The Girl Who Cried “Assault!”

Harvey Weinstein is a creepy rapist that should be locked up for a very long time.
Same with genius director Roman Polanski. The fact that you’re an artistic genius doesn’t allow you to tie up little girls in your basement to be used for your sexual pleasure.
Ditto for Bill Cosby, that creepy dude from Penn State, and a whole gang of priests.

Women who have been raped or sexually assaulted are coming out and saying “Me Too” and I applaud their bravery.

That said, if you are an actress, and three years ago a 91 year old ex-President riddled with Parkinson’s Disease and possible dementia, touched your butt and said “My favorite magician is David Cop-a-feel” you do not get to cry “Me Too.”

This is not sexual assault.
This is a creepy old man behaving creepy.
You were not in danger.
You were not assaulted.

Crap like this hurts the cause, and this is clearly an actress looking for some attention.

If having your butt grabbed by 90 year olds is sexual assault then there are at least fifty women that have assaulted me in Los Angeles in the last five years.

Assault is violent.
Assault is horrific.
I know MANY women who have been assaulted and raped and my heart bleeds for them.
Rapists should be castrated.
I firmly believe that.

But there are a lot of women out there, like the Asian comedian that just went after David Cross because he made a karate joke at her expense, and like this actress, that are trying to capitalize on the horrible crimes that have been committed against other women.

There are also many instances in the past few years of women falsely accusing men of rape, the facts later coming out that the entire accusation was falsified, and nothing happens to these women.

In my book, if you falsely accuse a man of rape, or you cry “assault” for attention when a creepy old guy touches your butt in public, that makes you an evil sociopath.
Stop it.

License to Parent

Fourth of July weekend in Hermosa Beach, California is the Southern California equivalent of Brazil’s Carnival. From 2002 to 2010, I lived in the heart of the action, and every year that I woke up on July 5th in any place other than jail, I was proud of myself. If I could stand up without vomiting, I’d give myself a gold star. And if I could find my pants in less than sixty seconds, then I’d be automatically nominated as a candidate for the Hermosa Beach’s annual “Mr. Responsibility” award.
On this July Fourth holiday, with Keller, we chose to hit the beach in lieu of beachfront keg parties. Taking an infant to the beach requires more gear than Neil Armstrong needed to go to the moon, and I’m considering the purchase of a Himalayan pack mule to make the process easier. As we strolled down to the beach with our gear stacked on top of a red wagon, scores of women passed by us sporting patriotic red, white, and blue bikinis.
U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!
“Matt, close your mouth, your tongue is getting sunburned.”
By the time we finally made it to the water, I was hot and tired from dragging all Keller’s crap through the sand, so I swooped Keller up into my arms and headed into the surf. Keller had a great time splashing in the ocean. However, after about ten minutes, he started shivering, so we got out. Lifting him up was like lifting a bag of wet sand. The ocean level dropped at least an inch because Keller’s diaper had absorbed about 25% of the Pacific. His ass looked like it had swallowed Kirstie Alley’s, and he was having a hard time walking around, so I took off the diaper and let him fly his freak flag. After all, it was the Fourth of July.
Patriotism, baby!
As soon as his diaper was off, he ran back into the water. I caught up to him and took him in for another swim. Now, I don’t know many things, but one thing I know for sure is this: if you want to be surrounded by beautiful women in tiny red, white, and blue bikinis, then find a naked baby and take him swimming on the Fourth of July.
Within a minute, Keller and I were surrounded by giddy girls, all of whom were losing their collective sanity. They were smiling, giggling, cooing, pinching, and prodding my naked child. One girl actually took my son’s little baby foot, and began nibbling on his toes. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it, but it happened. I mean, who does that? Who grabs a stranger’s foot and puts it in their mouth? The look on Keller’s face said it all: Listen, lady, I’m a kinky baby, but not that kinky.
One girl asked to hold him, and, of course, I let her. Soon Keller was being passed around like crabs in a frat house (Coincidentally, I just learned that Pthirus pubis—i.e, crabs—are now on the endangered species list, due to, ahem… a loss of natural habitat.)
Anyway, Keller enjoyed the attention so much that he lost control of his bowels—all over the white stars of a girl’s American flag bikini top. The girl screamed and thrust my son into my midsection like he was a bag of medical waste. People love babies when they’re cute and clean and quiet. Once they get pooped on, their perspective tends to change.
Single, childless people, I’m talking to you.
In America, making babies is celebrated like nothing else, except winning the Super Bowl or American Idol. This societal enthusiasm encourages people into baby-making before they’re ready.
After Keller was born, people were congratulating me with such gusto you’d think I’d discovered a cure for cancer. Though their praise made me feel good, making a baby required very little skill on my part. All I did was make love to a sexy woman; this was hardly praise worthy. If my kid completes high school without stabbing any classmates or blowing any perverted old men in public restrooms as a means to support his drug habit, then maybe I’ll deserve a little praise.
Because of the giddy praise new parents receive, some tend to exaggerate how “beautiful” their birth experience was. They’ll make you believe their baby came out of the vagina wearing a flowing white robe while a choir of angels rejoiced as three sandal-clad strangers showed up bearing gifts. These parents tell friends that their birth experience made them realize their entire life, until that moment, had been a vapid waste of time, and unless you’ve had kids “you couldn’t possibly understand.”
This false portrayal of the birth experience contributes to the already overwhelming pressure on girls to procreate. That brings me to the point of this chapter: many people think they want a baby, but have no idea how much this will change their life.
Some young people have unprotected sex with strangers without considering the consequences. This needs to change. Nearly everything we do in life is regulated, either by our parents, our schools, our employers, or our government. Our government alone regulates alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, marriage, fishing, construction, breeding dogs, etc. At the rate things are going, it won’t be long before you’re required to get a permit before going number two. However, making a human doesn’t require any license whatsoever. All you need is a fertile womb, a little sperm, mood music and voila!—you’ve got yourself a brand new, miniature human.
It’s one of the great paradoxes of mankind that it’s illegal for a responsible 20-year-old college student with a 4.0 GPA to tip a few beers on a weekend, but it’s legal for two 28-year-old, glue-sniffing, crystal-meth-cooking, high school dropouts to procreate. Rapists, sociopaths, and crackheads are making humans and spreading their DNA all over Earth every single day. We’re allowing these degenerates to dictate the evolution of our species because they’re out-breeding the rest of us. Other animals refine their genetic code by preventing the weak and diseased of their species from reproducing. However, humans are compassionate beings who believe everyone has the right to reproduce, even pedophiles. As a result, too many damaged and incompetent people end up with babies they won’t properly care for, which creates more damaged incompetent people.
Fortunately, for the sake of the world, I have a solution to this problem. I hereby declare a new world law—
Before having unprotected sex, people are now required to apply for a baby-making license. To get said license, apply to the office of The Decider. I’ve decided that The Decider will be me, not because I’m the most qualified candidate, but because I thought of it and I’d like to have one of those high-paying, cushy government jobs with fantastic benefits and little accountability.
So, if you’re interested in making a baby, you can apply for your baby-making license by snail-mail or email. No license, no unprotected sex, no baby-making license for you.
The first step in applying for your baby-making license is to complete and submit the following test:
• Have you ever spent an entire paycheck on fireworks?
• Are the rims on your car worth more than the rest of it?
• Are you Miss Teen South Carolina, Sarah Palin, or Kim Kardashian?
• Do you have a lithograph of “Dogs Playing Poker” hanging in your home?
• Have you ever lost a tooth while trying to open a can of beer?
• Do you believe that men rode dinosaurs, or that the Earth is only 10,000 years old?
• Does your Mom refer to your Dad as her “Baby-Daddy”?

If you answered yes to any of the above, your test will be returned to you with this letter—
You suck at life. Your application for a baby-making permit has been denied. We’ve decided to protect humanity from the propagation of the genetics that created the disaster that is you. You are hereby required, by the office of The Decider, to report to the nearest doctor to have all your eggs/sperm destroyed.

If you pass the test, the in-person interview, and all subsequent steps, you will be given baby-making privileges by the office of The Decider. However, before procreating, it is advised that you get yourself educated about the responsibilities of parenthood.
So, as a new father, I’d like to share some information about how parenthood will change your life:
First of all, if you have hobbies, having a baby will bring a swift end to them.
I used to have hobbies and interests and personal ambition. Now, the first thing I do when I get home is take off my pants. The time I used to spend on my hobbies is now spent playing Legos and trains with my son or watching Nickelodeon Junior and listening to the Fresh Beat Band sing about vegetables while sporting smiles that can only realistically be achieved by ingesting massive quantities of Xanax.
Another way parenthood will change your life is that it will cause a total shift in your thought process. Once you bring your baby home, your number one responsibility in life becomes keeping that baby alive. This is not as easy as you might think. To demonstrate how easily you can screw this responsibility up, I’ll tell you a story:
During Keller’s very first week home, I took him to my local breakfast spot to show him off to the leggy Bolivian who makes a cup of coffee that tastes like it’s been touched by God. After finishing my coffee and croissant, I got up and left. Halfway out the door, Miss Bolivia yelled, “Hey Matthew!” At first, I was excited because her accent makes my name sound sexy and I thought I was being flirted with. However, this excitement was quickly replaced with embarrassment and shame.
“Forgetting something?” she asked. It took me a beat or two to realize that she was referring to my sleeping son, whom I’d left behind in the booth.
Sadly, I’d momentarily forgotten I even had a child. Had the leggy, Bolivian coffee goddess not pointed it out, I may have left him. This would’ve sucked because I would’ve had to go to the hospital to steal another baby and then find a way to convince The Bride it was hers.
“No baby, you’re wrong, Keller was totally black when he came out of you.”
Though I am ashamed about forgetting Keller, I guarantee that most new parents have done something like this at least once. You were in the living room, watching Ellen, snacking on frozen Snickers bars when suddenly, you were like, Oh shit, I totally have a baby. Where is he?
If you haven’t had that moment, then you’re the greatest parent of all-time… or a liar… or you’re not a parent… or you don’t think you’re a parent but you actually had a child nine years ago and you completely forgot about him so he waddled out of the home one day, and now he’s living with a Chinese couple in Vancouver and he’s addicted to the Adderall his Chinese parents put him on because they think he has ADD; however, he doesn’t have ADD, he’s just really wound up and pissed off because you forgot he exists.
Another life change that parenting will bring is the increased frequency with which you find yourself in a state of boredom. Subsequently, your boredom will lead to morbid obesity because you’re constantly eating to kill the boredom.
I love spending time with Keller, but Keller is a baby and babies have lame hobbies. Keller’s hobbies include: eating Mommy’s face off, playing bongos, smashing Legos, and splashing in the bathtub. After an evening of smashing Legos with Keller, once he finally goes to sleep, our entertainment options don’t get much better because we have to stay home. So, I write, I watch movies, I sexually harass my disinterested wife, I read books, trim my fingernails, surf the web, and so on. After a while, the boredom becomes crushing.
And then I eat—
A lot.
I started out with a bowl of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes every night, but soon one bowl wasn’t doing it for me. So, I began eating two bowls. Unfortunately, that required getting off the couch for a refill, so to solve this problem, I bought a bigger bowl. Eventually, I was eating two of the big bowls. Finally, I threw out all pretense of pretending that I was capable of behaving like a human person, and I started using the kind of bowl that salad is tossed in.
By the time Keller was 3-months-old, I was eating half a box of Frosted Flakes per night. In my college days I could get away with this. I’d eat half a jar of peanut butter every day because peanut butter was a cheap, high caloric food that I could afford without selling plasma and semen. However, I never gained weight because I could metabolize an entire peanut farm just by thinking about it. That’s no longer my reality, and I was beginning to pack on a layer of fatty warmth in my mid-section.
I was so addicted to Tony the Tiger’s delicious flakes that I’d sometimes get up in the middle of the night to party with him. One night, The Bride caught me sitting in the kitchen at 3 AM, with the lights off, wolfing down a bowl in my sleep. I realized I needed to make some lifestyle changes.
So, I quit. Kicking Tony’s delicious, sugary flakes was tough, but I did it, cold turkey.
Two weeks into my sobriety, I had a relapse while sleep-walking.
And it was ugly.
The Bride jumped out of bed, “Oh my God, Matt, did you shit the bed!?!”
“What? No,” I replied, half asleep and a bit startled. “I haven’t done that in at least six or seven years!”
“Then what’s all over the bed and walls?”
I put my fingers in some of the brownish-blackish goop on my pillow and brought it to my nose.
“It’s dark chocolate,” I said.
“Thank God,” The Bride said… “Wait, why is there dark chocolate in our bed and on our walls?” she asked.
There wasn’t any chocolate anywhere in our house. I know this because two days after quitting Frosted Flakes, I had withdrawal shakes, so I scoured the apartment in search of something sugary. There was no chocolate, and the best I could do was a bag of brown sugar. I added a little oatmeal to it and dug in. Though it satiated my sugar needs, some dark chocolate would’ve totally hit the spot.
“Where did you get dark chocolate from and why would you smear it all over our walls? I mean, that’s just creepy. This is weirder than that night, on our honeymoon in Belize, when you took too much Lunesta, got in our golf cart, naked, at 3 AM, drove it to the pharmacy, left it there, and walked back to the hotel.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “I wasn’t walking. The security guard said he saw me running.”
“You’re entirely missing the point!”
“I’m sorry, love. You are right and you are awesome and I am wrong and completely unawesome.”
“You’re just so friggin’ weird sometimes.”
“I obviously have issues,” I said.
The dark chocolate was smeared so deeply into the paint that we were unable to wash it out without causing the paint to come off. So, we’ve been sleeping in a room with chocolate spattered walls ever since.
I obviously hadn’t resolved my sugar addiction. If I was going to kick sugar, I had to first get off sleeping pills so that I’d stop sleep-walking and sleep-eating. When a doctor prescribes you sleep medication, he doesn’t tell you all the weird side effects that can result.
After I stopped taking the sleeping pills, I was able to entirely (i.e., mostly) kick all sugary foods (not including my morning breakfast cookie). The next step was to find a calorie burning activity to get my body back into shape. Unfortunately, I’d let myself become so deconditioned that I actually injured myself while playing Wii bowling.
I knew I needed to make a change. So, I decided to take up paddle boarding. I went to the surf shop across the street and rented a board. As I carried the eleven-foot board towards the ocean, it acted like a giant fiberglass kite, catching the wind and knocking me around like one of Chris Brown’s girlfriends. By the time I made it to the water’s edge, I collapsed from exhaustion. I rested for thirty minutes and then carried the board back to the shop without ever doing any actual paddle boarding.
When I got home, I sat down with The Bride for a talk. We were bringing one another down with mutual sloth. My waistline was rapidly expanding, and I knew I was mere days away from having to buy new pants. Everyone knows that once a man buys new pants he never gets back into his old ones. It would’ve been the beginning of a downward spiral of gluttony that would’ve gone on until I could no longer see my dick in the shower.
It happens, guys, you’re a single, lean, mean, fucking machine, you go to bed, and you wake up married with a kid, you weigh six hundred pounds, and you need the fire department to cut you out of your house after you suffer a heart attack in your living room. So, if you and your partner decide that making a human is something you want to do, you better have a plan to fight the boredom, or else put the fire department on speed dial.

If you read all of the above and you’re still thinking about becoming a parent, then you’re a brave soul. Being a parent is a gift and a blessing, but this shit ain’t easy, and if you aren’t ready for it, it will be the death of you.
So, if you’re ready to start the process, send your baby-making application to the Office of The Decider.

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Fighting Racism

Most people are decent people with good intentions.
That said, there are bad people with bad intentions.
Racism seems like a different thing altogether and I think history has proven that it tends to trend down with education and experience.
A racist now-a-days is most likely a person with limited life experience and limited world experience that has been raised in a stifling and sterile environment in which they are mostly only around one type of person, and they’ve been fed lies and ideology their whole life by their parents.
In other words, I would say, most of the time, it’s not their fault.
Just like the kid who is molested by his uncle when he’s 7 years old and later, in puberty, has sexual desires towards children.
This doesn’t mean that either should be tolerated.
Both are abhorrent.
However, by understanding them, we can make a difference.
Yelling at a racist and telling him that he is a terrible person is not an effective strategy to rehabilitating that racist and making the world a better place.
If anything, it just makes him dig in his heels regarding his beliefs.
If you find a racist, see if you can’t sit him down, one on one, and talk it out. I bet that, more often than not, if you keep your cool, stay logical, and don’t get emotional, that you can change that racist’s mind. I’m betting you can make a difference. I’m betting that you can improve the world a little bit.
I know, I know, I know, it’s “easy for a white guy to say this.”
True.
But I’m a white guy that has spent the last 20 years working 50 hours a week in nearly all black and brown communities: Compton, Watts, Inglewood.
I work in people’s homes.
I’ve had plenty of racists come at me with their illogical positions. I’ve had plenty of experiences with people who have been victims of racism and people who’ve made false assumptions about me because I’m a white guy.
I’ve been able to change minds.
Before this, I spent two years working in the Deep South, again, in people’s homes. This time, I ran into some white people that had faulty ideas about minorities. These people really didn’t like it when they found out I had a black girlfriend.
But I didn’t yell.
I didn’t call names.
We talked it out.
And I know, for fact, that I changed some minds.
We are all capable of communicating without losing our shit.
We can all do this.
Let’s start having some constructive conversations.
For the past couple years, there has been Very little open and honest conversation and TONS of fighting about race. It’s not been constructive. It’s been people in one ideological bubble screaming at people in the other ideological bubble.
That doesn’t work.
That makes people dig in their heels, and other people, on the sidelines, end up getting dragged into a fight they don’t want to have.
I don’t want to sound like some hippie “fag”, but let’s just try loving one another a little more. Let’s try understanding where we are all coming from and let’s talk these things out.
I said the same thing, in 2001, regarding terrorism.
Of course, you have to fight terrorism.
But if you want to defeat it, you need to understand where they are coming from, and you need to know their motivations.
I’m still not sure we’ve done that.
I’m not saying we can talk our way through that problem, but if we would’ve spent a little time and logic trying to understand why they were angry, if we considered their motivations, their limited life experiences, the bubble that they live in, then we might have had an easier time defeating their ideology.
We didn’t do any of that.
If you want to defeat racism, you need to understand where it comes from first.
It’s based in fear, ignorance, and tribalism.
Screaming at them, calling them names, all this does is affirms their positions.
You’ve solved nothing.

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I’ve seen Heaven and I’ve seen Hell

Today’s edition of Storytime from The Dad:

So I had a crazy experience yesterday. I was dead for like 5 minutes, but when you’re dead, for those of you who have never died, time is nearly infinite, and it felt like days.

First, I went to heaven and I was outside the pearly gates and this dude was looking at me sideways, and I was like “yo, stop lookin at me like that.”

Then, this black preacher dude showed up, and I recognized him as being that preacher, from the newspaper, who had previously been busted for selling pictures of heaven from the last time he died, and I was like- “yo, dude, you’re that preacher! You’re innocent! You weren’t lying. You really did take pictures of heaven. Wow.”

Then, the gates opened up and I saw heaven and it was beautiful. It looked exactly like one of Puff Daddy’s white parties, and yeah, all the liberals were right, Jesus is totally black. Dreadlocks even. And he was smoking a spliff, and then he was like- “You wanna hit this”, and I was like, “fuck yes, black Jesus!”, and he was like, “Brah, that was a test, and you just fucked up, Bye Felicia!”

The gates closed, everything started spinning, and then, yo, my ass totally caught fire.
Like literally.
My ass was on fire, so I stopped, dropped and rolled just like they teach you in school, and when I stopped rolling I looked around and I was like, fa-uck!

I was in hell.
This serpent appeared before me and he was fucking HUGE and he had a giant fiery dick and big titties, but they didn’t have nipples, they just had tats where the nipples should’ve been, and I don’t know why but the tats were Norm MacDonald’s face, and that kinda made me laugh, and then music started playing, and it was pretty cool. The song was “Happy” by Pharrell, which I thought was ironic, given that we were in hell and everything, and then the serpent started dancing on his belly and I started dancing and then Anna Nicole Smith showed up and she was, like, totally grinding on the serpent, and then Marilyn Monroe showed up and I was grinding on her and it was awesome, and then the song ended, and Marilyn’s face turned into Dennis Hopper’s face and he tried to kiss me and I started running and Dennis Hopper’s face on Marilyn Monroe’s body was chasing me around hell and then “Happy” by Pharrell started playing again and suddenly it wasn’t ironic anymore and by the fourth time it played in a row I totally understood what they were going for down there in hell.

And then I felt a slap in my face and I woke up and The Bride had just injected my heart with adrenaline from a long-ass needle like the one from Pulp Fiction, and I jumped up in the bed, terrified, and I said, “what happened?”

And she was like, “Dude, I finally gave you that threesome you’ve been begging me for for the last decade, and against my better judgement, I kissed that girl the way you wanted me to, and I guess it was too much for you and you had a heart attack.”
And I was like, whoa, damn, and she was like, “yeah, so next time you bug me for a three-some, I’m going to remind you of this.”
And I was like, “fuck, I totally blew my shot, huh?”
And she was like, “you sure did, bud.”

(Disclaimer: this story is not 100% true… except the part about me bugging The Bride for a threesome for the last decade. That’s 100%)

My Wife Gave Birth to Kevin McHale

“Ouch. The contractions are getting stronger and longer. I think it’s time to go to the hospital,” The Bride said.
“Oh, baby… Really? I have Pearl Jam tickets tonight. Can you maybe just do your pussy clamp trick and keep him locked down until tomorrow morning?”
In the interest of full disclosure, I must state that I’d already seen Pearl Jam the night before. However, Chris Cornell had not made a surprise showing to perform my favorite song, Hunger Strike, with Eddie Vedder and the gang. In fact, in the approximately three dozen times I’ve seen Pearl Jam, this had never happened. Rumor had it tonight would be the night.
Now, before you write me a letter to tell me what a horrible person I am, in my defense, I must state that, at the time, I probably loved Eddie Vedder more than my unborn child, so this was a totally logical thing for me to ask The Bride. I mean, I had crazy man-love for Eddie. In fact, if presented with that hypothetical scenario in which I were being sent to a deserted island and could take only one person, I’d take Eddie. I realize that most guys would choose their wives, or maybe Mila Kunis, but neither of them would sing Yellow Ledbetter to me, and even if they did, they’d probably suck. Also, Mila Kunis has very narrow hips, and if she got pregnant on our island, she’d probably die during the birthing process, and that would leave me alone with a newborn baby, which would end very badly for both of us. Even if Mila survived, her ridiculously big, beautiful eyes would start looking pretty fucking crazy after a few years together on a deserted island. As for The Bride, I love her with all the tiny little parts of my heart, but… well, we’re talking about Eddie Vedder. I’m sure she’d understand.
Besides, I’ve always believed that if I were to get an hour alone with Eddie we’d have tons to talk about and would become best buddies. So, after being on a deserted island for years and years with my BFF, exchanging ideas and philosophizing, once we were rescued the two of us would probably save the world.
If we weren’t able to save the world, at the very least, after a decade of listening to me play percussion on coconut shells, Eddie would fire Matt Cameron from the band and put me on the drums. I mean, I love Matt Cameron, but let’s face it, we all know he’s the weakest link of the Pearl Jam crew.
Now, let’s not conflate issues. By choosing Eddie Vedder over my wife and Mila Kunis, I am not choosing music over sex. In a head to head battle, sexual gratification defeats music every single time. However, on the island I’d have my right hand and an endless supply of coconut oil. Also, considering the fact that it’s a deserted island, there’s probably not much to do, so I could probably convince Eddie to sit outside my cabana and mumble mood music while I made love to myself.

Needless to say, The Bride’s answer to my question was, “No, I can’t do the friggin’ pussy clamp trick until tomorrow morning. What the hell is wrong with you, Matthew?”
The Bride and I arrived at the hospital at 7 AM, ready to pledge our eternal love to the seven pound human that was trying to break out of his little padded cell.
“I need medication!” The Bride yelled, no more than a minute after being put in a room.
An anesthesiologist came to deliver the epidural with a needle so HUGE I could’ve defeated Darth Vader with it. As soon as he administered the medication, The Bride fell sound asleep. She was mere hours away from pushing a football ball-sized human out a quarter-sized hole in her body, yet she seemed to be comfortably numb, snoring away like a drunken lumberjack.
“Umm, could I maybe get one of those epidurals?” I asked.
Once The Bride was sawing logs, the anesthesiologist and nurse exited, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
This is crazy. In a few hours, a person will come out of my wife’s vagina. They will hand it to me, and it will be my job to make sure it doesn’t die.
I became filled with dread. Would I be up to the responsibilities that fatherhood entailed? I imagined my child getting into mischief: I saw him running with scissors, taking food out of a Rottweiler’s mouth, and falling into a swimming pool. I played these scenarios out in my head, over and over, and each time they ended badly.
If I was failing him in my imagination, what would happen in real life?
Zzzzzzzzz. The Bride’s snoring got louder.
If I succeeded in keeping our baby alive through his childhood years, he would become an impressionable teen that would eventually become an adult that would effect either a positive or negative net impact on society. It would be my responsibility to help him find his way and make sure he didn’t end up becoming the proprietor of a meth lab, or the owner of an adult book store, or an ambulance-chasing, personal-injury attorney. And while waiting for him to come out of his cozy baby-cave to join us in the fluorescently lit hospital room, all that responsibility felt like a metric fuck-ton of pressure that was likely to cave in my chest and kill me before I even met the little fella.
Sitting there, waiting nervously, I needed a distraction. Eventually, curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked under the covers.
I will forever regret this.
The Bride’s vagina looked unlike any other I’d ever seen. It was swollen, wet, and bloody, like road kill on the side of a highway on a rainy day.
God, if you’re listening, please let me un-see that.
An hour later, The Bride awoke. After she got her bearings her food cravings kicked in.
“Matt, I need you to get me a burger.”
Before The Bride was even pregnant she had the appetite of an eight-hundred pound gorilla. She’d eat about five meals a day, but miraculously never gained a pound. I heard stories about weird pregnancy cravings and ridiculous appetites, and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if The Bride’s appetite got bigger. Then, one day, I came home and found The Bride eating a salt, mayonnaise, and pickle sandwich… for dessert, after she’d already consumed an In and Out Double Double.
It became obvious that I was going to have to get a second job to keep my little Asian gal fed.
“You’re dilated to ten centimeters. You don’t have time for a burger,” said the nurse.
She was lying.
Sure, The Bride was dilated to ten centimeters, but we had plenty of time for a burger. In fact, in hindsight, we had time to nurture a baby calf through adolescence and into adulthood, slaughter it, grind the meat into hundreds of burger patties, create handmade invitations, mail them to all our friends, and have everyone join us at the hospital for a good old fashioned birthing bar-b-que.
The nurse told The Bride she was almost ready to start pushing, but then, instead of doing actual nursing stuff, she sat at a computer and began typing. I don’t know if she was requesting Facebook friends, surfing the Internet for weird German porn, or Skyping her incarcerated pen pal; regardless, I became agitated.

Half an hour later, the nurse briefed me on how to read the electronic jiggy-ma-bob with the red flashing lights that was connected to The Bride. When the machine beeped, it meant The Bride was having a contraction and I needed to help her push.
Then she left the room.
Are you kidding me?
I was ready to raise hell, but The Bride was relaxed from the dope, and I didn’t want to be the one freaking out. While I was trying to calm myself, the electronic jiggy-ma-bob thingy beeped. We were all alone, and it was time to push. I had to man up.
“Okay, baby, are you ready to do this!?!” I yelled, in an over-adrenalized voice, as if she were getting ready to step into a wrestling ring to fight Andre The Giant.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“Good, now push!”
Grrrr! She growled, pushing.
“Yes, baby! Yes! Great job! Okay, now give me another big push! Do it!”
“Stop yelling at me!”
“Sorry! Okay. You can do this! Push that little guy out! Push, push, PUSH!” I yelled.
And she pushed. After just the second push, I could see the top of his head.
“Holy fuck, that’s a baby head!” I pointed and yelled. I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly. When I saw our baby’s hairy head, things became very real. I kissed The Bride, excused myself, walked to the nurses’ station, and had lapsed into what murderers sometimes refer to as “temporary insanity.”
“There’s a person coming out of my wife’s body RIGHT NOW! Go in there and get it!”
“Your wife’s going to be pushing for a while. He’s not coming out yet, and we’re short staffed,” the nurse said.
I couldn’t believe it. While walking back towards the room I gave myself a pep talk in attempts to gather my composure so I could help my wife. I stopped outside the door, took a few deep breaths, and then entered the room to help The Bride push.
After three or four pushes, the nurse finally entered. “The doctor just finished surgery and he’s going on break,” she said.
“You’re screwing with us, right?”
“Sir, please.”
“The top of the baby’s head is right there!” I said, pointing between The Bride’s legs.
“His heart rate is elevated so we want her to stop pushing and rest for a while,” she said.
“His heart rate is elevated because his head is stuck inside a vagina! I’ve never been in that position, but I imagine it’s fairly stressful.”
Much later, after hours of fruitless pushing, the doctor finally showed up. “Hey, look who made it. Who won the big USC game, doc?” I asked, making no effort to hide my irritation.
The doctor ignored me and went about his business with a disinterested demeanor. He looked at the mess between The Bride’s legs in the same bored manner that a plumber looks at a clogged toilet.
“Push, honey,” the doctor calmly said.
With the doctor in charge of the pushing, I was demoted to the foot of the bed where I squatted into the ready position, as if I was going to be the one to catch the baby. As she pushed, her vagina stretched to ridiculous proportions; it was red and swollen and bloody and I knew there was a good chance it was permanently stretched out and deformed. I was going to have to put my penis on some quality Mark McGwire level steroids and feed it nothing but raw meat if The Bride was ever going to feel it again. As she continued grimacing through the push, the baby’s head inched out stretching The Bride’s tiny, fragile little taint at both ends like a man hooked up to one of those medieval torture devices. I didn’t see how the baby could come out without ripping her open, and I felt queasy in my stomach and toes. All I could think was, thank God she took the epidural.
After only two pushes, the doctor sat back and concluded, “He’s stuck.”
No kidding.
The doctor rummaged through his surgical tools until he found a pair of giant scissors that looked like the same ones our mayor used to cut the red ribbon outside the town’s new library the day it opened. “Whoa, what are those for?” I asked, trying not to die.
“She needs an episiotomy.”
Without hesitation, he grabbed The Bride’s vagina and began cutting through it. It took exactly three slices, and I’ll never forget the sound. It was the same sound my grandmother’s poultry shears made as she cut through raw, whole chickens on Sundays after church.
By the time the doctor finished slicing and dicing, my sweetheart’s pretty little petunia and her no-no hole had become one giant, gaping wound.
Next, the doctor pulled out my grandmother’s giant salad-tossing fork (I had really expected his tools to be a bit more sophisticated). He put the salad-tossing fork inside The Bride and said, “Push.” And just like that, after hours of drama and fruitless pushing, The Bride bore down and grimaced through one hard-core push that popped the baby’s head out.
It was terrifying.
This baby didn’t look like any human I’d ever seen.
The Bride’s baby was a mutant.
With a colossal sized head.
He had crossed eyes that were blacker than Wesley Snipes after losing a fight against a giant ink-squirting squid; his face was wrinkled like he’d spent all day in a YMCA steam room, and his giant head was badly misshapen, like it had been molded out of clay by a kindergartener who’d lost his thumbs in a see-saw accident. I felt a dizzying wave of confusion and horror swelling inside me. I feared I might vomit. Or spontaneously impale myself on The Bride’s IV pole. Or excuse myself from the room, get in my car, and drive to Canada where I’d learn to love curling, Tom Green, and the Barenaked Ladies.
“A couple more pushes and he’ll be all the way out. Push!” he yelled. The Bride pushed, and as she did, our baby’s giant head twisted around 180 degrees, like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist. I was positive his head was going to pop off and fly across the room, laughing at me during its flight.
But that didn’t happen.
The Bride pushed again and out came his disproportionately waifish body.
4:50 PM, 21 inches, 7 pounds 4 oz. (which was mostly head) Matthew Keller Nespoli is born.
Amazing.
Unfortunately, I knew our crappy HMO would only cover a portion of the bill, so we were going to have to sell The Bride’s new baby in order to pay for all this. I decided to wait a few hours to dump this news on her, because in the moment, she looked happier than I’d ever seen her.
While The Bride cried tears of joy, I cut the cord and took inventory of all the baby’s parts. He had four limbs, ten toes, and ten fingers. Still, he was far from normal. His shoulders were covered in long, brown hairs, which made me suspect that The Bride might have had an affair with Chewbacca. Also, he was covered in blood and a mysterious white goop that may or may not have been cottage cheese. I wanted to feel proud of the boy, but it’s hard to be proud of a baby who comes out of the vagina looking like Benjamin Button after swimming in a vat of cottage cheese and blood.
“I’m sorry, but this baby is hideous. For the sake of humanity, I’m going to put him back inside you,” is what I was expecting the doctor to say.
However, he didn’t say that. He took the baby and handed it to the nurses so they could rinse all the cottage cheese and blood off his hairy Chewbacca shoulders. While watching, it occurred to me that it might not be safe for such a huge head to sit atop such a little body. I’d read in National Geographic that the warthog has the most disproportionately large head in the animal kingdom. I’m pretty certain that had just changed. His arms were rail thin and his shoulders came to sharp points like that of Boston Celtic’s forward, Kevin McHale. It’d be incredible if my son grew up to become a professional basketball player like Kevin McHale; however, I considered it highly unlikely because his neck would never be strong enough to support the weight of his giant head when running down the court.
Plus, he’s half Asian, and as far as I know, he has no relation to Jeremy Lin.
As the nurse began cleaning his face, he started screaming, and the noise grated on my nerves almost immediately. I didn’t feel an affiliation to the critter; I didn’t feel new purpose in life; and I didn’t have an epiphany. All I wanted was a silent, empty room, an oxygen tank, and maybe a few beers, or a giant needle full of epidural juice.
“He’s looking at you!” the nurse said, excitedly.
“Really? With which eye?” I asked.
The nurses ignored me, and for the next couple days, they behaved as if I didn’t exist.
Over the course of the next year, I came to realize that I had, in fact, stopped existing.
After they finished cleaning him, they laid him on The Bride’s bare chest. “Hi son,” she said, in a nurturing tone that I’d never heard before. Keller started suckling, pulling life from her breasts.
And I haven’t touched them since.
While she held her baby, I watched as the doctor took a hook and string and began sewing my wife’s perineum back together, separating her butt from her vagina, once again, like a normal person. When he was done, it still didn’t look right, and all I could think was, Yeah, that area’s gonna be out of commission for a while.
As Keller enjoyed his first meal, The Bride nuzzled his face with hers. “He’s so beautiful,” she said.
And that’s the day I stopped trusting her judgment.
Her baby lay on her chest, completely innocent and helpless, totally dependent on his mother. The Bride stared into her baby’s eyes with a peaceful look of contentment on her face. The love she felt for him was palpable.
I could write about the science of how a mother-child bond is instantaneously created by hormones secreted in the mother’s brain during the birthing process. I could write about how women have evolved into nurturing creatures so that babies will survive and the human race can thrive. However, none of that is very entertaining, and this isn’t that kind of book. So, I’ll just say this:
Watching The Bride feed her baby, I witnessed a kind of love I’d never seen before, a love that said, If you try to harm my baby, I will rip your limbs from your body, stick the severed limbs up your ass, then hook you up to machines to keep you alive so I can torture you every day until the end of time.
After The Bride fed him, they took him to that big room where they keep all the newborns. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I was secretly hoping they’d mix him up with another baby. Maybe Alanis Morisette or Serena Williams had also given birth and we’d end up with their baby in some hilarious hospital mix-up like you’d see on a 1980’s style sit-com. But really, I’d settle for anyone’s baby, so long as they brought us one that didn’t look like the spawn of Chewbacca and that warthog from the LA Zoo.
Basically, what I’m saying is that, overall, the birthing experience was … I dunno … surreal. The most upsetting part was that I didn’t feel an immediate connection to my child, which made me feel guilty. Society expects fathers to feel an instantaneous and magical connection to their newborn. These expectations are unfair. Unlike our partners, we don’t carry the baby inside us for the better part of a year; so, when our child is born, we need a little time to develop a bond.

Later, once he was finally in my arms, he felt like the most fragile thing I’d ever held. I pressed him to my body and smelled the top of his head. It was the greatest smell I’d ever experienced and it gave me a weird fuzzy feeling in my head. Holding him tightly against my chest, I felt him growing roots into my heart.
“Hey, son, I’m your daddy,” I said. “We’re gonna be best buddies. Did you know that?”
As I touched his hand he wrapped his little fingers around my index finger, and just like that I was hooked. In that instant, I knew I loved him, and that I’d never love anything more. I put Keller’s lips to The Bride’s and then joined them in our first family kiss. And in that moment, for the first time in my life, everything was perfect.

Later that evening, I got a text from my buddy who’d gone to the Pearl Jam show. Yes, Chris Cornell showed up, and yes, he performed Hunger Strike with Eddie. However, as it’s turned out, Keller’s a pretty dope little kid, so I’m certain I came out ahead.

 

This is an excerpt from my second book, “Daddy Versus The Suck Monster” – you can get it for $.99 here:

Guns and Ammo

Against my better judgement, regarding guns, here we go-
I do tend to believe that we can make some good common sense regulations around guns without impacting people’s freedoms to own them.

That said-
The way that technology advances and society progresses, technology that was at one time advanced, sophisticated and extremely expensive eventually becomes common place and cheap.
It used to be that only the elite had indoor plumbing.
Now it is common place.
Cars were rare forms of transportation.
Now it’s most people’s main source of transportation.
When phones came out, very few people had access to them.
Now some homeless people are walking around with iPhones.
Guns have only been around for a few hundred years. At first, very few people had anything significant; wars were fought with muskets.
Now we have more guns in America than people.
It’s only a matter of time until people can 3D print their own guns at home. At that point, your laws don’t really matter too much.
I would go so far as to say that, in a few hundred years or so, its not beyond the realm of possibility that we will all have nuclear weapon capability in our homes.

Laugh at that if you want, but with the way technology advances and eventually proliferates, it’s kind of inevitable. This is what happens to knowledge over time. It becomes simplified and common.

So, we can’t stop all these shootings that have been happening in the past twenty years by making new laws. We can only stop the shootings by fixing the core problem, within humanity, that causes us to be violent in this way.
I don’t know what the core cause is, but it is something, and it’s something new, because we didn’t have this problem thirty years ago. And if we can identify that cause, then the cause can be neutralized.
I hope we figure that out.

In the meantime, we all need to agree on some common sense guns laws that will help keep us safe without taking away too much of our freedom.
We also need to look at the common thread that runs through most of these shooters: they are almost always on some kind of psych meds. We need to do something about that. I don’t know what. We can’t outlaw psych meds because they do help millions of people. However, maybe we shouldn’t allow someone that is on those meds to also be in possession of a gun.
I don’t know.

But we’ve got to do something, in the short-term, while we work on the root cause of this problem in humanity that causes us to exercise random violence on groups of strangers. We need to identify that problem, and we need to do it before everyone has the ability to 3D print weapons in their own homes. If we don’t do it before then, then our children’s children’s children may be the very end of humanity.

If we even make it that far.

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Father Son bonding. Riding a bike.

Today was a very special day.
Today, I participated in one of those special, time-honored, father-son traditions. There is a father and son playing catch in the backyard, the excitement of a boy being taken to his first professional sporting event by his dad, and the thrill of a boy being taught to ride a bicycle.
Today, I taught my son to ride a bike, and it was glorious.

I’m 44 years old.
I have the memory of a man twice my age.
I’m pretty sure that means I equate my memory to that of an 88 year old man, but I’m not positive, because I’ve forgotten how to do almost all the math.
My wife will send me to the store for a gallon of milk, and by the time I get there, I can’t remember what I was supposed to get, her phone number, or the way to get back home. I’ll drive around the neighborhood, in circles, for hours, trying to remember the meaning of everything, contemplating my existence, until, eventually, I remember my wallet in my pocket, pull out my driver’s license, and look up my address.
I’m a walking disaster in the memory department.
As far as I can figure, I was born around the age of sixteen. I can’t remember much happening before that. I’m not sure how it’s possible to be born at the age of sixteen, but I’m certain that is the case.
Maybe I was part of some high end government science experiment that was conducted for the purpose of creating teenage soldiers, in the 70s, to go to war in Vietnam, or maybe to infiltrate the hippie lifestyle so that we could bring those sandal wearing weirdos to justice for all their illegal drug partaking and lewd sexual acts. Damn you hippies for having so much fun! We shall destroy you!
Unfortunately, in my case, the government experiment went awry because I came out looking more like an AIDS riddled stork than a muscular soldier, and they really didn’t know what to do with me, so they pawned me off on a couple in Pennsylvania to raise me, and in exchange for that couple’s silence they gave them a million dollars.

But that can’t be true because I grew up blue collar, and come to think of it, I couldn’t have been created by the government at the age of sixteen because I do actually have a memory of my childhood.
That memory was my dad teaching me to ride a bicycle.
I remember it vividly.
I was seven.
My dad, that day, had loosened the training wheels on my bike without telling me. He took me out for a ride, and half a mile into it, on Line street in a small town in Pennsylvania, the wheels fell off, and my dad jogged alongside me, assuring me, “I’ve got you, just ride.”
And I did.

Today, I took my son to the park. He was scared and said he didn’t want to learn to ride his bike.
I assured him that I had him, that I would protect him, that I would never let anything bad happen to him.
I asked him if he trusted me, and he gave me a half-convincing, half-enthusiastic “yes, Daddy, I trust you.”
“Then, let’s go.”
I probably should’ve put a helmet on him.
I probably should’ve put knee pads on him.
I probably should’ve given him training wheels.
But I didn’t. We were doing this old-school, and it was going to be a moment he’d never forget.
He began peddling, and I ran behind him, holding his seat, keeping him upright. I was jogging in a bent over position because I couldn’t stand fully erect and still hold his seat; he’s barely five years old, and it’s a tiny bike. Given that I’ve had nine neck and back surgeries, it may not have been my wisest decision, but wise decisions have never been my specialty. I’m a romantic and I like to ride the wave and momentum of a moment when one presents.
He began peddling faster and faster.
I began running faster and faster.
My back began aching.
His arms were wobbly and the bike was wobbly and he was probably going to crash into the tree up ahead, around the curve, and because I elected not to put a helmet on him he’d probably break his brain and as a result he’d have to wear a helmet everywhere he went for the rest of his life. His mother would divorce me, take half of everything, and I’d only get to see my boys on Tuesdays and every other weekend. Life would be terribly depressing, I’d get addicted to heroin, I’d lose my Tuesdays, and then, completely distraught, I’d hit rock bottom in Tijuana, get robbed by a prostitute at one of their infamous donkey shows, and then, when trying to get back across the border with no money or papers, I’d get picked up by the police, with heroin on my person, and I’d end up living out the rest of my days, in a Tijuana prison, in complete anonymity, while my children grew up never knowing their father.
Shit, I really screwed the pooch here. I just should’ve made the responsible decision and put a helmet on him. Why do I always have to do things my way?
We were picking up speed.
The tree was getting closer.
My boy was getting more and more wobbly.
My back was burning and my knees were about to give out.
Our best bet would probably be to wipe out, now, in the grass, before we had to go around that turn where we will most certainly crash into that tree.
Yes, that’s it, I’m going to have to force a wipe-out here. It’s for the best. See the big picture, Matt.
“Daddy, I’m doing it!” My son said. He was so excited. So proud.
He wasn’t doing it, I was keeping him up, but what the hell did that matter?
Truthfully, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was having a blast, he was building confidence and self-esteem; this situation was a winner.
We couldn’t stop now!
And so, we forged on, building speed, building confidence. I gritted my teeth, ignored my pain, and told me knees to suck it up. My son was having a moment, and dammit, we were going to do everything we could to make this happen.
He wobbled left, he wobbled right. I loosened my grip hoping that he would feel his center of gravity moving from side to side so that he could control it, and manipulate it.
He could not.
He lost control.
Right before the bend with the big evil tree at that end of it that I should’ve scouted out before sending him on this DeathWish, but alas, I did not.
I’m the worst father alive.
I’m terrible.
And now my child is going to be disfigured.
He had one of those big wobbles that we’ve all seen and felt; one of those giant wobbles when you know you’ve lost control. One of those giant wobbles that, when you see it, you know the person in that wobble is going to over-correct, bringing the wobble in the other direction, making the corrective wobble twice as large and twice as likely to end in an accident.
And that’s what he did.
His over-correction on the wobble was strong. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was ravaged with panic.
Mine certainly was.
I was no longer holding his seat. His over-correction had caused his seat to break free from my aforementioned loose grip.
He was free riding now.
He was on a solo mission.
He was on a solo mission to “Mommy’s gonna get a new Daddy after this” city.
I wanted to close my eyes, but I didn’t.
I watched as the second corrective wobble began about twelve feet away from the tree.
For a brief moment, I considered sprinting at him and tackling him, just to keep him from crashing into that ferocious tree of death.
But I didn’t.
I chased behind, ready to pick up the pieces, ready to carry his bloody body to the car and rush him to the hospital.
But then, right before impact, something miraculous happened.
He found his center and regained control.
My boy manhandled that bicycle and let it know who was in charge.
My boy became a man.
I mean, sure, he wet his pants a little bit, but whatever, fuck you.
“Daddy, look, I’m riding a bike!”
You certainly are, son. You certainly are.
And I’ll never forget seeing it. I hope you remember it forever too.

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Hermosa Beach, CA set to Forbid Marriage Between White Men and Asian Women

The Bride and I attended a recent California wedding in which the diversity was so broad that we covered pretty much every box in one of those skin tone swatch charts. We had a great time and I danced my buttocks off, but as a man whose skin tone would match up with one of the lighter boxes in the skin tone swatch chart, I caught a lot of judgy looks from people.
“Pointy nosed people” like myself, do like to cut a rug every now and then, even if we pointy nosers don’t typically move as well as button nosers and squishy nosers. And for a guy like me who really loves to have a good time and who is typically surrounded by a lot of “people of a higher concentration of pigment,” it bothers me when other’s judging glances suggest that I may have just come down with a case of cerebral palsy. So please, if you happen to be a “person with a typically superior booty,” and you’re at a party where there are “pointy nosed people” trying to dance, if the dancing looks more frightening than Tara Reid’s boob job, then just look away… or consider joining us in getting really drunk, acting a fool and dancing like one’s rhythm meter has just been broken to the wedding theme song for people of the pointy nose tribe. You may like it.
Jump up, jump up and get down. Jump Around!
Lastly, for the record, I may match up against the lighter shades on the skin tone swatch chart, and I may not dance in perfect rhythm with the beat of whatever song I’m dancing to (actually, I’m probably not even in the same neighborhood as it), but I gots soul, muthafuckas; so back off.

Now, speaking of “people of a greater concentration of pigment,” I’ve decided I have to divorce The Bride.
Shortly after the end of the American Civil War in 1865, The Bride and I met at a dive bar in Hermosa Beach. At that time, even in progressive ole’ California, it was unusual to find many couples of mixed ethnicity.
Nowadays, you can’t spit out your gum in Hermosa Beach without it getting caught in the long, lusty hair of some Asian girl who’s holding the hand of her “pointy nosed” boyfriend.
The white guy/Asian girl demographic has become an epidemic in this town. Now, I’m all for the pigmental mixing of people; I feel like the sooner we get all our genetics all entwined, the sooner we can stop framing every argument around the issue of skin color. That said, if we’re going to stir up the gene pools, how about a little diversity amongst our choices? I’d like to see some Latino guy/Asian girl combos or Indian guy/Latina girl combos or, if you want to be super unique, how about an Asian guy/black girl combo? In the 110 years of Hermosa Beach’s existence, it is historical fact that there has never been an Asian Man/Black girl couple. On the other hand, the white guy/Asian girl trope is so over-done, that Asian men and white women have started dating one another, not out of desire, but out of the fact that they have no other options.
At a recent birthday party that I had to take my son to, an all-white married couple showed up with a package wrapped tightly in soft blankets. Given that we don’t actually know any all-white couples, when they showed up with their package, which turned out to be a baby; it affected me the way American Indians were affected by European ships when the Europeans sailed to America. It’s said that the Native Americans didn’t even see the ships out on the ocean because they’d never seen ships before and their brains couldn’t process them. That’s what this white baby did to my brain. Eventually, once I finally realized their package was a baby, I couldn’t get over how white his skin was; it seemed almost unnatural. His skin color was probably normal for an all-white baby, but I hadn’t seen a 100% Caucasian baby in Hermosa Beach in at least three years, so I can’t be positive.
Basically, if you can’t process all my offensive hyperbole, what I’m trying to get at is that the white guy/Asian gal has become a cliché around here, which makes The Bride and I a cliché. I can’t regard myself as a clever, hip, and smart guy that’s unlike all the other jerk-offs I know, if I’m living a cliché. So I’ve made a proposal to the City of Hermosa Beach; it’s called the Marriage Protection Act, part two, and it’s designed to keep marriage sacred by forbidding all future marriages between white men and Asian women. If the city shoots me down, the I have no choice but to divorce The Bride. The illusion that I’m hip and clever is very important to me, and I will not allow one more white guy/Asian girl combo to ruin my self-esteem.
I believe this measure will pass, but in the event that it fails, and I’m forced to divorce The Bride, the good news is that it shouldn’t be too hard to make that happen.
First, she doesn’t like me very much, so I don’t think I’ll get much of an argument out of her on the proposition, but, more importantly, I don’t believe we’re technically married.
I mean, we got “married,” once upon a time. However, we may not be married in the “traditional” sense.
And by “traditional,” I mean “legally.”
When we were married on the beach by some guy whom we paid a hundred dollars, The Bride assumed I mailed in our marriage certificate.
She was wrong to assume.
We’ve been together so long that I’m sure we’re in some kind of binding domestic partnership by now, but that shouldn’t be much for me to undo.
In hindsight, it’s a miracle we made it this long in the first place. Were it not for a case of explosive diarrhea, we wouldn’t even have had a second date.
But I’ll have to tell you that story another day.

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Scarf this down!

In general, I try not to be judgemental, but today, at the park with my kids, I can’t help but share the two conclusive generalizations I’ve come to. I feel fairly confident in their accuracy.

Generalization #1- If you live in California, and you have a penis, and it isn’t January or February, and you have a scarf around your neck, then you’re a douchebag. If you have short sleeves on with your scarf, then you’re a douche and a moron.

The degree of your douchiness is in direct correlation to how many scarves you’re wearing at once… Listen fellas, you’re not Jack Keroac. You’re not a beatnik. You’re a lame millennial hipster with nothing interesting to say so you tightly wrap your insecurities up in all those colorful scarves, hoping to fool the rest of us into thinking your cool and interesting. Turn off My Chemical Romance, take the earbuds out of your ears, stop whining, put down that book you’re pretending to read (we can all see it’s upside down), take off your 17 scarves, and let the sun rain down on you. It’s beautiful outside today and your whiny “emo” attitude is depressing me. 

2-All women are at least a little bit crazy and the degree of their craziness is in direct proportion to the length of their fingernails. 

Ladies, I love you, and I love the sacrifices you make for us guys to keep yourself all tight and pretty. I know that it must be a major pain in the ass to be a lady and go through all the things you have to endure to be considered “lady-like” in today’s society. You have to shave your legs (and these days you’ve got to take it one step further), do your hair, put on make-up, and dress all cute-sy. We love that you take care of yourself and keep your shit tight. I don’t know how you do it. I mean, I haven’t washed my hair with any product since the 90s. If my likelihood of mating depended on my grooming habits, I’d die a lonely and childless man. That said, as much as we love when you paint your little toenails and fingernails, and as cute and creative as you all can get with that stuff, you’ve got to trim those naughty girls every once in a while. When a man meets a woman, two questions immediately enter his head, “what are the chances of my seeing her naked?” And- “How much insane bull-shit will I have to endure if mission one is accomplished?” If you grow your fingernails more than a centimeter beyond the yolk, then we know we are treading in dangerous territory because the crazy is almost always in direct proportion to the length of those nails. And if you’re one of those gals with the two inch-long daggers that you paint in ten different colors, spending half your day glueing rhinestones and pearls and other shit on them, then you’re going to hear a lot of this, “Wow, those are incredible.” But on the inside we’re thinking this, “Run away from that Wolverine bitch! She’s crazy and dangerous!”

And so, as a man who prides himself in being accepting of everyone, I apologize for these judgements. I just trying to help some of you to assimilate by telling you what your friends won’t. Besides, these generalizations aren’t always true… just most of the time.

Lastly, your IQ is inversely correlated to how many inches of your underwear I can see above the waistline of your pants.

Okay, I’m done judging now. I’m going to go hug an emo dude and a crazy bitch and tell them both I love them.

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