I Miss Having A Job

WHAT THE WHAT?!

Yeah. You heard me. The other day I confessed to my wife that I actually missed having a job.

She said, "You can have mine."

I'm not impressed.

Here's the thing. I've been a stay-at-home-dad (SAHD), homeschooling, child-caring, random-crap-doing, guy for two years now. I've enjoyed damn near most of it. Don't get me wrong, there have been those moments I'd rather someone else had dealt with, but all in all, I wouldn't have gone back to work for anything.

And here I'm missing it. Why?

Zombie Turduckens 2!

That's right folks. THEY'RE BACK! If you didn't catch part one... go here.

This time the "Madden Special" comes in a somewhat different form. You see, John escaped the fiasco in California and shambled his rotting carcass all the way to Miami.

Ohio. He relocated to Miami, Ohio. In all seriousness his goal was Florida, given how it seems to be the final resting place for an awful lot of formerly living people, but he took a wrong turn.

No, not in Albuquerque. It's impossible to take a wrong turn in Albuquerque. Have you ever been there? There's like two highways. One goes left and right, the other up and down. He was going right. No, he took a wrong turn in Dallas. His already muddled and now deceased brain got confused by the fact that there are two Interstate 35's in Texas. And then there's the whole IH 20, 30, 40... by the time he stopped spinning he was already through Kentucky and decided that he was done traveling.^[1]

Cupcake Love

Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I do hereby announce my candidacy for DAD OF THE EVER!

Dad. Of. The. Eh.Ver.

As in, I did this because I'm... well... awesome. If I had to choose a word it would have to be "awesome".

"Why?" you ask. Because this, right here.

Awesome doesn't quite capture it.

 I had, over the day, developed the best headache ever. As It was a perfectly nice day, of which I am extremely allergic to, I, of course, collapsed into a gel of goo.

I do so love my goo. Eww.

Zoey, my ever so loving and nap interrupting 9-year old, decided that in an effort to cheer me up and make me feel better she'd make me a cupcake with her Girl Gourmet cake thing-a-ma-jig ^(TM).

The Red Velvet expired in March. 2011. While it was cooking our house smelled like decade old Wheat Thins found in the back of the back of the warehouse where old army surplus clothing was stored until "New Management" took over.

Dear Cheerios: I Am So Disappointed With You

What. The. Hell.

You've been feeding America for what, like a hundred years?* And in all that time you’ve made the simple awesome that is Cheerios.

Then you introduced the “honey of an O”. I was ok with that, actually. Honey Nut Cheerios are pretty good.

And decades went by. You continued to make good food. I continued to eat it.

So. What happened? I’ll admit that I don’t know your company all that well, but what I’m imagining here is a Howard E. Butt or Sam Walton scenario. The old guy dies… and then a new hip young crew takes over and BAM shit goes down.

Cheerios don’t do just wholesome and healthy anymore! Aw hell NO!

I seriously thought your business plan was flawed with the frosted stuff. But those seemed to have disappeared. I hope. They were terrible.

And then it happened.

Suddenly you got all:

Yogurt Bursty

Fruity

Oat Clustery

Banana Nutty (WHAT was up with this one?)

Chocolate. Seriously. You went chocolate on us? My kids will NEVER be introduced to these. It was here that I had determined you people didn’t give a flying F*** about kids anymore. Were you totally bummed about losing market share to Cocoa Puffs, Pebbles and Krispies? Seriously?

Cinnamon Burst. This one made me scratch my head. Didn’t you do an Apple Jacks kind like 25 years ago? So this one is just Cinnamon? Right.

But now. Now. NOW. I’m totally sure the General is dead. You know… General Mills? He died and now the Cheerios people are like, “It was about time. We’ve been wanting to corrupt Cheerios for decades. And today is the day! Children will beg, yes beg their parents for Cheerios! And their parents will think ‘well, how-di-do. It’s Cheerios so they must be good. Hey look! This one says multi-grain’. AND THEY WILL BUY THE SHIT OUT OF IT! Bwah ha ha HA HA HA!”

I confess, I may have exaggerated on the bwah ha-ing.

Check this out. It’s picture time.

They're new. Sorry... NEW!

That’s right. Peanut Butter Cheerios and (kick me in the nuts) Dulce de Leche Cheerios. They have caramel now.

Hey kids! Don’t have enough opportunity to fatten yourself up? Your teeth too white and strong? Well, you wanna stay healthy right? Why not have the best of BOTH worlds! That’s right! Step right up and have yourself a bowl of Cheerios! A couple ounces of this with a drop or two of milk are an important part of a complete breakfast.**

Not sure… have I come across as bitter, resentful and maybe a bit critical? No? Hmf.

*72

**Yes, a complete breakfast without this shit would still be a complete breakfast. Have you seen the serving size? ¾ cup. That’s it. With a ½ cup of skim milk. Hell, my 5 year old gets more nutrition eating her own snot.

Zombie Turduckens

You asked for it.

While it is true that my zombie apocalypse team post did not make number one (as predicted), it is entirely due to some freak of google. From some strange reason my Don’t Worry Be Happy post shot to number one without any effort whatsoever. People are googling the hell outta it. 

Again, I don’t know why.

I consider it a fluke of google, and therefore the ZOMBIE TURDUCKENS ARE LOOSE.

Imagine a sleepy southern California town with ten houses and a shopping mall. It’s Thanksgiving. The Cowboys are playing (this term is used loosely) against… who cares?

John Madden chose this town to retire in. He died.

But the body lived on! To open a small deli stand specializing in baked bird within a bird within a bird treats. And six legs. Can’t forget the six legs. Kinda like a giant roach. All brown and crunchy.

I’d bore you with the details… but since zombification of cooked meat is not an exact science it can’t be boring! John Madden’s body made hundreds of turduckens. And then he took one bite out of each one.

Thunder!

Lightning!

And hundreds of turduckens began wobbling north headed straight for…. Wait for it….

I said WAIT!

CANADA.

But this being America and turduckens are only ever made on Thanksgiving (not so much for the holiday as for consolation after watching the Cowboys lose) the army of crispy deliciousness couldn’t make it as far as Bakersfield before being chased down by Detroit Lions fans and consumed. They even ate the giblets.

Ewwwwwwwwww. Gross.

This is especially disconcerting because there were only eight of them.

You. Asked. For. It.

 

 

I believe he is eating Pat Summerall's pickled brain.

Dear Solicitors

Dear Solicitors:

Please stop calling my phone. My home phone, that is. We don’t answer it. Ever.

This goes for all robots too. Robots for political action committees, charities, and debt collectors. Most of you aren’t even looking for us.

Especially you debt collectors. Wow. You called me looking for who? Erin Johnson? Are you even trying?

Listen, we keep our home phone for one reason, and one reason only.

911.

Seriously. That’s it. It’s an extremely selective group of people we don’t know that we’d like to be able to find us. You don’t qualify.

I know, I know… you’re saying, “Why don’t you turn your phone off?”

Well, there is that rare occasion where I’ve invited someone to call me on my home phone. That’s right. I don’t want them to know my cell number, but knowing my house number is fine. Why? Because I expect that I won’t know that person for very long and seriously don’t want to be accidentally texted at 3 am with “Yo bro? Wer u @?”

I really don’t care about the latest credit card service or deal you have to offer. It will not be good. At all. I don’t care who’s running for city council or why. I don’t live in the city limits anyway. You clothing drive people call twice a day. FOR YEARS and you have yet to get an answer.

My name is not Erin Johnson. My wife is not a 56 year-old woman from New Jersey. Funny how I was able to find her.

So, in closing, stop calling me.

Please.