

## #ASSHOLELIVESMATTER

### Buck Brennan

#ASSHOLELIVESMATTER

by Buck Brennan

©2020 All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

  1. Do You Remember the First Time You Met an Asshole

  2. Tucker's Story-This Will Break Your Heart

  3. You Can Get Pussy on Facebook, Fat-Shaming is Still Funny, and Other Things the Liberal Media Won't Tell You

  4. Pooping-The Addiction No One is Talking About

  5. Introduction to the Greatest Drug Story Ever Told

  6. The Greatest Drug Story Ever Told

  7. The Fountain of Youth

  8. Sometimes It's Hard Being a Woman

  9. My First and Only Love

  10. 10 Steps to a Healthy Marriage, Even if Your Spouse is an Asshole

  11. Think Like a Champion

  12. A Little Hard Work Never Killed Anyone

  13. Define the Moment

  14. The Health Benefits of Putting a Fat Wife on a Diet

  15. Inspirational Words from the World's Greatest Dad

  16. And You Think Your Kids Are Bad?

DO YOU REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME YOU MET AN ASSHOLE?

The first time I met an asshole was when I was in the 4th grade. I can still remember it like it was just yesterday. One of my classmates, Joey Leonard, invited me over to his house to play on his brand-new Nintendo. I didn't know anything about assholes yet, but I knew that I never really liked Joey Leonard. He was fat and kind of dumb, and I was always annoyed by the sound of his heavy mouth-breathing during tests, and I was even more grossed out by the way he picked his nose and wiped it under the desk when he thought no one was looking. I was almost sickened by Joey Leonard's mere presence, but I did enjoy playing Nintendo, and from all his non-stop bragging I knew he had some really cool games, so I agreed to go on the playdate. I had my people get in touch with his people to make all the arrangements and setup the transportation to the meeting.

When I arrived, he did not even greet me. He just sat there with a two liter of Coke and no glass. He was swigging it right out of the bottle like some sort of goddamn Neanderthal, and he was eating all sorts of candy too. He had Swedish Fish, Mike and Ike's, Wacky Wafers, and an assortment of other candy that he did not even bother to offer me. It didn't matter. I did not care so much about the candy. I was just there to play his Nintendo.

I was grounded from my Nintendo because I got in trouble for playing home run derby in the living room with a tennis ball. My mom and dad were royally pissed off, and I was banned from Nintendo for three weeks. That is the only reason I was willing to go on a playdate with that stupid Moronosarous-Rex in the first place. I had a bad Nintendo addiction back in 1988, and I was really itching to play. I did not ever care who I had to play with. I was so out of control with Nintendo back in the 80's that I probably would have got into a child molester's van if he had Zelda. I had it bad, and I needed a fix like yesterday.

Joey Leonard and I went into his bedroom. He didn't offer me a seat, so I helped myself to a bean bag chair in the corner of his room and waited to see what game he'd choose. Then he picked up a controller and began playing Mike Tyson's Punchout. He played and played and played and then played some more. Three hours passed, and that asshole never never handed over the controller. He didn't give me one solitary fucking turn. He just made me sit there in that stupid Goddamn bean bag chair for hours while he played Tyson's Punchout over and over and over again, and he sucked at it too. He never even made it past Bald Bull.

I was so annoyed. I knew that motherfucker had two player games. Jesus Christ, he had Contra, which was one of the most famous two player Nintendo games of all time. I saw it sitting right there on his Goddamn dresser. I even started talking about how much I liked Contra and how we could both play it, but that moron was too stupid to take a hint, or maybe he just didn't give a fuck.

I told him I knew the code so we could have forty lives beat the game. "Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start," I said to him as I tried to convince him to put a game in that we both could play, but that big, bumbling, stupid, mouth-breathing, nose-picking asshole just sat there complete stuck in that little socially unaware pea-brain of his, while he lost over and over again to Bald Bull in Tyson's Punchout.

I tried to tell him that you have to duck his flurry and then give him an uppercut when he is stunned, but he was too much of a stubborn asshole to listen to what I had to say. Instead, he just sat there stuffing his fat retarded looking face with candy, as he got his ass handed to him over and over again by crappy Bald Bull. It was painful to watch.

And if that wasn't bad enough, his older brother, Johnny Leonard, kept punching me in the head and give me titty twisters the whole time because he was an asshole too, and assholes think stuff like titty-twisters and punching people in the head is funny.

Finally, this hellish nightmare was over. His mom yelled up to us that my mom was there to pick me up. I stretched and got up to leave. Naturally, Joey Leonard did not even bother to say good-bye. He just kept mouth-breathing and wailing on poor undercard fighters like Glass Joe and Tiger Lily as he worked his way up to Bald Bull. At least his brother had the decency to say goodbye. He whispered in my ear, "See ya later, faggot." Then he punched me in the back as hard as he could and laughed a hearty laugh.

My mom was responsible for preparing my meals and scheduling all my meetings when I was in th 4th grade, so after I got home, I had my chef prepare me one of my favorite meals, hot dogs with Ketchup. Then I told my personal assistant never to schedule any play dates with the Leornards again, and my she promptly removed both Joey and Johnny off my best friend list.

The next day we all went to visit my nana and popop. My mom and dad went there for Sunday dinner, but I was there to negotiate my school contract with my popop. It was a good deal for a 4th grader, five dollars for every A on my report card, and a fifty-dollar savings bond for every holiday, excluding Easter. I tried to negotiate a cash deal instead of the bond, but the old man was a stubborn old son-of-a-bitch and he wouldn't budge. I didn't want to push too hard. Any ill-will and I would run the risk of losing out on my big payday. I wanted to land the big car deal that I was going to negotiate on my sixteenth birthday. So I shook his hand as he said, "Shake the hand that shook the hand of Lincoln." I never knew that the hell that meant, so I just laughed. Then he tasseled my hair and pushed his dentures out at me.

My nana was the muscle of the family. She didn't take shit off anyone, especially when it came to her grandkid. She wouldn't think twice about calling the school to complain if she thought that a teacher was giving me too much homework, and she would demand that sanctions be put on a kid immediately if he gave me so much as a wet-willy.

So, when she heard about Johnny Leonard punching me in the head and giving me tiity twisters, she started to throw all kinds of shade at the Leonards. She was yelling curses at my mom and ranting and raving about how she couldn't stand the Leonards, and how she should call Johhny's parents and tell them what an asshole their kid is. My dad was fairly levelheaded, so I usually let him handle all my Public Relations in the 4th grade. He shot that idea down immediately. He said that people would make fun if my mom called Johnny Leonard's parents. He was right. That would have been a PR nightmare for a 4th grader. If they called the Leonards, everyone in the school would think that I was cry-baby or worst, a tattle-tale. If that happened, it would take years to restore my reputation. I'd probably have to reinvent myself as a class-clown or possibly even a bully if I ever wanted to be taken seriously again. That was not worth getting Johnny Leonard in trouble, so we just decided to drop the whole thing.

Joey and Johnny Leonard were the first people I remember who I thought were real assholes, and from that point on I was fascinated with assholes. I wanted to know everything that there was to know about assholes and their behavior. As I grew older, I did everything I could to study assholes. I immersed myself into their daily lives and I lived among them in their natural habitat. I spent my entire life surrounded by assholes. I worked at their jobs. I went to their schools. I played on their sports teams. Heck, I even lived with a few. That is why I have become one of the leading authorities on assholes and asshole behavior. Some people even say that I am like the Jane Goodall of assholes. I pretty much know everything there is to know about assholes.

I accidentally ran into Joey Leonard a few years ago. He was still fat and sweaty and real stupid looking. When I met him we shook hands, and he squeezed as hard as he could. It was the way you would expect an asshole to shake hands. Then he bragged about how awesome his kids are at sports, his job, his house, and how much money he made. Then when he was done bragging, he crammed all of his alt-right political views down my throat, instantly assuming that I also believed that school shootings are staged, global warming is a hoax, and that I supported white nationalism. The whole exhausting exchange took about twenty minutes, and all he did was talk about himself the entire time.

My dad used to have a saying that I never understood as a child. He used to whisper it to himself all the time after he would run into someone he knew and they would have a polite exchange. While I was standing there in that supermarket listening to dumb fat fuck Joey Leonard educate me on his favorite assault rifles it occurred to me. I finally realized what my dad meant when he used to say, "Once an asshole, always an asshole."

## Tucker's Story-This Will Break Your Heart

We Always Something Was Different About Tucker

By the time Tucker was five years old, we could tell there was something different about him. He was not like all the other little boys and girls. The way he would never pick up his toys, how he would fight with us about bedtime, how he would never want to brush his teeth, all of the whining, the tantrums, and the non-stop barrage of the stupidest fucking questions while he could clearly see that I am trying to watch football. The signs were all there. The writing was on the wall. My wife and I both secretly knew that Tucker was an asshole, but we were not ready to admit it. At least not then. We continued to live in denial for many years as we watched Tucker leave dirty dishes all over the house, refuse to share his candy with his sister, and make one sarcastic comment after another. It was gut-wrenching for us as parents to know that our child was an asshole. It broke our hearts to know that he was never going to have a normal life and never be like all the other little boys and girls who are not assholes.

What I Learned From Tucker

Raising a child like Tucker really helped me understand the difficulties of having a child who was retarded or even one that was not retarded and was just dumb as fuck. Every time Tucker misbehaved, or would not listen, or ran through the aisles of Wal-Mart like a giant asshole, it brought great disgrace to our family and it devastated me as a parent, the same way it would for parents who have a child that was dumb as fuck and was eating paint. The only thing that could have possibly been worse than having a son who was an asshole would be having a son who was on the cross-country team. I could not even begin to imagine the heartache and shame that would have brought to my family.

If Tucker ran cross-country instead of playing football or even baseball, that would have been the single most devastating thing that could have happened to me as a father. All of my dreams of ever living vicariously through my son would have been dead. My heart goes out to any parent who ever had to witness the awful tragedy of their child running in a cross-country meet. I cannot even begin to imagine how hard that must have been on them.

I could not fathom having to go to all of those stupid mind-numbing cross-country meets that no one gives a shit about, then acting as if I actually cared about it. The amount of effort that must go into pretending to be proud of a son who runs cross-country must be exhausting for a parent. All of those lost years they spent watching their son jogging around in those ridiculously short shorts, when they could have been watching him score awesome touchdowns or hit monster home runs. That had to be so painful for them to watch. All of those long sleepless nights that these parents must have spent trying to convince themselves that cross-country is a real sport is admirable to say the least.

It takes a great deal of strength and compassion to accept a son that runs cross-country. These parents are able to come to terms with a having a son who is a giant pussy who will never have one single solitary muscle on his entire body, yet they still find it in their hearts to not make fun of them for it. That is remarkable. Those parents are the real heroes in my book.

I was grateful that Tucker was not on the cross-country team, but the sad truth was that he was still an asshole, which was not without its own set of challenges. Having a son like Tucker was very much like having a son who turns gay. I know how painful it must be when you're son comes out of the closet and tells you that he listens to Macklemore and wants to put his penis up other men's butts. That is exactly how I felt the first time Tucker told me that he was a Cowboys fan. Only a real asshole would like the Cowboys when his whole family likes the Eagles. It broke my heart, the same way it would have broken my heart if he told me that he liked Cats or having penises in his mouth. Having a son who tells you he is gay, or one who is an asshole fills you with these raw, intense conflicting emotions. On one hand, you love them, and you want what is best for them. Yet at the same time, you are embarrassed of them, and you do not want people knowing they are your son.

What Was It Like When Tucker Was Younger?

I can honestly say that raising a son like Tucker was the most challenging thing I ever had to do in my entire life. It was even more challenging than the ice-bucket challenge I did a few years ago, or the cinnamon challenge I did for my daughters YouTube channel, or the time I drank a glass of piss for 50 bucks in college. As parents, we did everything we could to try to turn Tucker into the normal little boy that we wanted him to be. We taught him how to fit in and do all the things we thought normal people do like have manners, chew with his mouth closed, and not pee all over the toilet seat, but it never felt natural to him. Deep down inside, Tucker always had this burning desire to talk during movies, wipe boogies on the couch, put empty milk cartons back in the fridge, and squeeze toothpaste from the top.

The First Time I Knew Tucker Was an Asshole

Like most assholes, Tucker also loved bro-trucks. He was fascinated with trucks that had huge lifts, aftermarket grilles, wide black and chrome wheels, aggressive low-profile tires, and enough aftermarket LEDs to light up all of New York. I tried to get him interested in the more practical, fuel-efficient all-wheel drive sedans that had five-star safety ratings. I would spend countless hours talking to him about all the benefits of owning a practical car like the Subaru Outback or Honda CR-V, but it was no use. The more I talked about a car's ability to hold its Kelley Blue Book value, the more he obsessed over these embarrassingly impractical douchey looking bro-dozers.

His grandparents and my wife enabled this asshole behavior too. They bought him an incredible Matchbox collection filled with the most ridiculous lifted trucks with huge swampers that money could buy. He would spend hours and hours pushing them all around on the floor telling me all about the Ford F250 he was going to drive once he got older. He would tell me all about how it would have a three-foot lift with 42-inch mud tires and a Make America Great Again decal on the bumper. Then he would tell me about how he would do obnoxious roll coals in old people's faces as he steals their Handicap spaces. Hearing that really made me feel helpless as a father. I felt like I failed him as a parent.

Are Assholes Born That Way?

I remember holding Tucker for the first time and looking into his bright blue baby eyes and thinking to myself how I desperately wanted him to be a good person when he grew up. I hoped that he would be the one to break the Brennan cycle of assholes. Sadly, Tucker that was never going to be the case for Tucker. He had inherited the gene that has run through my family for generations. It is the gene that causes us all to be assholes. My daddy was an asshole and his daddy before him, and now Tucker was an asshole as well. He was hard-wired to grow up and become an asshole no matter what we did as parents. He was no different from the girl born with the lesbian gene that makes her want to have a boy's haircut, wear combat boots, and go to feminist rallies. It was in his DNA, and as parents, we were powerless to stop it.

When he was an infant I would pray every night for him to become a kind and decent man, the kind of man who holds doors for ladies, respects old people, and only calls a woman a cunt if she truly deserves it. I would not have even cared if he grew up and became one of those guys who had a vegan lifestyle and never shut the fuck up about it on social media. No wait, I'm pretty those people are real big assholes too. I would have been disgusted with him if he turned into that. That was a bad example. But I would have been okay with him being a hipster, just as long as he wasn't vegan. Like maybe if he was a run of the mill ordinary hipster, like the kind you see in Starbucks who wears flannel and is really big into activism and protesting stuff. I would only be able to take him in small doses and I'd make him stay in hotels when he came to visit because I would get sick of all his hipster bullshit, but I wouldn't even care, just as long as he wasn't an asshole.

Sadly, I knew that this was never going to be the case for Tucker because I knew the type of man he was going to become. He was going to spend his whole life doing roll coals in his bro truck, making fat jokes, and calling a woman's breasts her gazongas, jumblies, honkers, knockers, and sometimes even her funbags. The sad awful truth about my son was that he was born an asshole, just like me.

Disciplining an Asshole Child

With each passing day, Tucker was becoming more and more of an asshole. It did not matter what we did as parents. His condition only seemed to worsen. We tried everything we thought we should be doing as parents to keep him from being an asshole. We bought him whatever he wanted. We blamed the school whenever he got bad grades, and we made sure he knew nothing was ever his fault. We let him play on his iPad for hours and hours so we could ignore him all day, and we even let him watch R-rated movies and play violent video games, but it was no use. He was still an asshole.

It wasn't like we didn't try to stop him from being an asshole. We tried every behavior modification strategy that we could possible think of to get him to be normal. We tried bribing him with toys, candy, and trips to the water park if he behaved. We tried to spank the living shit out of him when he would get out of line. Sometimes we would even yell profanities at him in uncontrollable fits of blind rage, but nothing seemed to work. The more we tried to discipline him, the more of an asshole he became.

When we were not spoiling him, bribing him, hitting him, or telling him that nothing was ever his fault, we were busy trying to impress all of our friends on Facebook with cute pictures of Tucker. We posted pictures of him playing t-ball, blowing bubbles, and even playing with puppies which was adorable. The Halloween photo of us all dressed up like Marvel comic characters got like over a hundred likes on Facebook, but that didn't even help. The more that we tried to look like good parents on social media, the more it just turned Tucker into an even bigger asshole.

The Impact of Divorce on Children Who are Assholes

My wife and I invested so much time, energy and money into trying to fix our broken child that it started to put a great deal of strain on our relationship. The solid bedrock of our once beautiful marriage that was built on a few months of dating and an unplanned pregnancy was starting to crumble. The everyday challenges that my wife and I faced raising a child who was an asshole coupled with me always farting under the covers and never helping with the laundry had put such a strain on our marriage that my wife was left with no other choice but to start fucking her boss, Derek.

Our once perfect and infallible marriage had quickly disintegrated to nothing more than statistic and another messy divorce. Sadly, Tucker was only five or six at the time, so he did not yet develop positive and healthy coping mechanisms to deal with his problems the way an adult can. He was still too young to get drunk, or even start smoking. Without having any healthy adult coping strategies, Tucker did the only thing a young asshole boy could do to cope with a broken home. He manipulated the shit out of his parents.

That motherfucker started playing the two of us like a couple of fiddles. It was like the arms race between the U.S. and Russia only it was with video games and toys instead of weapons. We were spending thousands of dollars on Tucker in an attempt to get Tucker to like us more. The divorce was not even finalized yet and that son of a bitch already finagled an iPhone off my ex-wife. Then he conned me into buying him a brand new puppy that he got bored with after a few months.

He would always say stuff like "Your house is boring." I am sure he told his mom the same thing whenever she told him "no" to something. Sometimes he would tell me that mom's house is more fun and that he'd rather be at mom's house. Within a few hours of hearing that I was usually buying him new nerf guns or going to a water park.

Don't be fooled by Tucker's behaviors. These were not the innocent musing of a six-year-old who was confused and scared about his parents' divorce. These were the subtle yet cunning tactics of a asshole mastermind, and they worked beautifully. He knew exactly what he was doing, and no child psychologist or therapist will ever convince me otherwise. Tucker was able to divide and conquer by making my ex-wife and I believe that he liked the other parent more. He played one against the other to get whatever he wanted, which never truly allowed for us to develop a healthy co-parenting alliance or even agree on anything for that matter. I'm not saying I blame him. I have come to respect his evil genius.

His strategy gave him freedom of speech, and by the time he was ten years old he was allowed to use swear words, even the really bad ones. It was less than a year after the divorce before I lifted the ban against soda and ice cream for breakfast at my house. I even invoked Tucker's 2nd Amendment rights when I bought him a bad-ass brand new pellet gun that he used to shoot beer bottles right in our back yard without protective eye gear or even adult supervision. I was going to be damned if I was going to let my ex-wife be more fun than me. Being fun and irresponsible is a father's moral obligation, especially in a split household. It is not natural for a mom to be fun than a dad. It goes against all the laws of nature. That is why I always had my fun-o-meter cranked up to a ten.

My house was like Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch, minus the zoo, the roller coasters, the weird elephant man's bones, and all the child molestation. Okay, that was a bad example. Let's just say that I parented like a fucking rock star, but not like the boring U2 Bono and Edge type philanthropist rock stars who eat kale and preach about green peace and politics. My parenting was more like real rock stars who do a bunch of coke and trash a hotel room. I figured that my divorce put Tucker in a crappy situation. The least I could do to make it up to him was to buy him a brand-new dirt bike and let them drive it around without a helmet.

My Epiphany About Tucker

The more I co-parented in a split-household, the more I found myself becoming less concerned with things such as school, manners, grades, hygiene, responsibility, integrity, and even safety. I gave up on trying to teach my son to be a good and decent human being. I relegated myself to the fact that Tucker was always going to be an asshole. I looked at it this way. He came from a broken home, so at least now he has excuse to be an asshole. He could now blame it all on us years later when he's in therapy.

I was glad Tucker finally had someone to blame for all his behaviors, but I still worried about what life was going to be like for him as an adult. Then I had an awakening. I had an epiphany that changed everything. Suddenly I was at peace with the idea that Tucker was an asshole. I realized that many successful people are assholes. Christopher Columbus committed genocide. Thomas Jefferson had slaves. Ben Franklin used to cheat on his wife. Gandhi used to beat up his. Henry Ford was a racist. Mel Gibson hates Jews. Donald Trump, Thomas Edison, Hugh Grant, Aaron Rodgers, the list goes on and on with wildly successful people who are huge assholes. I even read an article about the guy who starred in Paul Blart Mall Cop, and how he allegedly doesn't let wait staff talk to him at restaurants.

Do you want to know who is not an asshole? A guy I work with named Walter. Walter is one of the nicest guys I know. He is the furthest thing from an asshole. He is mannerly, friendly and he will do anything for you. He doesn't drink, smoke or swear, and he doesn't have a mean bone in his body. He's never raised his voice and he has a tolerance for all people. That is probably why his wife has his balls shoved so deep in her purse that he sits down to pee, and his forty-year-old daughter still lives with him and she make him babysit her kids while she goes out shopping with her friends. That was when I realized that maybe being a good person wasn't everything it was cracked up to be. Once I realized that I became okay with the fact that Tucker was always going to be an asshole. Living with Tucker taught me to embrace my own inner-asshole. I learned that there is nothing wrong with being an asshole, just as long as you aren't vegan.

Conclusion

I hope Tucker's story will inspire other people like him to be brave enough to come out of the closet and announce to the world that they are assholes too. They need to know that it's okay to be an asshole. Just because you litter, leave shitty tips, and cut lines at amusement parks, that doesn't mean you have to be embarrassed about who you are anymore. It's okay. No one is judging you because you never admit when you're wrong. You're an asshole. That's just who you are. Don't beat yourself up over it. You're not alone. There are millions of other people out there just like you who never return the stuff they borrow or pitch in for gas.

As a society we need to learn to be respectful of all people, even the people who blast music really late at night and don't use turn signals. So, the next time you see someone who won't get the fuck out of the passing lane, or who is taking forever at the grocery store checkout, or won't stop talking about themselves, before you flip them off or say something rude, remember they are assholes. It is just who they are. You need to respect the differences in people who are assholes, even if they don't respect yours. If you are not an asshole, this book will heighten your awareness of people who are assholes, and it will train you to become more sensitive of their feelings. In a society where we can't fat-shame, slut-shame, age-shame, gender-shame, and even baby shame, don't you think assholes deserve the same respect? It is time we stop shaming people who are assholes. This is the book that will finally give assholes the voice they so desperately needed, even if that voice is really loud and obnoxious and never shuts the fuck up.

## Yes, You Can Get Pussy on Facebook, Fat-Shaming is Still Funny, and Other Things the Liberal Media Won't Tell You

**Can I Really Get Pussy on Facebook**?

You can defininlty get pussy on Facebook, but you might need a little help. Let me explain. Parenting can be confusing. Most of the child development experts often disagree on which parenting styles are most effective. Some say that it is best to set boundaries and use firm discipline. While others say that it is best to use positive reinforcements and build a connection. There is so much contradiction in the world of parenting that it is hard to know if what you are doing is working. The only thing the experts really agree on with parenting is that posting adorable selfies with your kids on Facebook will get you tons of pussy.

When you have cute kids, you don't need abs, money, or even a job to get pussy. All you need are a few selfies with one of those adorable little panty-wetters from your first marriage. Post a few of those on Facebook and you'll get laid guaranteed. You don't even have to be a good dad. All you have to be is a dad, period. Who cares if you're not involved with them or if they think you're a total dick. It doesn't matter what they think. What matters is what women think. And when it comes to pussy, the only thing more important than being a great dad is creating the illusion of being a great dad on Facebook.

Do I Have to Be Attractive to Use My Kids to Get Laid on Facebook?

Women don't care what you look like if you have kids. They don't care if you have muscles, abs, or even hair. They don't care if you have a beer belly, plumber-crack, or even if you have more hair on your fat tits than on your head. Trust me on that one.

There is a term for this. It is called having a "dad bod." That basically means that a man became a dad, so he stopped having any self-respect. The best part about having a "dad bod" is that 61% of women think dad bods are sexy! Can you believe it? Most women think that my beer gut and my hairy tits are attractive, simply because I coach my son's soccer team. What a great time it is to be a man!

Why Are "Dad Bods" sexy?

I can't say for sure why women are attracted to fat out-of-shape men who already have kids. Desperation, daddy issues, low self-esteem, money. These are all some loose theories I've developed, but I don't know for sure. In fact the only thing I really do know about women is that a yeast infection causes their vagina to smell like rotten fish. That is a scientific fact. Everything else about women is debatable.

The irony of the "dad bod" phenomenon is that women are the ones who desperately want their frumpy "mom bods" to be accepted as sexy. Men could care less. They drink beer and eat wings and lay around and fart all day, yet somehow women still find them attractive. Meanwhile, women spent the past decade trying to get people to accept their fat bodies. They tried a "Body Positive Movement," which was a viral social media campaign, celebrity endorsements, a march, a boycott, protests, T-shirts, wrist bands, symbols, catchphrases, a special color, and even a hashtag to get people to think that they shouldn't have to lose weight. They even tried to make fat Barbies. They started using plus-sized models, and they had an awareness month dedicated to fat women. All that effort women put into trying to get their husbands and boyfriends to not think they should go on a diet, and it still didn't work. Men still make jokes about fat upper pussy areas or FUPAs, and they still laugh at Al Bundy's fat women jokes in the shoe store. Those will always be eternally funny.

Why Are Mom Bods Not Sexy?

The reason "mom bods" will never be considered sexy in this county is simple. It comes down to basic math. While it is true that most women have very high standards, and most men have low standards. It is a fact that men actually have twice as many standards as women. Men have what are called double standards. They have a set of standards for themselves and they have a set of standards for women, Basic math principles state that two sets of standards will always be more than just one. So, until women start having double standards like men with dad bods, they are going to have to keep that Weight Watchers app on their phone and dating fat single dads who post adorable selfies of them with their kids on Facebook.

# Pooping-The Addiction No One is Talking About

Accepting Your Addiction to Pooping

I am not your typical addict. I am not a crackhead, an alcoholic, or even a shopaholic like my crazy ex-wife. I am not even addicted to sex like Tiger Woods or that guy from American Chopper either. Although, I did try to become a sex addict once. Luckily, I was not good looking enough to ever get addicted to sex, so I only ended up banging a few fives, then I got married. My addiction is much more dangerous and far worse than any measly addiction to sex, alcohol, crack-cocaine, or even shopping. My addiction is the one that no one is talking about. It is the addiction to pooping.

Understanding Your Addiction to Pooping

I had been pooping for almost forty years before I realized how addicted I had become. It wasn't until I read an article in the Harvard Medical Journal on addiction that I realized; I was a full-blown addict. The three main functions of addiction listed in the Harvard Medical Journal are:

1. **Intense Cravings** – I am not proud of this, but I've had intense cravings to take a really bad shit many times in my life. Sometimes the cravings would get so bad that I would start sweating, and that massive shit would become all that I could think about. There was this one time in particular that I remember. I was stuck on the interstate, and the next rest area wasn't for another fifty miles. I could feel my stomach begin to rumble, and I could feel those intense cravings to take a huge shit start kicking in. I found myself driving over 100 mph, weaving in and out of the lanes with total disregard for the safety and lives of those around me. The only thing I cared about was being able to get my fix in the men's room at the next rest stop and take my next shit.

2. **Loss of control over the object your craving** – My addiction to pooping has caused me to do many things I normally wouldn't do. One time while I was out fishing, I lost complete control over my cravings to shit. I wanted to shit so bad that I didn't even wait to find a toilet. I pulled my pants down and shit right behind a log next to the river. I then took my underwear off and wiped my ass with them. Then I tossed those shitty undies right in the bush. Had it not been for my addiction to taking huge steaming piles of shit, I would have never done something as perverse and disgusting as squatting naked in the woods with my cock and balls hanging out like that. That was when I knew I was losing control of my addiction.

3. **Continued Use of Engagement Despite Bad Consequences** – Ask anyone who has ever been addicted to shitting, and they will tell you that nothing good ever came from shit. I knew that my shit was smelly, gross and offensive to everyone around me, yet that never stopped me from shitting. Not even once. At the height of my addiction, I took such a huge shit at a friend's house that it clogged the toilet. As I tried to plunge it, I became so repulsed by the foul odor that I threw up a little in his sink. I was never so embarrassed in my whole life when I told my friend what had happened. I was filled with guilt and shame for what I had done to my friend's bathroom. That is the same bathroom where his sweet innocent children were being potty trained for Christ's sake. After that night I swore to myself that I would never shit again, only to find myself sitting on a toilet in a Walmart the very next day. I could not stop shitting.

When my shitting addiction was at its worst, I was unemployed, I had no money, I couldn't take care of myself, and I was living with my mom and dad. It got so bad that I had to wear diapers and I wouldn't even use the toilet. I would shit right in my pants and my mom and dad would have to change me and wipe my ass. That went on for almost three years until I learned how to use the potty and manage my own addiction. After that, I spent many years as what some might call a functional shitter. The addiction to shitting was still there but I was able to hide it well. I still went to work every day, coached Little League baseball, and I had friends and family. On the surface, everything looked all well and good, but there was a secret that I was hiding. I was addicted to shitting, and it was starting to get out of control.

I would read whole magazines cover to cover, watch YouTube videos, play Subway Surfer, Angry Birds, anything I could get my hands on just so I could stay on that toilet and shit just a little bit longer. My kids would bang on the door and scream that they had to use to the bathroom, but I couldn't help myself. I always pushed it further then I had to. I knew that if I stayed in there just a little longer, maybe I could squeeze out one more tiny knuckler or perhaps a little shart.

The Rocky Road to Recovery -Change Your Poop Habits

The day I hit rock bottom I locked myself in the bathroom so long that my daughter had yelled into me that my son just peed into a Gatorade bottle because I was taking too long. That was when I knew that my shitting was starting to get out of control. I knew I had to do something, so I started researching shitting addictions. Surprisingly there was very little written on this topic. I was a pioneer paving the way for others like me. Hopefully, my bravery will pave the way for other shit addicts like me to confront their addiction, the same way Neal Armstong did for astronauts when he walked on the moon.

After 40 years, I finally have my pooping addiction under control. Obviously, I didn't actually quit shitting because that is physically impossible. However, I do have healthy stools and regular bowel movements now. Saying that I am clean might not be the best choice of words for a recovered pooping addict because we are talking about shit, and shit is dirty. I can, however, say that I am healthy and happy. It's been close to 40 years since I've last worn a diaper, I cut back on the time I spend shitting so that my family can get in to use the bathroom now too. I even put myself on a regular bowel movement schedule. Every morning after I have my coffee, I spend a responsible 5 to ten minutes in the bathroom making a doody. I guess surviving a pooping addiction is like surviving any other addiction. You have to want to do it

Introduction to the Greatest Drug Story Ever Told

I think it is an important part of any memoir to take a moment and reflect on past drug use. Drugs were indeed a very important part of my life. In fact, if it weren't for drugs, I might not be the man who stands before you here today. That is why I always tell my kids, "If you're not going to do your best, then at least do drugs instead because the next best thing to doing your best is having a good excuse."

Besides, everyone loves people who use lots of drugs. That writer, James Frey, told people he was addicted to drugs and his book sold like a gazillion copies. In fact, people were really upset when they found out that he didn't do as many drugs as he claimed. I think Oprah even cried over it.

There is also a show called _Intervention_ , which is about people doing lots of drugs. I am not exactly sure why it is on The Learning Channel because it has absolutely nothing to do with learning, but I guess it's like the old saying goes, "Awesome shit on TV is always way better than learning stuff."

Lots of drug addicts give lectures on addiction too. They tour all over the country telling people about all of the drugs they did in hopes of scaring people into not doing drugs themselves. I saw one of these this "scared straight" lectures in my high school once. It was some recovered heroin addict, and he was talking about typical heroin addict stuff, like shitting his pants, robbing off his mom and dad, being homeless and that sort of thing. At the conclusion of his story, he told everyone that he is no longer addicted to heroin, and that son of a bitch got a standing ovation. I couldn't believe it. A standing ovation, just for not doing heroin. I thought not doing heroin was just something you were expected to do in life, like wiping your ass after you shit. Who knew something as simple as not doing heroin could get a standing ovation?

I had this life thing all wrong. Here I was like an idiot, never getting addicted to heroin when what I should have been doing was getting addicted the whole time. That way all I ever had to do to get people to give me a standing ovation was not do heroin.

I am not totally innocent though. I guess if I am being honest with myself, which is probably the point of a memoir, the truth is I love drugs. In fact, if someone were to show up at my house right now with a big bag of them, I would stop what I am doing and take them all. I wouldn't even care what they were. I love them all just the same.

I just never had the kind of passion that addicts do to ever get fully addicted. You'd be surprised how much work goes into being a drug addict. Ask anyone who's ever dabbled in drugs before and they will tell you that drugs can be a real pain in the ass to get, and they can be pretty gosh darn expensive too. I was always much too lazy to ever become a full-blown addict.

If I only had a little bit more ambition, maybe I would have been one of those guys getting standing ovations for not doing heroin too. I always had the potential to become a really good drug addict. I shoplifted before, and I do shit my pants occasionally. Once in a while, I might even steal some money out of my mom's purse. The only problem is that I just never did any of that stuff because of drugs.

And when I quit using drugs, it wasn't because I hit rock bottom, found God, or had a moment of clarity like you hear about when the real drug addicts stop using drugs. I quit doing drugs because they got to be too much of a headache. I was always scared that I was going to get arrested. Then I was worried about overdosing, and constantly stressing about how to get money to buy them. The whole thing was just not worth the aggravation for me anymore.

That is why I really admire the dedication of a full-blown drug addict. They have this laser focus, and they will stop at nothing to reach their goals. They rob. They steal. They beg. They even suck a dick from time to time. Now that is what I call drive.

I never had that kind of determination to do anything. Maybe when it comes down to it that is why I was never successful in life. I was never willing to suck dick for anything. I do remember trying to suck my own dick once. It was when I was a small boy in the bathtub at my nana's house. It wasn't for drugs or anything. It was more out of curiosity to see if I could do it. I bent over and I remember getting about two inches from the head, but it was still too far out of reach, so I simply gave up and went back to playing with my toy battleship, a trend that would follow for the rest of my life. Not playing with my toy battleship. I am talking about the trend of giving up. I hadn't played with my bathtub toys in years.

I guess you might call me more of a recreational drug user. My drug use was more of a hobby that was defined by merriment and laughter more than an addiction that was defined by self-destruction and ruin. If I told my drug stories to a room full of high school students, they would leave that assembly thinking that drugs were pretty gosh darn cool. My stories would be like, "And then we smoked a bong and ate some ice cream. After that, some girls came over with a Party Ball of Coors Light and we all snorted some coke. Then everyone got up and danced."

My drug stories just don't have that doom and gloom anti-drug message that is needed to scare high school kids. Although, I do have one drug story that might scare kids into not doing drugs. Some might say that it is the greatest drug story ever told, even better than the one you hear during D.A.R.E. week in high school, or that episode of Intervention where this guy was free-basing meth in a sewer pipe. It involves sodomy, asshole stitches, a bike, a hunter, suicide, a fire, being homeless, and of course drugs. How is that for a cliff hanger?

# The Greatest Drug Story Ever Told

I was never one to believe in fate. That was until the one night when such an odd series of occurrences would take place that it couldn't have been anything other than the forces of the universe at work. It was at that moment that I came to realize that it was my destiny to tell the greatest drug story ever told.

One night my friend and I stumbled upon a phone in the kitchen of our house. We typed some numbers into the phone, which just so happened to be the number to a guy I knew, who just so happened to have a lot of acid. He answered. What were the odds of that?

We got to talking and came to find out that he was selling some of that acid. As chance would have it, we were interested in buying some of his acid. Then, he told us that he only accepted cash for his drugs. Curiously enough, there was an ATM machine just a few miles down the road where we could get the money we needed. The only problem was that I needed a secret passcode to get the money out of the machine. I typed in my birthday, which just so happened to be the exact numbers of the passcode that was needed to get the money. It was our lucky day.

Next, I took out forty dollars, which was uncannily the exact amount of money that he wanted for acid. It was too weird how this night was unfolding. Then the cosmic forces of the universe aligned once again putting the ATM close to a Sheetz, the only place in the world where you could a Shmuffin, which just so happened to be my favorite food in the whole world. That was when I knew this was no accident. This was destiny.

Now I know a story about dropping acid and eating Shmuffins is not a great drug story. It is probably not even cool enough to make the Top 100 greatest drug stories of all time. That is why the trip to Sheetz is only the beginning of my epic tale.

We got the Shmuffins and the acid, then we returned home. I took my acid immediately, as I usually did with my drugs. My friend took his out and carefully weighed all the pros and cons of taking the acid before making an informed decision that taking the acid was a bad idea. He then brushed his teeth and went off to bed. On a side note, he eventually became an accountant with no cavities and good credit.

With my friend now sound asleep, I was left with no other choice but to eat his acid too. I was afraid that acid was like eggs or milk and it would probably spoil if I didn't eat it right away. It was 2 a.m. on a Thursday night when I decided to drop 4 gel tabs of acid. Now, I am not fully willing to call that a bad decision quite yet, as bad decisions are mostly a matter of perspective. What Jerry Garcia and my mom might see as a bad decision can be quite different. In this particular instance, I decided to do what Jerry would do and I ate the acid.

Shortly afterward, I smelled smoke. It was coming from the upstairs bedroom. There was a fucking fire. Of all times for there to be a fire, it had to happen right after I dropped a bunch of acid.

I was in a panic. All my roommates were sleeping, and none of them knew there was a fire. I was the only one who could smell the smoke. If I didn't do something, they were all going to die! It was up to me to save them, so I rushed up to the bedroom, but the door was locked.

I screamed and yelled and pulled on the door over and over until finally I broke the chain that locked the upstairs bedroom. Then I rushed up to the room and looked frantically for the fire. I tried to get them up and out of the house to save all their lives, but there ended up being no fire. It was a false alarm, which can sometimes be the case while fighting fires on acid. I apologized to my roommate by shaking his foot, which I mistook for his hand, another common mistake people make while fighting fires on acid.

By the time the sun started to come up, I was getting wanderlust. I had a hankering for an adventure, so I took a walk into town trying to think of a good quest. Then it hit me. I always wanted to hop on a moving train and become a hobo, and there is no better time to do that than when you're tripping on acid.

I walked down to the tracks, past the campus, past the laundry mat, past the bank, and past this deli that had really good sandwiches. My plan was to leave all that behind and liberate myself by experiencing the freedom of the open road. I was going to become a modern-day Jack Kerouac.

I couldn't wait to hop on that train and hear that rhythmic clickety-clack of the wheels rolling over the rails. The sound of that train would relieve me all the societal pressure that was binding me to other people's expectations and forcing me into a life that would never truly be my own. After I would finally free myself from the chains of conformity, I could finally persevere into a true state of authentic being. That is what true freedom was all about.

My plan was to sit by the track, then when the train came by, I would jump on. I figured that was going to be as good a plan as any to jump on a moving train. I was sitting on a curb next to the tracks for about an hour when suddenly I saw a police cruiser drive by. The police officer looked in my direction, which led me to wonder if I had paid all my fines. Then I started to panic, thinking that there might be a warrant out for my arrest. I also remembered that I was really fucked up on acid, and I had a bunch of weed in my pocket. It also dawned on me that I was intrinsically afraid of police. I was sure he was going to come back and arrest me, so I did what any good hobo would do. I turned around and went home, ending my life as a modern-day Jack Kerouac before it ever began.

This all happened on a Friday morning, and I had 3 classes that day, so I got dressed and.... I'll bet you thought that I was going to say, "went to class". You guys are too funny. I never went to class when I was in college. That was the best part of college. You don't really have to do anything you don't want to when you're in college, and my motto has always been, "Don't do anything you don't want to". It's an ok motto. It's not a great motto. A great motto would be something like, "do your best," or "always help others in need," or something along those lines, but like I said, it was an okay motto.

I eventually became hungry, which was bound to happen. I am 40 years old, and I don't remember a time where I didn't eventually become hungry. It is one of those harsh inevitable facts of life. I could have eaten a Hot Pocket or made a bowl of cereal, but the cosmic forces of the universe had other plans for me on that day. Fate had already decided that I would become hungry for a world-famous rib sandwich that can only be eaten at an amusement park over fifty miles away. It was either fate or the drugs that I was on. I suppose we could sit here and argue that all day, but that is not the point. The point is that I was hungry for one of those sandwiches.

By now you are probably asking yourself, "Why didn't he just drive to the amusement park?" Well, you must remember that I was drunk, high, and tripping on acid. Driving a car in my condition would have been just plain reckless. Always being responsible, I decided to take my bike instead.

I packed up all the necessities anyone would ever need for a long early morning bicycle trip. I got my weed, cigarettes, some gum, a box of cracker jacks, a few bucks for the sandwich, and some Chapstick. Well, they seemed like necessities at the time, probably because of all the acid.

The epic journey started out about as well as any epic journey could. I raced my bicycle across town as a crisp breeze blew through my hair and across my face. It felt invigorating. I gained speed as I coasted down the hill past the campus, past the laundry mat, and past the deli. It felt liberating and free. I was happy to be alive, and everything was wildly surreal. I couldn't help but feel as if I was just a spectator to the world's stage, and all its players were now acting out all of their parts. It felt as if the world didn't belong to me anymore. I was nothing more than a keen observer of the human condition, as this ensemble of people performed all around me. Even my neighbor who was a huge dick seemed as if he was sleepwalking through his day. It was like his life was some sort of a peaceful dream.

It was the first time I ever saw the world from such an incredible point of view. Everything and everyone I encountered were all right where they were supposed to be in this rare and fleeting moment of harmonious serendipity. All the buildings, people, trees, birds, roads, and everything all around me were not the same as they were just one day before when I wasn't tripping balls on acid.

Everything seemed so familiar, yet wonderfully strange all at once. I was finally seeing the world with my eyes wide open. I had been awakened to a world of limitless possibility.

As the wind blew through my hair and the breeze cooled my skin, I could do nothing but smile. I knew that I had just discovered the answer to life's great mystery. It was everywhere all around us. It was in the clouds, the sun, the moon, and even in the eyes of a stranger. All we had to do was open the doors of perception, and we would see that all the answers were right there in front of us the whole time.

Of course, that was the feeling I had going down the hill. All of that would soon end when the road turned uphill, and my legs would start hurting from having to pedal again.... stupid fucking bicycle.

And if that wasn't bad enough, I realized that I had no idea where I was going. Obviously, I knew I could get to the amusement park using State Route 229, but I didn't want anyone to mistake me for a cyclist, because everyone knows that cyclists are stupid. Imagine, grown-ups who own cars but still ride bicycles in traffic just for fun.

These assholes are constantly getting run over. Every time I see one of these morons on the side of the road, I want to pull my car over and punch them right in their queer biker face and give them a huge biker short wedgie. Even I knew better than to ride my bike on a road next to moving cars, and I was tripping on acid. That was why I decided to take train tracks instead.

I wasn't exactly sure where the tracks led, but I figured they had to go somewhere, so I cut through this cornfield to pick up the tracks. It was right there in that very cornfield where I saw the most unusual thing I ever saw in my whole entire life. I wouldn't blame you if you don't believe this part. No one ever does. I probably wouldn't believe it either if I didn't see it for myself. But right there, right in the middle of all those rows of corn, at six in the morning, there was a man. He was sitting in a lawn chair holding a shotgun, and that was not even the weird part. The weird part was that he didn't appear to be startled by me. It was almost as if he were expecting me.

As I happened upon him, our eyes locked and he gave me a most menacing glare. I glided past him on my bicycle, and my mind started to wander, as it sometimes will when you come across a man armed with a shotgun in the middle of a cornfield at six in the morning while you are tripping on acid. My initial thought was that he must be trying to ambush passing cyclists, and I fell right into his fucking trap. I was sure I was going to be shot, so I pedaled frantically trying to escape this crazed gunman.

I made it safely to the clearing just past the field, and I never saw that man again. I would imagine that he had his gun pointed at me, only to see me disappear out of sight before he could get a clear shot. That is probably when he threw his hat to the ground and kicked some dirt, foiled yet again by another one of those pesky cyclists. He should have tried to run me over with his car. It is much easier to kill a cyclist that way.

Eventually, I made it to the tracks that were just over the hill past the clearing. Once I got there, I pedaled feverishly down the path next to the rails. I was making good time too. That is until I happened upon a trestle bridge that was crossing the river.

It was a long spectacular bridge, the kind of bridge you would see as in an art gallery or perhaps a dentist's office. It had a calming nostalgia of yesteryear and it was constructed with these arches that looped up and down over the top of the bridge. The loops were filled with a complex labyrinth of steel, rivets, and beams. Under the bridge were these magnificent slabs of concrete that diverted the rush of water momentarily off its inevitable path towards the ocean. As you looked across it, the beams and arches narrowed the focus, and the vast expanse of the world was corralled into nothing more than a tiny speck. It was as if you were looking through a giant telescope that peered to the other side of the river. Ok, that's enough about this stupid fucking bridge. Let's just say that it was a nice bridge.

So, I hopped on the bike and began riding across. I made it past the first trestle, and my bike bobbled. Then I passed the second trestle, and my bike wobbled. Before I could even make it to the third trestle, and just as I was about to run out of words that rhyme with bobble and wobble, I flipped over the handlebars, and I landed on the tracks. Then I fell off the side of the bridge and right into the fucking river.

I will give you a minute to process that. Ok, now that you're done processing. Yes, I flipped over the handlebars and went careening off a really high bridge, falling far into a river while I was tripping on acid.

Luckily, I managed to grab hold of a railroad tie and somehow swung myself around to keep me from falling headfirst, but my hand slipped, and I fell about thirty feet landing right on my ass in about three feet of water. I used to do ass-crackers all the time off the deck of my nana's pool, but I never attempted one off a railroad bridge into a river. This was a first for me.

Once I realized that I survived the world's biggest ass-cracker, I began laughing and dancing all around in the water. I was never more thankful to be alive. Unfortunately, my celebration didn't last long. No sooner than I thought that I survived such a terrifying fall, a stream of blood began pouring out of my asshole. I'll give you a minute to process that one too. Yes, blood was pouring right out of my asshole and streaming down my leg.

Now, if you never had the opportunity to see blood streaming out of your asshole after you fell off a bridge and into a river while tripping on acid, let me tell you, it is quite the experience. I am not an expert on asshole bleeding or even acid for that matter, but I am willing to bet that anyone who is would have been scared at that moment. In fact, I'd bet Jerry Garcia himself would have been a little bit unsettled if he saw his own asshole bleeding while he was tripping on acid.

I was a little freaked out, so I did what seemed to be the next logical thing. I ran as fast as I could through a thicket of thorn bushes to get to a low-income housing project. It wasn't a hospital, but it was going to have to do.

I ran up to the first door and began pounding on it as hard as I could. A lady answered who looked like she was doing even more drugs than I was. Once I smelled the cigarettes and saw all of her meth rotted teeth, I knew I was in pretty good hands. I was too hysterical to tell her what just happened, so I just shoved my hand down my pants and put some blood on my hands. I lifted it up to her and said, "Do you know anything about internal bleeding?"

As you might have suspected, she knew very little on the matter, but she told me that she did know some people who did. She offered to take me to the local hospital, and I was a little offended when she put a towel down on the front seat so that my asshole wouldn't bleed all over her car, but looking back now as a responsible older man, I probably would have done the same thing.

On the way to the hospital, she kept reminding me that things will get better and that I just needed to hang in there. She then said something else and a few other things that I don't remember because I was not paying attention. That was until I heard the word, "suicide." I realized that this lady was telling me about all the times that she had tried to kill herself. Then it dawned on me. She thought I had jumped off that bridge in an attempt to kill myself too. I tried to convince her that I simply fell off the bridge, but it was no use. She didn't believe me. She thought we were kindred spirits brought together by a couple of botched suicide attempts.

She dropped me off at the hospital and gave me a big hug. Then she said something else about why I shouldn't try to kill myself anymore. I thanked her and continued on my way.

Once I got to the ER, I lifted my hand to show the receptionist my asshole blood, just like I did with the sweet old drug addict lady. A doctor immediately rushed me to a room and laid me on my stomach. Then several more doctors came in and they all began fiddling around with my asshole. As they were feeling around back there, they kept asking me, "Who did this to you?" I tried to tell them that I fell off a bike, but just like the poor drug addict lady, they did not believe me either. They simply kept saying, "You need to tell us who did this to you." They kept insisting that it was some sort of fraternity hazing prank, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what bleeding out of my asshole could have possibly had to do with any sort of fraternity hazing prank.

After they felt around back there for what seemed like an eternity, they finally gave me the diagnosis. The good news was that it was not internal bleeding. The bad news was that there was a laceration on my asshole that needed two stitches. It was right on the asshole. I mean right on the fucking sphincter. Well, I mean, they didn't say it like that. They were more professional, but you get the gist.

It was at that moment that it all became suddenly clear to me. They thought that the only way to get an asshole laceration like that was from having a penis violently thrust up it, or maybe a broomstick handle, or the handle to a plunger, or a vegetable of some sort like a cucumber, or maybe even a beer bottle. Ok, I am getting away from the point again. I am not exactly sure what they thought was shoved up my ass, but that was why they kept asking who did this to me. They thought that I was anally raped by some frat brothers in a super-hilarious hazing prank, and to this day, the biggest regret of my entire life was that I was never able to convince them otherwise.

Now there are several doctors and a handful of nurses who probably gather around at the office Christmas party every year and tell the story about the time they stitched a boy's asshole shut after he claimed to have fallen off his bike. Everyone probably laughs at the part where they say, "That was no friggen bike accident". Then they all probably toast their egg nog and wish everyone a happy holiday.

After they finished stitching my asshole shut, I called my roommates to tell them to pick me up at the hospital. They were all surprised to hear from me, and even more surprised to hear that I was in a hospital getting my asshole stitched shut. They kept asking me questions about it over the phone to which I only responded, "I hurt my bum-bum". I would not give them any further information, as the doctors may have been eavesdropping to hear if I would admit to being anally raped.

It was around noon when they finally picked me up from the hospital. We drove in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. Finally, one of them spoke up and said "Dude, did you just get raped?" I said, "No, I fell off my bike," and we all had a good laugh.

# The Fountain of Youth

I've always loved dicks. Not like in the gay way that you might think of when someone tells you that they love dicks. I don't like sucking on them or having them shoved up my butt, and I don't like stroking them or anything like that either. I simply liked to draw them on people's stuff, because that is really funny. In fact, I have been drawing dicks for as far back as I can remember. When I was just a young teenage boy drawing dicks was one of my most favorite thing to do in the whole wide world, and I was really good at it too. I was never really much of an artist. I always drew thumbs on the wrong side of people's hands, and I didn't know how to draw ears, or noses or even mouths, but boy could I draw a great dick. I could draw a dick as good as any professional dick drawer in the whole wide world. It was my one true talent in life and the only thing I was ever really passionate about.

The thing I loved most about drawing dicks was how they would always bring such joy and laughter to an often-bleak world. Back in high school, when I would draw dicks on all of the nerdy looking kids' books, the look of disgust on their little nerdy faces would simply light up the room and bring great joy and laughter to everyone around them.

I drew dicks everywhere. I drew them on desks, in bathroom stalls, on textbooks, and even on people's faces if they got drunk enough. I loved drawing dicks and I knew that someday I was going to change the world with those dicks.

But as I got older, people started shoving a finger in my face and saying that I was no good and that I needed to stop drawing dicks all over stuff. And when people beat you down and stomp on your dreams long enough you start to believe it, and eventually, you stop believing in yourself and you give up on your dreams. That was what happened to me. The more and more people told me that drawing dicks was childlike and immature, the more and more I started to believe it, and by the time I graduated high school I gave up on my dream of becoming the greatest dick drawer in the world. I eventually swore to myself that I would never pick up a Sharpie again.

I still remember the day it happened. It was my senior year of high school, and I was having the best year of my life. I was drawing dicks on everything. I even shaved a dick in the head of one of my buddies who passed out after prom. These were some of the best days of my life.

Then one day in my 8th-period study hall someone thought it would be funny to draw a few dicks on one of my tablets. They weren't harmless dicks. Nothing outlandish. There were no disgusting pubes, or loads of jism, or ginormous ballsacks, or anything like that. In fact, they were actually done quite tastefully.

I don't know what it was about those dicks, but Mr. Kozak, the study hall monitor, took great offense to those dicks and confiscated my notebook immediately. Within 24 hours my parents were notified, and a meeting was scheduled. My mom told me that the school called and that they were concerned that I was obsessed with penises. When she told me about the school's concern, I broke down and began crying because I was laughing so hard. Mr. Kozak must have thought that I had drawn those dicks all over my own books, and that I spent my adolescent days lost in some sort of cock-filled daydream while I doodled pictures of dicks all over my own school book as I pined for the touch of another man, the same way a lovesick little schoolgirl would draw hearts around the name of her secret crush. That was how much he thought I loved dicks. Mr. Kozak presented the evidence to my mother, and she picked up the notebook and began studying the dicks very closely. I did not see the dicks yet myself, so I leaned over my mom's shoulder to inspect the work. I could see that the dicks were all drawn in an upright vertical position and that they had a protruding mushroom tipped head. That was all I needed to see.

As soon as I saw them, I shouted out to Mr. Kozak and my mother that I was framed and that I could prove to them that I did not draw those dicks. I got a sheet of paper and I drew a dick the only way I knew how. It was horizontal with an even head that was separated by a line with some pubes on the ball sack. I put a slit on the top of the head for the dickhole, which everyone knew was my signature move when it came to drawing dicks, and not one of those dicks had a dickhole. This was an open and shut case.

I slid the sheet of paper over to Mr. Kozak and my mother so they could see that my dick drawings were nothing like the dicks in the notebook. I could see my mom roll her eyes as Mr. Kozak tried to get me to tell him who drew the dicks if I didn't draw them. I told him that knew nothing, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell him because I wasn't no snitch.

By the next day Mr. Kozak forgot all about those dicks, and he quickly went back to yelling about someone stealing candy off his desk and trying to find out who hit him with a spitball. Things were back to normal for everyone in 8th period study hall, well everyone except me. For me, nothing would ever be the same again. That was the day my innocence died, and the day I lost my love for drawing dicks. It was many years before I could muster up the strength even think about drawing a dick again.

Life went on and I got caught up in the mundane stuff that mature adults get consumed with like career, family, and fighting with the cable company. The years passed and drawing dicks on stuff became the furthest thing from my mind. That was until one day my son came home from the 7th grade and I saw him and his buddy sneaking into his sister's bookbag and dicking up one of her notebooks. As I watched them, a big smile came to my face, and the memories of all dicks I ever drew all came flooding back to me. My son is the regional chess-champion, an A student, and an all-star soccer player, but seeing him draw a dick for the first time made me the proudest dad in the whole gosh darn world. When he saw me leering over his shoulder, his face fell heavy with fear and embarrassment, only to see me ecstatic and belly laughing.

For years I was looking for something that we could connect with and find something we could bond over, and I finally found it. I spent the next several hours telling him all of the stories of my own childhood when I would draw dicks all over stuff just like him. Now, we are a whole family of dick drawers. Even my daughter who is in 6th grade draws dicks. She is really good too. She has a lot of potential. For my fortieth birthday, my kids even made me a card that had dicks drawn all over it to make them look like smiley faces. It was the best birthday gift I ever got.

# My First and Only Love

It all started when I was in second grade. I remember it like it was yesterday. While all of the other neighborhood boys and girls would be outside doing normal kid stuff like playing kickball, eating candy, or trying not to get lured into vans by any of the neighborhood child molesters, I would be up in my bedroom for hours and hours with nothing more than a Sears catalog and a dream. That was when my love affair with masturbation began.

I know that a seven-year-old who masturbates sounds a little bit unbelievable, and I would understand if you don't believe me. I would probably not believe me either, but you have to understand something. Someone like me only comes around once in a lifetime. I was what some people might call a masturbation savant. I am to masturbation what Mozart is to music, or Picasso to art, or Rain Man to Blackjack. It wouldn't take long for my family to realize that I was blessed with a special gift, and I could masturbate longer, faster and more often than almost any other person in the entire world. However, as is the case with most people, my parents feared what they didn't understand, and they had a very difficult time accepting and appreciating the beauty of my misunderstood genius.

For many years, my parents were horrified by my ability to masturbate as often as I did, and they did everything they could to try and make me stop and just be the normal young boy that they so desperately wanted. They employed numerous scare tactics to try to get me to stop masturbating, and they would often issue warnings to me like it will make me go blind, or it will make me grow hair on my palms, but I didn't care. Nothing was going to stand in the way of my masturbating five times a day. I was going to devote my life to masturbation, even if it meant going blind, or having hair on my palms. I wasn't going to let anything stand in the way of my life's mission to masturbate all day.

My father even tried to tell me that Michael Jackson wore that glove on his hand because he was hiding the hair he grew on his palm from jerking off so much. That did little to dissuade me from jerking off. In fact, it had the opposite effect. I was relieved to know that there were other's like me, and I was not alone. Michael Jackson soon became my new hero and role model, not for his music, but for his apparent love of jerking off, and his hit song 'Beat It' became the anthem of my youth.

By the time I was in middle school, my jerking off was starting to spiral out of control, and it was really starting to take its toll on my parents. My dad started drinking heavily, and I would often find my mom praying the rosary and crying herself to sleep. They did everything they could to get me to stop masturbating. They even enrolled me in a Catholic school to try to guilt me into not masturbating. The nuns and priests would often tell me that masturbation was sin and that I would go to hell if I masturbated. When that didn't stop me, they told me that Jesus and my family in heaven could see everything I was doing, even masturbating. They were trying to jerkoff-shame me, which worked for a little while. The idea of my nana was watching me whack-off was so disturbing that it actually did get me to stop masturbating for about a week or so once in the fourth grade, but the urge eventually became too strong. I didn't care who could see me from Heaven. I didn't care if my nana saw me choking my chicken, or if my Uncle Walter saw me slapping the salami. It didn't matter if my sweet old Aunt Mary, God rest her soul, saw me flogging the log, or if my papap Micky saw me buttering the corn. Hell, I was so in love with jerking off that I didn't care if Jesus Christ himself was watching.

That was thirty-two years ago today, and I must have masturbated close to ten thousand times since then. It is truly a miracle that I somehow managed to not go blind, and not grow one solitary hair on my palm. It really makes me look back on my life of masturbation and realize how lucky I was to spend an entire lifetime jerking off and come out unscathed. I am sure there are others out there who are like me who were not so lucky.

Taking this moment to reflect on a lifetime a whacking it made me realize how much has changed in the world. The Berlin wall fell. Russia collapsed. Kurt Cobain died. We went through four presidents and three decades. Grunge music came and went. The Boston Red Sox won a series. So did the Cubs. Marijuana became legal. Heroin became an epidemic. The stock market crashed and rose more times than I can count. We endured the 9/11 attacks. Cassette tapes turned to CDs, then MP3s, and now we stream music. We went from VHS to Netflix. The Internet changed the world, and then cell phones changed it even more. To think of how much the world has changed in the past thirty years, and I jerked-off through it all. These days I mostly stream in free babysitter and stepmom porn on my iPhone, but I still long for those magical days of yesteryear when all I had was the women's underwear section of a Sears catalog and a dream.

# Sometimes It's Hard Being a Woman

I always thought of myself as a feminist. I believed that all women should be treated with equality, especially the hot ones with really huge knockers. In fact, I spent almost half my life frequenting strip clubs and titty bars to support the women's movement. I supported all sorts of women's movements, everything from grinding and twerking, right on down to lap dancing. It wasn't until years later that I realized how ignorant I was to think of myself a feminist simply because I like boobs.

I was naive to think that simply throwing a dollar at a stripper was enough to call myself a feminist. I now realize what it really means to be a feminist. I now know that you must respect a woman's body, emotions, and opinions, and you should speak to them in a way that shows you care about their feelings and thoughts, and you shouldn't only do this because they are a mother, a daughter, a wife, or a sister, but because they are people. I now show great respect for all women, even the women who are really men, and the men who are actually women, and the agender women who don't identify as women or men at all, and the pangeder women who go back and forth between being men and women, and even trigender women who somehow figured out how to identify as three genders at once while they....forget it. Look, my point is that I learned what it means to appreciate and respect all women, even the really weird ones who aren't even women at all.

As men, we don't naturally have empathy, so it is hard to truly understand what it is like to be a woman. It isn't in our genetic makeup to understand or share in the feelings of another person, the same way it's not in our genetic makeup to watch the Bachelor or run the vacuum. This lack of empathy makes it very difficult for men to relate to women and identify with their struggle. That is why so many men take women for granted and turn those women into lesbians. It is because men never had to endure the same perils that women must face every day, so we never truly have compassion for their hardships or recognize and appreciate their strengths. Sure, we may fake it on Mother's Day, or for an anniversary, or even when a woman is being extra crazy because she is on her period, but most men don't really mean it.

I was an insensitive jerk once too. I was just like every other guy who agrees with women just to shut them up. All of that changed when I experienced a day in the life of a woman. This one experience opened my eyes to what women must endure forever. I learned more about what it means to be a woman from this one solitary experience than I could have learned from a thousand lap dances, even off of the hottest stripper. I finally walked a mile in women's shoes, and I am not even talking about the really pointy uncomfortable looking high heel stilettos either. I probably only a walked a mile in a pair of those comfy looking Keds, but that was enough for me to learn how to truly empathize with women and understand what it is like for them to live every day in a man's world. I can now look in the mirror and honestly say that I am a feminist. In fact, I am so much of a feminist that I even look like one. I wear baggy clothes, and I have a short haircut, so it would probably be very easy for someone to mistake me for a lesbian.

By now you're probably wondering what happened to me that made me so sympathetic towards women. I didn't have a baby. And I did not get my period either. Even though I do get in bad moods a lot. But that is just because most people are assholes. And when I bleed from my private areas that's just my hemorrhoids after I wiped too hard. I didn't talk about my feelings either, and I didn't read 50 Shades of Grey, and I still don't have a Pinterest profile. I didn't ask anyone if this outfit makes me look fat, and I most certainly didn't start folding clothes or dusting. I don't care how empathetic towards women I become. There are still some things I will never do.

What happened to me was far worse than any of that other stuff. I received my first ever unwanted sexual advance. Now don't get me wrong, I have been involved in hundreds upon thousands of unwanted sexual advances in my lifetime, but this was the first time I was ever on the receiving end of one, and it was just plain disgusting. It was super-hilarious, but also disgusting. Here is what happened.

It was a balmy July afternoon, and I was at our town carnival. It was so sweltering hot that not even the Summer's Eve on the fat lady at the potato pancake stand was working. It was either that or the overflowing port-a-potty I was standing next to. In any case, it was really hot outside, and something smelled like a dead body.

So, there I was just minding my own business, deep-throating a kielbasa just like I always do at town carnivals when I noticed him staring at me out of the corner of my eye. It was Stanly Kowalski, the town mayor and rumored homosexual. I went to high school with him, so I gave him a polite little nod as I licked the succulent grease from the big fat juicy kielbasa off my lips. I didn't think anything of it first, but then something started to feel strange. I had this uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching me. It didn't matter if I was eating pork barbeque, apple dumplings, funnel cake, brownies, kielbasa, fried pickles, fried Oreos, hamburgers, sausages, bean soup, chili, potato pancakes, or even a refreshing snow cone. Everywhere I went I felt Mayor Kowalski lurking in the shadows watching me. Even as I exited the disgusting port-a-potty after I left a mighty shit, I felt his lustful gaze upon me from out of the corner of my eye. Knowing that I was being stalked by the gay mayor left me with an uneasy feeling. Luckily, I downed 20 Miller Lites in the beer garden and forgot all about that uneasy feeling entirely. Once I got good and shitfaced, I became too preoccupied with making my own unwanted sexual advances to be concerned about his.

The next day was business as usual. I yelled at my kids a lot, had some road rage, didn't do the dishes, forgot to take out the garbage, and complained about the heat to everyone I ran into. Then around 4 pm, it happened. I got a message on Instant Messenger. It was him. It was that portly little gay mayor who had been stalking me only one day earlier. My heart sank with fear and disgust, but I was curious, so I opened it anyway. It read, "Do you know anyone who can do some yard work for me?" I was relieved to see that it was just idle chit chat, so I told him that I might know a few people and I asked what kind of yard work. He replied, "I need someone who is big and strong that can pull some weeds for me."

Now I am just a sweet and innocent naive little forty-year-old grown man who doesn't know any better, so I thought nothing of it when the gay mayor asked me if I knew anyone who could pull his weeds for him so I responded back, "Sure I might know a few people." He then said, "Well how about you? You seem like a big strong guy."

I thought that was an odd thing to say, but I'll be honest, I did like the flattery, so I entertained the conversation further. "I'll think about it. How much does it pay?" He told me that he would pay me two hundred dollars. The notion of two hundred dollars had me really excited so I responded immediately. "Golly geeze mister! That sure does seem like an awful lot of money just to pull a few weeds! Sure! I can stop down and do it after work on Tuesday around 5 pm," In the back of mind I knew that was an exorbitant amount of money to pay someone just for pulling a few crummy weeds, but I haven't seen that much money since before I got divorced, so I convinced myself that it was completely normal for some strange guy who I hardly knew and was a rumored homosexual to refer to me as a big strong man as he offered to pay me two hundred dollars to come to his house and pull on his weeds.

I didn't hear back from him right away, and I assumed he had found someone else to do the job, but after a few hours, he finally responded. "So, what else are you good at pulling on?"

Now I am no Alyssa Milano, but I know an unwanted sexual advance when I see one, and that was most definitely an unwanted sexual advance. He didn't come out and say it directly, but I am pretty sure he was implying that he wanted me to pull on his penis, and I can almost guarantee you that he meant to completion. I politely turned down his offer, be he kept persisting. I tried to tell him that I was not into that sort of stuff, but he must have thought I meant that I wasn't into yard work because he kept messaging me to meet him for a drink. Finally, I told him I'm not into gay sex either. That was when he finally stopped bothering me about it.

Even though I could have really used two hundred dollars, and I really wanted to buy an electric smoker for my patio, I decided that giving the fat gay mayor a handjob was not worth it. My self-respect is worth more than a measly two hundred dollars. It was worth at least a thousand. So, in the end, I never did give Mayor Kowalski that handjob he wanted, and I never did get that electric smoker I wanted either, which is okay. I still have my dignity, and my charcoal smoker too, which works perfectly fine even though it can be a pain to keep the fire lit at times.

I've shared my story with several women I knew and they all told me that this was something that they have to go through every day, which was a real eye-opening experience for me. I never realized how uncomfortable it can be to be hit on like that. Having an unwanted sexual advance was an awful experience and something I'd ever want to go through again.

Although, getting sexually harassed did give all of my friends and family a good laugh, especially at the part where he says, "and what else are you good at pulling on?" It also devalued me as a person and objectified my body. It made me feel like my worth was only defined by my sweet ass. I deserved more than that. I was a whole person and a complex being who should not be simply coveted and looked at as some sex object. Beyond my hot body was a genuine person with real feelings and real skills who needs to be appreciated on a whole, and not just for my sexiness. I deserved to be liked for my whole personality as well.

I harbor no resentment to the mayor or gays or even men in general. As the years passed and the seasons changed, I did too. I eventually found it in my heart to forgive him for devaluing me and objectifying my body, and I started to take advantage of him, just like a real woman would do. Since I knew he liked me, I had him get my mom out of a parking ticket. Then I asked him to get me permission to take my kayak out fishing on one of the sweet restricted water dams that have monster bass in them.

Recently, I discovered that I was not the only guy he made unwanted sexual advances towards. Apparently, he does this to a lot of the men in town. Hearing that he was a sexual predator was bittersweet for me. On one hand, it was upsetting to know that he was victimizing all of these innocent men with his sexual misconduct and no one is speaking up about it. On the other hand, I just went fishing on that restricted dam last week and I caught a really nice five pounder.

# 10 Steps to a Healthy Marriage, Even When Your Spouse is an Asshole

Marriage is hard work, and it is even harder when your partner is an asshole, but that doesn't mean it still can't be done. With a little bit of patience and a lot of prescription pills and closet drinking, you can stay married to even the biggest asshole. That is how my mom stayed married to my dad for almost fifty years.

Several years ago, my wife and I started to hit a rough spot in our marriage, the same way most couples do who can't stand the sight of one another. We hardly slept together, and we fought over everything from money to groceries. We even fought over those stupid fucking ridiculous decorative towels that she thinks are soooooo fucking precious that no one can ever use them. I mean seriously, it takes a special kind of stupid to waste money on fake towels.

Yup, our marriage was in shambles, and if we didn't work to change things, our children would suffer, and even worse, so would my bank account. I knew that if we didn't save our marriage I would never have enough money to get that sweet bass boat I always wanted. We needed to fix our marriage and fix it fast.

My wife's name is Abby Brennan and her maiden name was Scheffler, but for the sake of this story and to respect her privacy I will refer to her in this story simply as Kate. Kate and I didn't always dislike each other. In fact, I knew right away that Kate was the girl for me and that I would marry that girl someday. That was right after I found out she was pregnant.

With a love story like ours, it was hard to imagine that our marriage would ever fail. What we didn't realize was that marriage is like a flower. It needs to be nurtured and cared for or it will wither and die, unless of course she married you for your money and your fucking loaded. Then you could just buy her stuff to have a happy marriage. But if you are broke and you want to have a happy marriage, then you need to nurture it. Here are the 10 steps Abby and I took to save our marriage:

  1. I decided to surprise her for our 7th wedding anniversary, so I forgot it completely. You should have seen the look on her face. It was adorable. She was so surprised.

  2. We started using 'I' statements in our interpersonal communication to take ownership of our feelings that we learned about in therapy that should look like this, "I feel_______________becuase__________________________when_______________. What I need is________________________________________________.

So when she bought a three hundred dollar hair straightener I said, " **I feel** like you're a stupid bitch **because** it is fucking retarded **when** you spend that much money on a stupid hair straightener while we don't even have enough money to pay the fucking mortgage this month. **What I need** is for you to stop thinking that money grows on fucking trees.

  3. When that didn't work she suggested we go therapy to which I said, "Sure, if you need a professional to tell you I'm always right.

  4. The therapist told us that we needed a date night away from the kids, so she went out with her boss, Derek.

  5. He also told us that we need to be more supportive of one another. So every time she would threaten to leave me. I would support her and say things like, "Good, then get your shit and get the fuck out!" or "Don't let me stop you. There's the fucking door. "

  6. The therapist also told me that I should appreciate her more, so one day while she was ironing my clothes she said to me, " What would you do without me?" I replied, "I'd spend all my money on cool stuff that I like instead of all your dumb shit and then I'd have sex with other women, but if it makes you feel any better, I'd have a wrinkled shirt on while I am doing it."

  7. We eventually quit marriage therapy, partly because we thought we could fix the marriage on our own, but mostly because we both thought that marriage counseling was a complete crock of shit. That was the first thing we agreed on in seven years.

  8. We tried cute pet names to fall in love again. Her name was Abby so I called her my little Abbybear, and my name is Buck so she called me a selfish prick.

  9. We even tried what I like to call PDAs (Public Displays of Abuse), or what the police like to call "domestic disputes" Either way, I was nice enough to not press charges after she knocked my tooth out after a Christmas party.

  10. I suggested that we try to spice things up in the bedroom with sexy role plays. I told her that I wanted her to be a naughty nurse, and she told me that she wanted me to be her boss, Derek.

That all happened four years ago, and today we couldn't be happier. Now we hardly ever fight anymore and when we do it is through our attorneys because we have been divorced for two years. We get along better than we ever did when we were married. Abby is now like my 6th best friend. She is remarried to Derek and sometimes I even say hi to him when I see him at soccer games. Heck, Abby even stopped threatening to beat up my girlfriend all the time. You might say we are now one big happy family now that we got divorced.

Hey, I never said those 10 steps actually worked. I was simply saying that they were the steps we took to tried to have a healthy marriage, but don't let me discourage you. Just because they didn't work for us, doesn't mean they won't work for you.

# Think Like a Champion

A lot has been written on how to like a champion, and it all suggests the same old boring stuff like not making excuses, celebrating small wins, and never giving up. That is a bunch of bullshit propaganda that motivational speakers simply makeup just so they can sell their books to fat people who want to lose weight. Bullshit advice from motivational speakers like "don't give up" or "try your best" doesn't work. Trust me. I read at least 10 self-help books, yet somehow I am still fat and broke, so I decided to do some research and I discovered how the real champions think.

Champions Think With Their Brains and Their Body

The average human only uses 10% of their brain, but champions use all 100% of theirs, and other parts of their body as well. Champions think with all 100% percent of their brain, and they think with their penis as well. Thinking with your brain and your penis is like having two brains, which gives you a clear-cut advantage over people using only one brain.

Don't Listen to Your Heart

You must fight against the urge to listen to your heart if you want to be a champion. While listening to your heart may cause you to be more empathic and intuitive, it will not win you any championships. I learned that from my own experiences. I used to listen to my heart all the time, and it all it ever made me want to do was talk about my feelings and feel sorry for poor people. Those are hardly the moves of a champion.

Exercise, Get Plenty of Rest, Stimulate Your Mind, and Eat Healthy

Men won't need to do this because they already have a penis to rely on for strength and wisdom. Since women don't have a penis to think with, they must be extra vigilant in strengthening their ordinary simple woman brain, which is not much larger than a cat's. They must do things that I read about on the Internet to help brain function like eating dark chocolate or playing Tetris. They can even try eating fish loaded with Omega-3 oils or try doing crossword puzzles like my sweet old nana used to do. She wasn't a champion or anything, but she could make really good soup, which isn't a bad consolation prize.

Some feminists might think that a woman can think with her vagina to become a champion the same way men can with their penises. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Watch what happens to this woman who tries to think with her vagina.

She immediately gets up and stars vacuuming. Thinking with your vagina will only make you want to clean, look stuff up on Pinterest, or read 50 Shades of Grey. It will also cause you to become too sensitive, overly emotional and unable to make a decision. No one ever became a champion that way, except for maybe Caitlyn Jenner, but he is actually a guy

# A Little Hard Work Never Killed Anyone

In typical me fashion, I was really excited about the prospect of starting a new job and facing a new challenge. I was determined to work hard and give it my all. I would do whatever task they gave me, and I would do it one hundred percent to the best of my God-given ability. With my never say die attitude, I would show the grit and determination of a true champion. Those are always my thoughts right before I start something I quit. It was the same feeling I had right before I tried to learn how to play the piano, the guitar, the violin, Rosetta Stone Spanish, juggling, various exercise programs, many diets, marriage, most jobs, and any puzzles over one hundred pieces.

Just for the record, I never intrinsically want to quit anything. I always start everything with the best intentions of not giving up. It's just that the tediousness nature of things such as jobs, marriage, diets, exercise, and puzzles make are too hard to stick to. It's all a lot of work and commitment, and to be quite frank, hard work and commitment are simply not things that I am all that interested in. I wouldn't necessarily call me a quitter, per se. I just haven't really found anything easy enough to stick to yet.

I was really looking forward to starting this new job. I figured some hard work would be a welcome reprieve from the confines of an office job and the stress of the mental health field. I hoped that it would help with the emotional exhaustion I suffered from at my last job.

And by the way, mom, it absolutely was emotional exhaustion. It was not just me being lazy and irresponsible like you said. Go read up on emotional exhaustion. I had all of the classic symptoms.

I had loss of appetite. Sometimes I would go five or six hours without eating. I was so emotionally exhausted that there would be times where I wouldn't even feel like getting off the couch to get a bowl of ice-cream even when I wanted one.

Forgetfulness and trouble concentrating are also symptoms of emotional exhaustion. I couldn't concentrate on anything. Sometimes I would go weeks at a time where I wouldn't focus on anything at work. I would just stare off into space all day and bullshit on the phone with my buddies.

People with emotional exhaustion are also known to have a lack of motivation. I was so emotionally exhausted that I would lie on the couch for hours and hours just watching movies and taking naps. My motivation was lacking so bad from the emotional exhaustion that I didn't even wash own clothes or make my own meals. I had to have my mom do it for me.

Anxiety is another symptom. I was so anxious that I had to self-medicate with delicious craft beers like IPA's and Chocolate Stouts. If it weren't for being drunk all the time, I probably would have had insomnia too, which is also another symptom of emotional exhaustion. So, despite what my mom might tell you, I was not just being lazy. I was actually the poster child for emotional exhaustion.

I figured that a physically demanding blue-collar job was just what I needed, plus a little hard work never killed anyone, except for all those people who died building the Hoover Dam, and all those other construction workers who got killed doing hard work. Lots of miners died doing hard work, so did a bunch of people who work on power lines. Those people who operate dangerous machines in plants get killed all the time too. And once in a while, even a guy working road construction gets killed by a car. But for the most part, a little hard work never killed anyone.

I was looking forward to being one of those hard-working salt of the earth type guys that you always hear about in country songs. I wanted to come home from work feeling tired and dirty but feeling good because I knew that I earned an honest buck. A hard day's work would really help me learn to appreciate every last penny I earned, even the percentage of all the pennies that the temp agency was taking from me.

They hired me in a place that was located in what was known as an industrial park, which is like a big giant theme park, only instead of rides and rollercoasters, they had giant warehouses, manufacturers, and distributors of things. The place I worked at made these rolls of tar paper, and my job was to stack them on pallets. I loved it. I was getting exercise, making money, and I really felt good knowing that I was helping others because people needed tar paper, probably. I wasn't sure for what, but I am sure some people needed it for something somewhere, and that made me feel pretty goddamn good. I finally felt like I was making the world a better place, and that made lifting all of those really heavy and awkwardly shaped rolls of tar paper al worth it.

Well, that good feeling lasted about two hours. After that, I was only consumed with being tired, thirsty and having sore feet. I could care less about who needed fucking tar paper. That became the least of my worries.

All I could think about was how those assholes at that temp agency were skimming twenty-five percent off the top of my pay. Meanwhile, I was the one who was busting my balls for this stupid fucking tar paper that no one is probably going to use anyway. And I couldn't understand why they had to make these rolls of tar paper so fucking heavy. If they were smart, they would have made them smaller and just made more of them. And just for the record. I am not complaining. I am simply explaining to everyone how difficult my life is. No one likes a complainer.

When they hired me, they told me that I had to wear steel toe boots. That was the one rule they were very clear on. I didn't own a pair of steel reinforced shoes, but I didn't want to get caught breaking the rules either, so I decided to wear the closest thing I had to a boot which was a pair of brown loafers. They weren't steel-toed loafers, but they were going to have to do.

I learned the hard way that loafers aren't the best shoes to wear in a tar paper in a factory. As my feet throbbed in pain, I became more and more infuriated. However, it was not the rules that I was mad at. I understand that in life there will always be rules. I was more mad at myself for trying to follow them. I should have gone with my gut instinct and just worn the sneakers. Wearing those loafers taught me a valuable lesson that day, and from that point on I never tried to follow a rule that I thought was stupid again.

After a few hours of this nightmare, right when I was about to quit or possibly be worked to death, something wonderful happened. God himself intervened. It happened right when I couldn't lift one more roll of tar paper. Actually, that's not true. I could have lifted a lot more rolls of tar paper. It happened when I didn't feel like lifting any more rolls of tar paper. That's more accurate.

That was when the machine that kept relentlessly shooting all those rolls of tar paper at me broke, and literally saved my life, or at least gave me time to smoke a cigarette and buy a soda from the vending machine. I went back into this little break room and right as I was about to quit, I was approached by this kind old gentleman who gave me the encouragement I needed to carry on. It's funny how life works. Fate put this man in my life at just at the right place and just the right time when I needed him most. In this life we are all connected in some cosmic way, and sometimes it is a complete stranger that comes into your life and has a lasting impact on you. Just when I was about to lose all hope and give up on myself and this job, the strange gentleman picked me up with a few kind words that I needed to hear. In a calm soothing voice, he asked if I wanted to smoke some weed with him out by the loading docks. I couldn't have been more appreciative of his kindness and his weed. I never needed to get high more than I needed to at that moment, and somehow, he knew.

It was there, out on those loading docks, where he told me about the dark sinister underbelly of third shift warehouse operations. He proceeded to tell me that because we were working third shift there were no managers on duty, so people did what they wanted and that it was ok to smoke weed. That was not the dark underbelly. That was actually a good thing because I love to smoke weed.

The dark underbelly was that while we were harmlessly smoking weed out on the loading docks on our work break like two civilized adults, all the other guys were sneaking around using methamphetamines like a bunch of reckless assholes. Fucking speed! I knew it. That explained why they were working circles around me. It was all starting to make sense to me. As I took another long pull off of the joint, I processed what the kind gentleman had told me, and I was growing increasingly concerned for my own safety.

To think that the people operating the tar paper machine were under the influence of speed was a very scary thought indeed. Their reckless behavior was putting their lives and the lives of everyone around them in grave danger.

No one should be operating machinery while under the influence of a controlled substance like that, especially speed. Smoking a little weed or having a few beers before you drive a car with a 5-star safety rating while wearing your seatbelt and going the speed limit like I do sometimes is one thing, but doing methamphetamines while operating a tar paper roll shooter? Well, that is just plain reckless.

As we continued to talk, the sagacious gentleman enlightened me on other more important matters of the world such as his ex-wife being a cunt and filing a Protection From Abuse order on him, his outrageous child support payments, his fucked-up kids, how to beat a piss test, and his bad back and why he should be on disability. He was even kind enough to point me in the direction of some of his favorite hiding spots around the warehouse that were perfect for weed naps.

We sat on that loading dock talking for the better part of an hour as I listened intently to this wise old sage give me life lesson after life lesson. We then parted ways and he offered to give me a ride to work, but only if I would pay him twenty bucks a week for gas, then told me that I owed him 5 bucks for the weed. At that, I respectfully told him that I don't have any money and that I would just drive myself. I then disappeared off into the bright fluorescent lights of the warehouse in search of a much-needed hiding spot.

If I didn't find a hiding spot before that tar paper machine got fixed, I may very well be killed by one of those reckless speed junkies working the machine. The mere thought of being hit in the head by a rogue roll of tar paper had me scared for my life. Plus, the weed made me really sleepy, and honestly, I didn't feel like working anymore.

Before I had the chance to find one of the coveted hiding spots, one of the speed junkies came flying around the corner and crashed into me. He questioned me, asking me where I was going and what I was doing. His eyes were wild and crazy, and he frantically told me that I needed to start taping up boxes until the machine gets fixed.

With a boney outstretched finger, he pointed to a room that was filled with empty cardboard boxes. There were boxes as far as the eye can see. Almost out of thin air, he produced a roll of packaging tape and handed it to me. He told me to get to work, and then ran off really fast and crazy, the way only a person on speed would. Meanwhile, I began taping the boxes slowly and methodically, like only a sane person not fucked up on speed would.

As you can see there are great differences between us, the people who use meth and the people who don't. We will never truly be able to coexist together in one harmonious world the way John Lennon had imagined in all his hippie songs about everyone getting along.

Now I try to not stereotype or put labels on people. I can get along with most everyone, black people, gays, Asians, Latinos, white, trannies, and even cripples as long as they aren't acting like giant dickheads and running everyone over with their wheelchair, but I have to say that I will never like meth-heads. Those types of people are all a bunch of crazy fucking assholes that cannot be trusted, and no peace-loving John Lennon song about everyone getting along will ever change that.

The box taping assignment was a welcome reprieve from those crazed lunatic speed junkies and their really loud-sounding and dangerous machine. Here with the boxes, there was a certain quietude and peace. The only sounds I could hear were the interspersed rustle of boxes and the precise rhythmic tearing of the packaging tape every time that it reeled off of the spool. The beat was set to the pace at which I taped the boxes. Rustle box, rustle box, tear tape, tear tape, 1,2,1,2. The cadence was set to the soothing melodic hum of a generator while my carefully patterned breathes kept the time. The whole experience of taping those boxes had a strange songlike quality to it, and it was very therapeutic.

I must have taped hundreds upon thousands upon millions if not a billion, and quite possibly a trillion boxes. I taped those boxes for hours without a single thought entering my head. I was just lost in the musical qualities of the box taping and the slow steady drone of the warehouse. I had lost track of time and I was in some sort of trance, mesmerized by the repetitious nature of my new job. Although somewhat mundane, my new task of box taping had transcended me into a world of peace and contentment.

At last, there were no more racing thoughts, no more stress, and no more anxiety. It was just me and the boxes. I finally found the inner peace that I was searching for all those years. I finally found my home. I could have stood there taping those boxes forever and been perfectly happy. Well, maybe not forever, but at least my shift ended.

Standing amidst all of those boxes had finally purged all of the emotional toxins that polluted my soul during all of the dark painful years I spent trying to find myself. I paused for a moment to look around and take it all in. I took a deep breath and smiled to myself knowing that I had finally found my calling in the messy order of this world.

And my calling was to be a box taper. That was who I was meant to be all along. I didn't care what the rest of world thought of me. I was box taper! I was going to run home and shout it from the rooftop! I was a box taper! Yes! I was a box taper!

But then I heard the most heinous sound. It was the grinding noise of the tar paper machine working again. Immediately, all of the crazy guys who were all hopped up on speed came over to me and started yelling at me to get the fuck over there and start stacking all those fucking pallets.

They whisked me back to the machine and took me away from my beloved boxes. I looked over my shoulder as they escorted me back the machine. Oh, how I longed for them, my beloved boxes. It crushed me to know that would be the last time that I would ever see them. And like that, my lifelong dream of becoming professional box taper was over.

I returned to the tar paper machine, and it began firing rolls of tar paper at me even faster than before. The guys on speed were running around acting even crazier and more maniacal than before too. With all the speed that they were doing, they set a real frantic pace. It reminded me of the pit on Wall Street, but with heavy rolls of tar paper instead of money. Given my lazy nature, the pot I had smoked, and my loafers, it was impossible for me to keep up. It is not that I am making excuses. I am just giving you all of the reasons why I was unable to do this job. No one likes people who make excuses.

The workers were getting angrier and angrier with my slow pace. The rolls of tar paper would get backed up into the machine, and they would have to shut down production to wait for me to catch up. They all wanted to kill me, but there was nothing I could do. My lower back was throbbing in pain, and my blistering feet were hurting. I couldn't lift the boxes any faster even if I wanted to, which I didn't of course.

Every passing minute seemed like an eternity in this hellish nightmare. There was no reprieve from the onslaught of the heavy rolls of tar paper that were being launched at me. I can still remember it like it was yesterday. Stack nine rolls to a pallet. Shrink wrap it. Wait for the next. Sometimes late at night, I can still hear the men screaming at me like ghosts from the past, calling me all sorts of names like faggot and cocksucker, telling me to hurry up.

As the night wore on my thoughts kept returning to the old gentleman who shared his weed with me. I hadn't seen him since our chance encounter on the loading dock. He seemed to be an enigma who had just vanished into the night air like the wind or a silent fart. I began to wonder if he ever existed at all or if he was a figment of my own imagination. Perhaps the old man was really me, and it was my weed I had smoked, like in science fiction movies or Fight Club.

It was six a.m. and my twelve-hour shift had finally ended. It was the happiest that I had ever been in my whole entire life. I was just about to call it a day and give high fives to all my co-workers, just like they do in beer commercials when suddenly the tar paper machine shot another tar paper roll at me. Then it shot another, and another, then another. This went on for almost fifteen minutes. Only now the machine was firing the rolls much faster than before and the men were acting even crazier.

Finally, I had enough. I decided to take a stand for all the people everywhere who ever had to lift heavy stuff. I walked away from the tar paper machine and went right through the exit of the warehouse. I stepped out into the crisp morning air and took a deep breath as I enjoyed the majestic beauty of a rising sun. I was proud of myself knowing that all those dirty white people, the Mexicans and even that scary black guy at that temp agency will be jumping for joy once word gets out that I just stuck it to the man.

After I took that job and shoved it, I noticed how beautiful a sunrise can be. I would have liked to see more sunrises, but they usually happen so early while I am still sleeping. It is too bad sunrises don't happen at like noon, in my living room, because they can be very pretty. That sunrise was probably the most beautiful thing that I ever saw. It was almost as beautiful as my income tax return last year or a pair of really big boobs.

It would have been even more beautiful too, had it not been those dickhead speed junkies trying to ruin it for me. They were screaming at me and calling me all kinds of names like faggot and asshole as they complained about all the extra work they had to do now. It was difficult, but I managed to block out all of their negative energy and threats to punch me in the face, and I was still able to enjoy the splendor of that rare majestic sunrise.

In a dramatic exit, I walked directly into the long shadows of the rising sun, and never looked back. I quit that job the same way I quit everything. I kept my head held high as I looked to what lied ahead of me because that is how a true champion of life quits things.

As time went on and the years slipped away, the day I tried hard work became nothing more than a faded memory. I don't really miss it, the work, tar paper rolls, the speed junkies, not even the old gentleman who shared his weed with me, none of it. However, there isn't a day that goes by that I still don't miss those boxes. Oh, how I longed for the peace and contentment that I felt while I was with my beloved boxes.

In the subsequent years to follow, I have taped hundreds upon thousands of boxes. Every time I reach for a box and a roll of packing tape, I always hope and pray that it will bring me the same feeling of contentment that it brought me that night in the warehouse. Whenever I send a package in the mail or I help someone move, I try to replicate the magic that happened that night in the warehouse, but sadly it never comes. It doesn't matter what how many boxes I tape, I am never able to recapture the unparalleled spiritual transcendence I felt that night in that warehouse. Who knows? Maybe that feeling of unparalleled spiritual transcendence had nothing to do with taping boxes at all. Maybe I had just smoked some really good weed.

# Define the Moment

In life there is no beginning anyway. There is no middle or end either. There are simply a few moments that define us. Or is the saying, "we should define the moment?" Either way, I figured I would start with one of those moments.

To get the credits I needed to graduate from college, I set up an internship with a probation office. I figured it would help me get the experience I needed to fulfill my lifelong dream of finishing college and getting a shitty job.

I told my mom about the internship, which was an hour from my house. She immediately got annoyed and asked, "Well how were you planning on getting there?" I could tell immediately that she was going to be selfish and not buy me a new car or even let me use her Toyota Camry, which seemed like a self-centered thing for a mom to do to her son in his time of need.

I did have my own car for a little while during my sophomore year, but I sold it and decided to ride a bike instead, partly because I wanted to save money, partly because it was better for the environment, but mostly because I got a D.U.I. and wasn't allowed to drive for a few years.

Not having a car and no money to buy one was a dilemma for sure. A dilemma I hadn't really thought about, as I try to not think about things like dilemmas. They're way too stressful. That is why I try to focus my thoughts on more pleasant things like Fantasy football and girls I want to have sex with.

I asked my mom for advice on what to do since she was the one who got me into this mess. My mom didn't always give the best advice, but at least it was better than my dad's. The problem with my dad's advice was that he was drunk all the time, so his advice never really made much sense.

Not that being drunk all the time is a bad thing. I myself love being drunk, and I am not judging him in any way. I am simply saying that he wasn't the best person to ask for advice.

Even if he wasn't the best advice giver, that son of a bitch sure could drink. I was truly humbled by my father's magnificent ability to get drunk. One time he got so drunk that he shit on the wall. I have tried to reach that level of drunkenness many times in my own life, but only ever managed to shit my pants a few times.

Not only could my father drink beer with the power and might of a sump pump after a great flood, but he was also a good man and a loving father. He loved to have fun.

One time he sold all our furniture to some guy he met in the bar, then he let me hit real golf balls right in the empty living room. He didn't even care that I put a huge divot in the carpet either. All he did was let out a hearty laugh and ordered us some pizza. Not many kids get to say their dads would do that for them. He was reliable too. I always knew exactly what bar he'd be at. And as a parent, he was selfless and caring. He would do anything for me. When I was in high school, he would even let me take all his money right out of his pants pocket when he was passed out drunk. I don't know many other dads who would do that for their sons.

Now my mom, on the other hand, she was the boring one who was always sober. She would go to church every Sunday. She didn't smoke, drink, or swear. She loved to help other people and she thrived on Catholic guilt, which made her an excellent enabler. With my dad being an alcoholic and my mom being a co-dependent, she was like the Yin to his Yang, the Sonny to his Cher, the peanut butter to his jelly. They sure did make the perfect pair.

When I approached her about the whole car situation, she assured me that she had it all worked out. My mother had concocted a plan to scam my eighty-year-old grandparents into buying me a car for graduation so I could get to my first ever real job, even though I didn't graduate, nor did I have a real job. But like I said earlier, I had to define the moment or the moment would have defined me. Here is how the whole con went down.

The score: a powder blue 1987 Geo Prizm.

The mark: Grampa Pogey and Nana Cocoa.

She would tell them that there would be a graduation ceremony, but they were not allowed to come to it. That was the easy part, probably because old people are so dumb. The hard part was going to be getting the actual proof we needed to show them that I had graduated.

We needed a picture, so we waited until after the ceremony, then I slipped into someone else's cap and gown and shook someone's hand as they presented me with my roommate's degree. We held a "Commencement Ceremony" in the back yard of my house, which was just the school flag nailed to a tree.

I was the only one in the picture, and I was wearing a cap and gown that was way too small and I was shaking a hand that was extended from the corner of the picture. It was the hand of my roommate. He was a burnout pothead looking type fellow so he looked nothing like a real college dean. That was why we decided to leave him out of the picture, which gave the appearance of me shaking a levitating amputated hand. There were also no other people in the picture. It was just me and a levitating amputated hand.

Never in a million years did I think this plan would work. Luckily my grandparents have never been to a real college graduation ceremony before. They must have thought that all graduations had no other people and levitating amputated hands. Those suckers bought it hook, line and sinker, and I got the sweet 1987 powder blue Geo Prizm that I always wanted.

This was one of those defining moments that I was telling you about. It was one of those moments that shaped my character and molded me into the man I am today. It was only a small moment, but one that would teach me a valuable life lesson that I would take into manhood.

I learned that you should be forthright and honest because lying will eventually catch up to you in the end. I also learned that old people will believe anything. That explains why so many old people are always getting targeted in those roofing scams.

What was even more important than any life lessons was that I got the car, which got me my internship, which got me my degree. I wasn't really well liked at the internship and eventually didn't get hired there, which forced me to lie to my grandparents yet again, this time telling them that I left a job that I never really had in the first place to take better paying job that I didn't really have either. See how terrible lying is and how one lie will always lead to another and yet another.

The ironic part of this whole story is less than a year later that car was stolen and lit on fire. I guess I could chalk that up to karma, if karma was the one who forgot to lock the door and left the keys in the ignition, but I'm pretty sure that was me.

# The Health Benefits of Putting a Fat Wife on a Diet

I want to preface this by saying that I am very "woke" and I respect all people. I am very much against slut-shaming, addiction-shaming, gay-shaming, age-shaming, baby-shaming, and I don't know if there are such things as cripple-shaming or midget-shaming. If there is, then I am very much against that too. Needless to say, I am strongly opposed to fat-shaming and body shaming as well, but let's face it, having a fat wife is pretty fucking disgusting.

I am not blaming all wives who get fat for being overweight. Women gain weight for all sorts of reasons. It could be caused by stress, baby-weight, long work hours, depression, or maybe they simply love Popeye's chicken sandwiches and Chinese Buffets as I do. The good news for you and your fat wife is that she doesn't have to be fat forever. Thanks to a 72 billion dollar diet industry, there are plenty of diets out there that you could put your fat wife on. There is the Keto, Atkins, Weightwatchers, Slim-Fast, Anorexia, Bulimia. There are literally hundreds of thousands of different types of diets to put your fat wife on so she doesn't look like a whale anymore. The benefits of putting a fat wife on a diet are endless. If you put your fat wife on a diet, she will be at less risk for diabetes, arthritis and joint pain, heart problems, and high blood pressure. That means she will live longer, which means more years of cooking, cleaning, and washing your clothes. Not only that, but you also won't have to roll her in flour to find the wet spot anymore either. And when she puts on an outfit that makes her look like 10 pounds of shit shoved into a 5-pound bag, and she asks you if it makes her look fat, think of how good you will feel when you finally don't have to lie to her.

When your wife said, "I do." That didn't mean, "I do plan on eating bacon and twinkies every day for the next ten years until I am as big as a side of a Goddamn house." Unless she was fat when you married her, having a fat wife isn't necessarily what you signed up for. That is like buying a brand new Mercedes and slowly watching it turn into a shitty fucking shitty Dodge over the years. I am not saying that it isn't awesome that women are embracing their fat bodies. I think it is great that there are fat Barbies and fat underwear models, and fat women all over the world pretending to be pretty. I am all for fat women loving their fat bodies. I am just saying that just because they love their fat bodies, that doesn't mean anyone else does.

I like to think of putting a fat wife on a diet as tough love. I put my fat wife on a diet after our second kid, and now she couldn't be happier. She did P90X every morning, ate a strict low carb diet, and she eventually lost 25 pounds of baby weight! Then she left me for her boss, Derek.

## Introduction

Being a parent is one of the hardest things in the world, especially when you're kids are acting like real dicks. Whether it be a sugar high, overtired, or just plain ADHD, let's face it kids can be real assholes sometimes. They frustrate you and make you feel like you are the crappiest parent in the whole gosh darn world. You feel like you're letting them down and they are going to resent you when they get older. If you are letting them down, who gives a shit? That will just give them something to talk about in therapy when they are older. Take it from me, the World's Greatest Dad, you're doing the best you can, and if that isn't good enough, fuck 'em. If you don't believe that I am the World's Greatest Dad. I have three coffee mugs that my kids bought me from the school secret Santa program that say otherwise. The next story you are about to read is a small sample of what life is like when there is a whole family of assholes are living together under the same roof. Apparently being an asshole runs in the genes.

## Being an Asshole Starts at a Very Young Age

Tucker and Macey were laughing their silly little heads off while they mashed and ground Playdough into their dad's brand-new sofa. They were having so much fun fucking up his house and acting like a couple of huge fucking dickheads that they didn't want it to end. Their dad hated the idea of them playing with Playdough in his house. He always cringed at the sight of that stupid Kitchen Creation Play-Dough Playset that his dumb cunt ex-sister-in-law got them for Christmas last year. He could swear that she did it on purpose because she knew how much Playdough can fuck up a house, but he was never able to prove it.

He wanted to tell his children that they were not allowed to play with Playdough in the worst way, but he knew that the only way to get his children to like him more than his ex was to have fewer rules than her at his house. Although he did not tell them that they aren't allowed to have Playdough at his house like their stupid bitch mom, he did do everything in his power to dissuade them from playing with it. He would often try to distract them with other toys, movies, and games. He even bought them all of the really cool but violent video games that teach kids how to become criminals and school shooters, but it was no use. They still loved playing with their Playdough Kitchen Creation Set the best. To get them to stop playing with Playdough, he even tried to get them to help him cook food in the real kitchen in hopes that the allure playing dangerous knives would get them to stop fucking up his house with that all of that stupid fucking Playdough. But it was no use. They still preferred to make hamburgers out of modeling compound, and then smoosh it into the cushion of their dad's brand new fucking sectional that he didn't even finish paying off yet, causing him to spend hours upon hours of Googling stuff on how to get Playdough off of furniture and carpets.

As much as they loved Playdough, Tucker and Macy never played with it very long. That was probably because video games have given them both the attention span of gnats, and they often got bored with whatever it was they were playing with rather quickly. So, after they mashed a shit-ton of Playdough into their dad's carpets, their dad got on his hands and knees and cleaned it with a can of compressed air, a stiff brush, and some hot water using the very simple yet very effective method of getting Play-Dough off furniture that he saw on YouTube. Before he was even finished they zoomed away to trash yet another room in the old man's house.

They had the wild and crazed look of maniacal serial killers or a couple of kids who just had way too much sugar as they raced from room to room dumping toys all over the floor. Once they got to the basement playroom they dumped Legos all over the floor. Not just one set. They dumped every single Lego they had all into one huge giant mess right in the middle of their dad's basement floor. It was a hodge-podge of Batman, Indiana Jones, some police officers, and The Imperial Army from Star Wars. Without following the instructions, they built a few half-assed pirated ships and the shittiest Death Star anyone ever saw. Everything they tried to build was either falling apart or missing several crucial pieces. It all looked like stuff their dad tried to build. It is true that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

It wasn't long before they learned the valuable life lesson that following instructions and putting stuff together sucks balls and is boring as fuck, so they went to play with something more fun than Legos. But not without pulling out a few more toys they had no intention of using or putting back. That was when they dumped an entire bin of crayons all over the floor on top of all the Lego pieces and began coloring all over the wall.

As much as Tucker and Macy enjoyed drawing all over the walls that their dad specifically told them not to fucking draw on, they loved fighting with each other even more. Tucker and Macey were only a year apart and they became very close to each other after their parent's divorce. The tumultuous nature of their parents divorcing forced them to learn a new normal. Living in a broken home taught them how to lean on one another for support and help each other in any way they could. They loved each other very much and over the years they became the best of friends and loving siblings to one another, but that didn't mean that they still didn't enjoy beating the ever-loving shit out of one another. They would often get into disagreements over the silliest of things, and it was adorable watching them fight and bicker like an old married couple. They didn't fight like the old married couple you're thinking of either, like the ones you see arguing over how much to tip at dinner or where to park the car, then you chuckle to your wife or husband and say, "Ah, how cute. That's us in fifty years."

No. Tucker and Macey would fight like an old married couple who were drunk out of their minds and high on meth and beating the shit out of one another on an episode of Cops, and those adorable little buggers loved every minute of it. They usually fought over really dumb stuff too, like one of them hiding the remote on the other one, who is better at soccer, what side of the car to sit on, one of them hogging the couch, who should put dishes away, and so on and so on. Board games often led to epic fistfights as did Nerf guns, and you'd be surprised at how something as simple as looking at another person too much in the back seat of a car could cause that person to beat the ever-loving shit out of another person.

On this particular day, Tucker and Macey engaged in a fight over something they never fought over before. And to their father's dismay who had been standing at the top of the steps, it was a most curious fight indeed. It was so unusual that their dad didn't try to break it up like he usually does. Usually, when Tucker and Macey would fight, it would send their dad into a fit of blind rage causing him to chase them around the house while screaming and cursing at the top of his lungs like a deranged lunatic until they put themselves in timeout, barricading themselves in their rooms with all of their toys and furniture.

He knew this wasn't the soundest parenting technique. In fact, he was very well versed in sound parenting. He read many books on parenting when he was going through the divorce because he was afraid that it would fuck up Tucker and Macey's lives and they would wind up in therapy, and he wanted to be the best possible dad he could be to them. That didn't last long, however. As soon as he saw that they were still the same old cocky little spoiled little brats they were before the divorce, he quickly reverted back to completely irrational behavior, inconsistent discipline, and fits of blind rage.

He knew all progressive approaches to discipline that parents use today that raise giant pussies. He was well-versed in token economies, behavior modification, and de-escalation techniques. He even read the famous book called "How to Talk So Kids Would Listen", which he thought was a crock of shit because he didn't care if he could get his kids to listen. He just wanted them to shut the fuck up and stop fighting with each other all the goddamn time.

Tucker and Macey's dad didn't have much patience, and his natural inclination was to always scream and yell like a madman whenever Tucker and Macey would get into a disagreement over something petty, but this time was different. He wasn't really that mad at all, which surprised Tucker and Macy.

Maybe it was because the Eagles were winning. Maybe it that six-pack he drank during the game. Whatever the reason, this time he didn't get that pain that shoots up his neck and triggers the part of the brain that causes him to scream the "f" word really loud.

Instead, he perked his ear to the door and listened closely as the most unusual exchange occurred between Tucker and Macey. "This isn't your house Macey!"

"Uh-huh! My house. My rules."

"Well if it's your house then you need to put all the toys back because I'm not cleaning your stupid house then!"

"Shut-up. You took them out."

"No, you took out the crayons, Macey!"

"You're stupid."

"No. You're Stupid."

"You're such a jerk, Tucker."

"Well, you're an asshole, Macy."

"I'm telling dad you said asshole."

"You just said asshole too."

"Yeah, I only said it because you said it."

"That doesn't matter you still said it."

"That's it, I'm telling dad you cursed," Macey exclaimed as she bolted for the door to the playroom. "The hell you are!" Tucker exclaimed as he aggressively lashed out at her in an attempt to choke her and put her in a headlock. It wasn't the first time Tucker attempted to murder Macey, and it most certainly would not be the last, so his attack came as no surprise to her at all. Within a few seconds, she managed to disengage from his hold by pulling his hair and biting him in the forearm. She bit him hard enough to get him to let go but not hard enough for a forty-five-dollar co-pay and a trip to the ER, which her dad was very grateful for.

Then she shoved him with all of her might, pushing him over the heaping pile of Legos and crayons that were all over the floor. He tripped on the giant mess and went careening right onto a beanbag chair. Then she quickly ran upstairs and began sobbing uncontrollably. Macey's dad stood at the top of the steps, fully expecting for her run to him for comfort as she explained to him through her sobs and tears how her brother was trying to murder her again. To his surprise, Macey had no intention of tattling. Instead, she flew right past him as if he wasn't even there. She pushed him out of the way as she marched with a purpose over to the shoe closet.

Her dad didn't know it at the time, but Macey didn't need compassion, nor did she need a hug either. In fact, Macey didn't need comforting and reassurance from her father at all. What Macey needed was revenge. And she knew that tattling on her brother wasn't going to bring him to justice. She knew that if she tattled on her brother that her asshole dad wouldn't take her side and he would just send them both to their rooms for fighting. If she was going to be put in timeout, she wanted to make sure that her dad had a damn good reason for it. As she began rummaging through the closet, she remembered how strange it was that Tucker was really into this Ernest Borgnine movie called Emperor of the North Pole which was a social commentary on the Great Depression. She also recalled how everyone in Tucker's family thought it was not appropriate for Tucker's dad to let him watch it, and how Tucker's mom would often act like a huge cunt and yell at Tucker's dad all the time for allowing it. She also remembered that Tucker would often dress up as a train engineer and chase kids around with the park with a plastic hammer pretending that they are hobos as he tried to kill them, which was probably the same way Ted Bundy and Jeffery Dahmer played at the park when they were Tucker's age.

She recalled how Tucker's behavior was so odd and sadistic, that his dad often joked with him and gave him the nickname, "Lil Dahmer." She also recalled the look of horror on all of the other children's faces and the faces of their parents, while her father stood there laughing his head off at the whole scene. Most importantly she also remembered that he had steel-toed boots, which were part of this costume. And she knew that those steel-toed boots were somewhere in the that closet.

"I found them!" she exclaimed as she wiped away the tears and snot from her face. She smiled triumphantly as she put one of the boots on her right foot. "Well, aren't you going to put the other one on?" her dad asked confusedly. She didn't answer him. Instead, she pushed him out of the way as she hobbled towards the basement with the limp of a person who was wearing one shoe, or perhaps a cripple.

Her dad didn't intervene or say anything. He simply looked on in bewilderment as he watched her march back down into the basement with a size 2 steel-toed boot tightly fastened tightly to her right foot. Tucker was sitting on the couch now relaxed and watching Sponge Bob. He no longer wanted to kill his sister, and he didn't care about whose house it was, or who was going to clean up the heaping pile of Legos on the floor anymore. He didn't care about any of the other stupid shit they were fighting about just a few minutes earlier. In fact, he didn't even remember what they were even fighting about in the first place. Now he was too concerned with what was going on in Bikini Bottom. By the time Macey had returned, SpongeBob had sucked every last intelligent thought from Tucker's brain, and he was staring blankly at the television set with the dull look of someone who had just had a lobotomy or who was watching SpongeBob Square Pants for the past hour and a half.

He was completely unaware of his surroundings and totally unprepared for what was about to happen next. He could sense his sister's presence, but he was too deep into his SpongeBob induced trance to turn his head and see that she was still pissed at him for trying to kill her earlier. He didn't see the look of rage on her face. He didn't see her fist clenched tightly together either. And most of all, he didn't see the steel-toed boot that was secured tightly to her right foot.

She walked up to Tucker who was now mouth breathing and drooling a little as he stared blankly at the television set as SpongeBob and Squidward made Crabby Patties. He sat on the couch in an upright position with his feet dangling off the couch. The way he was sitting gave Macey the perfect angle to attack. She stealthily approached him as if she were a Cheetah that was stalking its prey or a shoplifter.

Without saying a single word, she walked up to him and with all of her might she kicked him as hard as she could right into the middle of his shin. His leg immediately turned black and blue, and Tucker crumbled into the fetal position clenching his leg and grimacing in pain. "Ooowww! What the hell did you do that for!?" he shouted right before he started crying and weeping. Macey didn't answer. Instead, she just turned around and hobbled back to the stairs of the basement trying to get to the safety of her bedroom before Tucker could retaliate, but it was too late.

Before she could even get to the first step, she could feel the heavyweight of Tucker as he jumped on him and latched onto her back causing them both to collapse to the floor. "That' it Macey! This time I am going to kill you, you jerk! I am so sick of your crap!" They were now both crying and yelling while each one tried to murder the other one in an epic Gladiator style battle to the death. Their dad heard all the screaming and crying coming from his beloved children who appeared to be in great duress, so he ate a handful of chips, drank another beer, took a piss, checked his fantasy football updates, and then immediately rushed to their aide.

He hated the idea of having to get up off the couch and he hated the idea of doing stuff even more, but he knew that if he didn't put an end to this fight once and for all and they did actually kill one another, there would be no one left to pick up all those fucking Legos, and he would have to do it himself.

When he got downstairs Tucker had Macey pinned to the ground in some sort of submission hold that he must have seen on a crazy YouTube Channel like the one that got him to eat a Tide Pod last year, or maybe an R-rated movie that he watches unsupervised on Netflix, or maybe even one of those super-violent video games that he likes to play with strangers that he meets on the Internet. Tucker's dad wasn't sure where Tucker learned a move like that, but it was very impressive, as it made Macey turn blue and look as if she were about to pass out.

Their dad did everything he could to get them to stop. "Oh look! SpongeBob is on!" he exclaimed as he pointed to the TV. "Oh look a microscope," he shouted as he pointed to the 140 dollar microscope that Macey got for her 6th birthday and never even fucking used once.

"Look Matchboxes!" he exclaimed as he pointed to the giant bin of Matchboxes that took up the entire corner of the toy room that was supposed to be his man cave. "Let's play a board game!" he demanded as he held up one the fifty board games that no one never plays.

He did everything he could to distract them, but, it was no use. They were only focused on one thing. And that was trying to kill one other. All he could do now was swallow his anger and try not to lose his own temper. His biggest fear was being one of those dads who get caught flipping out on their kids and it goes viral. He always wanted to get a million views on YouTube, but for something like getting filmed saving a cat or maybe breakdancing, or something like that. Not for being a grown man who has a temper tantrum at his kids. That was why he never yelled at them in public.

"Gosh, kids! When you fight like that it really makes me upset, so let's talk about it." He exclaimed the light non-threating douchey tone of a parent trying to talk so kids would listen. Unfortunately, his kids did not listen. Instead, they replied with a flurry of gnarls, growls, and grunts as they continued to try to murder each other with their bare hands.

He then tried 1-2-3 magic which was yet another bullshit parenting technique he read about in yet another bullshit book he had read on bullshit parenting techniques. This book claims to offer easy-to-follow, step-by-step instructions on how to manage troublesome behavior in children using compassion, respect and patience by building self-worth. He never believed any of this bullshit. He always knew that having compassion, respect, and patience with his kids was damn near impossible. Even Jesus Christ himself would have flipped out and dropped a few "f bombs" if he had to deal with these two assholes. Secondly, he knew from first-hand experience that anything that claims to have easy-to-follow step-by-step instructions is a complete crock of shit. He has a TV stand with easy-to-follow step-by-step instructions that he was unable to put together to prove it.

He believed that there was no such thing as an easy-to-follow step-by-step set of instructions, especially when it came to raising children. If there was suh a thing as easy-to-follow step-by-step instructions for parents, every kid would be completely well-adjusted and normal, and they would never do anything wrong and they would all be really great at sports and super-smart and better than everyone else's kids in every way that is humanly possible. Unfortunately, those types of kids don't exist, except in Jersey with Tucker and Macey's dickhead know-it-all uncle Mark who thinks his kid is just so fucking awesome.

Tucker and Macey's dad could feel his blood beginning to simmer, and his belly was now completely filled with rage. There was no more room in his tummy to swallow any more anger. With each passing minute of the Eagles game he was missing and with each degree that his beer got warmer, he became angrier and angrier. He hated the idea of having to yell at his kids to shut the fuck up and stop fighting like two giant assholes then chase them up to their bedrooms in a fit of rage. He loved his kids so gosh darn much and he wanted them to be as happy and successful as their super wonderful cousins from Jersey who make straight As and get picked for all the cool travel leagues in soccer. So, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and with the most compassionate, respectful, and patient tone he could muster he calmly said in the stern but loving tone of a highly evolved father who was well-read on modern parenting, "Children, I am going to give you to the count of three, and if you don't stop fighting, I am sending you both to your room."

"1-2-3."

And just like that, they stopped fighting! He couldn't believe it. For the first time ever, this pussy shit worked, and it actually got his kids to behave. He stood there frozen in disbelief as to what just happened. It was a miracle. He thought that maybe these assholes who wrote all these parenting books were right, and that maybe if you are nice to your kids maybe they will actually listen to you.

That was until Macey said, "It's your fault. To which Tucker responded, "Uh-Uh. It's your fault! You kicked me with that friggen boot!" "Did you hear that, dad? Tucker said friggen." "Friggen is not a curse, stupid. I guess your gonna tattle on me for saying stupid now too." And before she could even respond, or her dad could intervene with another progressive alternate to spanking, Macey dropped to the ground and gave Tucker the most vicious leg sweep anyone has ever seen. He was lying on the ground stunned by the ninja-like attack. That was when Macey climbed up onto the arm of the couch and bombed him with a flying elbow like a wrestler jumping from the top rope.

And like that, their epic battle to the death resumed. Their dad shouted some half-hearted demands for them to stop fighting and to break it up, but they acted like he wasn't even there, and their fighting only intensified. It was almost as if their dad's ridiculous demand for them to stop trying to kill one another had only infuriated them both even more. In a final attempt at healthy parenting, their dad took a deep breath, and with every last bit of calm rational thought he had left his exhausted and feeble-minded adult brain he tried to figure out a way to stop them from fighting.

As he approached them, he again tried to speak in a calm soothing tone that he hoped would de-escalate what had become an otherwise hostile situation. And that was when it happened.

I don't know if you have ever stepped on a Lego brick before, but it is the single most excruciating pain known to man. The pain is indescribable. Imagine getting stung by a hundred bees, while you get waterboarded, burned, electrocuted and stabbed in the eye with a dull knife. Well, stepping on a Lego brick is worst than that. There is no denying that Legos are fun toys to play with that will stimulate learning and creativity. There is also no denying that stepping on a Lego is the single most painful experience in the history of mankind either. The only thing in the world that comes as close to the excruciating pain of stepping on a Lego brick is possibly having to go to a gender reveal party or watch season 13 of the Bachelor.

A single Lego brick can withstand 953 pounds of force without give, meaning that it transfers all of that force back up into the sole of your foot. Legos are also made with a series of sharp edges and knobs that are tailor made for aggravating one of the 200,000 sensory receptors in a person's foot.

As their dad approached them to break up the fight, he tried to sidestep all of the Lego bricks that were strewn about the floor. As he made it to the clearing past the couch, he began taking the big confident strides of a person who wasn't afraid of stepping on a Lego brick anymore. That was when his heel landed squarely on the sharpest corner of the thick four pegged brick.

As he stepped down, he could feel the weight of every beer, hoagie, and chicken wing he ever consumed and every minute that he spent not exercising and sitting on the couch. Every ounce of his fat 280 pound body fall squarely onto the heel of his foot as it landed directly on the razor sharp edge of that solitary Lego brick. Immediately all 200,00 sensory receptors in the heel of his foot sent a message to his brain, which sent a message to his mouth to yell "the F word" as loud as he possibly could.

He so desperately wanted to be the nurturing father that Tucker and Macey deserved and be able to use calm rational "I Statements" and say stuff like, "Children, I am really upset when you fight because I love you so much. I would appreciate it if you would stop fighting and clean up your mess." But it was too late for that. He was in so much pain that he could only muster words like, "fuck" "shit" and "damnit." Unfortunately, there are no parenting books on how to act after you step on a Lego brick. He was left to rely on nothing more than his own parental instincts, which were usually to curse and yell and scream like a crazed lunatic. So, he did what came naturally, and hobbled around on one foot and cursed and threw haymakers into the air. Once they saw the crazed look in his eye, they feared for their own safety and well-being, and they immediately stopped fighting and began cleaning the mess they had made.

He knew that screaming profanities at his children and threatening to kill them may be traumatizing them, but he also knew that it was a very effective strategy to get them to behave. He worried that his parenting might mess them up a little when they get older, but he also knew that sacrificing their mental wellness as adults was a necessary evil and only a small price to pay for getting them to stop acting like assholes as children. Sure, he might have caused a little bit of psychological damage, but it was nothing that good therapist can't fix when they are in their twenties. He took comfort in that as he watched them finally stop fighting and cleaning up their Legos.

With the room now cleaned and the battle long over, peace and order had been restored to the house once again. Tucker and Macey said sorry to one another, and they even came over and said sorry to their dad too. Then they sat at the kitchen table and drew in their sketchpads. It was nice for their dad to see Tucker and Macey pretend to be perfect little children for a while, even if they were faking it. That usually never lasted long. It usually devolved into Tucker and Macy asking stupid questions, then making a huge mess, then getting into a fight over it, then getting yelled at. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

As their dad was watching the Eagles game, Tucker shouted a completely arbitrary and pointless question from the kitchen table, "Dad, where is Cleveland?" Tucker asked as if he he gave a shit where Cleveland was. His dad wasn't sure whether Tucker really wanted to know where Cleveland was or if he was asking it just to be a ball-buster because he knew his dad was trying to watch the game, so he half-heartedly yelled back, "Uh, it's in Ohio, buddy," as he fixed his eyes back to the television screen. "Where is Ohio?" "I don't know, it's next to Pennsylvania...eh, below Michigan I think." "Where is Michigan?" "Shit, I don't know. Detroit is in Michigan," he said as he was beginning to become frustrated with all of the questions.

"What is Detroit?"

"It's a city?"

"Do we live in a city?"

"No, we live in a rural area."

"Does that mean we are poor?"

"No, not everyone who lives in a rural community is poor."

"But you're poor," Macey interjected.

Their mind-fuck was working brilliantly, and they had their father frustrated and near the point of tears from the psychological warfare they had waged on him in attempt to get him to stop watching the Eagles game and pay attention to them.

He knew he didn't have to defend himself to a seven and an eight-year-old, but he couldn't help himself. He was too caught up in the sick mind games they were playing. "I'm not poor. I'm broke, and the only reason I am broke is because I give all my money to your mother."

"If you're not poor than why is your house so dirty. Poor people have dirty houses, and your house is filthy."

"Okay, that's enough with the questions. Why don't you two go to bed?" "Because it's not our bedtime yet." Tucker and Macey's dad looked at his watch. It was only five-thirty. Shit, Tucker was right. The sun was still out. He still had three and half more hours left of this bullshit.

"Well, why don't you go outside and play then." "Mommy said that we shouldn't go outside to play without adult supervision, even if you tell us to," Macey said in a very matter of fact tone. "No, it's okay. Mommy doesn't make the rules at daddy's house. Go ahead outside and play." "No, mommy told us not to. She said that if we go outside to play then you need to go outside and watch us or she is taking you back to court for custody," Macey reiterated. "She told you that?" her dad asked. "No, we overheard her telling her friend Max that. Mommy said that if we play outside by ourselves that we might get kidnapped or hit by a car, and that you can be reckless as a parent sometimes."

"Who the hell is Max?"

"He's mommy's best friend. He is the coolest. He is rich and he has super big muscles and he lives by a lake and he took us on his speed boat and jet skis, and he said this winter he is going to teach us how to ski and take us to Disney and then...."

"Okay, okay, okay, fine. I will go outside and play with you." Tucker and Macey always used some type of psychological torture whenever they saw their father resting peacefully on the couch or doing anything he enjoys for that matter. Sometimes they would bust in on him in the bathroom if he was shitting too long. Other times they would ambush him with nerf guns. While other times they would simply jump on him over and over again until he did whatever they wanted. But this was new. This is the first time they used the mom's new boyfriend to bust his balls, but it worked wonderfully.

After Tucker got done fucking with his dad, it is was Macy's turn. She preferred annoying him with hard hitting personal questions as opposed to Tucker's stupid geography questions and mom's boyfriend is so much cooler than you approach.

"So why did you and mommy get a divorce?" she asked pretending to be innocent and cute. Macey asked him this many time before, and she knew the answer, but she always liked to ask it. Every time she asked it, he always tried to explain to her that it was her fault, but she didn't buy it. She said, Uh-uh, mommy said it is because you're a self-centered narcissist who only cares about himself and who likes to make fun of people so that he feels better about himself." Although flattered by the compliment and impressed with her quick comeback, now was not the time nor the place for this type of sentiment so he quickly deflected, "Why don't we watch a good movie?"

"Movies are boring. You said you'd play outside with us." Tucker interjected. Tucker knew that his dad never actually said that he would go outside and play with him, but he was cunning and an expert in the art of manipulation, a skillset he most definitely inherited from his bitch mom. "Okay, I will go play with you in a few minutes. Go put your shoes on." He knew Tucker was not a very good shoelace tier, and that chore would buy him at least ten more minutes of sitting on the couch.

The mere thought of playing tag, or matchboxes, or anything that involved paying attention to his kids sickened Tucker and Macey's dad, but he knew now that he couldn't let Max be more fun than him. He took a deep breathe, and just as he was about to put his shoes on to go play soccer, Tucker began channel surfing through the basic cable channels. Within seconds their dad noticed they both had blank stares, and were mouth breathing and staring at the television set. They stopped asking him stupid questions about divorce and Ohio. They even stopped rubbing it in his face about how awesome Max was.

It was a SpongeBob marathon on Nickelodeon. Their dad jumped for joy as he put took his shoes off and slid back onto the couch. The remote slipped out of Tucker's limp hand as he stared at the television wearing only one united shoe. Their dad slowly fell back to the couch allowing them to get sucked in deeper and deeper into the mindless world of shit known as Bikini Bottom. He knew a SpongeBob marathon could take him right to bedtime without one of these godless heathens muttering so much as another word. He cozied up next to them and no one spoke as they all stared at the TV, which was their dad's favorite way of spending quality time with his kids.

After several hours of mindlessly staring at the TV, Tucker and Macy's dad shut the television off while rubbing his hands together in excitement and exclaimed, "Alright kids, time for bed. We have a big day, tomorrow."

"No we don't. We never have big days when we stay at your house." Macey said.

"Yeah, you're boring." Tucker agreed.

He wasn't about to get into a debate on whether or not he was boring. There was a much bigger battle on the horizon that he had to worry about. Through the clenched teeth of trepidation he mustered the words he hated to say out loud more than any words in the whole wide world. He knew this was going to lead to a volatile situation. Tucker and Macy were known to have staged the most hostile rebellion ever taken against basic oral hygiene since the inception of modern dentistry.

They fucking hated brushing their teeth, and they would let the world know it. Their dad cringed with the feeling of cowardice and fear as he prepared for what was going to happened next as soon as he said, "Go brush your, teeth." People with kids know that, "go brush your teeth," were the four most dreaded words in the human language. They were right up there with, "it's time for bed," and "I'm not buying that."

As soon as he said it, the backlash began. Tucker was always the opinionated leader of the revolution. He began shouting, "Why do we have to brush our teeth? Brushing our teeth is stupid." Macey was more the passive resistance type, and more into peaceful protest when it came to brushing teeth, as she usually just flat-out ignored it and pretended she was sleeping.

Their dad secretly agreed that brushing teeth was indeed stupid since they were baby teeth and just going to fall out anyway, which was why he was always half-inclined to say fuck-it and give into their demands, but he knew that it was wrong to let his kids skip brushing their teeth all the time. More importantly, he knew that if that if that sort of information fell into the wrong hands like his ex-wife's that it could prove to be disastrous. He knew that if he didn't quell this small uprising from these two insurgents and get them to brush their teeth that it could easily escalate into an all-out text war with his ex-wife.

He herded both of them into the bathroom like cattle and blocked the door so they couldn't escape. Tucker is kind of wiry and tried to slide past him, but he held his ground and didn't let him past. Macy continued to passive aggressive approach by fake brushing her teeth while her dad wrestled with Tucker. "Okay that's enough of this bullshit. We're not leaving this bathroom until you brush your teeth." Macy put the toothbrush back, rolled a towel up into a ball, and went to sleep on the floor. Tucker backed up and bull-rushed his dad in one final attempt to escape the make-shift bathroom jail cell. "Just stand there. I will brush them for you." Macey stood up, put her arms down by her side, and opened up her mouth. Tucker did the same. As they both had their dad brush their teeth like they were some sort of helpless invalids, their dad wasn't sure if this was considered good parenting or bad parenting, and he didn't know if that was victory of defeat. It didn't matter either way, he was too tired to give a fuck, and he finally got to go to bed so he didn't really care either way.

## Other Books by Buck Brennan

 Life Champion: What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger...Except Herpes

