Married dad in search of single man
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MORE OF ME MONTHLY COLUMN: http://guyspeed.com/category/half-a-man/TWITTER: My...
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The greatest gift a mother can receive today are dated gift receipts proving you didn’t wait...
The greatest gift a mother can receive today are dated gift receipts proving you didn’t wait until yesterday to buy her stuff
— Chris Illuminati (@chrisilluminati) May 12, 2013
No Offense
If you’d like to follow me on Facebook, only to unfollow eventually, go right ahead and click this link.
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Another B*llsh*t Day In...
A choice. A sick game, that’s literally a sick game, created by some sadistic villain from a Bond flick.
Do you want to take care of the kid up at 6 am, vomiting all over his penguin pajamas and hysterically crying to make it stop and shouting “DON’TTAKEMYSHIRTOFF” even though said shirt has more unchewed macaroni hanging off it than a noodle restaurant mop.
OR
Do you want the newborn who never really feel asleep the night before, up every other hour to feed, shart and cry?
I get vomit kid because I’m not packing the breasts with the magic milk that will put the newborn to sleep, stop her from crying and generally just cause her to chill the f*ck out.
One more day stuck in the house, the wooden window trim suddenly feel like prison bars. An extra week added to my sentence for rapping my coffee mug across the window pane and yelling for the warden. A fresh notch joins the line of fifteen other chalk lines notched on the wall to keep track of days. My only salvation the occasional work releases to grocery shop, diaper shop or dig my escape hole in the backyard that will eventually lead to, according to anyone who ever took me to the beach as a kid, China.
To steal and paraphrase a line from a great writer — “Another bullshit day in suck city.”
Oh cool, this penitentiary has Hot Wheels. I just took the favorite car of another inmate. I might get shivved during bath time.
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If men always think with their penis we should rename condoms “thinking caps” — Chris...
If men always think with their penis we should rename condoms “thinking caps”
— Chris Illuminati (@chrisilluminati) April 26, 2013
Real men don't wear flip-flops
This is what spilled out of my brain in eight minutes. Enjoy.
My father never wore flip-flops. Even in a pair of shorts he'd wear a pair of shoes.
I wear flip-flops. I hate flip-flops. I feel vulnerable in flip-flops. The loud slapping against my soles alerts even those with terrible hearing of my pending arrival or prompt exit. I don't feel prepared in a pair. I don't feel ready should I find myself in sudden danger. I can't run in flip-flops. I can't kick in self-defense. I can't hide in flip-flops. Well, I can technically hide, but I prefer running away to hiding in any dangerous situation. I'll hide if it's my only option.
What am I running, kicking and contemplating hiding from? I'm not sure. With everything that has happened in the world over the past few years, and especially in the past few weeks, it feels like eventually everyone will have to run from something. Maybe it's running away. Maybe it's running to help. Whatever the case, flip-flops aren't conducive to anything other than walking and even that proves to be dangerous on certain surfaces.
Maybe that's why my father never wore flip-flops – born of a generation raised on air raid drills and hiding under their school desks. "A man should always wear real shoes" he might answer if I ever asked or "a man needs foot support" he might tell remind me because of his short stint selling shoes.
"A man sometimes has to run but it doesn't make him less of a man" is what I hope he'd say.
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Man, I feel like a woman
The Shania Twain song randomly popped into my head. It might have been in a commercial on TV. It might live deep in the recesses of my mind. It might have been in my dream. It left my head and came out of my mouth. This is what happened next…
“The best thing about being a woman…is the possibility of 24 hour vaginaaaaa.”
“Would that really be the best part for you? The vagina.”
“I see its pluses and minuses.”
“Would you rather have a woman with giant boobs and no vagina or no boobs and a vagina?”
“Tough call. Can she have giant boobs, a vagina and no mouth?”
“No”
“Can she have giant boobs and a vagina in the spot where she should have a mouth?”
“No”
“This isn’t a fun game.”
[Silence]
“That last conversation was really disturbing.”
“I don’t find it odd. The fact I was singing Shania Twain bothers the fuck out of me though.”
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I’m going to start taking progress photos of my gut like a pregnant woman — Chris Illuminati...
I’m going to start taking progress photos of my gut like a pregnant woman
— Chris Illuminati (@chrisilluminati) April 24, 2013
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I’d like to think if Anne Frank were alive she’d tell the Nazis where Justin Bieber was...
I’d like to think if Anne Frank were alive she’d tell the Nazis where Justin Bieber was hiding
— Chris Illuminati (@chrisilluminati) April 15, 2013
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My set from Gotham Comedy Club in NYC. Yes, I ripped the mic...
My set from Gotham Comedy Club in NYC. Yes, I ripped the mic cord out. Yes, I'm an idiot.
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How is a father supposed to teach his son not to hit when these exist?!?
I mean come on! I just get done telling the kid hitting is wrong, not to hurt people and that his toys are not Ninja Turtle swords (except for the actual Ninja Turtle swords) and I stumble across these dukes while casually browsing my local toy store.
HULK SMASH!
DAD BUY!
WIFE USE REAL FISTS ON DAD LIPS!
These aren’t those hard foam rubber kind. These are soft, like pillows. Similar to the pillows on the couch where I’ll be sleeping for the next month.
What if he was only allowed to punch me?
And the kid in school who’s always getting him in trouble.
And the cat when he takes the first swipe.
And his grandfather. Both.
And anyone else wearing the same fists.
DAD MAD! DAD WANT TEACH SON RIGHT FROM WRONG BUT COOL TOYS MAKE TEACH HARD.
Fine.
Dad sad.
———-
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Million Years by Wild Yaks -- What's In My Ears?
“Now that I’m a million years old.”
“Now that I’m a million years old.”
The opening lines like an ear worm, hiding behind the eardrums, deep inside the canal where wax is even scared to buy property. So it rents. It’s the title song off the Wild Yaks latest album and it has squirming around in my head for a month. I’m fine with it.
If more than a few Wild Yaks songs seem familiar you’ve probably heard them on the Showtime series Shameless. Don’t let the band name fool you, these aren’t grown men dressed in animal pelts and ivory-horned helmets. You’re thinking stand-ins for Capital One commercials. Not even close. Though if frontman Rob Bryn showed to a gig dressed in such a way, it would surprise very few fans. The Yaks are just slightly off-center in that way.
Put Tomahawk, Annabelle and A Million Years, just those three, on shuffle. I promise they will stick in your head in a good way.
Get it on Amazon | Get it on iTunes
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10% of the time
Much like every other loser male with little-to-zero verbal communication skills, I occasionally respond to actual questions with movie quotes instead of meaningful dialogue. The word occasionally means "all the time" right?
A line used more frequently is Frank the Tank's "maybe Bed Bath & Beyond, I don’t know… I don’t know if we’ll have enough time" because it fits perfectly at the end of the excruciatingly long verbal list of errands that need running in the forty-eight hours once known as "the weekend." Our weekends are usually one long errand with no beginning, middle or pause so I use that line all the fucking time. That's the word I was looking for instead of occasionally – allthefuckingtime.
This weekend, the Permanent Roommate and I were [guess] except this time the kid got dumped off at his grandmother's house. The PR and I got along famously. We talked. We joked. We went to Bed Bath and Beyond since there was more than enough time because the 3-year-old anchor wasn't dragging us down with demands of food, toys and eventually a second mortgage on our house to fund his short film with a plot similar to The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel except every character is Italian.
If we're scoring life in percentages, the PR and I get along 90% of time, and the 10% when we don't it's the kid's fault. He runs a play from the kiddie offense playbook and it causes us to butt heads, get angry and say things we don't mean. It's over as quickly as it begins but it does throw a sprinkle of rain on usually sun days. I'm kidding. No days are actually sunny in prison so don't let the brochures trick you.
In three weeks we'll have two children – a newborn and a kid who just learned that every toy, if used correctly, is a weapon.
Soon we’ll bump that second percentage up to 25%.
There will not even be enough time to quote dumb movies anymore.
———————
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