Monthly Archives: August 2013

Not going to do it … diaper duty explained

You’re never too old to learn something new about yourself.  If that sounds like some retarded Facebook meme about women’s empowerment or something,  good, it was meant too.

I’m shocked this happened because I’m not 23 years old anymore.  I mean if you’re 23 years old and, if Facebook is any indication at all, you’re learning new shit every moment.

What the fuck does this even mean?

What the fuck does this even mean?

The last thing I learned, before this new thing, was that beer is good.

Really, that’s the last new thing I learned.

But now I know a new thing. Want to know what it is? I’ll tell you.

I don’t ever, ever have to change a baby’s diaper.

Shut up, that’s an awesome thing to realize.

My wife has to change diapers.  You likely have to do it as well, but I don’t ever have to. I never have and I’m pretty confident, I never will.

Suck on it baby diaper changers! Wallow in your human-excrement wiping and look upon me with awe. My hands have only touched my own filth and someone else’s filth during that brief experimentation with scat in the early … well let’s not talk about that.

So I can hear you asking how? How did you do that! How have you never changed a baby? I can hear it even if you aren’t actually asking that and/or have stopped reading already.

It’s easy — I never had children.  In my mind this means I never have to change a diaper, ever.

Stay with me here.

After having recently spent some seriously-awesome time alone with my wife and my 2-year old nephew it dawned on me, “I don’t have to change him, or any kid, ever.”

Despite repeated sexual shots in the dark throughout high school and repeated games of penis-Russian roulette in my early 20s, nothing happened. There isn’t a little half me out there … Anywhere

This qualifies me to look you straight in the eye and refuse, point blank, to touch your little bundle of poo!

IMG_0800I had this epiphany while in the presence of aforementioned toddler nephew who was doing his best impression of a 40-year old man drunk on vodka and full of Mexican food. He smelled like an Port-A-Potty at a Phish concert. He smelled like dog vomit and beer farts kept in a jar for a week. He smelled like teen spirit that’s been left in the hot sun. It smelled like Thai food and bad dreams.

Can I do one more? Thanks.

He smelled like a family in a one-room hut that only ate cabbage, beans and cheese for a year who finally came into a windfall of pork and then stayed around to really sniff their farts.

He smelled bad.

The conversation about changing him went something like this.

Dagmar: Hey your nephew smells kind of ripe.

Me: I know you should change him. Hurry, it’s grossing me out.

Dagmar: Why me? Come on, I’ll help you.

Me: Oh (laughing) that’s never happening. You go ahead. I’ll guard your drink.

Dagmar: What the fuck asshole, it’s your nephew.

Me: Doesn’t matter you’re far more qualified than I am. I’ll only be a hindrance in there. Maybe even a liability. Kind of like the security guys on the first season of Star Trek.

Dagmar: So you’re not going to help me?

Me: Nope, I never had kids. I think that qualifies me for immunity from diaper


Not in photo, ever, me.  (Photo credit: ‘Scratch’)

duty. Even if it doesn’t, it should.

Dagmar: You’re being an asshole; help me find the diaper bag at least.

Me: That’s the maximum amount of effort I’m willing to put into this.

Thankfully my sister-in-law showed up moments later and saved the day, but the point is you should all realize, I was fully prepared to toss my bride under a bus filled with poop.

My logic is this: Because I never had a kid and most of you have, each and every one of you is vastly more qualified to wipe excrement from the nether regions of the “unpotty trained.” This very fact means I’ll never have to do it. Ever! And kids, that’s awesome.

My nephew can ask me for help when he’s 16 and needs to buy a car and let me tell you, checks will be written. If he has problems at 19 that he can’t turn to Mom and Dad with — call Uncle Todd, I’ll be there with sage advice and discreet assistance.

Wiping poop off your 2-year old balls? I get a pass. And I’m cashing that pass in now.

Five vaginas and me… a tale of one man’s woe

My penis is smaller today. I haven’t measured it but I’m fairly certain it’s actually shrunk over the last 48-hours. But I’m also oddly, more in touch with my inner beauty and that’s got to be a plus right? If anyone wants to talk about how they “feel” today just leave a note in the comments section. I’ll be sure to respond.

I’ve just spent the last 48 hours or so with five vaginas … err ladies during a road trip to the Poconos so they could visit Camelbeach Mountain Water Park.

Nails – 1=asphalt nail; 2=asphalt nail with br...

Not number seven!. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I can happily report that none of them killed each other and that I’m basically unscathed.

If you haven’t been following along, and why would you have been honestly, I have just returned from a two-day trip in which my wife, her daughter, her daughter’s partner, her partner’s daughter, her partner’s daughters friend (Jesus Christ that was hard!) and I went to the Poconos to visit a water park.  I’m 43 years old. I don’t have kids of my own and the only thing I’d rather do less than visit a water park is to put a nail up my pee-pee hole.

If you had a gun to my head and was given the option, “Water park, or briefly put a this nail in your pee-pee hole,” I’d have to think about it. I mean the nail shit would be over in moments, right? That’s an hour of being uncomfortable at best.  Really it’s a no-brainer when you think about it.

But no one had a gun to my head nor did anyone offer up the nail option so off to the Poconos we went.

While the three-hour drive there and back was basically uneventful (why do you fucking people insist on doing the speed limit in the passing lane for fuck’s sake!) I did learn a few valuable lessons about the female psyche.

For example, how much fucking aspirin do you fucking chicks need in a given 24-hour period anyway? Why the constant discussions of dosages too? Just take the fucking pill and swallow it. If it’s too much — who cares — and if it’s too little — take more. Also, why does someone always have to not feel good? Why is someone always mad at someone else in the group?  What the fuck is that? Is that some kind of female-pack mentality thing those of us with a penis don’t have the genes to understand? I sure don’t.

Anyway, thanks to the invention of smart phones and head phones no one talked much anyway. Someone in the back of the car would giggle or laugh outright and Dagmar and I would be the only ones to hear them.  Maybe the headphones are a good thing, If they had talked I would have shushed them because I planned on torturing everyone the entire way with NPR talk radio.

Upon arriving in the area I was a bit shocked. I thought the Poconos was some posh place? Why did you lie to me America? I would have settled for, “It has a lot of cheap hotels and tourist-trap bullshit.” Really, I would have been just fine with that. It’s all gaudy bullshit and cheap tourist crap. Which is fine, really, I just thought — hell I don’t know what I thought.

Poconos Heart Shaped Tub

It’s this … (Photo credit: TunnelBug)

If New Jersey ever successfully invades the French Riviera I know what the result will look like,  is all.

The lighthouse of Nice, on the Mediterranean c...

… not this. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’d like to say the water park was a nightmare of epic proportions, but it wasn’t. I was allowed to act as the automatic cash dispenser for the ladies when it came to the bar. In a development I never expected, the water park had a bar right in the middle of it. I was allowed to park my boring ass right at the bar for the duration. I rode not a single vortex o’ pee, nor a “flow of kids screaming like idiots” ride the entire time. In fact, I didn’t even get wet.

It was perfect really.

If you’re above the age of 40 and still enjoy those rides good on you. Really I mean that. I could just not give a fuck is the issue. Call me a killjoy, call me boring, I’d just rather sip cold beers and people watch. All five vagin … I mean ladies … I was with understood that and left me in charge of towel-watching while they frolicked about the park and I put away $6 Corona beers.

I came to find I had company though. I wasn’t the only stick in the mud. More than a few parents confessed they had gone on not a single ride and were happy to let their respective kids run wild while they nursed their alcoholism beside me.

Some asshole, and by asshole I mean a really funny dude, made a point that we had to remain clothed at waterparks in ‘Merica during last week’s blog update.  Which, yeah, I had that coming.

Two last points about the place. America, you’ve lost weight haven’t you? Really you look a bit thinner than last time I was here 18 months ago. What’s your secret? Not all of you of course,  and there could be some confirmation bias going on here, but on the whole, you look thinner. I’d say in another 24 months you’re going to fit into that dress you bought because you don’t, overall, look as fat as I remember. Then again, it was a water park and maybe fat people don’t go to them.

OK, I’m done with the fat jokes.

Point two.

When the fuck did smoking outdoors become regulated? Land of the free indeed. This area had two smoking areas, while outdoors and you couldn’t smoke anywhere but … OK fuck it, Europe is doing that too now. Trouble is in Europe I can’t understand the jeers. Here I can.  “Honey come back here you don’t want to walk over there, that’s where the people smoke, you don’t like smoke do you,” and such. Can you leave us to our coffin nails with a bit of peace, is that too much to ask?

Next up farm country, cows and lots of deer. Dagmar and I are going to kick it into low gear with a quick trip to upstate New York starting tomorrow.

‘Merica! Day one, take two … dispatches from The Seasoned Mariner

After more than 14 hours of constant flights I’m back in ‘Merica! While it’s been less than 24 hours back on the Yankee side of the pond I’m not going to spend an entire blog update bitching about life in the states (yet) but I am going to say it’s always so fucking weird coming back.

While it's not a good view, it's an interesting view.

While it’s not a good view, it’s an interesting view.

Currently I’m at a bar/restaurant called The Seasoned Mariner overlooking, well I’m not really sure what this particular body of water is, nursing a few bottles of Rolling Rock beer.

My wife and her kid are out doing ‘stuff’. Really just stuff, boring stuff that I won’t bore you with because it’s boring, to me at least. I asked them to drop me here, hell they kind of asked if they could drop me here so I’d be less of a pain in their ass and I of course happily agreed.

With the exception of a party of five, having some sort of business meeting turned bull session I have the place to myself.  All in all not a bad deal, it has Wi-Fi, the waitress helped me find a table with power and doesn’t seem to mind serving up endless rolling rock beers to a dude that was overly concerned about having Wi-Fi and a table with power while fiendishly pecking away at a laptop without expressing any interest in ordering food.  Seriously, while I can’t speak to the food, if you’re looking for a place with atmosphere, you could do a lot worse than The Seasoned Mariner in this neck of the woods.

This serves as a great reminder that perhaps my mind does get a little over active

Dagmar said specifically when I was dropped off, don't pick up any hookers and don't get crabs.  So that options out.

Dagmar said specifically when I was dropped off, don’t pick up any hookers and don’t get crabs. So that options out.

when I imagine returning to the U.S. from Europe even if it is only for a quick two-week vacation. American perhaps isn’t as draconian and weird as I remembered after all.

Still though there are some of the things I always find strange upon returning. I can understand every literal word of the business meeting-turned bull session across the room. Sure on base in Germany that’s perfectly normal but anywhere else it’s more the very-rare exception. It’s been a constant eavesdropping session since I cleared customs yesterday. I can’t help myself actually. As a dear friend once told me when we flew back to the U.S. for work after I remarked that we could understand everything anyone was saying he replied, “that’s true Todd and no one is saying shit.”

So prost to that m’friend, prost to that!

So I don’t have too much to say yet about this trip yet. It’s too new, less than 24 hours old as I said.

On Monday we take an overnight trip to a, I hope you’re sitting down, water park! Much like that last time I posted from America when you leave decisions to teenagers, as my step-daughter and wife are keen to do, you and by you I mean I, suffer the consequences.  If there’s a foul mouthed diatribe that endlessly repeats the phrase “MOTHER FUCKING FUCK FUCKERS!” posted sometime on Tuesday you’ll know that trip was a success.

There are few things in America I wish to do, apart from visiting friends and family I mean. Someday I’d like to see Yellowstone National Park and Mount Rushmore. I would, with great enthusiasm, tour any historical civil war battlefield. Alaska, you might be shocked to learn, has an allure to me and maybe someday that’s will be checked off the list.

Water parks, with their throngs of screaming children, are almost literally at the bottom of the list. Truthfully they do not even belong on the list at all. They’re near the top of the list of shit I don’t want to do anywhere in the world, ever. But that’s a different list all together isn’t it?

But I know, I shouldn’t be such a selfish bastard and I won’t be. I won’t be such a selfish shit because, and thanks to the internet this has been confirmed, the park has a bar which I’ve been assured I can have full and unfettered access to. Seems even America has the compassion to be merciful to dipshits such as myself.

Well anyway the business meeting is breaking up and heck, I’ve learned a lot listening in. One of them knows someone that has an antique chair in their basement that’s worth $300. One of them thinks the water bills here are too high and another is married to someone that works for “an agency” on Ft. Meade. He’s so mysterious.

A pleasure boat also just docked and two men are enjoying a corona while a 3 or 4 year old girl plays in some sand nearby. It look utterly peaceful, that’s an afternoon I would enthusiastically embrace if I moved back here.

More in a bit, this rolling rock isn’t going to drink itself.

Packing for a trip with a beer buzz … doesn’t everyone?

When I pack for a trip I like to have a bit of a beer buzz going. Am I the only one who likes doing that?

Packing for Sardinia trip/what's in my bag

I hate this person (Photo credit: miss_yasmina)

  I don’t think women would like to have a buzz when they pack. You ladies put far too much thought into your everyday appearance to even begin to fathom how fun drunk-packing is.
But it is. There’s nothing like arriving at your destination, opening your suitcase and finding out your drunk self totally forgot socks came in pairs. Or that drunkyou thought a collection of plaid shirts with striped pants was a … OK, that’s hyperbole, but you get the idea.
Packing when you’re drunk creates little magical surprises for you on the other end of the trip.
Either I like packing while drunk or I hate traveling so much that I drown my sorrows. Or maybe its both. I’m never really sure if its both. I guess that’s  because I’m normally drunk while packing, and traveling, and pondering which I hate more — but that’s a shitty blog intro don’t you think?
So yeah, we’re headed back to the United States in a few short hours. The flight is officially less than 24 hours away and I can’t tell you how excited I am to become reacquainted with my love-hate relationship with flying.
From the agony of security, the absolute joy of customs and the encouraging fact that every airport has a bar open somewhere no matter the time or … oh wait, that’s not true in America.
I just love cross-Atlantic flights.
From the weird antiseptic smell of the international lounge in Frankfurt, to the germ-filled aluminum flying tube, to the unprepared customs pods on the east coast awaiting our flight, I am fucking pumped. By pumped, I of course mean I need another drink, which I think explains why – as the departure clocks ticks away – I‘m still staring at unpacked bags.
Airport Security Playmobil

This is really a thing? (Photo credit: nedrichards)

I’ve had the opportunity to fly a lot for work. A couple of years ago I flew so often that in just a few short weeks I had racked up more frequent flyer miles crossing the “pond” than any sane person ever could have. It was literally a week in the states, a week back in Germany, two weeks in the states, a week in Germany … you get the idea. I racked up tons of miles back then. Most of them are gone now, but I was able to parlay the last few measly ones into an upgrade for my wife and me on this flight.  Barring another gig that requires frequent cross-Atlantic hopping, it may very well be our last.  

She doesn’t fly much. When she does it’s always with me, on vacation and short. She doesn’t understand what a pure and divine blessing this upgrade is. First-world problems I know, but fuck you I’m writing this you’re not.
I’d write more, but fuck, I’ve got to go pack.

How much do you pay for your pussy . . . cat.

How much is your cat worth?

If you answer that by adding the cost of ammunition with how much time you’ll spent cleaning up the mess, you’re simply not helping.

And if you’re wondering what a skinned cat goes for on the open market, you’re also not helping. You’re also kind of a sicko. For the record the answer to that question, assuming the skinned cat is average-sized, is 18 cents. I’ve asked that very question myself.

I mean what is the fucking cat’s worth in dollars and cents if your wife loves the


Total value of all parts, 18 cents (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

fool beast with all her heart? Then what’s it worth?

I was actually just ripped away from writing this piece by my wife so I could go to the window to watch the cat do something retarded in the backyard.

That retarded something was watching the idiot beast roll around in dirt. Yeah, I know, it’s a natural defense mechanism many creatures on our earth participate in to defend themselves against skin irritants, but my wife found it cute.

We don’t have our own penis-in-vagina-made kids, and we certainly don’t have any actual children in the house, apart from myself I mean, so I think she dotes on the mouse catcher a bit more than most.

Or she’s just easily amused, who knows?

So I again ask the question, what’s that particular cat, in my set of circumstances worth — its well-being, its continued existence, its quality of life — what is that worth, if you were in my shoes?

Putting further parameters on the question: What’s all that worth over a two-week period when you’re gone? How much would you pay, in hard-earned cash to ensure that the beast is at least fed, watered and kept clean? Tack on the additional love and attention and what’s that cat sitter worth to you, dollars and cents wise.

I said $200, and that apparently means I’m spending all my money on hookers and heroin, because I think $200 is an insane amount to pay anyone for such services.

I bring all this up because that’s exactly what I recently paid a college kid visiting her parents here in Europe for the summer. The way I calculated that sum is described as this. Poor college kid, kid needs money, kid had to come to my house to perform the duties, we’re not poor (we’re not rich but really, we’re not poor), and don’t be a dick.

Mr. Burns

Not me. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Seriously, the kid had to come to our house. Meaning they have to borrow mom or dad’s car or be driven by a parent in order to complete the task each and every time. It’s also Europe. Europe is expensive. I realize it’s not my duty to fund a kid’s free-time activities while visiting mom and dad in Europe over summer vacation, but I’m also not going to turn into the Simpson’s Mr. Burns character either.

We’re faced with a similar situation in that we need help with the cat duties again. But this time we’re asking a friend watch the cat in her own house. So literally, all she has to do is not kill it. Not killing a cat, unlike the assholes that answered the lead of this blog with, “How much do bullets cost,” is the easiest thing to do. The person watching our cat while we fly back to the U.S. for vacation could, I know for a fact, not feed or water the beast for the entire two weeks and the little flea bag would likely survive the ordeal. Sure, Abby the cat (I think that’s its name) will have to drink toilet water, but who hasn’t done that? Everyone’s done that, right?

Here’s the part I can’t make up in a million years — the agreed upon price for cat sitting in her own home is  $100 bucks and a carton of Marlboro Lights (really the bar isn’t high with this person). If you don’t smoke, let me help you out with some basic math, a carton of name brand cigarettes here is about $45 on post.

So let’s add this all up. For a week college kid has to drive at least 20 minutes one way to feed, water, poop scoop and play with the retarded skin bag of claws my wife calls “her baby.” Two hundred dollars is a crazy fucking amount that no sane person would pay. Paying a person $145 to watch a cat for two weeks that she has at her home while she’s unemployed anyway, is totally, however, completely reasonable.

On top of all this lets all reemmber that the pussy was in fact free.

Here’s another fun married fact that cracks me up because it’s so very 110 percent the kind of thing my wife does.

This morning Dagmar called and mentioned she was going to the bank to get a money order for $3,500. This struck me as odd because I had no idea what the money order was for but it sounded like something I should know about.

I pressed her for more information. It turns out that she, throughout the last 12 months or so, has been saving up money on the side. On the side as in not in


Tons of change (Photo credit: spcbrass)

the bank, but in a shoebox or some shit, for our trip to the U.S. This fact alone cracks me up because, well, we’re not children of the depression and she could have easily just deposited it in the bank every time there was a decent amount collected. She saved this amount by, a yard sale, endlessly vacuuming up my loose change and who fucking knows what else. But shit, $3,500 is a nice amount Bella, good job!

But why the money order? I asked this question and received a sane and well thought out answer if the year was 1956.  She wants a money order because she would be crazy to carry that much cash with her back to the U.S. Which, technically is true. It would be crazy, more crazy than having $3,500 just lying around the house anyway. When I suggested that she could — and this is a very radical idea — deposit it in our joint account and then withdraw it via ATM once we’re in the states — she replied that I was a genius and that I was the greatest … well she just agreed that I might have a point.

A friend that I’ve long since lost touch with once told me that couples don’t argue about how much money there is (or isn’t), they argue about how the money is allocated. But they were likely quoting Dr. Phil, so fuck them.

Thing is though, I always looked back on that statement during times like this and thought, holy shit, that’s a good call. Dagmar and I do this all the time.

I think, like a lot of couples, we tend to divide the roles up when it comes to money. If we were a corporation, I’d be in charge of the long-term financial strategy and she’d be CEO of day to day operations, watching what’s being spent on the here and now.

It’s just fun to occasionally poke the CEO of the day to day operations in the eye. But if she ever blogs about the long term CEO investment strategy, I’m screwed.