Archive for ‘Family’

October 12, 2011

My 5 Most Abused Forms of Alcohol

by ANDREW HICKS

I used to drink so much the labels looked like they were on backward.

Next week, it’ll be a year since I quit drinking. Though I am extremely grateful and proud that I’ve been able to do it, I feel like it might not be commonly known to the people in my life that I used to drink a LOT. This is a list of the top five alcoholic substances I abused during my decade of hardcore drinking.

1. BEER
To give you just a tiny idea of how much beer I used to drink, this is what my Mondays were like 9 months out of the year: Wake up around 4 pm, hungover/still drunk from the night before. Eat about ten bucks worth of Panera. Go to my men’s bowling league, where the other members of Team Ramrod and I would take turns buying pitchers of Bud Light for the next three hours. Then, it was off to the shithole bar up the street for three more hours of cheap draft beer, jukebox songs, shuffleboard games and loud, obnoxious laughter. Then we’d go to the casino, where I’d drink more draft beer until the bar closed at 3. This was something like two gallons of beer every Monday. And I didn’t take the rest of the week off or anything.


2. CHEAP WHITE WINE

Wine didn’t really enter the picture until my wife got pregnant with my oldest child. I took that old doctor’s cliche about, “One glass of wine won’t hurt you,” and ran with it. I’d buy the magnum-size bottles of chardonnay or sauvignon blanc — cheap stuff like Liberty Creek, Crane Lake, Turning Leaf and other brands that sound like names of bad apartment complexes.

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October 4, 2011

Throw Pillows A-Go-Go

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by TONY FYLER

bed piled high with throw pillows

Look - throw pillows. Purrrrrdy...


It is an ongoing battle in the Tucker household.

I’d like a bedroom that speaks to my romantic side, with deep plush carpeting that doesn’t smell like dog, and just the right mood lighting to always make me look 15 years younger. I want a vanity where I can sit and blow dry my hair like some middle-aged Rapunzel, then put on my 10 pounds of makeup. And, as the centerpiece of my fabulous bedroom, I want a bed that looks like a big marshmallow, complete with about 20 throw pillows.

My husband Bill isn’t really on board with this idea. On more than one occasion, the conversation has gone like this…

BILL: Can you please explain to me why all of these little pillows are on the bed?
ME: They’re for decoration. They are shams and throw pillows.
BILL: So I can’t lay on them?
ME: No, they are not for your head.
BILL: Okay, I give up, then why in hell are they on my bed?
ME: So the bed looks pretty.
BILL: That is the dumbest thing I ever heard. Let’s get rid of them.
ME: We can’t. They cost a fortune, and I love them.
BILL: But you can’t do anything with them. They are completely useless.
ME: I don’t care, they make me happy. Now get your fucking hands off the throw pillows.

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August 31, 2011

This Week in J.Miz, Volume 12

by J.MIZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS

"What'choo talkin' 'bout, Coroner?"

  • Fuck trial and error! I want trial and success! Like when I’m shopping on sample day, and I get to taste a delicious new bacon or sausage product.
  • It’s gotten to the point that, under “marital status,” I write in “I HAVE A CAT.”
  • I once fucked a guy with the same name as my dad. It was SO weird hooking up with a guy named Dad.
  • My resolution for 2012 is to be wined and dined instead of nickle-and-dimed.
  • While impressed with strippers who can” make it clap”, I won’t be totally awed until they can make that shit speak American Sign Language.
  • Have you ever just listened carefully, stopped and wondered: WHAT THE FUCK IS R. KELLY TALKING ABOUT?!?!?!
  • If I rape a clown, THEN is it funny?
  • Sometimes I celebrate my whiteness. Like now. I’m enjoying a Fresca. Immensely.
  • “YO MTV VMA’S! IMMA LETCHOO FINISH, BUT….” –Beyonce’s fetus
  • I just passed a 13-year-old kid on a bike who was singing “Sweet Caroline.” I hate that fucking kid.
  • I just heard that Gary Coleman STILL isn’t buried. I’m CONVINCED it’s because he refuses to go any lower.
  • I hate being judged for being in my late 30s and owning a cat. It’s pretty unfair to skip over all my other dysfunctional qualities.
  • Screen captchas make me feel like I’m taking a field sobriety test.
  • My boyfriend’s idea of romance is holding hands. While I suck his dick.
  • Every guy who’s known me intimately has truly loved my insides.
  • I just got a piece of my vag caught in my zipper. Thank GOD there’s more where THAT came from.
  • Somebody as tall as me just asked me to reach something for them. HOLY FUCK! These pajamas give me SUPER HEIGHT!
  • GOD! I sure wish I had some candy right now! #ShitYouDontSayToAGuyWithAVan
  • I feel extremely white when I listen to Tom Petty. Even if Lil Wayne drops a remix with him, this will never change.
  • When a guy is being creepy to me via the Internet, 9 times out of 10, he’s a foreigner. Good job keeping the sterotypes alive, “buddy.”
  • You ever have an uncontrollable urge to fuck one of your friends? Cuz otherwise it’s a waste of all that raw GHB?
  • You ever wish you were back in high school? You know, so sex wasn’t so illegal anymore?
  • If I had a dollar for every time anyone said, “I didn’t know you were so smart.” Then I’d be rich, and they’d say, “I didn’t know you were so rich.”
  • I was excited to get invited to a dating sight for faithful singles. But it was Black People Meet. WIn or loss??? YOU decide!
  • I need the hip-hop community to come up with some new synonyms for my fat girl jokes.
  • I was always so grateful I wasnt one of those girls whose cousin took them to prom. THANKS Jacob Howell, Christian youth camp counselor!
  • Since I’m home alone, I’m eating Cheetos and pepper jack cheese. I’m home alone because I sit at home alone eating Cheetos and pepper jack cheese.
  • I SWORE I just heard a “house phone” ring in here. Either I’m stroking out, it’s the 80’s, or Jesus is coming.
  • I think most guys like dogs better because they know you can’t turn a cat lady into a housewife.
  • Legalizing prostitution would NOT increase jobs, it would DECREASE “rental assistance.”
  • Whenever my best friend is in a pinch for babysitters, I help by calling around to see who can get there the fastest from Watchtower.
  • I’m writing a book on how today’s society stalks above the law. You reading this, retweeting or responding saves me a shit-ton of research.
  • Walking home from high school in a Catholic school uniform was OBVIOUSLY a horrible idea. Rape should be more “surprisey.”
  • In high school, my nickname was “Hoover.” Don’t go thinking it was code for anything. It just came from me giving a lot of blowjobs.
  • I’ve tricked a LOT of guys into giving me oral with a little game I like to call Just The Lip.
  • I grew up in a very open family. Or at least that’s how my dad described it to his brother while discussing my mom.
  • My black friend laughed at my last name being a Scantron nightmare. But he empathized with the frustration of it just never fitting.
  • The minute than men can start paying for pussy, I’m FUCKED.
  • I had a HORRIBLE time remembering my ex’s birthday, because I was so busy loving the idea of his death.
  • I am EXTREMELY horrible at forgetting I forgave you.
  • There is nothing more disappointing than bad sex, aside from the guy NOT crying when you tell him.
  • I was asked to bring a headshot to an audition. I’m new to all this, I was a bit hurt they didn’t like the donkey punch porn my ex and I made.
  • ‎Every time I go down my stairs, I almost slip and fall on the same step. I’m CONVINCED it’s a ghost. And questioning if it’s that fifth of vodka.
  • It’s nights like this I totally understand crack addiction. Sucking dick for a piece of toast with cinnamon sugar sounds fair to me.
  • I’m cool with my boyfriend choking me during sex, just not so much when I’m sleeping.
  • The good thing about bed bugs is that you ALWAYS have something to snuggle.
  • My Pandora station is playing a whole lot of I Was Raped As a Little Boy songs. This makes me REALLY question what my brother’s up to.
  • One does not have to be humiliated in order to attain humility.
  • My boyfriend takes me to see all the rejumps of the ’80s and ’90s movies. So sex isn’t the ONLY thing I fall asleep in the middle of.
  • My boyfriend HATES it when I don’t say I love you. But I totally understand. Because sometimes I hate him.
  • People are often amazed that I eat what I want and stay thin. When they ask me my secret, I tell them. LOTS of cardio and vomiting.
  • I’m listening to Lil Wayne’s “Gonorrhea” and wondering if he knew how to spell and treat it, not just transmit it.
  • The weirdest thing about sleeping alone tonite is that feeling of “HOLY SHIT! I TOTALLY didn’t just fuck somebody!”
July 21, 2011

Share Your Toys

Clifford braces himself for another love attack from a marauding 1 year old.

by ANDREW HICKS

Much of the tedium in parenting comes in the little moments. They’ll always need their diapers changed, they’ll always need to be fed, you’ll always have to clean up after them. And so on. But sometimes, those routine activities can produce a satisfaction that spreads across the spectrum of human emotion. I had one such unexpected reaction a couple nights ago.

My wife had bought the kids a set of four plush toys, characters from “Clifford, the Big Red Dog.” These are my 2-and-a-half year old Sarah’s new favorite toys — she calls them her “puppies,” and she makes sure they travel with her to every room in the house. Meanwhile, Silas, the 1 year old, just really likes Clifford. Specifically, he likes to grab Clifford by the neck, crawl on top of him and roll around while chewing on whatever plush protrusion is near his mouth.

Silas was in the middle of his Clifford Love ritual the other night when Sarah decided to take the big red dog away from her brother. We’ve been trying to teach Sarah to share her toys — and have instituted a zero-tolerance policy — but to this point, we’d been met with defiance and old-fashioned ignoring of instructions.

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July 15, 2011

de·caf (/ˈdēˌkaf/) n. – Coffee without coffee

by ANNE GARDNER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Image from Cubiclecoffee.com

Today begins like any other day, except that by the time I roll out of bed it’s already too hot outside to be alive. This morning, we get up, we take baths, and we get ready for my 4 year old’s play date. If you do not yet have children, doubtless you are unaware of the glorious splendor of the drop-off play date. And if you only have one child, please realize the play date becomes exponentially more glorious once you are parent to multiple children.

So we get ready, and we load ourselves into the car and head down to my daughter’s friend’s house. I drop her off, make plans with the mom for pick up, and then head on over to my happy haven, Starbucks. At this point, I just have my 4 month old in the car. It’s 105 degrees outside, so we decide to take advantage of the drive thru. Just my luck, there’s no line. I pull up, place my order, and pull around to the window to await my pseudo-refreshment.

Why do you call it pseudo-refreshment, Anne? you ask. Well, since my son was born, I’ve sworn off caffeine. Caffeine passes through breast milk, and since I’m breastfeeding and would prefer not to have to care for a rowdy infant, I’ve been assuaging my coffee addiction by ordering decaf instead. And in terms of taste, I’ve actually grown accustomed to decaf and can no longer tell the difference.

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July 6, 2011

This Week in J.Miz, Volume 7

by J.MIZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS

A Hispanic Fourth of July celebration includes ornate costuming, delicious carne asada and absolutely no gunfire.

TUESDAY

  • My name is Jennifer, and I am addicted to introductions.
  • Anything over six degrees of Kevin Bacon would be entirely too hot.
  • Modern vernacular has made it so I cannot be merry and carefree without being homosexual.
  • My new boyfriend kept yelling out other girls’ names during sex. I FINALLY sat him down and said, “Look, What’s-Your-Name…”
  • I considered formally calling myself “agnostic,” but I’m still on the fence.

 

MONDAY

  • This July 4th, I will remember our forefathers and all those who have died in the name of pyromania.
  • Spending the day barbecuing, enjoying the sun and drinking good wine makes me grateful for the little things, like being white.
  • Fourth of July reminds me that I truly am free… to dress like a proud American slut.
  • I love living in a Hispanic neighborhood during Fourth of July! The smell of carne asada, the mariachi music, the knowledge that those noises in the distance are fireworks, not gunshots. Because Mexicans stab each other.
  • If I ever started doing heroin, I’d go to rehab immediately. I don’t know of any other place so full of people who would help me get more heroin.
  • There are times I have to dumb myself down or, as I like to call it, be a man.

 

SUNDAY

  • I’ve decided to keep a safe distance from my boyfriend until he can love incommunicably.
  • Every time I wish on a star, I realize how insignificant it is to wish on stars.
  • I like my boyfriend like I like my coffee: First thing in the morning, hot as hell and then out of my sight for the rest of the day.
  • I have yet to fuck the couch in my new place, but it seems like a nice enough couch.
  • I finally decided to say yes to my boyfriend’s marriage proposal! That’s how much I love open bars.

 

SATURDAY

  • At Walmart, I was next to a guy in a riding cart. Mentally, I began to race him. I won. Nice try, Americans with Disabilities Act, but functioning legs are still better.
  • According to the CDC, unprotected sex may result in chronic, terminal acronyms.
  • My boyfriend is a real stickler for me using forethought in my word choices. So I always stop and think seriously before I call him a bitch.
  • My younger boyfriend gets sick over the age difference. I’ve learned nothing helps his huge headache more than two “big boy” asprins.
  • I will not say “fuck you,” but I will say “fuck thee.”

 

FRIDAY

  • I’ve thought about getting a second cat, but I don’t want to be known as the “lady who loves cats.” Instead, I got a rooster.
  • I don’t know about you, but techno music speaks to me. It’s in my ear, saying, “I’m an awkward, middle-aged white guy in a suit, drinking vodka and Vitamin Water.”
  • My boyfriend and I have opposite sleep schedules, but we accept it. A small thing like that isn’t enough to break us of our respective cocaine and Xanax habits.
  • A career in stand-up would greatly interfere with my current one, which is fundamentally based on “lay-down.”
  • I completely understood my boyfriend’s Oedipus issues the moment I saw the way he interacts with his mom as she blows him.
  • Have you ever smelled so bad you had to admit it publicly on the Internet?
  • I haven’t heard from my boyfriend today. Duct tape is AWESOME!

 

THURSDAY

  • I always wanted to date an amputee with a speech impediment so he could tell me he “nubs” me.
  • The only issue I have with my childhood is them calling it “rape.” Do you know how long it took me to seduce my uncle?!
  • Society sends too many mixed messages to women. We are pressured to have children but are arrested if we borrow them.
  • Like a sand through the hourglass, a teeny tiny grain of cock. #GuysIDoNotMiss

 

WEDNESDAY

  • Einstein proved that elevated clocks move faster due to less gravity. Addicts have proven that, when they are truly higher, gravity has flavor.
  • To those who don’t find humor in scientific jokes: I’m sure Jesus loves the shit out of you.
  • Friends do not let friends buy coke at full price.
  • My boyfriend’s bachelor’s in theater direction was useless until he found work in the porn industry cock blocking.
  • No matter how many times you change the lie, it still doesn’t become the truth.
  • My boyfriend is so dumb and naive, I have him convinced < 3 is a math equation I post on facebook to my gay best friend Steve.
  • My boyfriend commited suicide on my last birthday. I know, I know. You’re thinking, how will I EVER get a better present than that?!
June 29, 2011

Intolerance is Genetic

by RICHARD WENTZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS
 

Everett recounts the events of his trip to San Francisco via cordless phone.

I don’t make the following statement lightly — intolerance is genetic. Submitted for your approval, my supporting life experience:

It had been a couple of years since my mother married her sixth (yes, sixth) husband. This new guy, Everett, was exactly what my my mother wanted: someone whom she could physically overpower and be intellectually superior to. She got what she wanted, clearly.

My mom and Everett came to visit my wife and me a couple years back. We planned a day trip to San Francisco, spending the entire drive explaining to my new backwoods stepdad that the city was teeming with people who had different beliefs and lifestyles than his.
 
In the course of conversation, Everett was dealt fair warning that San Fran was, in his words, “infested with the gays.” He made it clear he wouldn’t start a fight, “as long as no guy tries to touch my cooter or my pooper.” This seemed unlikely to happen unless we ran into a relocated hillbilly with an inbred-papa fetish. Or just some hyper-liberal with a fetish for forbidden fruit. Once this was settled, we addressed my apparent lifelong misunderstanding of what exactly constituted a cooter.
 
We arrived in town, and took a walk along the wharf. About seven minutes in, Everett exploded in emotion: “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, LOIS ANN! DID YOU SEE THAT?” Everett had spun around and was vigorously pointing at a biracial couple who stood just a few yards away. Needless to say, they heard his exclamation.
 
“What?!” my mom asked, clearly alarmed.“Those two fellers just kissed!”

So over walked Marcus and Darren, the biracial gay couple. Marcus was an extremely well-defined black man — 6 feet, 4 inches of pure muscle. His main concern was figuring out why this scrawny Howdy Doody doppelganger was wagging his hate finger at him and his partner.

Marcus, my wife and I addressed Everett in overlapping phrases.
MARCUS: What exactly is the problem?
MY WIFE: What is your problem? (Her first words to him since the trip began, by the way.)
ME: Dude, calm down. (I was personally hoping to avoid getting my ass kicked by Ebony and Ivory.)

That guy just kissed that guy,” said Everett, balancing his hate finger between the two like a metronome.“Everett,” I began calmly again, “we told you that could happen. This is the most gay-friendly city in the world.”“Oh, I’ve got no problem with the HOMOsexuals.” Everett replied.

“Then what’s the issue?” My mother was clearly bothered.

“I don’t mind if one feller wants to kiss another feller, but that feller’s BLACK.” Everett’s finger had landed on Marcus, clearly for the last time.

Mixed-race ass beating, here we come…

Marcus spoke again, in a voice that showed more control than his throbbing neck and forehead veins. “You are okay with two men kissing, but not if one of them is black?” He turned to me and said, “Tell me you aren’t related to this guy.”“No, this is my mother’s husband.” I spun around to implicate my mom in her poor choice of men, but she and my wife were nowhere to be found. They must’ve made the quick decision to do some bargain shopping somewhere more peaceful.
 
I quickly explained our visit to him, emphasizing the fact that you can take the hillbilly out of the holler, but you can’t eliminate the brain-drain of many generations of inbreeding. Everett stood there nodding his head in agreement, not knowing exactly what my multisyllabic words meant but certainly realizing I was insulting him for the sake of saving his ass.
 
In the end, Ebony and Ivory decided it wasn’t worth it and strolled off toward a more tolerant corner of the wharf. Had we been trapped in a sitcom, they would’ve each given Everett a sloppy kiss before their departure, but in real life, no one wants to kiss that dude but my mom.
 
She’s still married to Everett, and there’s still plenty of pictures from our San Francisco trip. In the background of just about every picture, there’s an attractive biracial gay couple in the background, holding hands, kissing or otherwise clearly indicating they’re there, queer and proud of it. Everett, for all his prejudice, can’t stop progress.
June 26, 2011

Dear 16-Year-Old Self

by ALLISON STEIN and THE WOMEN OF WNF
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Dear 16-year-old self: You're gonna grow up to be Demi Moore in overalls.

Dear 16-year-old self:

  • Your brother’s obsession with hand lotion is NOT because he has dry skin.
  • Just because you don’t have boobs yet doesn’t mean that you wont have D’s later on in life. But your boyfriend who told you, in the back seat of his mom’s car, that his small penis is going to “get bigger” when he reaches full-on adulthood… well, that kid is sadly mistaken.
  • Penis is nothing to be afraid of. It is to be mastered and conquered, and with that comes immeasurable power.
  • Weed isn’t that bad, and your mom will never notice. Just try it.
  • You know how you wanted to get your period so you could be a real woman? Yeah, it sucks, don’t it?
    read more »

June 19, 2011

Daddy Lessons

by WE’RE NOT FUNNY
edited by ANDREW J HICKS

"Yeah, yeah, I'm lickin' your balls..."

[EDITOR’S NOTE: On this Hallmark holiday that finishes a distant third to Valentine’s and Mother’s Day, the fathers on the WNF staff have united to share a few words of (mostly immature) wisdom to all the dads and expecting dads who might be reading. Which probably won’t be many, given that our readership demographic is 91% female since Friday’s “Shit Bags” post. Also, a couple of our contributors who don’t have kids felt the need to contribute anyway, proving they don’t pay a lick of attention to instruction. I’m just desperate enough for material that I’m using their jokes anyway. Happy Father’s Day, everyone! –AJH]

DADDY LESSONS

  • When the labels say “Keep out of reach of children,” remember your children will be able to reach about twice as far as you think they can.
  • Any time you change a diaper, you’re engaging in a delicate game of Russian Roulette. Maybe not this time, and maybe not next time, but one of these times, you’re gonna get smoked.
  • You will think your kids are awesome. You will think everyone else’s kids suck. This is how the other parents feel, too.
  • When potty training your toddler, you will have to juggle the actions of wiping your little one’s bum and preventing the dog from eating baby poop.
    read more »

June 16, 2011

This Week in J.Miz, Volume 6

by J.MIZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS

If the J.Miz's Cougar Pops truck is a'rockin', it probably means the nearest high school has let out for the day.

WEDNESDAY

The next time I see cupcakes in a bar, I’m gonna start punching white people.

About to go from living solo to cohabitation. I am beginning to realize the necessity of censoring my flatulence.

My guy friend was saying how awesome the Jedi mind trick would be for getting laid. Then I realized, I have that! It’s called a vagina!

I’m so committed to being a cougar I bought an ice cream truck that only plays “Milkshake” by Kelis.

Sobriety’s made me socially awkward. When I go out I still pretend to drink, I act wasted, and I walk home shamefully the next morning.


TUESDAY

When I see a fat kid with fat parents, I feel bad. I mean, those poor parents are stuck having to love a fat kid!

No matter who you are, what you do or what you think, you do not have haters. You’re not that important. To anyone. That is all.

I’ll know I’ve hit rock bottom when I fuck a ventriloquist, a guy who does impressions or that dude who wanted me to call his cock a “crank.”

My mom is always stealing my lighters. I hate it! And besides, at her age, she should really stop smoking crack.

My cat just pooped on my futon. I was angry until I did some quick math and figured out that, long term, it would be more cost-effective than using kitty litter.

 

read more »

June 3, 2011

Dear Ex: Anonymous Kiss-Offs

edited by ANDREW HICKS
creatively conceived by ALLISON STEIN

Dear Ex: You were not as attractive as I led you to believe.

Dear Ex: Thanks for all the child support. You’re not her father.

Dear Ex: I feel like I can tell you now — you don’t have to pray about EVERYthing. Pretty sure you’ve got the green light from the Almighty if you wanna have a popsicle.

Dear Ex: I’d undercook your meat sometimes.

Dear Ex: I still laugh my ass off that the guy you married after me turned out to be huuuuuugely gay. Not mature, but funny as hell.

Dear Ex: Weekday daddy busted a jizzload on your side of the bed.

Dear Ex: I made out with your mom more than I made out with you. And she was better at it. But that’s no secret.

Dear Ex: Remember how I said you were the best sex I ever had? The only orgasms I ever had during our marriage were the ones I gave myself. Thanks for nothing. Love, Me.

Dear Ex: I could tell you were not a habitual marijuana smoker when we got high and you spent the next two hours scratching down your entire body while singing a song called “Itchy Time.”

Dear Ex: Your brother used to try to have sex with me every time you weren’t home.

Dear Ex: I find it completely hilarious that I actually slept with more women than you did, and they were better in bed.

Dear Ex: I still get good laughs telling people how, every time you saw a stray dog or cat walking on the side of the road, you would stop the car, pull over, throw open the passenger side door and yell, “Go home! Go home! Go home, doggy! You have a home! Go there and be safe!”

Dear Ex: Your mother doesn’t love you. She told me once she wished you’d never been born.

Dear Ex: We might have worked out if we hadn’t been so hopelessly incompatible in bed. We made the best of it, but in all fairness, your squeaking noises during sex ruined the mood. Also, it would have helped if your dick stayed hard the whole time.

Dear Ex: Dental hygiene is important. Brush up!

Dear Ex: I used your toothbrush to clean the sink. Every time.

Dear Ex: I fucked a random Italian man the night before our wedding.

Dear Ex: Your hair is not growing back in. Not even a little, so stop spending the equivalent of the national deficit on Rogaine. You’re fucking bald.

Dear Ex: Remember that night you were so drunk, but you swore we had sex? We didn’t. I had sex with your best friend. You watched from a chair in the corner, holding your dick in your hand.

Dear Ex: If I’d known when I left that you’d become an evangelical Christian… nah, screw it, I still would have left.

Dear Ex: I appreciate you staying in contact with me for seven or eight years after I broke up with you, saying you always wanted to be friends. I do find it curious, however, that since you’ve married that doctor, I haven’t heard a single word.

CONTRIBUTORS: Allison Stein, Lola Tucker, Andrew Hicks, J.Miz, Tony Fyler, Woo

June 1, 2011

This Week in J.Miz, Volume 5

by J.MIZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS

J.Miz-brand Shellack: Now available in Jewfro Strength!

MONDAY

Men who ask me out and have no notion of dating etiquette will be asking out a lot more girls.

Today, I start hiding people in my Facebook news feed. It’s like a modern day book burning of sorts.

There’s a group of dudes outside talking. I wish all those bros* would shut up and just let the South African dude talk. I don’t know what he’s saying, but it’s HOT!

*white meathead guys

My white friend just used the phrase “dip set” in a sentence. Correctly. #NapervilleIsGangster

SUNDAY

This Midwest humidity is fucking up my fabulous, so I invented a new product — Shellack: Anti-Humectant! Now available in Jewfro Strength.

I miss my Geo Prizm. #ShitINeverSay

My 4-year-old niece Azzy just asked why I’m not married and my apartment is so small. Mentally I kicked her in the chest, and it was satisfying.

Going out in public with my niece allows me to rock the I’m Just A Tired, Dissheveled Hippie Soccer Mom look. #ImReallyJustLazy

I’d rather wake up next to a one-night stand than my 4-year-old niece. They forget your name, she says it repeatedly. #INeedCoffee

read more »

May 30, 2011

Nursery Rhymes Are Stupid

by WOO

What is this one really about?

Ring Around The Rosies

Ring around the rosies
Pocket full of posies
Ashes ashes
ROFLPLAGUE!

———-

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

Twinkle twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are (You just said it’s a star, dumbshit!)
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky (Diamond? Have you taken geometry? You already said it’s a star!)
Twinkle twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are (Didn’t I just tell you?!)

———-

There Was An Old Woman

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe
She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do
She gave them some broth, without any bread
Whipped them all soundly, and sent them to bed

MODERNIZED:

There was an old hood rat who lived in the ‘jects,
She had eight children for the welfare checks
On the first of the month they ate upper class
by the 15th the kids whined about hunger, and mom beat that ass

read more »

May 28, 2011

Taste the Rainbow of Depends®

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

This image stolen from some old broad.

I can see menopause from my back door. What a crappy view.

For those of you who were unaware of the newly designated National Day of Mourning, let me be the first to bring you the news. From now on, my birthday shall officially be known as That Old Broad’s Pity Party. I even called my Congressman and had him bring it to the floor for a vote. Congress can’t agree on much these days, but they certainly could agree on one thing — that redheaded chick that lives in Manassas, Virginia? SHE IS GETTING OLD! I love bipartisan spirit. Please send your condolence cards directly to my home. I will be there, crying in my dirty martini and applying wrinkle cream with a putty knife.

I’m not really sure how this happened, but it sure did happen quickly. One day I was partying like a rock star with my rock star friends, all of us pretending like we were important and in charge of the world. The next day, my 11-year-old daughter was referring to me as “pre-elderly” and laughing at the music I listened to “back in the day.” WTF?

I don’t feel old. I’d like to think I don’t LOOK old, but apparently — to an 11 year old — I appear ancient. She probably thinks I’m in the beginning stages of Alzheimers, which is quite possible since I can’t remember shit anymore. I wonder when she’ll start looking at nursing homes for her ailing mom. I hope she picks a place in a warm weather climate, as
cold weather at my age has also become truly unappealing. It should be illegal to have arthritic hips in your forties.

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May 26, 2011

Six Flags/Applebee’s Tornado Lockdown

by ANDREW HICKS

This is about as close as I got to the action at Six Flags pre-tornado sirens.

It was too good to be true. We got to Six Flags at 1:30 — me, my wife, my stepson and my two kids in diapers — and there were only three rows of cars in the entire parking lot. There were only like 20 yellow school buses, which I knew would mean a tiny fraction of the usual multitude of high school kids dribbling prize basketballs in roller coaster lines.

We got a spot in the front row, four spaces from the aisle. My older kid had fallen asleep as we entered the parking lot, so we hatched a quick scheme. I’d stay at the car with the little girl sleeping and the little boy chewing on toys, while my wife and stepson would go in the park, ride the amazing compact wooden roller coaster just inside the entrance and come back out to tag-team me in to go ride the same. In theory, by the time that cycle was complete, the little girl would wake up from her power nap, and we’d all go in together.

That cycle did not reach completion. Wife and stepson rode the wooden coaster — they were the only ones on the ride, and they had the option to stay on and ride again and again — but when they got back to the car, the Six Flags P.A. system was crackling about tornado watches and storm shelters. The only attraction I got to experience was the Talk To The Fat Security Guard In The Parking Lot ride.

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May 10, 2011

You Might Be A Mom

by ANNE GARDNER
edited by ANDREW HICKS and WOO

  • If your priority is on how cute your kid’s outfit looks when you take them to school, while you wear sweatpants and mismatched flip flops, you might be a mom.
  • If you carefully smooth and style your child’s hair and totally ignore the syrup you got in your own from the morning’s waffles, you might be a mom.
  • If the phone wakes you from a deep sleep at the ripe old hour of 9:30 pm, and you try to answer it by turning the lamp on and off, there’s a good chance you might be a mom.
  • If you’d need a 12-step program and hypnosis to even consider eliminating caffeine from your diet, you might be a mom.
  • If you’ve left the house with several kinds of bodily fluids on your shirt because one or more of the kids were late for some sort of sporting event, it is likely that you might be a mom.
  • If you see a brown smudge on the carpet and bend to sniff to see if it’s poop, you might be a mom.
  • If you, without hesitation, sniff the socks or crotches of pants laying on the floor of the kids rooms to see if they’re clean or dirty, you might be a mom.
  • If you have taken your finger and licked it to remove dirt from any surface, then guess what? You might be a mom.
  • If you hear the same words tumbling from your mouth that you heard from your own mom’s mouth — and you not only don’t care, but you feel like it totally makes sense (“Don’t come running to me when you break your leg!”), you’re probably a mom.
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May 6, 2011

Moron moves

Not as unpleasant as moving.

by ANDREW HICKS

I’ve never had a prostate exam or root canal, but I’ve moved residences plenty of times. I imagine moving to be the most unpleasant of the three. At least you get drugs with the root canal. At least the prostate exam is over in minutes. When you move, you’re dead sober, and you have that metaphorical finger in your ass for weeks.

This was my biggest move yet — moving out of a four-bedroom house — and it made even my minor flaws become glaringly obvious, to the point where my wife and I were either having a hard time getting along or just plain not getting along. Worse, moving made me stupid. Here are some high(low?)lights:

  • Our plan was to get rid of as much stuff as possible before the move. I spent hours going through old boxes of personal stuff, downsizing papers and movies and CDs. The things I went through represented probably 1 percent of our total belongings. We still have a ton of secondhand furniture and duplicate junk that the time crunch forced us to move with us anyway. I could not see the forest for the trees, and speaking of which, I probably did not need to waste time digging up and moving all the trees from the old house, as the new house already has trees. What’m I gonna do with all these extra trees?
  • When gathering a handful of trash from the car with car keys in hand, I threw the whole pile of stuff in the trash, keys included. Next morning, exerted all kinds of time and effort looking for the keys, then thought, What if the keys are in the trash? Then thought, Nah, I couldn’t possibly have done something that stupid. Then thought, Better check anyway. Found them under a used, grounds-filled coffee filter. Then thought, I certainly could and did do something that stupid.
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April 26, 2011

Parkquest

by ANDREW HICKS

For the past two years — during that six-month window where the Midwest is pleasant and habitable — I’ve been on a quest to find the best park to take my kids to. I have a 2 1/2-year-old girl and 10-month-old boy, and we’ve made the rounds. Here are the pros and cons of what we’ve found so far.

Douglas Park. Not pictured: Gay stuff.

BAPTIST CHURCH PLAYGROUND
PROS: Easy 10-minute walk from home; adjacent to high school athletic fields; my daughter Sarah is big enough to use all the play equipment; Sarah often has chances to play with one or two neighborhood kids her age or older.
CONS: Now that she’s been to bigger/better parks, Sarah gets bored with this one within 15 minutes; even the neighborhood parents who bring their own beer are douchebags; rubber tire shreds blanketing the ground always find their way into my kid’s diaper.

DOUGLAS PARK
PROS: Lots of trees and hills; frisbee golf course ensures you can take the kids out for a good time and buy yourself a recreational dimebag all in the same trip, if that’s your thing; there’s also a performance stage, which Sarah and I love to hang out on; right across the street from a plasma center, so you can teach your child early about inequality between classes in America.
CONS: After several visits, I started to notice men would pull into the parking lot by themselves, sit in their cars and wait for other men to pull into the parking lot by themselves, then they’d talk amongst themselves for a minute and caravan together out of the park. On one visit, a perv van pulled into the lot, opened its passenger side door and started blasting a Josh Groban dance mix. The music motivated three separate dudes to climb into the van, one by one. If George Michael visited Springfield, Illinois, you can bet he’d be hanging out the Douglas Park men’s room.

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March 9, 2011

Where Is The “Fun” In “Dysfunctional”?

by NATALIE STEINACHER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Having a family member with a mental illness is one thing. Most can handle that. You just roll with the punches and deal with it when the person’s issues pop up. After all, it’s not their fault; it’s a chemical imbalance in the brain. But it’s much harder to roll with a family member whose mental illness was brought on by their own doing.

My biological dad was a bisexual heroin and cocaine addict, pill-popping Mexican gangsta. Now, as a result of his lifestyle, he is a bipolar methadone addict who is HIV positive, has borderline multiple-personality disorder and is still a pill popper.

No, before anyone asks, I was NOT raised by this man. He was too busy raving and chasing chicks with dicks and poppin’ caps in people’s asses to be a full-time dad. I guess kids cramped his O.G. lifestyle. (O.G. stands for Original Gangsta, for those of you not familiar with Dr. Dre’s The Chronic.)

If you sense some sort of disdain in my writing, you are right. I have a very negatively biased view of my biological dad, a.k.a. sperm donor. I’ve tried to “be there” for him — like he wasn’t for me and my brother — because he is dying of AIDS. I figured I had no time to be mad; just roll with it, and be happy for the time he is here.

So after 12 years of him being here, I am a little pissed that, a) the more I learn of this man, the more I’m disgusted by him, and, b) if I would have known he would live this long, I would have let his ass have it when he first came back into my life, when I was 19, after 17 years of him being nowhere to be found.

All that aside, I let him live with me when he had no place to go. When he did get an apartment, I went to his house three days a week and cooked, cleaned and ran errands for him. After awhile, he offered to pay me for that “service” if I would give him some money every time I get paid, so he’d have money for bills.

Well, after awhile, that money for bills became money for pills, and I no longer felt comfortable being in the house with him. He is a 58-year-old teenager. He still lives like a 16-year-old boy, just without the random boners, cracking voice and acne.

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February 2, 2011

Not So Good With Women

by Buddah Eskew

I am not very good with women. Even when I undress a woman with my eyes I still have trouble getting the bra unhooked. Although, several women have told me I have a face for porn… but a penis for radio. THANKS ladies.

Some people call me Maurice, even though I specifically told them to call me the gangster of love! A special thanks to Steve Miller for that line. I tried to be all gangster with the chicks but they preferred to call me Gangster-Amish. Buddah, you have no electricity or indoor plumbing. Yeah that is true but my horse has a gold tooth and my buggy has chrome spinner wheels. That’s just how I roll, ladies. I was confused by the whole Gangster-Amish thing. I never knew from day to day if I should wear overalls or baggy pants, straw hat or dew rag, pitch fork or switch blade.

I even stooped as low as date rape a few times, but all that happened is I passed out and women just walked right by me, kind of like when I’m awake. Could one of you girls at least grind a stiletto heel into my back when you step over me? I gotta re-read the instructions on this pill bottle.

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January 30, 2011

10 Examples of Dad’s Geekiness

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Today starts a weekly We’re Not Funny feature written on a rotating basis by the parents on our writing staff. Join us for safe, family-oriented humor every Sunday, and tell all your friends who are moms and pops. -AH]

by ANDREW HICKS

 

  • Likes to refer to 2-year-old daughter Sarah’s rainbow bib as “Roy G. Bib.”
  • When burping Silas, his 7 month old, will frequently pat his back to drum beat of “Let’s Dance” by David Bowie while singing, “Let’s burp!”
  • Got a good laugh out of a little kid on “Barney” saying, “She’s like a brother to me.”
  • When Silas peed on Dad’s leg while flashing a huge grin, wrote a Facebook status about it on phone before cleaning up.
  • While half-awake, could have sworn Elmo was singing “Skeet skeet skeet skeet” on “Sesame Street.”
  • After breaking ankle on neighbor’s stairs last fall, wanted to purchase said stairs and comically reenact Stephen King‘s practice of buying and destroying the car that hit him in 1999, when he broke every bone in his body. Later found out King didn’t actually do this; he just bought the car and had it junked.
  • When Silas smiles, Dad sometimes calls him “Smiley Silas” because it rhymes with the name of Billy Ray Cyrus‘s uber-famous teenage daughter. Major geek behavior.
  • Occasionally uses the prefix uber-.
  • Upon learning Sarah would automatically laugh when hearing the word “sassy,” Dad tracked down every Phil Hartman quote he could find from 1991 Sassy’s Sassiest Gentlemen” SNL sketch.
  • Now can draw Elmo’s head in seconds with five pen strokes.
  • Built most of this blog posting around months-old material written on a yellow legal pad. (Sorry, this actually belongs in the companion piece “Examples of Dad’s Laziness.”)
January 18, 2011

And All That Jazz, Jan. 18, 2011

Coming Out Of My Heathen Closet

by Vickie Sauseda

Telling my family that I am atheist has had the most peculiar repercussions…

I didn’t think that the revelation would even be noticed:

“Oh, hey, I don’t believe in God.”

“Ok, Vickie, can you pass the butter?”

How wrong I was. Getting yelled at by my Father was a shock; I nodded, smiled, and didn’t press the issue. My Mother, on the other hand, posted on Facebook: “Vickie was just kidding about that atheist crap. We all know she’s Methodist!”

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December 15, 2010

Slackluster Holidays

by ANDREW HICKS

The Christmas season is upon us. Only ten days left before I do all my holiday shopping at Walgreens really late at night on Christmas Eve.

Christmas was never a big deal in my house. The peak of our family Christmas celebrations came when I was 11. Logs crackling in the fireplace, mounds of presents and full stockings of goodies. I remember my younger brother got the Batwing from the first Tim Burton Batman movie and the elusive April O’Neil action figure, the rarest in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles line of 1989 play products. I got turtles Leonardo and Rafael, if I remember right, and a shrink-wrapped cassette copy of Petra Praise: The Rock Cries Out. Which, 21 years later, is still a great album. I’m not quite as enthusiastic about Batman and TMNT these days, incidentally.

My family put up the same fake Christmas tree every year, and it was always a fun night of hanging branches and lights and digging through what was a pretty decent collection of ornaments. The unpacking of the ornament box always included a quick memorial for whatever old ornaments had ended up shattering just before or after the 11-month off-season the ornaments spent in the basement.

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December 12, 2010

Enter Kipper, Exit Elmo

by ANDREW HICKS

Every now and then, when cynicism strikes me, I ponder the possibility that love by nature is fleeting. Two of the couples who were married at the last three weddings I attended have already gotten divorced. They didn’t even hang in there long enough to celebrate the exchange of fine leather in traditional observance of the third wedding anniversary.

I guess not everyone’s priorities and life goals match up, but I know I’m digging in my heels and holding on tight at least until I get the traditional fruits and flowers that are the spoils of celebrating a whopping four years of marriage. I never thought I’d outlast some of my peers just by staying married for a fifth of a fifth of a century, but actually, when I put it that way, it kinda seems like a long time.

Within the last few weeks, I’ve witnessed a love I thought was pure and eternal disintegrate right in front of my eyes. This is a love I could’ve sworn would last forever. I’m speaking of my 2-year-old daughter Sarah’s torrid, abiding passion for Elmo. Once, he was all she would talk about. She would awake in breathless anticipation of his headwide smile and way-too-frequent, self-conscious giggle. Now, it’s like Elmo never existed, and I’m wondering if he pissed her off. I saw her rip the crap out of his picture in a book last week.

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