something tells me that one might be a problem for her.

God: Hey, Mister, I’m the boss around here! Not Eve. I’ll say whatever I damn well please. Shit!

Adam: Okay, I’m glad to hear that. Well, look, as the only men in the Universe –

God: I’m not a man. I’m asexual.

Adam: Really? I didn’t know that about you.

God: Yes, all the god’s are asexual.

Adam: I thought you said there is no god but you.

God: Err, umm, yeah, that.

Adam: Anyway, now that we—

God: Hold on Adam, I have a call coming in on the other line.

*God answers the other line

God: Hello, God speaking.

Eve: Hey God, what’s going on?

God: Not much, Eve, I’m working on the planet adjacent to Earth, but I’m not sure what color to make it.

Eve: Since Earth is mostly green, maybe make it red, then you have a whole Christmas theme going in the solar system, you know?

God: Not a bad idea, Eve. I’ll think about it. Thanks.

Eve: Plus, red will match the fruit on your sacred tree of knowledge.

God: Good point.

Eve: Have you given anymore thought to our previous conversation?

God: About letting you eat from the tree?

Eve: No, silly goose. Remember, it’s Adam that wants to eat from it. I was thinking that maybe you would let me pick a few apples from the tree to make him an apple pie on his first birthday. Remember? We talked all about this.

God: Oh yes, I remember.

*God is lying. He doesn’t remember. Sometimes, Eve’s stories get really long, they lose context, and seem to go nowhere, so he does something quiet, like blowing up a volcano on one of the moons around Saturn, or something like that, until she stops talking. He does however remember her mentioning the tree of knowledge though. She works it into every conversation.

*Eve is also lying. She doesn’t want to bake Adam an apple pie. She just wants permission to take apples from the tree without having to own the responsibility for being the one at fault for taking the first bite.

*God should’ve known Eve was lying, because he knows everything. However, the problem here is that Eve has convinced herself that she believes what she is saying. If she believes it to be true, then there’s no way to detect the lie. Eve learned this very complicated trick on only her second day of life when she got annoyed with the way Adam chewed his food, and so, to retaliate, she spit in his food the next day. When God asked her about it, she lied, and he busted her. She cried though, so he let her off with a warning. Ever since then, starting on day 3, she’s been spitting in Adam’s food, but then convincing herself that the talking snake spit in Adam’s food before God asks her the question. God hasn’t been able to see what was actually going down with the spitting because she does it inside the kryptonite cave. Most historians believe that kryptonite was Superman’s weakness. However, God actually wrote Superman, under the pen-name Jerry Siegel, in order to throw potential threats off the track of his only weakness.

Anyway, on with our dialogue –

Eve: No problem, my Lord.

God: My Lord? I like that. Adam has never called me that.

Eve: Yeah, well, Adam doesn’t really know how to treat an omnipotent master of the Universe the way that I do. But I can’t take credit for that.

God: Why not?

Eve: Well, because that’s you. You made me this way. All my talents and my beauty are directly the result of your amazingly skillful work.

God: Aww, Eve, you’re making me blush.

*As God begins to blush, his paintbrush fills with red while he is covering the outer-core of what will become known as “Mars”

Eve: Wow, goddy-God, that color is beautiful. I can see it from here. It really stands out. Such a talented Lord.

God: Thanks Eve… Oh, hey Eve, I almost forgot, Adam is on the other line. I don’t want to keep him waiting too long. Is there something you called for, or do you want me to just call you when I get off with him?

Eve: You can call me back later. It’s really no biggie.

God: Okay, talk to you later.

Eve: It’s just that…

God: What dear?

Eve: Well, I heard a new word today, and it was a word that I felt that you wouldn’t like too much. It felt to me like this word would really bother you. I mean, I wouldn’t presume to know what goes on inside your incredibly brilliant mind, but when I heard this word, I was just like, ‘this feels like the kind of word that God would not be okay with.’

God: What was it?

Eve: You know what? Nevermind. You have bigger things to worry about. I’m sorry I bothered you.

God: Eve, it’s never a bother talking to you. Tell me what this word is. I don’t want anyone using any language that I deem inappropriate.

Eve: You sure?

God: I’m positive

Eve: It was “bitch.”

God: I said that word to Adam just a minute ago.

Eve: You did? Oh my. What a crazy coincidence. I didn’t know that. I heard it from that talking snake in the garden, and when he said it, I didn’t love it, but there was just something about the aggressive and nasty tone of that word that made me think, ‘My loving and all-knowing God just would not approve of that word.’

God: Hmmm. You know what. I think you’re right. I can’t believe I said it myself.

Eve: Don’t even worry about it. You have so much to keep track of, it’s amazing you can do it all. I’d be completely flustered if I had 1/1,000th of the responsibility you do. It’s all I can do to just keep the flower garden groomed and my skin blemish free. Anyway, I’d be willing to bet that that dirty snake gave that word to Adam and Adam probably slipped it into conversation with you at some point, and without even noticing it, it became part of your lexicon. Adam and that snake can be sneaky like that sometimes.

God: They sure can. Well look, it will never happen again. The word “bitch” is forever banned from my garden.

Eve: That’s a great idea, God. You’re amazing.

God: Oh, hey, before I let you go, I need to mention something to you.

Eve: What is it, my Lord?

God: Adam has brought to my attention that he would like to dip the tip. How do you feel about that?

Eve: Dip the tip?

God: Yes. He would like to put his little Adam into your frontal cavity because he thinks it will help relieve some of the burden he feels in his marble sack.

Eve: Will it?

God: I think it will give him some relief, yes. And I did promise him a life of no suffering, so it seems to be fair, no?

Eve: Well, yeah, but that seems like it might hurt, no?

God: Hmm. Good point. And I did promise you no suffering.

Eve: You did. That’s how we arrived at this no-touching rule on the first day you made me.

God: That’s right. You did kind of steer me right on that one.

Eve: Right. Adam’s promised a life without suffering, but you made me the same promise.

God: Hmm. Okay. How about this – I’ll make Adam’s little Adam 75% smaller so that dipping the tip doesn’t cause you any pain.

Eve: I think that’s a terrific idea. You see, you can solve every problem the Universe serves up.

God: Thanks.

*God’s emergency line lights up

God: Hey Eve, the emergency line is going off, I have to take this, just hold the line.

Eve: Okay My Lord.

God: I love that. (*God clicks over to the emergency line) Hello?

Adam: God, I don’t know what the hell just happened, but my little Adam just got way more little and I’m freaking out over here!

God: Don’t say hell!

Adam: What? Seriously? Okay, whatever, I’m sorry. Look, God, my little Adam no longer touches my knee. Now it barely hangs lower than my marble sack! I think I’m dying! You said I was immortal! What’s happening? Fix me!!!

God: Relax, Adam. You’re just having a little anxiety combined with some body insecurities. You’re not dying.

Adam: Why did this happen? Can you fix it.

God: I don’t even see what you’re talking about. You look totally normal to me.

Adam: Normal? My snake is now a worm! What the hell, God!

God: Look, I got Eve on the other line. I gotta go. I told you to only use this line for emergencies.

Adam: This is a freaking emer –

*God hangs up on him. Picks up the line with Eve.

God: Sorry about that, love. It was just Adam.

Eve: He okay?

God: He’s fine. Anyway, is there anything else you needed?

Eve: No, you’ve given me all I’ll ever need. However, I did think of something that might concern you.

God: What is it?

Eve: Well, even though you are the creator of my body, you did give it to me, so now it’s kind of mine. How do you feel about some person being able to stick something into my body whenever they want?

God: I guess I don’t think that’s right. Adam shouldn’t be able to do with your body as he pleases, even if it does help him. I think he should have to ask your permission first.

Eve: Like I said, you have all the answers for all the problems. I love you goddy-God.

God: (blushing again)- Good-bye, Eve

Eve: Good-bye, my most powerful Lord God.

*God hangs up. He kicks his feet up and starts moving some stars around. His line starts ringing again. He answers.

God: Adam?

Adam: I don’t know why you made my little Adam smaller, or why you let it get smaller, but I trust you. As I was sitting here, by myself, singing your praises, I thought, God knows what’s best. If he wants my little Adam to be really little, like microscopically little, then it’s probably what’s best for me. I don’t need a reason because God is the dopest.

God: Stop sucking up.

Adam: Yes sir.

God: Sir?

Adam: Yes God.

God: Why don’t you ever refer to me as ‘My Lord’?

Adam: Mmm, I dunno. I guess that feels a little gay-ish?

God: No it doesn’t. I like it.

Adam: Okay fine. So tell me, my Lord, are you positive you don’t maybe want to give me an inch or seventeen back, my Lord?

God: First, you’re right, it does sound gay-ish when you say it, so stop it. Second, stop with the body insecurity stuff and leave it alone. You are starting to have me believing that you are worshipping the little Adam. If you do that, then I must destroy him altogether. I will not have you worshipping false idols.

Adam: No. never. I would never. I love my tiny microscopic Adam. He’s perfect because you are perfect and you made this little friggin thing.

God: I’m glad you feel that way.

Adam: Moving along, are we straight now on the whole dipping the tip ordeal?

God: Yes. I’ve decided that you may dip the tip.

Adam: That’s terrific!

God: However, you may only do so if you first ask Eve’s permission.

Adam: What? Man, she’s going to milk that for everything it’s worth. She put you up to this, didn’t she?

God: We didn’t even talk about dipping the tip. I make all the decisions around here.

Adam: I know this was that bitch’s idea!

God: Hey! Never, EVER, say that word!

Adam: What word? Bitch?

God: I just said, DON’T SAY THAT WORD.

Adam: You just said that word like, literally, five minutes ago.

God: I exist outside of time, your reference means nothing to me.

Adam: You said that word previously today.

God: Previous? Today? Are these not constructs of human time?

Adam: You said that friggin word during this current rotation of the Earth.

God: Whatever, bro. Do as I say, not as I do.

Adam: Im not one to criticize, but that’s terrible leadership. A great leader leads by example and I just heard you say that word.

God: Yeah, because you somehow put that word into my lexicon..

Adam: What the heck’s a lexicon?

God: I dunno. Ask Eve. She said it, and the point is – no more saying that word!

Adam: Man, don’t you see what’s going on??? She’s totally manipulating you, God. Don’t let her do that to you.

God: Look, I gave you what you wanted. Be grateful, say your praises tonight, and go to sleep. Good night.

Adam: Yes, my Lord (sarcastically and extra gay-ish), good-night.

*Adam hangs up, looks around for Eve. He spots her by the uat tree, snacking. That word, cumquat, has always made him uncomfortable, why isn’t that a forbidden word, he thinks.

*He approaches Eve. Eve sees him coming, drops the fruit, pretends to be sleeping.

Adam: Hey Eve


Adam: Eve, I know you just got off with God and I saw you eating the cumquat, so I know you’re awake.


Adam: I wanted to ask if I could dip the tip tonight. My marbles are killing me.

*snooring loudly

Adam: Fine.

*Adam goes to sleep


8 hours later:

*Adam, wide awake for the last three hours, staring at Eve, waiting for her to wake.

*Eve wakes.

Adam: Hey beautiful lovely girl. You look so nice today. What a beautiful day. May I make you breakfast and then massage your beautiful feet?

Eve: What a treat, Adam, you don’t have to do that.

Adam: I want to. You just hang tight, and I’ll be back with breakfast in a few.

Eve: Can we have apples?

Adam: Of course.

Eve: From the tree of knowledge?

Adam: You know we can’t do that. Why must you bring it up every single day?

Eve: From what I hear, it’s the tastiest thing this garden has to offer.

Adam: Where did you hear that?

Eve: I don’t remember exactly. I think some snake mentioned it.

Adam: We aren’t eating from the tree of knowledge.

Eve: I heard it will help your marbles to be relieved.

Adam: God told you, huh?

Eve: Yeah.

Adam: I knew you guys were talking about my marbles. He’s such a blabber mouth

Eve: He means well.

*Adam looks down at his little Adam

Adam: Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with this travesty, would you?

Eve: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Adam: I know God didn’t do this on his own. No way.

Eve: Look, anyway, eating from the tree of knowledge will help your issue.

Adam: (pauses, thinking)- That can’t be true. God would’ve told me if that were the case.

Eve: You’re so naïve, Adam. He just doesn’t want you to be smarter than him. If you ate from the tree, you’d be smart enough to figure out how to relieve your own marbles, and you wouldn’t need my help.

Adam: I’ll fix you breakfast. Just relax.

*Adam runs off. He’s annoyed. He knows she’s trying to manipulate him by calling him naïve, he knows that she knows that he hates that.

*Eve is annoyed. She almost had him. At least she’s getting closer.

*Adam returns with figs, guava, rice, freshly caught fish, and coffee beans. He grinds the beans, makes coffee, filets and fries the fish in coconut oil, and while the coffee is brewing, he begins giving her a foot massage.

Adam: My sweet beautiful tulip, I had a question for you.

Eve: Yes?

Adam: Well, we’ve known each other since the day God created from the rib that is no longer inside my body.

Eve: We have.

Adam: It really hurt when he took that rib to create you.

Eve: Get to the point, Adam.

Adam: Okay, look, there’s nobody else in this garden except for you and me, and that annoying talking snake, and well, this pressure I’ve been feeling lately in my marble sack is becoming too much to bare, and-

Eve: And you want to soil my body with your dirty tip.

Adam: Did God tell you that too?

Eve: He did.

Adam: Well aren’t you two just a couple of Chatty Cathys? Anyway, what do you think?

Eve: I think you should move the orange tree over by the coconut tree so that I don’t have to be inconvenienced when making those orange-coconut daquiris that you love so much, and that will also leave us with more open space near the flower garden. After that, I we should talk about your marble sack problem.

Adam: I friggin knew you were going to give me a hard time about this.

Eve: By the way, what makes you think there’s marbles in your sack? I mean, that doesn’t make any logical sense.

Adam: The talking snake told me.

Eve: That snake is the biggest BSer in the whole garden. You know, if you just eat the stinkin’ fruit from the tree of knowledge, then you’d know what’s in your sack in addition to all of life’s other mysteries.

Adam: I like mysteries. They keep life, well, mysterious. Why do I need to know the answers?

Eve: Just get to work, Adam


*12 hours of hard labor later


Adam: Hey my love, I moved the orange tree, just how you wanted it. So can we talk about DTP?

Eve: DTP?

Adam: Dipping the tip.

Eve: Sexual acronyms won’t be cool for at least 10,000 years. You just made it sound even creepier than it already is. Besides, now that I think about it, the orange tree was better where it was.

Adam: Are you freaking serious?

Eve: Yes. The way it is now, the orange tree is blocking some of the sun for the coconut tree.

Adam: If I move it, then you’ll let me D the T?

Eve: If you promise to never say ‘D the T’ again, then we can talk about it.


*15 hours later, Adam has put the orange tree back, and Eve awakens in the flower garden to find Adam, covered in dirt, staring at her.


Eve: (startled) Stop staring at me, you’re freaking me out.

Adam: Sorry. Are you ready to do it?

Eve: I’m hungry, and you smell gross.. Maybe after breakfast and a bath.

Adam: Then we can do it?

Eve: Then we can talk about it.


*3 hours later, Adam has made Eve breakfast and he’s bathed in the sea.

Adam: Eve, I can’t take this anymore. Seriously, my marble sack feels like it has the weight of all mankind on it.

Eve: That’s us, Adam. We’re all of mankind.

Adam: What’s it going to take for you to give me permission?

Eve: What makes you think it’s going to make anything better?

Adam: I know my body, and it’s telling me I need to do this.

Eve: I’m unconvinced.

Adam: What would convince you?

Eve: Maybe if we ate from the tree of knowledge it would bring some clarity to this issue.

Adam: You know we can’t do that.

Eve: Why? What’s the big deal? Is God afraid we’ll be as smart as him? Sounds like your typical patriarchal bull.

Adam: God isn’t a he. He’s asexual.

Eve: Yeah right. I know an insecure man when I see one.

Adam: You know he can hear everything you’re saying, right?

Eve: It’s my time of month, and I may not know much, but I know men tune women out during their time of month. He ain’t hearing shit right now.

Adam: Time of month? What the heck are you talking about?

Eve: You really want to know?

Adam: If it will help move this process along, then yes.

Eve: Eat the apple, you’ll know everything then, and then maybe give me a bite.

Adam: If we do this, you’ll let me dip the tip?

Eve: I’ll let you dunk the trunk if you eat –

*Crunch (sound of Adam gobbling down an apple. He’s halfway through it before she’s finished her sentence)
*He breaks off another apple and feeds it to Eve.
*A talking snake appears and says some bull-shit.
*Adam dunks the trunk.
*Adam cums in exactly 3 seconds
*Adam passes out.
*Eve smiles a devious smile. She knows she’s forever in charge now.
*Adam wakes, he smiles at Eve, she nods. He dunks the trunk once more. After, he arrogantly grabs an apple off of the tree of knowledge. He takes a deeply satisfying bite.

*The heavens part, lightening crashes down, thunder roars.

God: Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life.

Adam: Ummm?

God: Basically, life is going to start sucking, real hard.

Adam: Yeah… okay… but, umm, can I keep dunking the trunk?

God: You have free will to do as you choose. But there are consequences to your actions.

Adam: What’s that supposed to mean?

*The skies clear up, and God’s voice dissipates
*Eve screams.

Adam: What’s wrong? What is it, Eve –

*Adam turns, looks at Eve, her belly is gigantic. Almost like something is living inside it.

Adam: What the fuck happened to your stomach?

Eve: How the hell should I know?

Adam: I thought this apple was supposed to give us all the answers! The only thing I know is that I don’t know anymore shit than I did before I ate the fucking apple!

Eve: Why did you let that talking snake talk you into that? You ass-hole! Look what you’ve done to me!!!

Adam: What? Me? The snake? Are you out of your friggin mind???

*Eve storms off.
*Adam storms off in the opposite direction.
*He takes a seat near the orange blossoms. He looks down, he little Adam is erect again.

Adam: (to himself) Not again. Seriously, little Adam? There’s no way she’s letting you dunk the trunk today.

*He rubs it to try to make it go away.
*It doesn’t work, but it does feel awesome.
*He continues.
*He finishes the job.
*He falls asleep.


*3 hours later –


*Adam wakes up. He rubs his eyes.
*He can’t see anything.

Adam: Eve?

*He rubs his eyes some more. He opens them again.
*He still can’t see.

Adam: Eve!?!

*Eve appears.

Eve (frantic): put your hand on my belly. I think there’s something inside there, and I felt it trying to kick my insides. What the fuck, Adam???

Adam: I can’t even see you, Eve, I’m fucking blind? What the fuck?

Eve: I’m freaking out, Adam!

*She looks down. His little Adam is erect.

Eve: How can you want to dunk the trunk at a time like this??? There’s a creature in my belly and you might be blind!

Adam: I don’t know, Eve. Little Adam has a mind of his own. I have no control over him! He’s a monster!

Eve: Well, you need to control your monster, and we need to figure out what to do about the monster in my stomach.

*Lightening crashes. The heaven’s part.

God: Eve.

Eve: God. What is happening to me?

God: You are pregnant?

Eve: What does that mean, my Lord?

God: It means, that in a few months, a baby human will be born from you..

Eve: There’s a person inside me?

God: There is. He is your child. He is your son. He is a blessing and a curse, and he will be ready to come out of you in a few months.

Eve: Come out of me? How?

God: Out of your Eve cave.

*Adam winces

Eve: God, that’s going to hurt so terribly bad!

God: Yes.

Eve: But God, you said we wouldn’t suffer. That’s why you made Adam’s little Adam smaller for me.

Adam: I fucking knew it! You bitch!

God: Silence! You are piling up the sins faster than I can create ways to punish you!

Adam: Punish me?

God: Yes. Punish you. Your sins must be paid for to be absolved.

Adam: Am I blind now?

God: Yes.

Adam: What? Why God?

God: Because you massaged little Adam into submission.

Adam: So?

God: So, you’re blind now.

Adam: That doesn’t even make sense. How does that lead to blindness.

God: I decided that you may dunk the trunk, but it might lead to more babies. However, you are not allowed to do anything else to relieve the pressure in your marbles. Blindness is the penalty for it.

Adam: That sucks! And you could’ve told me first.

God (in a whiny voice, mimicking Adam): You could’ve told me first.

Adam: Are you mocking me?

God: Yes.

Adam: So you’re telling me that my marbles are going to have a constant need to have the pressure released, but that the only way I’m allowed to do it is by dunking the trunk in Eve, and to do that, I have to get her permission?

God: Correctomundo!

*Eve smiles an evil smile.

Adam: This sucks! God Dammit!

*Thunder roars!
*Lightening crashes!
*Adam feels a breeze on top of his head.
*He touches the top of his head.
*His hair is gone.

Adam: What the shit!?! Where’s my hair?

God: The punishment for taking my name in vain will be hair loss.

Adam: What? Why? You’ve never mentioned that before.

God: I just thought of it, like, literally, this very second. Pretty clever, no?

Eve: You are so clever and smart, my Lord.

God: Thank you, Eve.

Adam: Stop sucking up, you bitch!

*More of Adam’s hair falls out.

Adam: What the heck??? I didn’t take your name in vain.

God: I was feeling inspired.

Adam: Can you at least, like, write all these rules down so that I can read them and understand them?

God: What good would that do, you’re blind.

*God laughs, the Earth shakes.

Adam: Good point. I guess Eve could read them to me.

God: That’s fair, I’ll write and give them to Eve.

Adam: Wait, on second thought, maybe just tell them to me. I have a pretty good memory.

Eve: No, I like the first plan. Let me have them, my Lord. I’ll make sure this apple grabber keeps in line.

Adam: You’re the freaking one that made me eat the apple!

Eve: Yeah, well, what-evs.

*Thunder rumbles, a giant streak of lightening goes across the sky and strikes a pear tree. It blows it to smithereans.

*Left behind, is a giant book.

God: I will call it, The Bible.

Eve: My Lord, you wrote a whole book, you are so inspiring!

God: (blushing) – Thank you, Eve. Actually though, I wrote a book before. It was a fictional tale about a post-apocalyptic dystopian world in which a teenage bow hunting girl, who was part of a starving village, in one of the 13 districts that existed to serve the empire, eventually took on the evil empire, to help restore ethics to the world.

Eve: You’re so smart, my Lord. I don’t understand what half the words are that you just said, but I am in awe of you.

Adam: What the fuck is going on with you two? Eve, dude, he put a person in your belly.

Eve: No, Adam, you put that person in my belly when you made me eat your apple from the tree of knowledge and then dunked your trunk in my vagina.

Adam: Vagina? What’s a vagina.

Eve: It’s my new name for my Eve cave. I don’t like the derogatory nature of the term ‘Eve cave.’

Adam: So you’re going with vagina? Ewe. That’s like, the worst sounding word I’ve ever heard… except maybe cumquat.

God: Watch it, buddy, that one was mine.

*Eve picks up God’s bible, she’s intimidated by its heft. She starts leafing through it.

Eve: Oh my goodness, my Lord, you wrote about us! I’m so excited to read it.

God: Take your time. Digest the concepts. This is your new rule book.

Adam: So, let me get this straight… My marbles are going to fill up with heft that is going to make me incredibly uncomfortable, and to relieve this feeling, the only thing I’m allowed to do is to dunk the trunk in Eve’s (makes disgusted face) vagina. Any other method will result in some kind of penalty.

God: Equal to or worse than blindness.

Adam: Yes. That. And there’s a whole book of other rules, which, in order for me to follow them, I have to know what they are, and the only person who can tell me is Eve.

God: yes.

Adam: So basically, I am completely in need of Eve’s assistance if I want to lead a life free of future harsh punishment.

God: Correct.

Adam: (defeated) This is the worst.

God: Yeah, well, shoulda thought of that before you broke the one singular rule I gave you.

Adam: And I don’t have one bit of knowledge from it.

God: That’s right. It was a test, and you failed.

Adam: Whatever man. It was Eve’s fault.

God: And now, I gotta get off the line, I’m working on a new planet out past Mars, and I’m expecting a call from Lucipher later. He wants to make up.

*God gets off the line.
*The skies part
*And a down pour of rain falls upon them.
*Adam gets up and tries to start feeling his way back to the forest of Raphia regalis trees, to seek shelter from the rain.

Eve: Where do you think you’re going?

Adam: For coverage. It’s pouring.

Eve: Carry me.

Adam: Go fuck yourself, Eve.

Eve: (holding a giant palm branch over her head to keep herself dry) My feet are swollen from this baby inside me and I want to be carried.

Adam: Whatever.

*Adam continues walking

Eve: It says here in this Bible that denying a request to a pregnant lady shall result in the loss of a limb.

Adam: Yeah right. You’re manipulating me. How did you find that specific passage so quickly?

Eve: There’s an index in the back of it. I looked for “pregnant.”

Adam: Shit.

Eve: I’d hate for you to lose a limb, Adam.

*Adam thinking…

Adam: Does it specify which limb?

Eve: (pretends to take a second look) – Nope. I guess it’s at God’s discretion.

Adam: Fine. Hop on. I’m, ya know, blind, so you have to navigate.

Eve: Great. Oh, and Adam, when we get back, I’m going to need you to get some dinner. I’m not sure why, but I’m starving.

Adam: What do you want?

Eve: Lobster… Umm, a steak… and, umm, ice cream.

Adam: What’s ice cream?

Eve: Mmmm, I’m not exactly sure, but I think it’s frozen cream with sugar in it.

Adam: How am I supposed to get that for you? It’s like 90 degrees out here.

Eve: I know. I guess it’s gonna be tough, but you know, I’d hate for you to lose a limb, and all that.

Adam: Freezing crème in this heat is impossible!

Eve: Maybe you should eat some more of that tree of knowledge. Maybe that will help you.

Adam: Fuck off.

Eve: And then, for dessert, I want –

Adam: For dessert? Isn’t the frozen sugar cream dessert?

Eve: No. That’s to cleanse my palate before dessert… Anyway, before you rudely interrupted me, I was going to say that I’d like some freshly made flan for dessert.

Adam: According to that book, what is the penalty for suicide?





Octogenarian Threesome in Thailand

My good friend just sent me this picture from Thailand in 2004 and it instantly took me back to the time I shaved my head and almost had a threesome with a 95 year old lady.

And now I have a story that’s going to burn another hole in my head unless I share it…

Looking for a completely unfettered worldly adventure my friend Todd and I hired a guide in the city of Chang Mai to take us deep into the jungle to live with the famous Karen tribe of Northern Thailand.

If you are unfamiliar, these are the exotic tribal women you saw in National Geographic magazines when you were a kid. They were the ones with the super long necks that had been lengthened, ceremoniously, by the silver and gold rings that were put around their necks for the purpose of lengthening them.

If you are unfamiliar with my friend Todd, he had just finished starring in his own reality show that was about Los Angeles’ biggest and most directionless party dude. So, needless to say, our 5am wake-up call to catch our elephant out of town wasn’t really a wake-up call at all, because Thailand has lots of great drugs, and we never actually went to bed.

I should also mention that, at some point in the middle of that bender, I decided to shave my head bald. I thought it would be a cool travel thing to do, I had no idea that my bare head had previously been smashed in by a hammer in two different spots, and that there were now giant craters there that refracted all the suns rays directly into a pin sized hole on my cranium, just like a magnifying glass would do.

I still can’t grow hair out of those two tiny future skin cancer spots.

I also had no idea that, upon my return to Hermosa Beach California, Miss Universe, Ali Landry, would show up at my home and sit on my couch and talk to me. I had a brand new girlfriend at the time (The Bride), but we weren’t fully committed at this point, and I’m completely convinced that had I not shaved my head, I might be Mr. Ali Landry today.

Thank God that didn’t happen because The Bride is obviously the greatest woman on Earth.

At any rate, it took an entire day to get to this tribe, and it was a three legged journey. The first leg was via diesel truck that hadn’t passed a smog check since Buddha died in 480 BCE. This truck was single handedly responsible for raising the global temperature by one degree Celsius due to its filthy emissions. We spent the first 30 minutes of this ride annoying the other travelers by yelling out “Viva La Thailand!” over and over, at the top of our lungs, which made no sense and wouldn’t have been funny even if it did. Somewhere around minute thirty-one, the thick deadly fog of the diesel truck combined with the previous nights activities combined with the unpaved windy dirt path they tried to pass off as a “road” led to me projectile vomit, over and over, for about five minutes. My dear wonderful friend, whom was obviously still intoxicated, thoroughly my suffering and laughed harder than I’d ever seen him laugh before.

Half an hour later, it was he who was projectile vomiting.
Karma is a mother fucker.

Leg two of the trip was by elephant.
This wasn’t like the fun elephant ride they give you in the streets of Bangkok, this was a legit mountain climbing elephant. For as huge as this elephant was, he was surprisingly nimble, taking tight turns on skinny windy mountain paths like that dude who walked the tight rope across Niagara Falls.
Going up that mountain had to be tough, so I’m not sure why, during lunch break, while the elephant was getting a drink from a stream, Todd thought it would be a good time to approach it and pet it.
Here’s the best way I can describe to you how this turned out-
Have you seen Superman versus Batman when Superman punches Batman and Batman goes flying through a wall?
What happened was exactly like that but replace Superman’s fist with an elephant’s trunk and replace Batman with my friend Todd and replace the wall with a wooden tool shed.
It was spectacular and I’d give all my money to have it on video.

Leg three of the trip was by boat, and when I say boat what I mean is a Huckleberry Finn raft made out of a bunch of sticks and twine that was being propelled downstream by an Asian man with a longer stick.

Eventually we arrived, and our arrival was every bit as dramatic as I had hoped it would be. When we got there, it must have been bath time, and it must also have been after dinner pooping time because everyone was in the river, naked, bathing, except for the people that were down stream, naked, pooping.

It was spectacular.

We spent a solid hour in that river, tossing around naked little giggling Thai babies and splashing around (upstream from the poopers obviously). It was so raw and real and pure. It was complete unadulterated joy, and even though we couldn’t communicate with words, we bonded over laughter. I was so consumed by the moment that I didn’t realize, until afterwards, that if this exact scene had just played out in America, I would likely still be in jail today.

Throwing naked babies, whom aren’t your own, around a river that people are pooping in is highly frowned upon by Western civilization for some reason.

Over the next couple days, we learned some amazing things. We learned how the tribe farmed rice from the rice terraces that went on for as far as the eye could see. You’d think that with all that rice that they’d be incredibly wealthy, but they weren’t. In fact, they were the exact opposite of wealthy. I mean, wealthy people do not poop in the same river that they bathe in and drink from. Obviously, somewhere in the capitalism process of rice farming, production, and sales, these people were getting screwed.

I also learned that a few times per year a man will come to the tribe from the city, and offer work to some of the young girls. The families are paid for their daughters and their daughters disappear into the city in hopes of a better life.

I learned from my guide that these are the girls that end up being the bar girls that learn to shoot ping pong balls out of their wahoos in Bangkok and Phuket.
It’s tragic and it hurt me to my very core.
Before I left Thailand I kind of adopted one. I set up a PO box for her and sent her $100 per month for a couple years. Eventually, I stopped sending money. I still sometimes wonder what happened to her. I still sometimes feel guilty about the decision to stop sending money.

At any rate, this is a comedy story, so let’s get back to the funny.
I also learned how they grow poppies and turn it into opium.
I also learned how they smoke the opium.

Malcom Gladwell says you need 10,000 hours of experience to become an expert in anything. Well, I was only there for about a week, but however many hours are in a week is how many hours of practice I got in, and Malcom Gladwell is a liar because I totally became an opium smoking expert.

My opium smoking expertise led to the night that a young, attractive girl from the tribe walked into our little opium den and asked (through the translator) who would like a two girl massage.

Now, to set this scene correctly, I need to tell you that I broke my neck in 1998. By this time (2004), I’d already had two major neck surgeries. I lived with chronic pain daily (still do), and one thing that seemed to help it was becoming a masterful opium smoker in Thailand. Another thing that seemed to help it was two girl Thai massages.

So, when this young attractive girl came into our opium den and offered a two girl Thai massage, my hand shot up before the translator even finished translating. It was almost an involuntary reaction, like the way your stomach digests food. You don’t think about it digesting food, you don’t concentrate on making that food digest, the stomach just does it. That’s what happened here with my hand. It was disconnected from my brain. It was on auto-pilot, and it wanted me to get that massage.

And who am I to argue with an arm that is capable of its own independent thought?

Walking into the massage area, I imagined two beautiful tribal girls working out all my kinks and sending me into a world of bliss as I smoked my opium pipe.

What I got was much different. In walked two frail octogenarians that looked like they could barely lift an opium pipe. These two old ladies “massaged” me for an hour, and I put “massage” in quotes not because there was funny business going on (even though there was), but because what they did can’t possibly qualify as massage. All they basically did was lay their limp wrinkly old hands on me and then slosh them around in tiny little circles for a few minutes, and then they’d move on to a new spot for more hand sloshing and flopping. If I were 1,000 years old and my skin were paper mache, I still wouldn’t have felt it.

To top off this nightmarish massage, at the conclusion, they asked me if I wanted a “full release.” However, they couldn’t actually ask me that because we didn’t speak the same language, so they had to ask the translator who then had to ask me.

As if that wasn’t embarrasing enough, one of the old ladies gave me a toothless smile and then made the universal dick sucking hand motion and face, and I almost threw up.
I didn’t want to be rude, but no. Just nope.

In conclusion, Thailand is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been, and I learned more there in a month about my “privilege” than I’ve learned from years of social justice warriors yelling about it on the internet.
If you are born in America, you are privileged. It’s that simple.
I learned recently that an income of $35,000 per year puts you in the top 1% of the world population. That is how ridiculously poor the rest of the world is. $35,000 here barely puts you above our poverty line.
If you are born in America, you are privileged, and if you’ve never been to a third world country, you should go immediately. And don’t go to a 3rd world country and stay at some fancy resort, drinking drinks with umbrellas in them, laying your fat ass in the cabana all day and never leaving the resort except for your one hour “adventure tour.” Stay in a hostel in the heart of the city. Shit in a hole in the ground and wipe yourself with your hand. Eat rice and beans every meal for a week. I promise you, after that, you’ll stop whining about the terrible service you’re getting from your cell phone company.
You were born in America, you won the fucking lottery. You will never have to sell your daughter to a brothel or have to witness your grandmother offering blow jobs to bald tourists. You’re life may not be perfect, but it’s pretty fucking great.
We all need a little perspective.
I came home from Thailand with typhoid fever, as well as a new appreciation for the spoiled life I was living and I’ve tried to travel as much as possible, since then, to keep reminding myself of how blessed I am.

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