Gray Pubes and Bulk Shopping

Okay:

So have you seen this commercial yet?

I don’t have anything clever to say about it. But it’s always good to see black-owned companies graduating into video advertising. It’s an accomplishment (read sarcasm).

Once again, my daughter showed me that getting older is not a gradual process. You wake one up morning, you have gray pubic hair and a backache.

My daughter is 8 years old, and for whatever reason, she’s extremely talkative. I’m not exactly sure where she gets it from, but it’s ridiculous. Sometimes when we’re getting into the car she’s telling me some story about something she thinks is funny. She’s not even really breathing in between sentences. I let her in the back seat and she’s talking. I strap her into her booster and she’s still talking. I close the door and walk around to the front. When I get in the driver’s seat, she still talking!

The funny part is I don’t think she pauses while she’s in the car alone for 15 seconds. I think she just keeps right on talking.

And she begins every sentence with “This one time on Hannah Montana…”

The other day she was talking, talking, talking. I was nodding my head, trying to be polite. Then she goes, “Daddy, were you even listening to me?”

I say, “Sure I was, honey.”

And she says, “If you were listening, what was I saying?”

So I say, “You were saying…” Then I come to my senses.

“Wait a minute, dammit!” I say. “I told you I was listening. You ain’t my girlfriend. You’re an 8 year-old.”

Like my aunt used to say. “The little fuckers don’t come with instructions.”

In other news, I have officially become a very boring adult. Yesterday I went bulk shopping at BJs!

I know, I know.

My girlfriend kept telling me how much cheaper it is and how I wouldn’t have to go grocery shopping for like three months if I dropped a couple hundred at BJs. I finally caved. It was miserable.

There are all these grown-ups running around with over sized shopping carts, toddlers in tow and diaper bags slung over their shoulders. They spill out of huge SUVs, gospel music seeping from the windows. Some of them are wearing sandals.

I want to turn around and go home. Then I start noticing the prices. Three jumbo bottles of Curel for $13. Twenty-four rolls of Charmin for $10. Six gallons of Deer Park for $5. I look at my girlfriend and say, “We may need another cart.”

The other day, she bought me some scalp treatment from the hair salon because she noticed I was flaking badly. A year ago, I was knocking back shots of Dewar’s five nights a week at happy hour, having random casual sex and sleeping the entire weekend.

Now I’ve got dandruff and enough meat in my freezer and lotion under my sink to survive a nuclear holocaust.

God, you’re hilarious.

Truthfully, I don’t know how I lived like that for as long as I did. It’s hard doing all this shit alone. Especially when you’re drunk. Being sober and committed has its advantages.



Thanks for reading.

The Prodigal Son Returneth and Haveth Much Shit To Sayeth

Okay:

First things first. Yes, I did fall off the face of the earth. Literally. I went for a walk one day, and dammit if I didn't fall right off the motherfucker. I guess my father was right.

"Claude," he said. "The earth is round, but flat like a quarter. They want you to believe that we're walking around on a ball. But if we're walking around on a ball, how come stuff isn't rolling all over the damn place? Doesn't make sense, does it?"

In all seriousness, the truth is I had to re prioritize some things. Long story short, I wasn't spending enough time with my kid. It's hard to justify spending upwards of two hours sitting in front of a computer every day, especially when engaged in something as self-indulgent as blogging, and even more especially when it's not making you any money. How can you justify not spending that time with your child instead?

You can't. I tried.

The little fuckers come first, man.

Then there was the issue of my Internet service being disconnected. And a bill to the cocksuckers at RCN that clearly could not be paid off unless I started putting myself out to stud for mannish lesbians who want the bun without the baker.

Then something miraculous happened. I turned on my computer one day, and I was reconnected. It's like Jesus came down and used his Christ magic to get me web access. Like he did with the wine and the fish, except this is a really impressive and decidedly useful miracle.

I suppose updates are in order.

My daughter is fine. We're spending a whole lot more time together. A few days ago I noticed that her front tooth was hanging, literally, by a thread of pink flesh. I should tell you that one of my phobias is losing my teeth. I have an unreasonable amount of anxiety about falling and getting a tooth knocked loose. Loose teeth, as a result, are unbearably gross to me. Of course, my daughter is fascinated by them. She pushes them back and forth with the tip of her tongue.

"Look, daddy," she says.

"No thanks," I say. "I'm sure it's looser than hell."

But this one was so loose I felt compelled to call my mother. "Ma," I said. "This thing shoulda fell out a long time ago. Why is it taking so long?"

"Claude," she said soberly. "You're gonna have to pull it out."

"No fucking way," I said.

"You're her father. Who else is going to do it?"

"I'm willing to outsource."

My mother agreed to do the deed, but shame eventually got the better of me and I decided I would do it myself. It is not to be underestimated how absolutely horrified I was. I would have preferred to stick my finger in that hole in the sink that stops it from flooding. Which is quite gross by the way. But it's got nothing on loose teeth.

"Sweetie," I said. "I have to pull that tooth."

She cried and ran and pleaded, so I told her that I wouldn't pull it out. I just wanted to see how loose it was. Then I got my hand in there and yanked the thing out.

Well.

Blood gushed everywhere, and a little piece of pink flesh was dangling where her tooth used to be. She screamed, "You lied to me! Why did you lie, Daddy?"

I ran out of the room for fear that I might vomit. Then I got myself together and made her a glass of warm salt water. "Gargle with this," I said.

When she looked at me I saw the little piece of pink flesh again. "What the fuck is that?" I thought. "Should that be there? Did I fuck her mouth up?"

I called my mother. "Ma," I said. "What the fuck is this pink shit dangling from her gum? I think I may have fucked her mouth up."

She assured me it would go away eventually. And it did.

Until it did, I avoided looking at her face directly. That shit was way gross.

Well, that's it for now. I won't be blogging daily anymore. But I will do my best to write at least once a week.

I leave you with the new video for my new single "Government Game". Enjoy.

Thanks for reading.


GOBAMA!