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.

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.

I'm Pretty Sure I Crushed That Interview!

Come in, come in. Please have a seat.
Thanks, man.
You're most welcome. So let's get right to it, shall we?
M'eh. I guess.
I see that you're going with a casual look for your interview.
Yeah, I woke up late. So I just wore what I slept in.
Do you always sleep in shredded jeans and a dirty budweiser shirt?
I don't know. Maybe. These are my church clothes.
Church clothes?
Yeah, 'cause they're holey! Hahahaha. Get it? Holey. You probably don't get it.
No, I get it. It's very clever. A sense of humor can be a valuable asset here.
That's what she said.
Excuse me, what?
Duh. You said ASSet. Huhuuhhuuhuhhu.
Oh yes. The sense of humor thing again. Very nice.
Most people don't get my jokes. Because they're stupid.
The jokes?
No. The people. My jokes are the bomb.
Oh, I'm sure they are. Let's get back to the interview.
Whatevs.
I'll take that as an affirmative. First; why do you want to work here?
I don't know. I guess because it's something. The pay sucks and I hate the people, but, ya know.
Interesting, interesting. And where do you see yourself in five years?
I don't know. Running a prison gang drug business. Or in the morgue. Under an overpass in Portland? Someplace really bitchin'.
Oh, that's just great. So what do you consider your biggest weakness?
D'jou just call me weak, you pansy? I'll kick your bleepin' ass!
Are you insinuating temper is your achilles heel? Or is vulgarity your problem?
I'm not sure what all those words mean, but I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have to punch you in the throat.
Those are great answers. But keep in mind that this is part of the interview process. Is there are any other foibles we should be aware of?
Foibles?! I guess I like the one with the three pigs and the wolf.
Not fables, foibles. Minor character flaws.
Oh. Like my heroin habit? Or my felony goat rustling rap?
Yes.
Oh, well those things I already said. Also, I like to get drunk on Listerine. I force hamsters and pigeons to fight to the death by strapping tiny medieval weapons to their little arms. I relieve myself in newspaper boxes. I used to run a protection racket on my church choir group. I rarely shower... in the woman's locker room at the Y. I get my clothes of of recently deceased people at the hospital. I stole and then sold my grandma's dog and hot water bottle. Uhhmm. That's all I can remember at this moments, I'm a little messed up right now, I just ate some magic mushrooms I found under the trashcan at the dog park.
Oh, that's plenty. I don't normally say this in the middle of an interview, but you are really something special.
I know, right?!
Just extraordinary. Now let's do some word association.
With letters? Like a spelling bee?
No. I say words and you tell me the first thing that you think of.
Boobs.
I didn't start yet.
Doesn't matter. Everything makes me think of boobs.
OK, we'll see. Bird.
Boobies.
Television.
Boob.
Drums.
Boobs.
Puppy.
Boobs.
Eyes.
Boobs.
Cantelope.
Boob.
Mammal.
Boobs.
OK, last one. Boobs.
Did the aliens tell you to say that?! Damnit! Wear a tinfoil hat everyday for the last three years, and the aliens can't get in my stupid head, and then the first day I don't, the fricking aliens try and take over. Fricking great! Now I suppose your going to probe me!
Well technically, that's more than one word. Also; please pull your pants up.
Are we almost done? I'm supposed to meet my parole agent... or was it my dealer? in a few minutes. What else you got?
Almost done. Last thing. You just to need to take a piss test.
Just did.
In your pants?
Oh yeah.
Excellent! I have to say, I have never met anybody more qualified to be a belligerent homeless crazy guy. You have the position. When can you start?
Boobs! ALIENS! Alien boobs. Get out of my brain! Get out, get out, get out. Did you pee on me? Hey can you spare some change for a veteran? Boobs. Buddy. Buddy. Buddy. Give me some Listerine. I know you got some, your breath is fresh. AHHHHHHHHgggghghhh. Get out. Get out. Get out. Boobs.

Pajama Day.

Recently my pre-school age son had a super fun event at his day care center. It was called Pajama Day. It went like this; everybody was encouraged to show up in their pajamas,  and then they just did all the regular stuff they normally do on a typical day. But it was way more fun because they were wearing their pajamas. My son totally loved it.
   I was pretty jealous. How come something so joyful and fun is the sole property of the young? It's not fair. I need a Pajama Day much more than my kid does. My life is a never-ending series of mind numbingly boring events; I need pajama day. My shiftless-do-nothing-lazy-play-the-day-away-cartoons-and-sugared-cereal-happy-happy-baby-hobo child doesn't need Pajama Day to make his life better. It already IS better.
   So today I decided to wage an important, yet symbolic, battle for adults everywhere. I hijacked Pajama Day. I wore my pajamas all day. I went Bible study. I went to breakfast. I went to work, where I performed my plumberly duties, I had lunch, I went to the bank, I picked up my child from day care, I went to the grocery store, and then I went home. And it was great! It made everything better. It was intoxicating and pure.
   And then the cops showed up. I learned, it is frowned upon to wear your pajamas out in public if you are an adult. Especially at Bible study. And at restaurants. And at customer's homes. And at one's workplace. And at the bank. And at a day care center. And at the grocery store. Especially if your pajamas are your birthday suit.

Sexual Harassment Is No Laughing Matter... Unless You Do It Right.

This is the offices of Smith, Smith, Smith, Gonzalez-Slebårnueski-Okohabu, and Smith. How may I help you?
I'm being harassed at work.
Sir, I just want to let you know up front, that being told by your supervisor to get off of Facebook and do some actual work, does not constitute harassment. At least, according to a recent Supreme Court ruling.
No. That's not it... Wait. Does that come up a lot?
Oh yes. It's the number one new lawsuit filed by today's industrious worker.
I'll keep that in mind. But no, my complaint is much more serious and salacious than that. I'm being sexually harassed at work.
YIPPEE! Porsche Cayenne, here I come... I mean, how terrible for you. Tell me some more about what's been happening.
My boss has just been making me very uncomfortable at work, and it has to stop.

Oh, I agree. Sex has no place at the workplace, unless you are a sex therapist, or a licensed prostitute who resides in Nevada... Are you?
A sex therapist?
Yes.
No.
Oh good. Uhm. Are you a...
A gigolo?
Yup, or a gentleman of the night if you prefer. A he-hooker? A paid man whore? A tawdry boy? A fellow with round heels and a fat wallet? Mr. Floozie-Pants? Señor sex-on-demand? One of the male persuasion who is paid to have sex with other people?
Oh come on. You made half of those up. And I know what a prostitute is. AND, no, I am not one.
That's great. Not that I have a problem with he-hookers, per se. It's just that...
DUDE! What about me?!
I guess. I mean, I don't really know you, but I suppose we could at least have a drink.
NO. I meant the thing we were talking about.
Which was? Oh! Yes. My Porsche. I mean, your sexual assault case. So, tell me, what is going on at your place of employment?
Well, my boss just makes me uncomfortable. Everything is all about sex.
Can you be more specific?
Well, sometimes he looks at stuff on his computer, when he knows I'll be watching, and sometimes it's risqué, and I'm pretty sure he does it just to get a rise out of me.
Oh, that's terrible.
It is. I have nightmares.
Is there more?
Does a clown poop in the woods?
I don't know what that means.
Yes. It means yes.  I thought everybody knew that one. Clowns poop in the woods.
Bears.
WHERE?! Argh. Oh my god, save me. AHHHHHHhhhhhhhhh.
SETTLE DOWN! Settle down. There isn't any bears.
Then why did you say bears?
It's do bears poop in the woods. Bears, not clowns.

That's ridiculous. Why would bears be in the woods? I mean, there aren't even toilets in the woods. Where would they go to the bathroom?
IN THE WOODS!
With the clowns?
There aren't any clowns.
Oh right. And I suppose the bears are the ones mauling unsuspecting hikers.
OH MY GO... you know? Let's skip this conversation. Why don't you just tell me what else has happened at your work.
OK, this is hard. But sometimes when I go to the bathroom, my boss will... look.
At your private parts?
No. At my twigs and berries.
Isn't that your private part?
What fun would it be, if that was private? My pancreas is my private part.
How would somebody look at your pancreas?
If you had an X-Ray. Or a big knife.
Does your boss watch you in the bathroom while holding a large knife?
No, but that would be freaky.
Yes, but we can't file a suit against your boss for some freaky thing that he hasn't done.
Good point.
But, we can get him for staring at your P-E-N-I-S.
My pens?
Your penis.
Oh, that's a relief. That would be REALLY strange if he was sexually harassing writing implements. That would be a whole other level of weird.
You're a whole other level of weird.
What was that?
I said... I should shave my beard.
You have a beard?
No. So he looks at your "not so private parts" when you are in the bathroom?
Yes. He's always in there when I am. And he's always googling me.
Googling you?
Looking at me brazenly with sexual intentions.
Ogling.
Bless you.
What?
Didn't you sneeze?
No. Staring at someone with unclean thoughts is called ogling.
I thought that was the evil beasts that live under bridges.
Those are ogres. Listen, can we just get on with this? What else?
Well sometimes he touches me... Where my swimsuit covers.
Thank goodness.
What?
Oh sorry. But that's finally something I can use.
You could use being touched by your boss? Maybe I should talk to another lawyer.
No, I mean that's finally something that we can use in your against your boss.
Oh. I get it.
I doubt it.
What?
I said you're stupid and I already hate you.
What?
I said, I bet even cupid would want to date you.
Oh. Well I am pretty irresistible.
Except to women. Or gay men. Or anyone really.
What?
Especially to women; I'm sure. So this touching? Where and when does this happen?
Well sometimes at random points during the day, he will just reach down and scratch me. Under my clothes.
At work? Just reach down and scratch your, what? Your bottom?
Yes. And my aforementioned, not private parts.
Just reach right out and fondle you? At work?
That is exactly what I'm telling you.
When else does he touch you indecently?
When I get out of the shower.
He showers with you? This dude is getting weirder and weirder. Have you told him not to?
He doesn't really listen to me. He acts like I belong to him.
That is very disturbing. Who would want you?
What?
I said, my eyes are blue.
Are they?
No. So when else does this touching occur?
Sometimes late at night after everybody else has gone to bed, he will... he'll... he... h... I can't go on. It's too awful to remember.
Why is he in your bed? Are you being serious?
Yes. Fatal serious.
Fatal?
Yeah it's like dead serious, but worser. And seriouser.
Fatal isn't worse than dead, it's the same thing.
Whatever. Do you want the case or not?
I'm not sure even a Porsche is worth this. Do you have any witnesses?
I witnessed it.
You are not a witness. Is there anyone else in your office that can corroborate your story.
Gather my story into one area?
That's consolidate. No. Corroborate means to confirm your story.
You want my story to become catholic?
Not that kind of confirm. Is there anybody else I can talk to that saw what happened to you? One of your co-workers perhaps?
No, I'm afraid not. I don't have any co-workers.
That's too bad. So, it's just you and your boss?
Yup. Just a one man operation.
Wouldn't that be a TWO man operation?
Nope, it's just me.
...and your boss?
I am the sole employee of the company. And also the owner.
So, who is harassing you?
Geez, I thought you had to be smart to be a lawyer. My boss is harassing me.
YOU ARE YOUR BOSS! You can't harass yourself!
You wouldn't say that if you see what happens in the shower!
Holy crap, that's a terrifying image. Sir, you're a kook. You can't file a suit against yourself.
Why not?! All this sexual attention is totally unwanted.
It can't be unwanted if you are subjecting yourself to it.
Oh yeah?! I suppose, I just asked for it right? You're so typical. Just because I like to wear sexy things, that means I should be subjected unwanted sexual attention?
But you ARE your boss! Who am I supposed to sue? You or you?
That's crazy. What kind of idiot sues himself?
Exactly. Good-bye.

Weird Beard.

I miss writing. Even if it's just for me. I'm back. 

Zombie Preparedness.

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.

Pretty much everybody agrees the Zombie Apocalypse is coming. And tons of people are preparing, but most everybody is doing it wrong. If you really want to survive the coming Zombie uprising, come see me. 

   Because let's face it, you're gonna end up as a zombie. With our help, you'll be the best zombie you can be. 

   First we'll work you out. You want to be nice and strong when it's time. We'll work on the cardio too, you want to be able to run for a good long time. I'm not exactly sure how being in top shape translates, seeing as how there aren't any zombies yet, but I'm sure there are residual effects of being strong and fast, muscle memory and all that.

   Then we'll do some customizations. Sharpened teeth for one. Now that you only eat human flesh, you don't need the grinding teeth of the omnivore. All teeth are filed down, razor sharp. Speaking of sharp, we'll also attach prosthetic claws on the ends of your fingers. Since you won't be intelligent enough to wield a weapon you'll need something to rend human flesh with.

   Next we'll work on the achilles heel, as it were, of the zombie. The whole head thing. It is now possible to coat the skull with new lightweight bullet resistant material. What I wouldn't pay to see the smug look on a zombie hunter, turn to horror as he realizes, too late, that his head shot didn't work. I'll also imbed some kevlar in your neck, providing some resistance to edged weapons separating your head from your shoulders.

   Lastly, give some thought to were you will most likely reside after you become a zombie. If you will be in the country, we will give you a full body traditional camo paint job. If you will be hunting in the city, we will paint you up in the new modern urban camouflage. They'll never see you coming. 

   After you see us at Flip's Zombie Modifications, you won't just survive the Zombie uprising; as the top predator, you'll thrive. 

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