Do you Have AIDS? None of Your Business? Umm, but your cock is in my Butt.

Now preceding, Judge Walker-

Judge- Okay, people, today’s first case, we have the family of an 8 year old boy versus the neighbors across the street.

Prosecution- Yes, your honor, the family invited my clients over to have some bar-b-que and jump on the trampoline. However, there were three broken springs on the trampoline and beneath it was a pit of poisonous snakes. The hosting family was aware of the broken springs and snakes; my client’s child jumped on the trampoline, fell through, and into the pit of poisonous snakes, and now he is paralyzed from the neck down, and is going to have his leg amputated.

Judge- I find the family guilty and liable for one hundred trillion dollars.

Prosecution- Thank you, your honor.

Judge- Okay, today’s second case. We have a woman versus a previous lover.

Prosecution- Yes, your honor, my client, Ms. Jackson, went on a date with Mr. Pimpleskin and retired to his quarters that evening for some furious love making. Mr. Pimpleskin has full blown HIV, and he’s known this for five years. He didn’t inform my client, and he didn’t wear a condom. Now she is lying in the hospital with AIDS.

Judge- I find the defendant not guilty! That is no longer a crime in California.

Prosecution- Your honor, that’s crazy!!!

Judge- That’s the law. Next case.

Prosecution- Oh, I should mention that my client had two beers and her alcohol blood level was .08, and three weeks later in her University Gender’s Study program she learned that regrettable sex, under the influence, is rape. She totally regretted the sex. I mean, duh, he gave her AIDS.

Judge- This is an abomination! The defendant is guilty of rape! Dip him in a vat of honey and throw him in a wolf’s den where they will eat him ass first! You, sir, are a horrible man and you deserve the death penalty!!!

California, my love, I love you, but what the fuck are you doing?


Penis or Vagina? It’s so confusing.

I just heard a statistic that 40% of people under the age of 25 years old don’t identify as either straight or gay, and my mind is blown.

I used to believe that sexual attraction wasn’t a choice; that you were born one way and that’s how it was. I believed that because I could remember being attracted to girls as early as kindergarten. I didn’t choose that, it just was. I had my first kiss in second grade, but it was forced upon me by the friend of the girl I really wanted to kiss. Yes, I’m a victim of sexual assault by a second grader that was bigger than me.

I later “humped” the furry hooded coat of the girl I really liked, during recess (she was not wearing the coat when I humped it)- I called this “tickling” but, in hindsight, this is probably something Harvey Weinstein was doing in second grade. I don’t recall if I asked her permission before humping her furry hooded coat or not. However, I promise you, if you saw this coat, you would’ve humped it too.

We’re getting off topic.

In my late twenties, I dated a girl who had been a lesbian her entire life until we met. Since that time, she’s been straight and is now married to a man. She went thirty years lesbo and now the last 14 straight. She experienced sexual trauma at a young age, and it subconsciously scared her off men. From that experience I learned that trauma can affect and change sexuality.

I also learned that I was able to turn a woman and I manage to work this into 67 percent of the conversations I’ve had since then.

Again, off topic. (But awesome)

A few years ago, I learned about imprinting. This happens mostly with boys and it explains why so many molested boys turn out to be molesters later in life. Something terrible and horrific and tragic happens to them; however, because they don’t know what is going on, it also feels good. This is what is so confusing to them. They are being assaulted and forced into doing something horrific and this damages them for life. At the same time, they forever, subconsciously, associate that with pleasure. Statistically, a VERY high percentage of molested boys become molesters. This doesn’t happen to girls. From this, I learned that there is a LOT that still needs to be learned about sexuality.

Now, today, I’m hearing that 40% of kids under twenty five identify as neither gay nor straight. I guess this means bisexual? Or asexual? I’m honestly not sure. Now, I’m wondering if I had it wrong from jump. Maybe, sexuality is actually a choice. Or maybe its affected by genetics and trauma and choice. Or maybe our sexuality can be impacted by the societal standards of our time. Maybe social norms help form our sexuality. In today’s world, all kinds of things are “acceptable” and “normal” that weren’t when I was a kid. Maybe this actually affects children’s sexuality. Or maybe my generation was repressing things regarding their sexuality without even knowing it.

I’d bet that less than 3% of my generation is unable to identify as gay or straight as compared to the 40% now. That can’t just be due to chance. There’s no way that it increased 37%. Either someone isn’t being honest or societal norms impact sexuality far more than previously believed. There has to be something about the way people are growing up now, in an environment that is more accepting and open to these ideas, that makes them more likely to identify as bisexual or something else altogether.

Now, is it the environment that made them that way? I don’t know. How could I know. I do know; however, that this current generation isn’t the first to identify this way. In Ancient Greece everyone was having sex with everyone else, regardless of gender. That was the norm. Maybe that was the societal norm and maybe that affected the sexuality of the individuals. Maybe that is what we are experiencing now.

I could never see myself being attracted to anyone other than a woman, but maybe, if I were fifteen and growing up in this new era, maybe I’d have turned out differently. Same genetics, same lack of sexual trauma, different setting, different outcome.

Who knows? I certainly don’t. I’m not going to be one of those tough guys that says “no way, not me, bro.”
I’m not homophobic, so that thought doesn’t scare me. I just can’t imagine being attracted to guys. But who knows what affects our sexuality; it gets more complex as I get older and learn things, rather than becoming more simplified.

Basically, we should never pretend to have all the answers.
Also, why does it matter? Why can’t we just accept people for what they are? And why do we have to put labels on our sexuality?
For that matter, why do we have to discuss it so often? Why is our society so obsessed with sexuality and labels? Why am I discussing it right now?
Sexuality is just one more way to play identity politics, and it’s probably no good for us to inject it into every conversation just like it’s not good to inject “race” into every conversation.

That said, understanding these things may help us figure out a way to stop pedophilia from occurring.

So let’s leave it to the scientists and let’s stop judging one another in the meantime.

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Hey Superman, Go Back To Your Country

I watched the new Superman with my son the other night and I had a realization… I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Sci-Fi movie in which other-worldly aliens lived on their home planet separated countries?

If there is a movie like this, I’m unaware of it.

If aliens are able to leave their planet and travel the galaxy, they are more evolved than us, and it would seem that the idea of having separate countries on a single planet doesn’t feel right in a story line about higher evolved beings.
It seems then that arbitrary borders are a very antiquated idea.

At some point, as we continue to evolve and progress, you would hope we’d reach a point where we would do away with the arbitrary make-believe lines that we draw in the dirt between us.

In the modern age of the internet, where all information is shared globally, an age in which all the air that we breathe is the same, an age in which pollution is no longer local and affects us globally, and an age in which we’ve come to learn that we have much more in common than not, doesn’t the idea of living on a planet with imaginary lines drawn in the sand already seem out-dated?

I mean, 500 years ago giant walls were built around cities to protect those cities from the neighboring city. We no longer do that, right? Wouldn’t it feel crazy if Los Angeles built a giant fence to keep out all the beach folk from Manhattan Beach and then Manhattan Beach built a giant fence to keep out everyone from Hermosa Beach?

How then is it not crazy that decide that being born within the imaginary boundaries of one patch of dirt means that you can’t go to that other patch of dirt without having special permission.

What are we doing here? It’s non-sense.

I guess, for safety sake, it’s necessary right now to “have borders” and “protect those borders” because there are people in the world that want to harm us. However, maybe if we didn’t have an “ours” and “theirs” society, and all of us were just humans with equal rights to go wherever we wanted, then maybe there wouldn’t be the need to “protect our borders”.

But probably not. That’s probably just some hippy-dippy day dreamer stuff, huh?

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Wisdom From the Mouth of Babes

The Bride is out of town at a lesbian bachelorette party in Vegas and The Boys and I are camping in the backyard playing “What If” games.

The 5 y/o asked what we’d do if we had one day left to live.

I went on about how we would have an awesome day camping in the woods, playing laser tag and paintball and doing american ninja warrior obstacle courses and rock climbing and then having a campfire and roasting marshmallows and telling stories, tucking the boys in for the night, telling them I loved them, telling them to be brave boys and to never stop trying their best at whatever they do in life, and then going to make love to their mother, and then I’d stay up all night writing letters to my boys to teach them all the lessons I didn’t have the time to teach them while I was alive.

They were both crying after that. Shit got real. The eight year old then says, “if it were my last day alive, I’d find a memory erasing machine, and I’d erase the memory of me from your mind and brother’s mind, and Mommy’s mind, and all my friend’s minds, so that nobody would have to miss me.”

Wow. I was impressed by that.

We often think of children as being selfish people. In ways they are. Up until about the age of six, children struggle to even hold onto the concept of other people having their own ego and self-awareness. Children see their parents not as individuals, but as extensions of themselves.

So, when a child says something like this, which is so profoundly outside of self, I find it both incredible and very encouraging about the future of humanity. In the moment, I learned from the selflessness of my child’s statement.

As I get older, I think about how I’ll be remembered after I’m gone. I’m thinking about how my children will do without me, and I worry, but I’m also aware of the fact that I will fade, day by day, from their memories, until I’m just a few speckled memories that they hang on to, dearly and preciously, as those memories become less real and pure and begin to change into memories of the memories.
This makes me sad. It makes me sad because of my own ego, and the illusion that, as an individual, I am important and that I matter.

I’m not and I don’t.

In a sense, I’m important in that my actions will affect my children’s personalities and will affect who they become and their effect on the world, and this will be passed down, fractionally, to their children, and then fractions of that will be passed on to their children, and so on. So yes, in a way, I do matter. My actions will have ripple effects here on Earth, for a long time. But I don’t matter in the sense that the memory of me as an individual holds any importance other than a sentimental one to me and my children. And that reality kind of stings.

However, my child, a child that is barely aware of the existence of a world beyond what he can see with his eyes, that child is so selfless as to answer that question in the most selfless way I can imagine it being answered. He would choose to be forgotten, so that those who love him will not have to suffer missing him.

That’s a beautiful answer, one I’d never have thought of giving, and it makes me so proud of him.


Before the inevitable liberal backlash comes (and it’s coming) allow me to qualify this statement-

First, I don’t have a type, but I’ve always trended towards Asians, Latinas, and black women over white women.

Also, I definitely prefer the girl with the big, innocent, girl-next-door Bambi eyes with the giant uplifting smile who laughs at my stupid jokes and gives warm loving hugs that feel like a mainline of serotonin straight to my heart over the cold, calloused, waif thin supermodel with the painted face and chiseled abs that dismisses men with a sarcastic eye roll when they comment on her beauty.

All of that said, The Bride loves the Miss Universe contest.
I hate it and have never watched with her.
Last night, she told me she loves it because she’s nostalgic for her past and it reminds her of watching the competition, in the Philippines, with her now dead father.
Given that my mother is sick, I can relate to and respect nostalgia for the parent-child bond, so I decided to watch with her (and I didn’t even make one sarcastic joke- this was hard).
Anyway, I couldn’t help but notice that there were almost no white women in the competition.

I want the stupid #OscarsSoWhite people to get equally upset at this and to raise hell.

Or, maybe we should stop framing every single thing in this world around the amount of melanin people have in their skin, and just allow merit, personal taste, and arbitrary judging to decide these ridiculously silly and inconsequential award shows.

By the way, brown and white babies are being killed every single day in overseas wars that we didn’t vote on, and that don’t benefit us or them.


The Bride is such a faggot.

I just learned that the word “faggot” originally referred to a “bundle of kindling wood.”
It was later used to describe burdensome woman, i.e. that woman is burdensome like a bundle of kindling that would be carried into camp on one’s back.

I.e. “That difficult woman is breaking my back like all that heavy kindling.”
It was later used to describe gay men, as in- these gay men are like a bunch of burdensome women…

I cannot wait until the next time my wife is being “burdensome” so that I can call her a faggot.

That will be a fun day.

Remember people, there is no such thing as a bad word. A word can’t be bad. Only intentions can’t be bad

Pixie Dust and Gay Men Save The Day

Once a year, I give The Bride a pass to take a lady-cation and she gives me a pass to take a man-cation.
I am blessed to have such a killer, cool wife.
Typically, I go international, but this year, as a new father, I felt obligated to stay close. So, I chose Lake Tahoe.
Shortly after arriving at the Reno airport and meeting up with my buddy, Gary, we learned that the Burning Man Festival was happening only one hundred twenty miles away. Without giving it any considerable thought or doing any kind of planning, we rented an SUV, stocked the car with jugs of water, and headed into the hot desert of Black Rock City.
For the layman who doesn’t know what Burning Man is, I’ll do my best to explain.
Close your eyes and imagine Woodstock. Now, move the festival out of New York and put it on a dried up lake bed in the middle of the Nevada desert, crank up the heat to Kuwait, get rid of the live music acts, outlaw bras and razors, make sure the population is at least 50% gay men over the age of forty, forbid capitalism, throw in a dust storm every twenty minutes, get a thousand naked people to glue unicorn horns to their foreheads, stampede across the lake bed, remove their unicorn horns, and assist in the building of hundreds of giant art structures that are several stories high and will be torn down only days after being completed. Lastly, sprinkle in some fairy dust and hallucinogenic drugs, make it mandatory to say, “have a great burn” to a stranger at least once every fifteen minutes, and be sure to include dozens of crazy, home-made “art vehicles” which are essentially giant motorized Scooby Doo and Papa Smurf sculptures that have dozens of hippies hanging on them, dancing to the music blasting from the vehicle’s stereos which are the loudest stereos on earth and never stop blasting music regardless of the GD hour.
That’s Burning Man in a nutshell.
It’s the greatest thing of all the great things I’ve ever seen. And yet it sucks harder than anything has ever sucked before.
Burning Man is the ultimate embodiment of the duality of man.
I had the best time of my life—
Until I had a stroke.
We arrived at Burning Man at 4 AM, and being virgins to the event, we were completely unprepared for what we were taking on. Most people go to Burning Man in large RVs so that they have comfortable sleeping quarters and a place to shower. Without an RV, we had to sleep in our SUV, and our sole option for bathing was in Burning Man’s only public shower—
The Human Carcass Wash.
Yes, this is exactly what it sounds like.
At the Human Carcass Wash, you strip down to your bare nothingness and then walk through an assembly line with dozens of other naked, smelly strangers who are also in dire need of a bath. First, you’re hosed down, and then some completely random person scrubs your body.
Every crevice.
Every nook and cranny.
After you’ve been scrubbed, you’re herded like cattle to the next station where you are hosed down like farm animals. This cleans you, but makes you feel dirty on the inside. It’s another example of the duality of Burning Man.
However, before all this, before you are permitted to go through the Human Carcass Wash, you must first work at the Human Carcass Wash.
Now, before you get any excitable delusions about scrubbing the bodies of dozens of naked strangers, let me assure you, there is nothing sexy about this. Everyone stinks from being in the desert for days, unshowered, and everyone has dirt caked in the darkest recesses of their bodies.
And it’s your job to get that dirt out.
Yes it is true that you may get to wash the perfect breasts of a 23-year-old hippie chick, and you may enjoy that, but the very next moment you will be scrubbing the hairy buttocks of a 57-year-old gay man with a curious smile whose saggy, old-man sack has been dragging in the sand all day.
(Side Note: for the record, Gary did not participate in the Human Carcass Wash. Instead, he played a game of sweaty dodgeball with our new gay friends. I feel the need to share that info so that his wife doesn’t divorce him.)
The reason I decided to participate in the Human Carcass Wash was because I was feeling off, and I was hoping that a cool shower might help me feel better.

Let me back up a bit—
When we arrived at Burning Man, at around 2 AM, it was the middle of the night. I was tired and Gary was freaking out from a brownie that was a little too strong for him. Thus, by the time we got in, around 5 AM, I wasn’t picky about finding a good spot and just parked in the first open spot I saw. After parking, we climbed in the back of our SUV to squeeze in a little sleep. We were awakened by Puff The Magic Dragon about an hour after parking. Puff was an art vehicle that was blasting techno music for the dancing, naked, fairies and elves who were riding him.
After clearing the sleep from my eyes, I noticed about a half dozen naked, middle-aged men standing outside our windows.
We got out of the car, talked to the friendly, naked men, and got a run-down of the day’s activities. An hour later, I was in a tent, wearing nothing but a pair of tightie-whities, while a gentlemanly artist painted my underwear.
When we arrived at Burning Man, I decided to check all my reservations at the gate. I wanted to experience Burning Man to the fullest. Thus, I participated in as much as possible, starting things off at the first tent we came across, which was the underwear painting tent.
As I was getting my tightie-whities painted, I noticed a severe imbalance in the male to female ratio. The ratio was forty-seven to one… or possibly forty-eight to zero. I wasn’t completely sure about the long-haired, sun-dress-wearing, hula-hooper with the hairy legs.
At any rate, everyone present was behaving like they preferred the intimate company of other men. I couldn’t help but think that some of them were assuming that I played for their team, especially when considering the fact that I was having my tightie-whities painted by another man.
To be clear, I do not, nor have I ever, played for their team.
And though I didn’t actually say this out-loud to the naked man with the semi-erect penis who was staring at me like he wanted me for lunch, I did politely ask him to take a few steps back to give the artist a little space.
As soon as the artist finished, we left the tent. I was a little irritated that Gary didn’t go through with the painting ritual, but not as irritated as I was that he let me parade around Burning Man for half an hour before telling me the artist had painted the words “Pound Cake” on my buttocks.
At that point, I decided to go back to the SUV and change. There, Gary and I discovered that we had parked our car and set up camp at the intersection of 7 o’clock and “Cumming Out Street.”
We were two men, sleeping in the back of an SUV, parked in the heart of the gay district of Burning Man.
This was how our Burning Man experience started.

Just a few hours later, Gary was playing dodgeball, and I was at the Human Carcass Wash.
After the Carcass Wash, I found a quiet spot to gather myself, get dressed, and light up a gigantic joint in an attempt at permanently erasing my memory of the traumatizing mental imagery of last fifteen minutes. Wearing nothing but a bandana I began digging through my backpack in search of dry clothes when I started feeling nauseous. This may have had something to do with the extreme heat and the fact that I hadn’t had any water, or maybe it was from the marijuana, or maybe it was the result of scrubbing smelly, old-man balls. However, most likely, I was feeling off because of the fact that I’d stopped taking the blood thinner my doctor had prescribed.
I guess I need to explain.
Just three months earlier, my neck was surgically fused at three vertebral levels. After the surgery, I developed a blood clot in my armpit. I was put on blood thinners to prevent the clot from causing a stroke or heart attack.
My doctor warned me not to drink alcohol while on the medication. At Burning Man, I stopped taking the medicine so I could consume alcohol. This seemed completely rational decision to me, despite the fact that I actually work in the medical industry.
Yes, I am embarrassed.
At any rate, after the Human Carcass Wash, feeling unwell, I reached into my backpack for a banana, hoping the potassium might help. As I was about to chomp into it, a beautiful pixie appeared before me on a bicycle. I didn’t see her coming and, for a moment, I considered the possibility that I was having some kind of out of body experience. She was stunning and she was naked except for the butterfly wings on her back and the pixie glitter sprinkled all over her supple breasts and stomach.
“Can I bite your banana?” she asked in a sultry voice.
I would’ve giggled, because I was still naked, and her question sounded like something that would be said in a bad porno. However, I was too dizzy and weak to laugh, so instead, I thrust the banana forward and said, “Uh huh.”
Then she bit my banana.
Seconds later, two more naked pixies showed up. They were either identical triplets or real pixies.
Either is a real possibility.
They talked to me for a few minutes. I don’t remember any of what was said. Except this—
“We’re polyamourous. Are you into that?” asked the banana biting pixie.
I had ideas, but I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. So, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Uh, I’m married.”
They smiled, got on their bicycles and began peddling away. About twenty yards down the dusty road, they all simultaneously looked over their shoulders and waved in such perfect unison that you’d think they’d choreographed the move. The banana biter shouted out the location of their camp, “9 o’clock and F Street, if you change your mind!”
And then they were gone from my life forever.
“Was that God?” I asked myself.
Then I fell down.
Lying there, on the ground, I knew something was very wrong. The SUV was about a mile away; so, I picked myself up and began walking. Though I felt worse with every step, eventually I made it. I got into our vehicle, turned the AC to full blast, found a bottle of Gatorade, drank half, and poured the rest over my head to cool down. I thought I was over-heating.
I wasn’t.
I was having a stroke.
The Gatorade and air conditioning didn’t help, and I was beginning to fear I’d die there, parked on Cumming Out Street.
Dying like that would eclipse all the accomplishments of my life up to that point. The first line in my obituary would mention my dying on Cumming Out Street, which would confirm my father’s worst fears about me moving to California.
Even if I rose from the dead, lived a long and productive life, went on to invent the hovercraft, discovered a cure for narcolepsy, isolated and eradicated the gene that caused douchebaggery, was voted President of the world, and became the first man to walk on Saturn where I made contact with aliens, still, upon my second death, my obituary would read—
J. Matthew Nespoli died again yesterday. The first time he died was in his car, on Cumming Out Street, in the gay district of the Burning Man Festival, where he was sleeping in the back of an SUV with his buddy, Gary. If you’re trying to picture this scene, think Brokeback Mountain, in the desert, only instead of being surrounded by mountains, imagine them surrounded by a bunch of naked, sweaty dudes. J. Matthew also rose from the dead once and was President of the world, but let us not gloss over the fact that he died on Cumming Out Street, that’s what’s important here, people.

I couldn’t go out that way. I had to fight to live. So, I grabbed a water bottle, got out of the car and began walking, trying to talk myself into not dying. I made it about a hundred yards before I fell again. There, while trying to get back onto my feet, a giant, glittery, stiletto heel art vehicle drove by. It was manned by a single naked man.
“Please help,” I muttered, raising my hand.
The nice, gay man stopped his stiletto heel, got out, helped me to my feet and into his stiletto.
“Medical tent,” I said, pointing.
Those were the last coherent words I was able to get out, because, minutes later, I lost the ability to string together words in any kind of logical way. I knew everything I wanted to say, but I couldn’t form the sentences.
I was having a stroke, and a naked, gay man in a giant stiletto heel on wheels probably saved my life.
So, if you own a giant stiletto heel car, please get me your address so I can send you an appropriate thank you gift, like maybe a giant bag of rhinestones to put on the tires of your stiletto heel car.
Anyway, the next thing I remember is lying on a stretcher in the medical tent while a young girl with a comforting face held my hand, telling me I was going to be okay. There was also a middle aged man and his naked wife, both of whom were doctors.
I was scared and knew I was having a stroke, but I couldn’t communicate this, therefore I was going to die. Dying would suck because it would totally mess up my plans to never die. The Bride would hate me for not being responsible, and my child would grow up fatherless.
Luckily, the doctor was a neurologist and he was able to diagnose my stroke fairly quickly. Unluckily, we were in the middle of the fucking desert, and they had no real medicine.
The doctor radioed an ambulance to pick me up and take me to another medical tent on the other side of the lake bed. Supposedly this tent had air conditioning and actual medicine. Until the time that the ambulance arrived, the girl with the comforting face sat by my side, holding my hand, telling me I’d be okay.
Somehow, I managed to show her a picture of The Bride and Keller. I was trying to explain that she couldn’t let me die because I had to take care of them. I couldn’t explain it, but she got the message.
“You’re going to see your beautiful family again.”
I loved them so much—All of them. The Bride, Keller, the girl with the comforting face, the naked neurologist and his naked doctor wife, and the gay man in the giant stiletto heel car. The feelings of love were overwhelming and since I couldn’t speak, I began to weep.
The ambulance took me to the air conditioned tent. The girl with the face rode with me, still holding my hand. Her face was the only thing keeping me sane and her hand was the only thing anchoring me to the real world; without it, I felt like I would’ve floated off into the dark void of space. Sometimes, my vision would start to close out, and I’d concentrate with all my might on her face.
In the air conditioned tent, a doctor gave me some medicine. Slowly, my symptoms began to subside.
Two hours later, I was able to complete coherent sentences.
Four hours later, I felt about 50% better.
A day later, back in Lake Tahoe, a CT Scan confirmed that I’d had an acute TIA (transient ischemic attack), which is basically a small stroke. The TIA was in the speech area of my brain. For a couple weeks, I still had a few problems with verbalizing exactly what I wanted to say and my tongue tasted like an old piece of shag carpet taken from a house occupied by a thousand cats in heat, but eventually, everything returned to normal.

Essential Rule of Parenting — Once you have children to take care of, don’t stop taking your blood thinners so that you can drink alcohol. And purchase life insurance.

I can’t recall ever feeling more relieved than I felt, upon returning home, as my beautiful wife and son hugged me. After our embrace, Keller ran into his room and returned with a book.
“Ba,” he said.
My son’s books are kind of boring. They have only about twenty words in them, there’s rarely any dramatic arc, and the endings are completely predictable. Sometimes, when reading them, I secretly wish his tastes would mature and he’d become interested in something with more of an adult theme. However, on this day, I read him five or six books in a row, and relished every single second of it. That day, I made a promise to myself to never again wish for him to grow up faster.

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Vote the bums out!

Transgender bathrooms, confederate statues, Charlottesville, Punch a Nazi, Standing Rock, Russia and our elections, The Paris Agreement, Healthcare, Racist Cops, Hurricanes, Kneeling for the National Anthem, Mass Shootings, etc, etc, etc…

We say that technology is ruining our children’s attention span and giving them ADD.

What about the rest of us? Is it possible that society, at large, has ADD?
These subjects come up, everyone gets worked up, and a week later, we are on to something else.

Meanwhile, all this time, 50% of all the taxes you pay are going to private contractors to fund wars that we’ve been fighting for 15 years, with no end in sight, no master plan, no actual goals. People are getting rich on your dollar, your dollars that are funding murders of innocent people overseas, dollars that are funding the murders of our boys overseas. Still, nary a word about it on the cable news.

That’s how you beat Americans. You keep on with something until they forget about it and move on to the next thing. War hasn’t been a hot topic since 2003/2004.

Take your meds and wake up.
Call your representative every day until he moves to get us out of these wars.
I send letters once a week to all my representatives and Senators. It hasn’t amounted to anything, but if we all did it, I imagine they’d be forced to listen for fear of losing their job. 
Fear of losing their job is the only thing that makes them listen. 
And that’s why, at least for now, wars continue. Wars make money for the people that fund their campaigns.
We need to unite, act in unison, and let them know we won’t continue to vote for them each November if they plan on allowing us to stay in these expensive murderous wars.


The Dad Needs Your Help

Today’s Advice Request FROM The Dad-

Sometimes, I get on here and doll out advice that is thinly veiled behind some crass humor. This is my clever little way of acting out my agenda on the world. It’s the first step in my 72 step process of achieving world domination (muwahahahahahaha).

At any rate, I’m mostly bull-shitting and my advice is garbage. I don’t know too many things about too much stuff. Today, I’m tucking the bull-shitting skill in my back pocket for a minute to reach out to you guys, with an open mind, to ask for some advice from the rest of you. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the process of running this page is that ALL of my fans?followers? (whatever) are beautiful people with high IQs, infinite life experiences, and the ability to tackle sensitive world issues in a rationale, logical, calm, and considerate manner. You are better humans than me.

You’ve taught me so much. And now, like Scott Staff from Creed, I’m reaching out, with arms wide open, asking for you to wrap your big strong arms around me to keep myself, The Bride, and the boys on the straight and narrow.

These are important life questions. So-

At what age is it considered to be no longer appropriate for my boys to spend time together, in the bathroom, laughing and giggling, while one of them is pooping?

If I hate it when people eat off my plate, and The Bride has known this for ten years, and we are out for an expensive dinner, and when I’m in the bathroom she eats off my plate, and I know she ate off my plate because I calibrated my plate before I went to the bathroom, then is it too much to ask the prosecuting attorney to go for the death penalty?

If I’m stuck in traffic, and a cute girl catches me picking my nose, is it okay to roll down my window to tell her that ‘I had an itch?’

If we’re having dinner with friends that happen to be people with a higher concentration of melanin than us, and the 5 year old asks their young son, “at night time, when the lights are out, do you become invisible” what is the appropriate way for a parent to handle this situation?

If my son is good friends with a kid from school and that kid’s parents are constantly wanting to have “play-dates” but that kid’s parents are the most annoying people in the history of the Universe and I’ll probably have to kill them if we have to hang out with them even one more time, then did I not ‘save a life’ when I made my child change schools?
Is a BJ and some ‘butt-stuff’ not a fair trade for saving lives?
Would it be better to state this case to The Bride in an emoji? An Instagram story? Or an old fashioned letter?

If The Bride refuses to engage in a threesome for about eleven different reasons, and I go out and find a working girl to pretend to be a civilian and to approach The Bride and woo her and seduce her, am I breaking any rules?

If Filipinos are considered to be the **ggers of the Asian community (and I’ve been told by various black people and Asians that this is the case), then is it acceptable for my Filipino sons to sing all the words to Kanye’s “Gold Digger” out loud, in mixed company?
Since I’m their Dad, is the same okay for me?

If I’m using a restroom at a McDonalds and after I stand up to put my pants on (before I flush) I drop a twenty in the toilet, is it okay to fish it out?
And if so, it okay to then give that twenty to the pimple faced cashier for some lunch?

If I haven’t had a “release” in a week because The Bride is a liar and has had a cold all week, and I have to use my memory and imagination, while in the shower to resolve the situation, and I go all the way back in time to high school, do I have to do my best to age the classmates in my imagination (even though I haven’t seen them in twenty years) or is it acceptable for them to still be juniors, if I too am a still a junior?

If one of the boys makes a tragic mess and I’m the first to come across it and I pretend not to see it, and The Bride later sees it and gets mad at me for not noticing it first, is it a lie to just shrug my shoulders?

If my boys think I’m the strongest man in the world, but, in reality, I’m only like second or third strongest, is it lying to allow them to this think?

If, at Christmas, I go out for bagels early in the morning, and while I’m out for bagels, Santa shows up with a sack full of presents for my boys, and by the time I get back Santa is gone, and this has now happened five years in a row, am I an absentee parent?
Also, do you think Santa is fucking The Bride?

If our niece is at our house and she poops in her diaper and The Bride isn’t home, and I have no experience changing little girl’s diapers, and I’ve read some things about infections and such, and I decide to be a good uncle and go for it, but when I get her diaper off there are all kinds of folds and crevices and nooks and crannies that I’m unprepared for, should I:
A- hose her off in the backyard
B- ask our elderly neighbor to come over and help
C- wipe her as best as I can and hope for the best
D- Put her in a basket and drop her off at the police station?

If The Bride is lactose intolerant (she is), and she eats ice cream for the one millionth time in a row despite my suggesting that she shouldn’t, and then she farts in public and it smells incredibly bad, and then I tell everyone it was me, then am I being hyperbolic by suggesting to her, that night, that I was a hero?
Is it ridiculous for me to try to parlay that into a threesome?
If she says no, is it not bigoted for her to say, “I’m not attracted to women.”?

If I’m playing laser tag with my boys, and I reset my vest (when nobody’s looking) to give myself more lives, and it’s done as part of teaching the children a lesson, and that lesson is that their Dad is better than them at laser tag, am I a bad dad?

If The Bride comes into the living room, at 1230am, while I’m in the final five minutes of an episode of my favorite show, and she proceeds to ask exactly 17 questions, and she insists that I answer every single one, and I do this, and then she falls asleep with four and a half minutes remaining in the show, only to wake up when it’s over to ask me exactly 14 more questions, and she miraculously does this 100% of the time that I ever watch anything on TV, then, should I not get custody of the children in a divorce?

Thank you all for your love and support, and thank you for taking the time to answer these very pressing questions.
I love you.
And this has been Today’s Advice FROM The Dad.

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