The Bride is Trying to Kill Me

This is a cry for help.
The Bride is trying to kill me, and I need you to have my back.
I sustained a bad back injury that led to a near death experience.
No, not running or lifting weights or rock climbing or doing something else manly.
No, this 45 year old with 24 pieces of surgical metal in his body hurt his back in the middle of the night trying to get up out of bed to pee. I moved wrong, my back went out, and I went down hard. I went down to the floor in agony, crying for help. The Bride sits up and starts sleep talking, or pretending to sleep talk, “Stop making noise and put underwear on! Your sister is in the living room!”
Then this criminal mastermind lays back down and fakes sleep.
My sister is not in the living room. She’s in Pennsylvania. Also, she has four older brothers with no sense of humility, so it wouldn’t phase her even if I had walked out into the living room with a middle of the night urination boner.
I mean, my poor sister has been through it all. Once, while sharing a bed with her drunken one passed out drunken brother at a wedding, she sits up in the middle of the night and declares in a very emphatic tone that, “if you touch my butt one more time, I’m going to break your arm!”
In his defense, our sister strongly resembles his wife, but that’s another story for another time.
Anyway, point being, if my sister was in our living room and had seen my pee boner, it would not be the worst thing to happen to her. But what might actually be the worst thing ever is that I may die, on my bedroom floor, after having peed all over myself, because The Bride chose to let me suffer and die instead of trying to save me.
Now, you may ask, why would The Bride want to kill off her wonderful husband?
Well, I just sold my business and made The Bride the beneficiary on my bank account. So, for all I know, she was awake, hearing my agonizing cries for help, and she’s just trying to ride it out, hoping I die, while dreaming of herself riding along the coast in her new convertible Corvette, air blowing through her hair, while some dickhead 22 year old dude enjoyed the fruits of my lifetime of labor.
Anyway, after half and hour or so, I gathered myself, got back in bed, and was able to bravely make it through the night and fend off the Grim Reaper. In the morning, I was so jacked up with pain that that I could not bend at the hips.  I took a handful of pain pills, and when it was time for my morning poo, I had three options.
1- Stand over the toilet like a B17 bomber plane and hope for the best.
OR
2- Put together a make-shift bed pan out of The Bride’s cake pan.
OR
3- Shit myself
I went with option #2.
The Bride was driving the kids to tennis camp, so I’d be able to pull it off and get rid of the evidence and she’d never know.
Until now.
So, I survived the ordeal, not because I wanted to, but to spite The Bride, and I want everyone here to know that if something happens to me in the next few months, it was her.
I’m trusting you guys to get me justice.

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

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.

[blog_subscricption_form]

Am I Gay Now?

A very GAY moment, from The Dad-
At the Costa Ricafort plantation, I went to order pineapple ice cream for The Bride and kids.
“Can I help you,” asked the stunning Hawaiian girl at the counter.
“Oh wow,” I said, not faking it.
“What?”
“Your eyes are amazing. I’ve never seen eyes like yours. They look like your tropical ocean, but with emeralds floating in it.”
She giggled and blushed.
Behind me, The Bride was cracking up, losing her shit. I assumed it was because she thought I was being cheesy. Anyway, I placed my order and joined The Bride with the ice creams. She was still losing it.
“What is so damned funny?”
“You were flirting with that baklat.”
“What’s a baklat?”
“The tagalong word for gay Filipino man who looks feminine,” she said.
“That was no dude.” I said, emphatically.
“He was a dude.”
“She was most definitely not a dude.”
“Dude.”
I walked back over to her. “May I ask what your name is?”
“Makai,” she responded.
I walked over to The Bride. “Is Makai a boy name or girl name?”
“Boy name.”
“Shit, I was flirting with a baklat.”
The Bride snot-bubble laughed.
“He was a beautiful man. This is confusing. What is happening?”
The Bride, now bent over in laughter.
“Am I gay now?”
“No, just stupid,” she replied.

You Suck. It’s Not Hormone Related Anger

I wouldn’t exactly call my son’s conception an accident. I mean, I didn’t trip and fall into The Bride’s vagina. However, it was a surprise. In fact, I was unaware we were even trying to make a
person. Granted, The Bride had been making many more sexual
advances than normal, but I attributed her newfound sexual assertiveness to the better than average hair days I was having as a result of a humidity-free, California winter.
As it turns out, The Bride was much more interested in my DNA
than my hair, and a few weeks into our torrid winter love affair,
everything became illuminated.
I was pouring myself an adult beverage when The Bride came out
of the bathroom with blood lust in her eyes. As soon as I saw her, I knew I was in you’re sleeping at a hotel kind of trouble.
“You suck at marriage!” she yelled.
“I know, and I’m sorry,” I said. Those five words have served me well in our relationship.
“I can’t take it anymore!” screamed The Bride.
“Umm, sweetheart, I know I should probably know this,” I said, treading carefully. “But, umm, why exactly do I suck at marriage?”
The Bride’s jaw dropped open the way a boa constrictor unhinges its jaws right before devouring its prey. She let out an unearthly primordial scream, cocked her arm back, and began firing toiletries
at me like Roger Clemens’ fastballs. The toothpaste whizzed past my ear and splattered against the wall.
“You left the cap off the toothpaste, you used my towel, and you
peed on the toilet seat! Again!”
After a bottle of hair conditioner hurtled past my head and
exploded against the front door, I knew I wasn’t dealing with the average, garden-variety, menstruation-inspired outburst. I’d left the toilet seat up exactly 41,238 times since we’d been married, and though it always irritated her, this over-the-top, violent expression of anger was out of character for my little Filipina bride.
“Are you pregnant?” I asked. The words came out of my mouth
before I had time to process the consequences of them.

“I’m not pregnant! This is not hormone related anger! I’m angry because you’re an inconsiderate ape-man!”
“I know, and I’m sorry,” I said.
Life would be easier if I tattooed this on my forehead.
I decided to go jogging to give The Bride time to cool down.
When I returned, an hour later, I found her in the living room,
crying, with our wedding album splayed open on her lap.
This was a very bad sign.
I considered turning around, running into the ocean, and drowning myself.
“Matthew, I’m pregnant,” she said, holding out the pregnancy test
for me to see.
The Earth stopped rotating and stood still on its axis, freezing
time. I was in a state of stupefied paralysis, completely unable to
form words with my mouth. Only my inner voice seemed to be
functioning.
Hug her, you idiot!
So, I listened to my inner voice. I hugged her and smiled, and
then hugged her again because that’s what a man’s supposed to do
when his wife tells him she’s pregnant, and I didn’t want to be the
jerk who says, “How did this happen?”
But on the inside that’s precisely what I was thinking.
When The Bride and I were dating, she told me she wanted five
kids. I wanted a kid, too. One kid. Sometime in the indefinite future.
Recently, I’d warmed up to the idea of preparing to think about the possibility of eventually setting a time to have a discussion about
the pros and cons of making a baby.
But I wasn’t ready just yet.
Our conversations about kids always stayed superficial. They felt
similar to our conversations about moving to Africa to start a charity
for impoverished children. Both topics were fun to talk about, but
we’d probably never get around to doing either. In fact, the only
concrete plan I was aware of was an April backpacking trip through
Europe, and though I knew this would be a bad time to bring it up, when I finally regained the ability to speak, the first thing I said
was, “So, I guess Europe’s out?”
It’s not that I don’t like kids, I do. However, I am an adventure-
seeking, ocean enthusiast that needs an alarm to wake by 10 AM. You don’t give a guy like me a baby. I can’t even remember to park
my car on the opposite side of the street every Tuesday for street sweeping. How could I possibly take care of another living human person? Besides, our lifestyle wasn’t conducive to parenthood. We were too busy going out with friends and consuming large quantities
of alcohol as a means to numbing all the mental anguish that the
institution of marriage brings upon one’s life.
The Bride expressed that she was surprised to have gotten
pregnant only two weeks since she’d gone off the pill. When she said this, I was struck by the realization that I didn’t remember having a conversation about her quitting the pill. She insists the conversation happened and most likely it did. I imagine the declaration was woven somewhere into the fabric of her daily
nagging, so it probably went in one ear and out the other.
“Matt, take out the trash. Matt, pick up some eggs after work.
Matt, I’m getting off the pill. Matt, your mother called.”
I love The Bride very much. However, for the sake of my own sanity, I have to tune her out at times. But I’m not the only one in our home with selective hearing. The Bride stopped listening to me right after I said, “I do.” Sometimes, when I catch her in the act of pretending to listen, I’ll say something random like, “Honey, there’s a baby raccoon dressed up as a pirate performing fellatio on
Optimus Prime outside our window.”
“That’s nice, Matthew.”
Anyway, after I felt I’d shared the appropriate number of hugs with the woman whom I’d impregnated, I excused myself, stepped into my home office, and had a proper freak-out.
I was slightly calmer when I returned to the living room. “What do you think of the name Kiefer?” she asked, smiling.
“I think it’s silly to pick a name so soon. The embryo is still smaller than gnat poop.”
Many weeks later, we had an ultrasound and the doctor declared that we’d be having a baby boy. I was relieved. Because of all the alcohol and drugs I’d consumed in my youth, I feared something crazy was growing in her uterus, like maybe some kind of mutant
lizard baby, or something resembling Sigourney Weaver’s offspring in Alien, or maybe something really terrifying, like a Civil War re-
enactment enthusiast.
After learning the baby’s gender, I wanted to go out and celebrate before coming home to recreate the miracle of our creation. The Bride had different ideas. She brought home a pregnancy book and kept me up half the night dropping knowledge on me, such as the
fact that it would require a total 75,000 calories to create our baby, and the fact that his first bones would be generated around day
forty-five.

The factoids were interesting, but I had really been hoping for a more adult themed celebration. The little ball-buster hadn’t even reached the second trimester and he was already cock-blocking me. Little did I know that cock-blocking would become his greatest skill.
I was pretending to listen as The Bride described the development
of fetal fingernails when suddenly she dropped the book excitedly
and said: “I got it! Let’s name him Keller.”
Keller, so that’s your name. Just remember, pal—I saw her first.
Once we gave him a name, the idea of having a baby felt a little more real, which made it both more exciting and scarier. It seems
silly now, but at the time, I was afraid that a baby would cause me to
lose my edge. I’m a free-thinking seeker who believes in equality
and love and the magical healing powers that are generated when
one kisses a pretty girl in a sundress on a warm afternoon. I worried that fatherhood would change me into a suit-wearing dork who coached soccer and joined the Elks Club.
I hoped it would be possible to remain true to myself, become best buddies with my son, and also be a good father. I believed it
was possible. But, really, what did I know?
Nothing. I knew nothing. So, I needed to read up and educate
myself about fatherhood. I wasn’t interested in reading self-help books because most self-help authors are damaged people who are one bad day away from joining the Zombie Apocalypse and eating
their neighbor’s faces off. What I wanted to read was a book about fatherhood written by a normal dad who felt the same kind of
trepidation I was feeling.
Pregnancy revolves around the woman, and rightfully so. However, it also affects the man. We have to learn how to deal with
becoming second-rate citizens in our own homes, the cessation of
our sex lives, and the pregnancy hormones that change our loved
ones into rabid, carnivorous beasts who sustain themselves on the
souls of men.
At Barnes & Noble, I found books written by doctors, and I found book after book written by women about breastfeeding, asshole
husbands, and postpartum depression, but I found nothing written
by a normal dad about being a dad. So, I decided to write my own book, one that would offer an honest accounting of raising a
newborn, warts and all, so that the next time a scared, expecting
father walked into a bookstore, he’d be able to find a book written by a regular guy who had also been scared shitless.

Listen, fellas, fatherhood is a crazy ride. At times, you’re going to want to sneak out the back door, drive to Mexico, assume the name
Marco Villanueva, start a marijuana farm and surround yourself
with sexy, 6-foot-tall supermodel bodyguards like a militant Middle
Eastern dictator. However, you won’t do this. Why not? Because
fatherhood is the most wonderful experience of your life (or at least
this is what you will tell people when you think your wife might be listening).
But seriously, fatherhood is pretty amazing. And fellas, just remember—after it all shakes out, you’re going to be okay.

 

If this post made you giggle, then please follow:

[blog_subscricption_form]

 

This is the first chapter from my second book, “Daddy Versus The Suck Monster” – you can buy it on Amazon for $.99 if you enjoy this sort of thing. Click below:

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: