Back From The Dead

Okay:

Well, it has certainly been a while. I am recommitting myself to writing once a week. I think I can handle that. It goes without saying, I suppose, that I have been extremely busy. As my daughter ages, my daddy duties multiply exponentially. She’s in the third grade now which means they’re learning the multiplication table. This is where I started to tap out in school. Too much numbers!

This times that and that times this. Who needs it?

Then the motherfuckers started throwing in letters with the numbers. It was like some sort of sick game. Never having been the competitive type, I said fuck it. But I don't want my baby girl to grow to be a mathematical retard like her father.

I bought her some single digit multiplication flash cards. When I was quizzing her the other morning, I found myself having to double check the answers. Sad, I know. I get really tripped up with the odd numbers. Luckily, I have somehow raised a compassionate child. “Daddy, it’s okay,” she says. “I don’t know what 7 times 12 is either.”

She truly is a remarkable little girl. She has graduated from Disney Channel to Nickelodeon. I’m not certain that I approve. There was a titty joke on iCarly the other day. “Daddy, what’s a boob?” she asked me.

Progressive parent that I am, I offered a comprehensive and honest explanation. “A boob is a slang term for breast. A breast is a mass of fat that grows on a woman’s chest. If she chooses, she can use them to breast feed.”

“What else can she use them for daddy?”

“Other than that they’re totally useless,” I said.

Then there’s grad school. I re-enrolled this semester after having dropped out a year ago. I’m studying to become a principal, believe it or not. I’d be lying if I told you that I’m certain I’m in the right field, but I’ll be thirty this year and it’s time to shit or get off the proverbial pot.

I think of Morgan Freeman in Lean On Me. I think of Chi McBride on Boston Public. I think of my old junior high school principal, Mr. Moss.

What do all of these people have in common? A job that needs to be taken more seriously than I believe myself to be capable. I mean, what is the big fucking deal? Would it be possible for me to run a school building without becoming a tight ass in a cheap suit who thinks too much of himself? What is it about being in charge of a few hundred teenagers that turns you into complete asshole?

In the hierarchy of individuals with power, the high school principal ranks just above the ticket taker at the movie theater. I don’t want to spend $40,000 to become a self-important prick with a clip board and a to-do list.

I used to work for this one asshole a few years back. In the dead of winter, we lost our heat. People were sitting in their classrooms with their outdoor coats on, shivering. The teachers refused to teach and suggested, with all the passion marginally educated semi-professionals can muster, that we close the school and send everyone home early. He refused. Then here comes this asshole, standing in the hallway, in a fucking sweater vest and bow tie, remarking out loud to no one in particular, “It’s not that cold.”

You could see his fucking breath.

Then there was Mr. Moss who had pulled me out of class for fighting when I was in the seventh grade. Six foot five. Dark as night. Walrus mustache. This was the tight ass of all tight asses. He looked like he might shit naked so he wouldn’t wrinkle his pants. As we were walking down the hallway to his office, he stooped down to pick up a candy wrapper off of the floor.

I have always remembered that moment for some reason. Even at twelve years old I recall thinking—How pathetic! He picks up trash and intimidates children for a living. This is the opposite of what I want to do for a living.

Yet, here I am. This week, while I’m home on spring break, I’ll be working on a fictional public relations plan for a fictional school. Doesn’t that sound delicious?

I’d rather pluck the dingleberries out of my ass hair.

As my regular readers know, I am also no longer single. It’s been about five months now. The honeymoon is over and we are officially starting to get on one another’s nerves. It’s great though. I’ve been tracking her periods, so I know when to pack my patience.

It’s ridiculous really. She was just getting on my nerves earlier tonight. Then I checked my calendar and thought—Oh, that explains it.

I never imagined planning my comings and goings around a woman’s menstruation cycle, but honestly, I think it’s the key to keeping a relationship going. I suppose I’d be pissed off if I knew I was going to be bleeding out of my crotch for the next five days and there wasn’t much to be done about it. It’s pretty gross, actually.

Other than the occasional predictable personality clashes, we’re doing just fine. I’m as happy as a faggot with front row seats at a Janet Jackson concert. No major complaints so far. I’ll keep you posted though.

Oh, and as far as politics go, I think Barack's doing a great job considering the circumstances. I heard about his little Special Olympics comment on Leno. First of all, I think it's fantastic that he went on Leno. It shows he hasn't forgotten how he got in office in the first place. Also, any man who makes fun of retards on public television is someone you can trust.

It's the prudes who give me pause.


I suppose that’s about it for now. See you next week.




Thanks for reading.