I consolidated the stories about Fred.


...long live, Hill Blocks View. I miss writing. But the thought of one more round of "welcome backs", or obsessing over stats, or thinking of the clever response to a comment, or the obligation to read everyone else's blog... not so much. So I'll try and write. No pressure. If you feel the need to respond, you can email me. I like email. flipaul@yahoo.com

Thursday, September 26, 2013

The Irish Are Truly To Be Admired.

I really admire the Irish. I am mostly a mutt, ethnically, but if I identify with any group of people it would be the Irish. I love the Irish. I mean, I don't like their actual country, it's all rainy and cold and I hate that, but still.
   The only other thing is, what the hell is up with all that red hair? It's seriously spooky; red is not a natural hair color. And they dance like they are reverse paraplegics. That's more than a little weird. Why aren't you moving your arms, Michael Flatley? That dude is freaky, and not in a good way! Speaking of freaky... Bagpipes?! You consider that music? Really?! Oh my goodness, that is just aural torture. But other than all that, I  totally love the Irish.

   Oh, and the Catholicism. The new Pope seems cool and all, but no thank you. I'm totally on Luther's side on this one. All and all, the Irish are lovely, lovely people. Except for the scores of children. G'ah! I can barely stand the ones I have. The last thing I need is ten more. But, aside from that, the Irish rule.
   Oh, and the stereotypical constant fist fighting. Why would somebody enjoy that? I have been hit in the face before, and I have to tell you, I am not a fan. But at least it's better than the suicide, or the potato based cuisine, or the depressingly morbid authors. I can't reiterate enough, I love the Irish.

   But I do love to drink. And the Irish love to drink. That's got to be more than a coincidence. And I plan on converting to Irishdom... Irishnanism... Irishitianity, just as soon as I find out what I need to complete the ritual. I'm pretty sure it involves a Guinness, Sinead O'Connor and a U2 song.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Why I'd Be A Terrible Parent.

I would be a terrible parent. The list of reasons is extensive and includes, I drink too much, like I need somebody else to spend my money on, I don't like the fact that kids are smelly and messy, I don't want to share the TV, I hated homework as a kid - not really interested in reliving that agony, I desperately want to appear cool and that is impossible when driving around with screaming kids in a beat up mom-mobile, and I hate the fact that all people that blog are obligated to post about their stupid kids.

   Check that. Apparently, I already am a terrible parent. To a boy and a girl. No, sorry. They're both boys. And there's three of them. I think the above reasons still apply. I mostly take my parenting tips from the book "The Greatest Christmas Pageant Ever" wherein the parents are almost completely absent and the kids run amuck.
   And it's working! Two recent events have encouraged me to the fact that despite my terrible parenting skills, my kids are probably going to live, or something. My middle child, who is younger than the oldest child and more or less older than his younger brother, if my math is correct, is somewhat of a precocious child. And I mean precocious, not in the Little Billy got mud on his church clothes sense, but more in the Atilla the Hun destroying entire continents sense. Tonight he pounded down the stairs, (how does a stick thin, seventy pound kid sound exactly like pigmy hippos performing traditional irish step dancing?) and declared that when he grew up he was going to get a tattoo. Of himself. Contemplating a tattoo on himself of himself on himself. I'm pretty sure there were several more decreasingly small tattoos on decreasingly small hims; and it was pretty trippy. All I really could think was, "Wow, Inception and narcissism all in one fell swoop, you are going to rule the world. (and possibly be kind of a jerk.)" And they say kids these days don't have any self confidence.
   The second involves my youngest, who's like ten or six or four or something. (It's probably four, he totally can't hold his liquor.) Anyways, we were at a restaurant and the waitress was trying to score some brownie points by drawing pictures for the young ruffian. He requested that she draw a picture of him, to which she complied. "There's my face!" He exclaimed. "Can you draw my body?" She began to draw him, but he interrupted with, "is that my butt?" I gave him a stern look, and a tsk, but as the response didn't involve f-bombs, I left it at that. And then he told her, "Draw my penis." I yelled at him, "JACK!" (Which happens, oddly enough, to be his name.) To which he rightly responded, "Draw my penis, please." What a gentleman.

   Ah CRAP! I just wrote a mommy blog. Except I'm a daddy. I wrote a daddy-pretending-to-be-a-mommy blog, but not in a weird way. Maybe a little weird, it's just that I have fantastic legs and it's a shame to hide them under pants when what really shows them off is a fishne... Umm, what I meant to say was, after this, can I even call myself a terrible parent anymore? All this time spent being disreputable, and to throw it away in one careless moment. Damnit! Tomorrow I'll demean them and publicly crush their dreams, maybe then I'll truly earn that "Worst Dad Ever" mug that I occasionally launch at them in a drunken rage.