whitey tighties

Crappy Santa, My Awesome Playlists, and Whitey Tighties

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santa toiletOk, this is just a little too “festive” for my house.

I wonder what Dr. Freud would have to say about this?  Is Santa a fecalphiliac?  This just screams, “Ho, Ho, Ho, come crap in my mouth!”

While this little toilet decorating set is cute in a sort of creepy way (my grandmother used to always put toilet seat covers and rugs and tank covers on her crapper) I don’t see it making it through Jerry and the Natty Splatters.  Poor Santa’s collar would be yellow in no time (because somebody can’t aim and won’t sit) and I have to have the plunger at the ready more than I would like to formally acknowledge.

I enjoy Christmas decorations, the kitschier, gaudier and tackier the better, but the bathroom is just an area in which the fixtures, let alone the decor, have a hard enough time surviving.  Jerry was raised by wolves, and his bathroom etiquette reflects his upbringing.  It is a rare day that I come home from work and the bathroom sink is not encrusted in face fur clippings and congealed toothpaste spittings.  It’s so much easier to clean the sink before that mess dries, but Jerry does not clean sinks.  I am doing good when he remembers to flush.

pigpenThankfully, though Jerry’s outward leavings might lead one to believe he’s a PigPen, his personal hygiene is impeccable.  He is just too lazy to clean up filth that does not directly touch his own body.

No good playlist is complete without some old, live Journey.  “Still They Ride” from the “Greatest Hits Live” album (1982-3) is pretty awesome.  Anything from the “Greatest Hits Live” album is pretty awesome, including “Mother, Father” and, well just all of it.  I am an incorrigible Journey fan and I admit it.  It’s my not so secret pleasure.  I’m still on the Jethro Tull kick lately too, as well as I’m enjoying The Babys “I’m Falling” and Rod Stewart’s “The First Cut is the Deepest.”

Then I’ll probably switch over to some Metallica (“Battery” and perhaps the “Unforgiven” trilogy) or maybe some Guns-n-Roses.  Or maybe Neal Schon’s “The Calling,” which I’ve been enjoying a lot as of late too.   He may have a creepy girlfriend, but Neal Schon is a hell of a guitar player.  I don’t understand his obsession with tall, anorexic thin creepy blonde chicks, but then he can afford anyone he really wants.  It’s sad, but frumpy old brunette women with the proportions of mutant trolls do not get significant others who buy them Bentleys, or who wine and dine them.  It’s hard to go fishing when you don’t have any bait.   Women like me are doing good to get a cranky old fart who screams about breakfast and the failing elastic in his whitey tighties, and whose only real purpose in life is to generate filth for me to clean up.  Someone has to do it, but it gets tedious, believe that.

All I can say to Jerry in response to the comment regarding failing elastic in the whitey tighties is, that if your balls really are scraping your knee caps, then it’s high time you cart your sorry ass over to Target (because I really loathe department stores anytime during the holidays, and I try to avoid them) and buy yourself a six pack or two of the Hanes whitey tighties you like.  It’s really possible for you to do that.

It is not against the law for men to buy whitey tighties for themselves, and it sure looks a hell of a lot less awkward for a dude to buy these than for me to go through the checkout at Target with a few packs of men’s skivvies.  I wonder how many cashiers have mistaken me for a she-male when I’ve replenished Jerry’s whitey tightie stash.  I mean, the guys at one dealership I worked for did have one of my technicians (granted, the tech I’m referring to is Chinese and he’s maybe 5’6″ and 100# soaking wet) convinced I used to be a man because I have big meaty man hands.  I do have big meaty man hands, even for an Anglo woman, so I can imagine my hands are really huge compared to an Asian woman.  But, I was born female and even had a child in (sort of) the normal way.  No Y chromosome action going on here.

whitey tightieNo, I can’t get him to wear boxers.  Pity.

So I keep on going.

drawing butts

I love sleeping.  I should be doing that, but my insomnia is getting the better of me tonight.

Misplaced and Out of Time, Airing Out the Christmas Baggage

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traditional-christmas-decorations-21-554x554This is TV Christmas.  Christmas in my home has NEVER looked like this.

It just struck me this morning.  I was thinking about the one part of the secular Christmas stuff-you-have-to-do nightmare that was actually something to look forward to- going to my Grandma’s.  Grandma had lots of cheap and kitschy old decorations from the 1950’s and 1960’s, including the aluminum foil looking tree and the really fruity looking elves, and the hollow plastic Frosty with the lightbulb stuck up his ass.  She had a good number of decorations she had made herself too, which I thought were far more aesthetically pleasing than light-bulb-up-the-ass Frosty, but there was room for everything.  Her display was rather eclectic.  I enjoyed helping Grandma put up that corny kitsch, (and the pretty stuff she made) which was all carefully labelled, stored and you knew exactly where everything was supposed to go.  Grandma enjoyed Christmas and all the decorating, cooking and baking that went with it.  Her candy and pies and cookies were 100% homemade, and 100% legendary.

redneck-christmas2Jerry probably grew up with Christmas more like this.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love the Christmas story and I love the way that God came to us as a human and that Jesus lived here on earth with us in a flesh and blood human body.  I love the season of Advent and observing Advent and Christmas as part of the church year.  It’s the materialism and the formalities and the stuff that people think you have to do that really gets on my nerves.  The world could do a lot more with more quiet contemplation on what Christmas really is about rather than running around spending money they don’t have buying crap for other people that they really don’t need.  Just my two cents’ worth on that.  When the “celebrations” turn into being too expensive, too awkward and just plain another whole big stress, it’s time to re-examine the whole hoo-hah and maybe just drop out of a few things.

NativitySceneThe real Christmas story (not Santa Claus or the kid with the BB gun) features a miraculous birth.  It was about God becoming man and coming to earth to save humanity.  I don’t care how much money someone has, you can’t top that gift.  Materialists, you might as well go ahead and admit defeat now.

As far as secular holiday celebrations go, I can cook.  The only thing I don’t do that Grandma always did is I don’t make my own pie crust.  It’s too easy and less expensive to buy the rolled sheets of pie crust than it is to try to deal with just the right ratio of Crisco-to-flour.  I have the delightfully tacky pink Christmas tree with blissfully tacky kitschy ornaments including a buzzard, (Jerry will not allow a live tree in the house, because Mr. Let’s-Get-Wasted-and-Start-a-Fire-With-Gasoline-in-the-Fireplace deems them to be “fire hazards”) and (less one Wiseman, because of someone’s bad decision to use gasoline in the fireplace) the Nativity set Grandma got for me the year before she died.

But it’s hard for me to get into the Christmas biz these days.  The traffic pisses me off.  The crowds in everyplace from Target to the Speedway station piss me off even more.  I don’t have the money to buy gifts for people the way I would like to.  I don’t have the time to do the crafts and cooking which made Christmastime fun like what Grandma used to do.  Jerry goes off on his I’m-so-depressed holiday funk that lasts from December until the end of February, and it just plain drives me batshit.  And to top it all off the past few years, I’ve been spending Christmas at my oldest sister’s, and that leaves me feeling more like the turd in the punchbowl than anything. I might have to break with that latter day tradition and do anything that does not require me to be around my sister’s boorish father-in-law as he’s swilling Chardonnay and catatonically staring at the football game.  Perhaps I will take the camera and go to the west end of Marion and take some tacky Christmas pics.  That is always fun.

72 super beetle sleighMy condolences to the unfortunate ’72 Super Beetle that’s flying high in this rather grotesque display.

Then this morning- I had a very sad longing, a sort of a dark epiphany.  I realized the reason why the holiday cheer was getting on my nerves more than usual.  As a kid, the best part of Christmas was the afternoon.  Grandma and Grandpa would have dinner ready, and it was an elaborate spread.  Everything from turkey to homemade cream pie and homemade candy, egg nog,  scalloped potatoes, you name it, it was there.  They had presents and goodies but that wasn’t the allure. There was something about the whole atmosphere in their house.  It wasn’t high faluting like the house in the picture.  It was modest, it was clean, it was perfect in an unpretentious way, and it was home.  Truth be told, my grandmother’s house seemed more like home to me than my own home.  Grandma was safe.  There were no heated arguments over money or the lack thereof at her house, or being treated to Mom and Dad constantly picking at each other about this or that petty issue.  My sisters were not allowed to beat on me with impunity as they normally could do at home, and most of the time when I was at Grandma’s they were somewhere else which was even better.

redneck whitey tightiesGrandma never decorated with whitey tighties, but now I am seeing some real motivation to decorate and innovate!

Now there’s a stranger living in Grandma’s house.  Grandma died back in 2009, though in all fairness she and Grandpa had both started declining not long after Steve-o was born.  Grandpa died in 2006 aged 91, after only three days in the hospital, and ten years after he had his bicuspid valve replaced (which was the first time since WWII that he’d been in a hospital for any reason.)  Grandma unfortunately died a more sad and lingering death from pancreatic cancer, heart failure and liver failure at age 93, a little more than three years after Grandpa died.  It was hard seeing her lose her sight from macular degeneration so for the last ten years of her life she wasn’t able to do the sewing and crochet and other crafts she loved.  I guess that’s why I hope and pray that my time comes quickly when the time comes, but you get what you get.

redneck-christmas-lightsNo, I am not going out and buying tampons to do this, (I am still delighted that I’ve been able to skip that aisle at the store for over three years now) but I never thought a feminine hygiene item could be made so festive!

Grandma’s house is still there but it’s not the same.  I’m sure the lady that rents it from Dad is alright.  Dad generally tries not to rent to serial killers and nut jobs, although his last renter’s family were pretty crazy after he died and they left the place a disaster area. I’ve not met her but she does have a lovely Pitbull that Dad says is a very sweet dog.  I think what bothers me even more than knowing that there’s a stranger living in Grandma’s house is that I’m not able to be anywhere near as involved in my own grandchild’s life as my Grandma was in mine.  I seldom get to see Sophia, and even when I can, I am beholden to her mother’s schedule and whims.  To make that even worse, I live an hour’s drive away.  I can’t live in the safe house across the field.  Her mother doesn’t want her to be in my house, because she doesn’t trust Jerry, and Jerry smokes in the house.  If I want to see my granddaughter I have to either go to her mother’s house or take her to my parents’ house.  I cherish any time I can spend with her, but I don’t see where I am going to be able to have much influence in her life.  It saddens me.

kissmyassBut, as far as doing what I want to do with secular holiday celebrations, I think this is the best suggestion of all.

Happy Birthday Great-Grandma, Fighting Over Used Shoes, and Other Pointless Endeavors

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Great-Grandma couldn’t stand Ted Kennedy, or any of the Kennedy family for that matter.

Happy birthday to my great-grandma, who would have been 114 today, if she hadn’t died in 1992 at the age of 94.  I miss Grandma.  She was cool.  I would give almost anything for just one more afternoon of coffee and conversation with her, but you get what you get.  I’m just glad that she lived close and I was able to spend as much time with her as I did. Besides having a taste for insanely strong coffee and for discussing conservative politics, she had a collection of tabloids that would boggle the mind.  She always claimed to read them for the entertainment value.  I read them for the entertainment value too, especially the Weekly World News.

The John Deere hat is a nice touch.

Grandma also had a framed, signed picture of President Reagan which I am sure one of the twins (my grandmother’s evil identical twin sisters) ended up with.  I can’t believe the twins (who were in their early 70s at the time) had an out and out knock-’em-down, yank each other’s  hair out, fist fight over her stuff. Besides some clothes and a few nice pairs of size 8 shoes, the Reagan picture was probably the only thing she owned that had any monetary value.  If I know my twin great-aunts (and one of them is still alive-though the one who had the stroke died about five years ago) they were fighting over the shoes.  They wore size 8s too.

I have a strong shoe fetish myself- but even should they be size 7s, I’m not fighting anyone for used shoes.

My twin great-aunts’ altercation over a few pairs of used shoes and a whole lot of worthless kitsch convinced me once and for all: I don’t need dead people’s stuff.  My sisters can have it all.  I am just curious when I die (they are slightly older than me, but they are much better preserved, and will most certainly outlive me) if they will brawl over my used underwear (the bras won’t fit either one of them- unless they add a little extra stuffins,) and not a few pairs of size 7 shoes that only one of them can wear.   The oldest, who was my sadistic childhood nemesis, does well to fit her behemoth meaty feet into an 8EEE.  The other sister also wears a 7B, and therefore, my shoes fit her.

I’ll cut out the middleman and just put my old skivvies on E-Bay now.

Or, better yet, I could E-Bay Jerry’s nasty old whitey-tighties, after he’s worn them for a night of gambling, drinking and the Hershey Squirts:

Of course, there’s a dude who’s already thought of using what appears to be a soiled set of whitey-tighties as a safe.  I can sort of understand the mentality, though I would struggle with the temptation to pick out the cash and then toss the skivvies.

The replacement fridge is up and running quite nicely as of this morning.  The ice is frozen and Jerry’s Natties are cold.  Spuds is in the G&R, and all is right with the world.

The G&R still has the most awesome fried bologna sandwiches.  And cream pies.  And an original late ’80’s Spuds McKenzie.

A Rare Quiet Moment, Secret Speculations and Twists of Memory

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It’s not terribly often that I have a sort of quiet day.  Usually I have more than enough to do, but today- not so much.  I sort of regret getting so much done on Saturday but then again, it’s always better to take the opportunity to get caught up than to take a chance on staying behind and having to scramble and rush to get things done.  It leaves me a bit bored today, but better to be bored once in awhile than constantly buried.

I have to come to terms with the reality that the seasons have changed- Fall Monsoon is in full swing with the cooler temperatures and torrential rain that occurs this time of year.  I can only hope that in the next few weeks there will be at least some opportunity for foliage-gazing and a road trip or two.  I should try to use some of my vacation time and just plain get out for awhile even if only for a day trip here and there.

If I had to choose a favorite time of  “fashion in history,”  it would have to be the 1940’s.  Having broad shoulders and a large chest weren’t liabilities back then, and women’s clothes were actually designed to fit women.

Everyone wore hats.  Way cool.  I love hats- and red lipstick, and dresses with sleeves.  Compare the above pic with modern “fashion” and you have a good case for the devolution of humanity.

I rest my case.  And these are supposed to be fashionable people, not the brain-dead zombies of Wal-Mart.

It’s no crime to be large.  I’m no Calista Flockhart either, but coverage is key.  Nobody wants to see your backfat, meaty arms, thunder thighs or love handles.  Just because people burned bras back in the 1960’s doesn’t mean going braless- or mistaking a flimsy little tank top for a bra- is a good idea.

I think that the unisex movement of the 60’s and 70’s led to much of the fashion confusion out there today.  Most heterosexual men don’t have a problem dressing like men simply because it doesn’t take a whole lot of thought.  T-shirts, flannel shirts, jeans, whitey-tighties, tube socks and velcro tennis shoes are all you need to complete a Straight Man wardrobe.  Straight men’s attire is boring, but it’s good for functionality and coverage.   It’s fat women and gay men who have the most potential for polluting the landscape with their wretched fashion choices.  Oh, and shug, eyeliner is for girls. Or is it that you want everyone to know that you’re the queen in this couple? Maybe you femmes are just happy to live out the fairy fantasy.  Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

Large women have the potential to dress most tragically-

Maybe I’m just sort of old and cranky and especially misanthropic today.  I didn’t even have to deal with too many of the unwashed masses, so I should be a bit more patient today, but I’m not.

Perhaps I remember a time when people had a little more pride in appearances, or I’d like to think so.  I did live through the 70’s, which was a decade that was to fashion as a trainwreck is to transportation.  I don’t think I could bear to wear those horrid thick waxy polyester pants ever again.  Especially if they are green, yellow, orange or brown.

Conspiracy Theories, Dead Terrorists, and Men Who Wear Pants Pulled Up to the Waist

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I hope Osama is dead.  I don’t care who killed him, (though I must admit, as far as methods go, you can’t beat assassination by Navy SEALs, if that’s what really happened,)  or even if he choked to death on a hot dog (preferably a pork hot dog, if the true mode of death was asphyxiation by wiener.)  If he is indeed, dead, the world has been rid of someone almost as twisted and evil as Hitler.  Most people, excepting radical Muslims, regardless of their political preferences, are probably glad to hear this dude is taking the Dirt Nap- or in his case, Swimming With the Fishes.  I just have a lingering twinge of doubt in the back of my mind regarding: a.) did Obama have anything to do with the death of Osama?, and b.) whether or not Osama is really, truly dead. 

The timing of the Osama killing couldn’t be better for Obama.  It’s taken the attention away from the whole birth certificate fiasco (don’t know what to believe on that one either, but I seriously doubt Obama was born anywhere near Hawaii – or any other US state,) and from gasoline prices killing the economy- again. 

I smell price fixing, collusion, and just plain boldface lies- and at the center of it?  Obama.

Osama may have already been dead for years- or he may have dropped dead of some natural cause, and Obama’s been saving up the Osama Assassination Event to build up his street cred at a particularly strategic hour.  I can’t think of a better strategic hour than right now.  With the 2012 election coming up and his poll numbers in the crapper, he needs something to get the American people’s minds off of the very real possibility that not only do we have a sitting President who is ineligible to hold the office – and is crazy enough to run again,  he could also use something to distract Joe Sixpack from the fact that it’s going to cost him half the national debt to fill up his F-150.  The economy is going straight down the toilet while Obama and his pet contributors are on the take, and it appears that’s exactly how he planned it.  What better than a dead terrorist as a distraction- better yet, the Grand Pappy terrorist of them all?  It just smells very fishy- and way too expedient- to me.

The other thing I don’t get is why do we as Americans give a rat’s ass if Osama gets a proper Muslim burial?  Do terrorists assure that all the Christians they kill get appropriate Christian burial rites?  Do they have priests on the ready to give last rites to Catholics who die at terrorists’ hands?  And what about Jews?  Jews have their burial rules too, and I bet terrorists really don’t observe those either. I don’t think it was the US Navy’s responsibility to do anything other than make sure he’s dead and put the body put somewhere where it wouldn’t stink and draw flies. 

Burial at sea, while hygienic (granted-it won’t stink and draw flies six fathoms beneath the sea,) and a perfect way to maintain an unmarked grave, poses too many credibility questions.  How do we know they didn’t wrap up a couple of bags of cow manure in a white sheet and toss them over the edge and just say it was Osama?  I think they should have put him in the freezer and sent his carcass to a taxidermist so he could be mounted and displayed, so people could see for themselves that he’s really dead. 

Admittedly, today I’ve gone from my normal baseline pragmatism right into the heart of cynicism, but who can blame me?   I don’t trust Obama any further than I could throw him.  I don’t trust the media, who is in cahoots with him.  I also don’t trust the string-pullers who are price-gouging and profiteering and doing their damnedest to engineer another economic crisis.  All of these events don’t make me want to re-elect Obama.  They make me wish Congress would  have the stones to impeach him now, and run him and his cronies out on a rail. 

Anyway, I shouldn’t get too hung up on things I can’t change.  I have to deal with them, and while I still have the freedom to comment on them as I see them, I’m going to.  

Today I came across a man after my own heart.  I love this guy.  His commentary on the abysmal condition of  “customer service” in retail is a bit cheeky, but mostly true.   I know I’m getting old.  I bemoan the extinction of the Man Who Wears His Pants Pulled Up to the Waist with No Visible Underwear or Butt Crack. 

Pull up your damned pants!  Maybe I’m just old, but there’s no mystique or attraction to be found in some dude’s hairy, sweaty butt crack, or in getting a visual of his boxers or whitey-tighties.  I want to see dudes with their pants at the waist.

Motivation Comes from Within, and Try It On at Home

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My favorite instructor in college taught me the most important and fundamental rule of management:  Motivation comes from within.  The only thing that a manager can do is provide incentives.

Fear is not technically motivation, but it can be a powerful incentive when it is used in the proper context.  Some people are afraid of everything (sadly, I fit in that category most of the time, as I am a horrible coward) and others fear little if nothing at all.  If you can find another person’s fear and harness it to your advantage, (sounds a bit like blackmail, and it is) you can for all practical purposes own that person.  He or she will have sufficient motivation to honor your requirements and requests with very little effort or oversight from you, other than a threat now and then if things aren’t getting done to your liking. 

Fear as an incentive can backfire big time if you don’t have any currency to back it up.  If you lack the power to carry out your threats then you no longer engender any fear in your subordinates and you have to find another incentive.  Some people like to be made to feel important.  I know I’m not important, so telling me how much you like me, (most people tolerate me at best and very few actually like me, I know that already) or how “essential” I am to you doesn’t mean jack unless you have some dead presidents to go along with your vapid praise.  Money as an incentive works very well for a good number of people, yours truly included, but you have to be able to provide the money if the person fulfills your objective.   Money fails to be an incentive with the quickness if the person fulfills the objective and then is cheated out of the money in some way.  I’ve been there and done that too many times.

I don’t like to manage by fear.  I’ve had too many people control me that way and frankly, it pisses me off.  Fear has ceased to be an incentive for me most of the time.  Money is fine, as long as the other side delivers on their promises.  I like certain other material perks as well such as dinners, clothing and other assorted goodies, but money is generally the favorite.

Some people are big on recognition and status and titles.  Titles and status don’t impress me at all.  As the saying goes, money talks and bullshit walks.  I could care less about authority unless I have been given a responsibility to carry out a certain task.  Don’t ask me to do something or to be responsible for something and then not allow me the authority to carry it out.  It is amazing how many organizations hobble their employees and even low to mid- level managers by giving out responsibilities without granting the needed authority to carry them out.  How many times have I seen a network of people rendered completely useless because the only guy who is authorized to make a decision can’t be reached because he is out in the Bahamas on a cruise somewhere?  What the hell do you even need him for if he has time to fart off on an expensive and likely company-funded cruise?  If you don’t trust people to make decisions, don’t make them responsible for outcomes.  In fact, don’t make them responsible for anything- unless they also have the authority to make a decision.

Human nature is said to be such that we pursue pleasure and avoid pain (another little nugget from Psych 101) which in most instances is true enough, unless you’re a sadist or a masochist, and then pain is pleasurable which makes no freaking sense to me.  Then again-I do find the humor in disappointment and emotional pain- does that count as masochism?  Or is that just a coping mechanism?

Jerry should never be allowed to shop for clothing alone again.  Yesterday he decided of his own volition to go to Old Navy and get another shirt like the one he already has.  So he goes to the Old Navy, picks out a shirt, tries it on, (which is something I absolutely refuse to do in public) buys the size large he tried on, only to discover the shirt he had at home is an X-large.  These shirts are 100% cotton and will shrink when washed, which is why the large fit in the store, but probably would not fit after being washed.  Logic would tell me, look at the tag on the shirt at home before leaving to go to the store, then go get another one exactly like it, in the proper size.  That way you neither suffer the indignity of undressing in public fitting rooms, and you get a shirt that will fit after being washed. 

There are numerous reasons why I absolutely refuse try on clothes in public fitting rooms.  The oldest and most primary reason is because Mom always made us try on everything.  If she liked it (and she liked some pretty ghastly stuff) you had to try it on.  Generally if she wanted you to try it on you didn’t want it to begin with, but most of the time she just wanted to see “how it would look on you.”  Who gives a rat’s ass what it looks like if you aren’t going to buy it?  The way I always looked at it is I would find out soon enough how bad I would look in my sisters’ old clothes without ever having to try them on in public in front of the two-way mirror that some pervert is monitoring. Unfortunately I could never win her over to my point of view- but if I can’t try it on in the comfort and privacy of my own home I didn’t need it anyway.

Today is even worse because of the video cameras.  Back in the 70’s and 80’s video cameras were too expensive so all you had to worry about was the one or two perverts watching the two-way mirror.  I know full well there are cameras in those fitting rooms, and they are being monitored by some pervo in India or somewhere who is taking all that scrumptious footage of you in your old bra and threadbare granny panties, recording it, and putting it on a video montage for pervos around the world to share via YouTube.

Somewhere in Siberia some pervert is watching Jerry try on that shirt at Old Navy, and making commentary in a foreign language regarding Jerry’s  thin arms and very hairless chest.  I can only hope he didn’t try on jeans, although I just bought him some new whitey-tighties.  I bet older guys fumbling about in whitey tighties would be funny in Siberia too.

Potty Trained and Literate, and Other Parenting Goals

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Dad always said that he enjoyed children once they were potty trained and literate.  Mastering these basic skills can occur for some children by the age of five, but I do not have a whole lot of confidence in a young child’s toileting accuracy, and few children gain reasonable command of the written word until about the age of eight or nine.  I can understand why Dad is rather uncomfortable in the presence of infants, toddlers and preschoolers.  He’s sensitive to smells, and he has an almost phobic reaction to the bodily effluvia of others.  After the age of eight or nine kids are a bit less messy.  It is far less likely that they will pee, poo, puke or snot all over you by that time.  They understand using the toilet, and hopefully before they hit puberty, they will understand snot is not a condiment, and they should also have a rudimentary knowledge of how to use Kleenex. 

Steve-o has been potty trained and literate for about ten years, which for a male is pretty good.  When I say “potty trained,” I mean fully trained, as in (for males, anyway) we aim and achieve our target without spraying the entire bathroom floor, AND we both wipe and flush every time, after dropping a deuce.  He could read relatively well by the age of seven, but it took a long, long time for him to get “wipe and flush every time” down.  

There are few things more disgusting than walking into the bathroom to find a huge corn-loaded turd floating in the toilet bowl, coiled up all alone, without any paper to keep him company.   The only thing worse than walking into that sensory gag-fest every time young Steve-o pinched a loaf was his “science” experiment involving Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.   I will comment a bit on this.  If you eat nothing but Flamin’ Hot Cheetos for three days straight, your feces will be exactly the same color as Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

I do have some standards.  If you want to see hot red-orange poo, go troll about on Rate My Poo for awhile.  Trust me, there you will find all things poo and then some.

We are working on the Holy Grail of parenting right now, which is: Gainful Employment and Independence from the Parental Units.

Steve-o did work at Taco Bell during his last two years of high school, but for some reason he either can’t seem to find a job or (my personal suspicion) doesn’t want to find a job while going to college.  This is vexing to me- and a major contributor to my constant state of poverty.  The only thing I can hope for is that when he graduates he finds gainful employment and becomes an independent, self-sustaining, meaningful contributor to society.

Some people hold lofty goals for their children, but I’m a realist.  So far Steve-o’s done pretty well, especially when one examines the lame track record of his age cohorts.  He’s stayed out of jail, and as far as I know he doesn’t have a horde of baby mamas after him, nor has he fathered any offspring that I know about, anyway.  I am not opposed to the whole grandmother thing- I’m old enough for it and I like kids well enough as long as they’re not mine and I can send them home- but he’s got to be able to pay for his own rugrats.  I’d also like to request that he be married to the potential baby mama, although these days that’s a lot to ask. 

In some ways Steve-o is better trained than Jerry is.  Jerry is gainfully employed which gives him the overall advantage, but Steve-o is getting close, and he has already surpassed Jerry in matters of etiquette.  While Jerry generally does wipe and flush, aiming is still a weak area for him, especially after a twelve pack or so of Natties.  Older men should sit and pee anyway, because it’s a long, long time and a far, far distance to have to keep that stream steady, and I’m getting too old to have to keep scrubbing dried up stale pee from the toilet and vicinity.

Jerry does reasonably well when he’s sober, considering he was raised by wolves.  When he’s wasted of course, all decorum goes right out the window and he has the potential to piss in the closet, moon the picture window, run outside in nothing but whitey tighties and a smile, and to play horrible old country music at obscenely loud volumes.   I’ve tried to socialize him somewhat, but in practical application, I’ve had better luck with Sheena.  Sheena has learned to sit and be polite if she wants a munchie, she will go to her crate on command, and she knows her name.  She is also very affectionate and sweet.  This is no small accomplishment for a dog who has only been with us for about 90 days.  Granted, Sheena is not the most intelligent dog I have ever encountered (Huskies can be a bit stubborn and dim-witted, and Sheena is no exception) and her physical coordination is abysmal, but she’s a lot easier to manage than Jerry when he’s 15 beers or so into it.

Dogs are easier than kids by a long shot- the worst thing a dog might do is to drop a deuce on the floor or knock something over.  Kids can get into all sorts of trouble, cost all kinds of money, and can end up in jail.  What really sort of sucks is that even after they turn 18 and you should technically be done with them they still cost a boat load of money, hence my anticipation of the day that Steve-o truly takes on his own adult responsibilities for himself. 

The main problem with breeding is the wrong people are doing it.  I was watching an episode of The First 48 (yeah, I love cop shows) last night and one of the murder suspects being interviewed admitted to, “well I have about five baby mamas and two on the way.”  The same scum bucket was found to be guilty of capital murder and received a life sentence.  Guess who’s paying for those seven kids?  Daddy certainly isn’t, that’s for sure.

I don’t believe in abortion or infanticide or anything Godless and evil like that- it’s not the kids’ faults their parents are scum.  I find it ironic that the same people who advocate mollycoddling violent criminals and murderers oppose the death penalty, but have no problem with abortion.  Isn’t that more than a little backward?

I do, however, believe in preventing ill-advised conceptions in the first place, and I have absolutely no problem with society carrying out its obligation to preserve public safety and to deter crime by executing violent criminals (murderers, rapists and child molesters) swiftly and publicly.