F.K.S.

FKS’ Greatest Hits (Updated)

2006-08-03T23:37:00.000-04:00

This is FKS. My name’s Drew. I have a child that eats, cries, sleeps, and shits, in no particular order. I don't update FKS anymore. I post twice a week or so over at NFL site Kissing Suzy Kolber. If you don't like football, I suggest you go anyway for your daily dick joke fix.

Below are some of my favorite bits from FKS. It’s hard work creating a site that appeals to angry drunks and closeted perverts, but I’d like to think that I was more than up to the task. If you're new here, I recommend you check out the older posts. There are no throwaway dipshit posts here at FKS. Except for maybe one. Or two. Whatever. Check them all out if you're interested in wasting your precious time:

Five things that will scare the shit out of your kids

My brush with Playboy Channel infamy

The legendary (in my mind only) Father’s Day post

Why I fucking hate cats

My historic five days alone with the Girl (Days 1-4 are on the side when you click)

I teach you how to kill bugs like a certified Badass

The Drexl Spivey tribute. Sit down, boy, and grab yo’self an egg roll.

All the stuff that makes me a kickass husband

My experience with biofeedback therapy

Hooray, alcohol!

Catch up on how to properly brag like an asshole parent

One formidable night with the Girl as a newborn

The Chosen One emerges

And, of course, the post that started it all.

An impessive output, to say the least. Whoopi Goldberg would give both her testicles for material this good. I had a blast writing these. Hope you like them. Some of these posts may get erased in the future for reposting over at the Phat Phree. I'm sure you'll live.

Thanks to everyone who took the time to read and/or comment here. That was the best part of this whole thing.

My Child Will Have Bad Taste In Music

2006-08-02T12:10:00.000-04:00

Kurt Cobain killed rock and roll. He was a master songwriter and his band kicked a lot of fucking ass, but he still killed rock and roll. You see, Kurt Cobain made it okay for rock stars to be insecure, and to get in touch with their inner feelings. Which is a good thing, as long as the people doing that sort of thing are as talented as Kurt Cobain. And they aren’t. They so fucking aren’t, I want to mainline formaldehyde right into my system. Take a look at these dipshits:

This is the “rock” band Good Charlotte. These guys are fucking terrible. Simply looking at them makes you a lamer person. Tilted cap? Check. Spiked hair? Check. Lip ring? Check. Completely inane finger tattoos? Check. An alto for a lead singer? Check. Take a good look, parents of the world, because your kids will one day end up listening to the shitheaded output of this band, or some other Douche Rock band like it. That whole Israel/Lebanon scrape is mere appetizer to this battle.

If you want to teach your children about how to properly rock, you must ingrain in them the DFF Principle, which states that rock ‘n’ roll can only be considered truly rocking if it’s about the following three things:

-Drinking
-Fighting
-Fornicating

That’s the list. I make absolutely no exceptions to this, unless the song happens to be about ancient dragons, three-headed Satanic dogs, or some other crazy ass fantasy shit. Cocaine and other drugs can also be substituted for drinking, so long as you’re glorifying their use. But if you’re singing about your girlfriend who dumped you, you’re just James Taylor with a wallet chain. If you’re singing about world peace, you’re fucking Bono and you’ve stopped trying to make interesting music. You are not rocking.

The very term “rock and roll” was originally just another name for screwing. It’s inherently not rocking to get away from that. If you want to be a real ass rock star, you better be getting fucked up, fucking someone, or fucking someone up. I read about the band AFI the other day. Two of the members of that group are vegans. The lead singer of the Killers is Mormon. This is bullshit. I won’t stand for it. I’m a married man living with two females, and I demand rock stars that I can live vicariously through. Badass motherfuckers like Josh Homme, and James Hetfield (80’s James Hetfield, not the shell of a man you see today), and Slash. Would Slash write a song about how much he missed his dead mother? Hell no.

That’s what rock stars are supposed to be: selfish pricks with no regard for anything except their own vices. You know who does that now? Hip hop stars. All the cool shit about rock moved over to hip hop ten years ago, and rock has done nothing about it. Jay-Z is a badass motherfucker. I bet he could kill the dipshit from New Found Glory with his bare hands, or have an underling do it for him. That’s why hip hop rules the charts now. Oh, girls may say they love a sensitive guy, but what they really want to do is hang out at Big Boi’s house, get sloshed on Kool-Aid and vodka, smoke high-potency weed, dance on the stripper pole in the bedroom, get dogged by a crew member, and then get shown the door at 4AM. You won’t be seeing Coldplay treating women so poorly, and that’s why Coldplay sucks. We need rock stars that are willing to degrade themselves and everyone else around them.

That’s what I want my child to aspire to. Not this whiny ass “Wah! I was abused!” crap. If you had a rotten childhood and want to turn to music for salvation, you need to put up a completely false front of arrogance and compensate for your sadness by banging oceans of groupies and snorting untold amounts of cocaine. That’s being sweet. Anything less is being James Blunt. Screw you, you limey bastard. I want Lemmy from Motorhead to drive his Harley right over your underused penis.

And none of this indie rock shit, either. Oh, the Shins changed your life? Well then, your life needs more grain alcohol. I do not abide by Death Cab for Cutie, or Modest Mouse, or any other weakly-named record store clerk wet dream band. Those bands have shitty names. Real rock bands are named Thunderballs, or Love Pump, or Pussy Patrol. Death Cab for Cutie? That’s fucking refrigerator poetry.

The real problem is that there’s nothing on the horizon to suggest a turnaround. We’ve created a culture of mass douchebaggery, and this crap music is the end result of it. And to think, I’m going to be called lame by my daughter for liking AC/DC. Are you fucking kidding me? This world is bullshit.

So kiss my ass, Kurt Cobain. I hope Courtney Love manages to find you again in the afterlife.

The Douchebag List

2006-07-30T09:34:00.000-04:00

Before I delve into this, it’s important to note that the Aggressive Douchebag of the modern era also goes by the name of poseur. If you see any guy sporting the following:

-Popped collar
-Frosted or spiked tips
-Jeep Wrangler
-Lacrosse stick
-Barbed wire tattoo
-Arrogant smirk and/or an absolutely enraging sense of self-satisfaction

Run away. Or else this guy will have you drinking Franzia and listening to the Beastie Boys in no time. Beware!

Again, this is a mere sampling. If you have any issues with this list, feel free to add to it in the comments. The following people are douchebags:

-The Gotti children. I’m not lying when I say the world would be better off if these children were dead. Like Paris Hilton, these people are sociopaths who haven’t killed anyone yet because they are too fucking weak and stupid to do so.
-Ken Griffey Jr.
-Terrell Owens
-Graduates of Harvard University. The over/under on a Harvard asswipe telling you he went to Harvard? Seven seconds.
-Linkin Park, Good Charlotte, and any other pussyass “rock” band that is not Queens of the Stone Age
-The French
-Poets. Half of all poems are about poetry. This annoys me to no end.
-Dick Vitale
-Scrappy Doo
-Any guy who pisses in the middle urinal of a three urinal bathroom
-Steve Forbes
-Anyone from Cincinnati
-Quentin Tarantino. Badass movies, though.
-TV host James Lipton
-Any grocery clerk who needs “the key” to scan an item. Hey fuckstick, why don’t you just keep the key on you at all times?
-Any MTV News "Reporter"
-Internet movie dumbfuck Harry Knowles
-Everyone responsible for the film "Magnolia"
-Ozzy Osbourne (sorry, Ozzy)
-Eddie Furlong in "Terminator 2”
-Everyone on the Academy Awards telecast
-Marilyn Manson
-Roger Ebert
-Writers for Pitchfork.com
-The staff of Rolling Stone magazine. Green Day saved rock? My ass.
-Billy Crystal
-Darren Star (thanks for creating "Sex and the City," you fucking douchebag. Hate that show)
-Fans of the Boston Red Sox
-Anyone associated with Duke University
-Terry Bradshaw
-Your younger brother
-Jerry Seinfeld. Girliest man ever on television.
-Any guy that doesn’t finish his beer
-Anomalous Yankee douchebag Paul O’Neill
-Jim Koch, brewer of Sam Adams. I work in advertising. This man’s voice is on a tape loop in Satan’s waiting room.
-Paul McCartney (post-Beatles era)
-Anyone who went to prep school (Hey. That’s me!)
-Anyone with a last name for a first name (like Carter or Blake or some other preppy dipshit name like that)
-Carson Daly (See what I mean?)
-Anyone who "summers in Nantucket"
-Anyone who skis and walks around saying how much they love “fresh powder”
-Frasier Crane and Niles Crane
-Billy Joel
-Fans of Billy Joel
-Your friend who got a new girlfriend and doesn’t do jack shit with you anymore (I did this)
-George Bush (the older one)
-Waylon Smithers from "The Simpsons"
-Hamlet. What a puss.
-Kevin Arnold from "The Wonder Years"
-Most independent filmmakers
-Ross from "Friends"
-Larry King (by the way, have you ever noticed that Larry King only likes shitty movies? “Cutthroat Island is a slam-bang thriller! Cracking good entertainment!” An endorsement from Larry King will take $20-$30 million off your opening gross, guaranteed.)
-George Costanza
-CNN newsman Aaron Brown (“What I’m saying is important!”)
-Rodney King
-Trekkies
-Emeril Legasse
-My buddy Scott, who actually thought it was funny one time to punch me in the nuts. This whole punching-other-men-in-the-nuts-because-it’s-fun phenomenon is wrong and fucking annoying.
-Bob Costas
-Jay Leno
-Any contestant on "Deal or No Deal"
-Richard Simmons
-The guy who decided to show chicks peeing in Penthouse
-Fredo Corleone
-Woody Allen
-The Ken doll
-Arsenio Hall
-TV critics who keep insisting that Bonnie Hunt is funny
-Rivers Cuomo of Weezer (good band, though)
-Obi-Wan Kenobi (“So what I told you was true! From a certain point of view.” Try saying that shit to Han Solo.)
-Luke Skywalker
-Kurt Cobain (who killed rock and roll, which is a topic for later discussion)
-Most environmental activists
-R.E.M. lead singer Michael Stipe
-The Tooth Fairy (cheap dipshit)
-Hugh Grant
-K-Fed
-Most Olympians
-Pip from “Great Expectations”
-Styx
-80’s metal band Stryper
-Jon Bon Jovi
-Ahmad Rashad and Sean Salisbury. Both former Vikings. Guhhhhhh.
-Your high school or college valedictorian. Valedictorian speeches are always brutal. You know the type. “It seems just like yesterday when we walked through these doors, the world filled with possibilities, but also a little scary too!” Kid, all anyone wants at a graduation is to get to the roll call. Hurry the fuck up.
-Anybody who wears a letter jacket for a non-sport sport (like Band, or Debate, or Cheerleading, or Lacrosse.)
-Every dipshit on MTVs "The Real World"
-Your high school swim team
-Cameron Crowe. Cameron Crowe movies are bullshit. “Jerry Maguire” was a chick flick that purported to be about sports. “Almost Famous” was a chick flick that purported to be about rocking with your cock out. I hate this man and his painful earnestness.
-People who like Cameron Crowe movies
-The Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion
-Kobe Bryant
-George F. Will
-Robin
-Pauly Shore (Sorry, Tiff)
-The video store clerk who keeps urging you to rent "Evil Dead 2"
-Andy Rooney
-Anyone who wears black jeans and white sneakers
-The Snuggle Fabric Softener Bear and the Honey Nut Cheerios Bee
-John Rocker
-Packer fans
-Chris Berman
-Peter King
-Pundits (All of them. Liberal or conservative. Die. I would like you to die.)
-Joe Theismann
-Billy Crystal. Again.
-Vince Carter
-Frankie Muniz
-Ashton Kutcher
-Tom Cruise. Of course. Tom Cruise loves the douche!

Midnight Questions And The Evil That Men Do

2006-07-26T11:01:00.000-04:00

I do not get to sleep easily. In order to fall asleep, I have to do a few things. First off, I must have an orgasm in some way, shape or form. No problem. I can take care of that in two minutes flat. Second, I have to get whatever song lodged inside my head to go away. This is a fucking horrendous task, especially if I’ve been to Target that day and forced to listen to “Baby, Baby” by Amy Grant at least three times.

Third, I have to clear my head of all thought. You would think this would be easy. I am not a deep thinker. There are lots of people who spend time thinking about God, or death, or the state of world affairs. I am not one of those people. Mrs. Drew will sometimes ask me, “What are you thinking?” and it’ll occur to me that I was thinking of absolutely nothing at all. “I got nothing,” I’ll tell her, and it’s the God’s honest truth. And even if I were thinking about something, that something is likely to be animal crackers.

Yet, when I lay down to sleep, suddenly my brain turns on full throttle. “Hey Drew, what if Metallica got their shit together and made a decent album for a change?” “Hey Drew, do you like fried zucchini? We should make some!” “Hey Drew, when do we get to drink next?” Fucking brain. I have to get all that residual shit out of there before I go to sleep. The only way I know I’m getting to sleep is when I start thinking about random shit, like unicorns, or a blonde Liza Minelli. Shit like that.

And that’s the place I had reached the other night. I was all ready to drift off to sleep, when Mrs. Drew suddenly asks me this:

“Hey, where do you think the mailman goes to pee?”

Are you fucking kidding me, woman? I’m trying to sleep here! You just set the process back a good half-an-hour! Now I have to go jerk off again! Where does the mailman piss? I don’t know! At a fucking Starbucks, like everyone else! Guhhhhh. Women are masters of the Midnight Question. Mrs. Drew doesn’t do it often, but every woman will happily spring a difficult question on you just as you’re about to hit the hay. They could have asked this question any other time during the day. But noooooo, it’s gotta come out at 11:59PM EST. “What should we make for dinner tomorrow?” “Do you think the baby can dream?” “What are you itching?” Dammit, dammit, dammit, no thinking! It’s sleepytime! I demand silence!

This also brings up two other funny things about Mrs. Drew. First, she’ll happily continue a conversation that I assume had ended three days earlier. Apropos of nothing, she’ll say, “So, I think we’ll go with the Rosy Peach.” Huh? What? Is that code or something? “The paint. For the dining room.” Well shit, where did that come from? I need this shit prefaced! I need to be briefed on the details of what we discussed before! That shit goes right out of my brain to make room for all the Amy Grant lyrics. You know that!

Second, Mrs. Drew will project the evils of other men onto me. This is a universal thing that women do. If any man anywhere does something horrible and shitty, they’ll automatically assume that you’re capable of the same thing. Here’s an example. The other night we watched “Match Point”. Good movie, not enough nakedness. Anyway, the dude in this flick (SPOILER) takes a mistress, knocks her up, and then offs her with a sawed-off shotgun. Sweet. Later that night, in bed, Mrs. Drew says to me, “Don’t you go getting a mistress, then getting her pregnant, then killing her.” Well, why the fuck would I do that? I can barely remember to make a sandwich for lunch at work. What makes you think I’m a murderous psychopath prone to infidelity, woman? All of that shit takes effort. And ambition. No thanks.

All I’d like to do is get some rest. And some fried zucchini.

UPDATE: A incredibly nice emailer helps answer Mrs. Drew's question:

"Sorry if this is a bit late, but this is a response to your Midnight Question post. Feel free to pass this along to Mrs. Drew. Or not.

You see, I know where the mailman goes to pee, because my mother is a mailwoman. The simple answer is that she goes home. When she just started, she used to get assignments to deliver mail to bumblefuck, so she'd have to find bookstore or a coffeeshop (this was before a Starbucks was on every corner) on that side of town, preferably one she was delivering mail to. Later, when she got a regular mailroute that was closer to home, she would just go home for lunch (and to use the bathroom). I always wondered if the neighbors thought there was something illicit going on at my house when they saw a mail truck parked out front for about half an hour in the middle of the day.

Also, it's interesting what kind of skills you pick up as a mailperson. My mother is the best parallel parker I've ever known. I'm convinced that if the government fired her, she could get a job as a auto stuntwoman. I don't know how much call there is for short Asian car-driving stuntwomen, but she could probably do an admirable job."

Thank you a million times over, my friend. A good night's sleep awaits.

Confronting the Growing Douchebag Problem

2006-07-25T11:48:00.000-04:00

Douchebaggery is nothing new to the world. The origin of douchebags dates to somewhere around the Middle Ages. Why, just think of that one homo prince in “Braveheart”. Total douchebag. And that was, like, the fifth century or something. So douches have been around these parts for a while.

The modern douchebag archetype really took hold sometime in the late 60’s/early 70’s. It was during this time that the douchebag became an urban phenomenon, best personified by acclaimed director and total pussy Woody Allen, seen here:

Guhhhh, what a douche. Anyway, this more cosmopolitan douchebag – which manages to combine whiny insecurity with an almost sociopathic self-centeredness – was the standard bearer well through the Great Asshole Spike of the 1980’s. But this douchebag was relatively harmless, easily suppressed by Assholes and Badasses alike. Certainly nothing to worry about. I myself fit into this more traditional douchebag mold. I’ve come to grips with my own douchey tendencies, and I spend every day trying to control them the best I can. It isn’t easy, but it’s all I can do.

As we progressed into the 90’s, a new kind of douchebag emerged. This MegaDouche, if you will, was cockier than its forebearer. And dumber. Here’s a visual:

Yes, they can reproduce. Ugh. It was around this time that this Aggressive Douchebag population began to explode. And now, we’re faced with a crisis unlike any other in recent American history. These nuveau douches must be destroyed or, at the very least, barred from ever entering a recording studio. But there is hope. A movement against these douchebags has sprung up organically, as a common cause of all rational Americans. Hot Chicks With Douchebags is doing their part. And the immediate backlash against the Duke lacrosse team for rape allegations, despite flimsy evidence, is proof that people want douchebags to be made an example of. Here’s what you need to know to protect yourself:

Douchebag FAQ

Q: Hey, what’s a douchebag?  
A: Douchebags are men who are unknowingly inconsiderate, self-serving, obnoxious, and overall, ANNOYING.   

Q: That’s a boring definition. Spruce it up.  
A: Douchebags snd txt mssgs. Douchebags laugh at their own jokes. Douchebags will repeat a joke they made that you didn’t laugh at because they think you didn’t hear them. Douchebags tell you "this is the best part" 50 times when you watch a movie. Douchebags spend more time bitching about how much work they have to do as opposed to actually doing any work. Douchebags are, simply put, douchebags.

Q: Are you a douchebag?  
A: Again, no. I have made the transition to full-on Badass.   

Q: Can women be douchebags?  
A: No. Women who exhibit douchebaggy behavior are called Shitheads.  
Q: How big is that list?  
A: Holy friggin’ crap, it’s huge. That list starts with any woman who owns a cat and goes on and on after that.   

Q: What if I own a cat?  
A: Any single man who owns a cat is either the biggest douchebag in recorded history or a serial killer.   

Q: Name a famous Shithead.  
A: Drew Barrymore. Watch any interview with her and your eyes will glaze over, as if baked in a kiln.

Q: Can a woman be a Shithead and a Bitch?  
A: Yes, because of the menstrual cycle.   

Q: Are gay men who act like douchebags also called Shitheads?  
A: NO. Oddly enough, a gay man can be a douchebag, but not an asshole.   

Q: Give me the classic example of a traditional douchebag.  
A: That’s easy. Kevin Arnold from "The Wonder Years." Kevin bitches all the time to himself about how much he wants to tell Winnie Cooper that he loves her, then never has the balls to just say it. Jesus Christ, you fucking pussy, strap it on and be a fuckin’ man!   

Q: What about an Aggressive Douchebag?
A: Watch any old footage from Woodstock ’99 and you’ll get a sense of what makes the MegaDouche tick. Or watch MTV. There are so many douchebags on MTV, you can practically taste the vinegar coming out of the screen.

Q: Can douchebags reform?  
A: Much harder for a douchebag to reform than an asshole. Don’t know why. Once a pussy, always a pussy.   

Q: Are douchebags good for the world?  
A: Not really. Assholes, terrible as they can be, are almost always productive. Douchebags tend to dither about and generally act like total dipshits. And anything a douchebag accomplishes is generally not done as a byproduct of their douchebaggery. The world would be better off without them.   

Q: Hey, why is Ozzy a douchebag? Ozzy fuckin rules!  
A: But he almost killed his wife in a drugged-out stupor a few years ago, then didn’t remember anything afterward. Much as I love the guy, he’s a douchebag.  
 
Q: Are most Jewish people douchebags?  
A: No, you racist asshole.   

Q: Who’s the world’s biggest douchebag?  
A: That one’s a toughie. Because douchebags don’t vary to the degree that assholes do, it’s hard to pick one that stands out. For traditional douchebags, I’d probably have to go with Ross from "Friends." Just an amazing douchebag all around. How do you mess it up with a piece of ass like Jennifer Aniston? Or is it Eddie Furlong in "Terminator 2"? God, he was a little piece of shit. “No, Terminator! Don’t kill people!” Hey kid, fuck you. I paid $10 specifically to watch the Terminator terminate some motherfuckers. Let him do his thing. Or what about Eddie Furlong in real life? See how hard this is?   

For the newer MegaDouches, the easy answer is Kevin Federline. Arrogant. Brain dead. Absolutely no internal sense of self-criticism, despite the fact that the entire world reviles him. It’s hard not to think of Kevin as the quintessential Renaissance Douche.

Q: Who’s to blame for this douchebag epidemic?  
A: Bad parents. Period. Did you name your kid Braden, or Landon, or Jordan, or Tristan, or Carson, or Ashton, or any other disgustingly preppy name? Then YOU are responsible for starting your kid on the path to douchebaggery. Do you give them everything they want? Well, fucking don’t. God forbid they learn to develop a fucking work ethic. Do you let them wear anything they want? Eat anything they want? Do you do everything in your power to get your kids to like you because your Daddy was cold and aloof? Bad move. Your Daddy had the right idea. You had to bust your ass for his approval. That’s smart parenting. This whole “I Want To Be Close To My Kids” thing is total horseshit.

Q: Who’s the most surprising Douchebag?  
A: Probably Tiny Tim of "A Christmas Carol." Yes, the kid’s poor and crippled. But that doesn’t excuse that dipshit "God bless us, everyone" line I gotta hear every Christmas.

Q: Jesus of Nazareth: Asshole, Badass or Douchebag?  
A: You turn water into wine, my friend, and you are a fucking Badass.   

The most important thing right now is for everyone to recognize the douchebag problem. You won’t be seeing this on the cover of Time or Newsweek (even though you ought to). Word must be spread at the grass roots level. As soon as everyone acknowledges the problem, we can go about figuring out the best way to solve it. This newer douchebag model is virtually impervious to ridicule, so we have to be creative. In the meantime, I’ll publish a comprehensive douchebag list later in the week to get the ball rolling.

The Asshole List

2006-07-21T11:38:00.000-04:00

This is only a relative sampling of the general Asshole population. There are certainly people here who I have missed or omitted for the sake of comedy. Feel free to add your own in the comments. But don’t fucking write some shit like, “Hey, my friend Steve is an asshole! You should put him on there!” No one knows who your friend is, and you’re a fucking douche if you propose something like that.

That said, the following people are Assholes:

-The Ghost of Christmas Future. Look, Scrooge is asshole. No doubt about it. But this fuckface won’t even talk to the guy.
-DC Cab Drivers. DC has the worst cab system in the world. You can’t drop a friend off somewhere else during the ride, or else it’s treated like a separate fare. Are you fucking kidding me?
-The guy who clogs up the office toilet with a huge growler and leaves it (I do this)
-Michael Jordan (his assholishness has been well-documented, which actually makes him a more interesting person in retrospect. Maybe Tiger Woods should beat up a busboy. Might make him seem more human.)
-God. But not Jesus. God is the Marv Marinovich of divine parenting.
-Adolf Hitler and most Nazis (that Schindler guy was okay)
-Any police officer with a mustache (which in essence means any police officer)
-Any Irish police officer with a club handy (valid only if you’re black and live in Boston)
-Stalin (love the mustache though) 
-Your older brother. My older brother pinned me down and drooled one me and also routinely tickled me until I threw up. Bastard.
-The Turks. Note: Mrs. Drew is half-Armenian, so I have to put the Turks here. She’s also half-German, which means she spends most of the day persecuting herself.
-The warden in "Shawshank Redemption". A quick note: there is nothing more gratifying than an asshole getting killed in a movie, and nothing more frustrating than when the asshole doesn’t get a cap in his ass.
-The guy handling the keg tap who pours beer for every single person in the goddamn universe before finally getting around to you. He’s seen you! He fucking knows you’re there! What the fuck did you do to deserve this shit? 
-Any Lawyer. Nothing is worse than someone is both an asshole and a complete bore.
-Anyone who works in finance. Oh, you only got a $50,000 bonus this year? Oh, boo fucking hoo. I hope your house in the Hamptons suffers from erosion. Erosion!
-O.J.
-The hunter who killed Bambi’s mom.
-Santa Claus (seasonal)  
-The guys in the frat house who tell you you’re "part of a brotherhood" before making you fellate a sheep during Pledge Week
-NBA analyst and hairplug victim Peter Vecsey. Hey Vecsey, your jokes aren’t funny. Maybe Jimmy Fallon will hire you.
-Every boy age 5-13, all little assholes 
-Sharpton
-Howard Stern (for the record, I’m a huge fan)
-The editorial staff of the New York Post (Times editorial staff goes on the douchebag list)
-The asshole who took Boo Berry cereal off the market. This was a fantastic cereal, almost as good as when they put out the limited edition Crunch Berries that was ALL Crunch Berries. I saw that in the store one time and almost wet myself with excitement.
-Joe DiMaggio
-Billy Martin
-Mickey Mantle
-George Steinbrenner (God, it’s like the Yankees are the cradle of Asshole civilization)
-Ted Williams (Until you consider the Red Sox and their fans)
-Tom Clancy (I saw him lecture when I was abroad at school. He’s one of the biggest assholes on the planet. “Red October” the movie was fucking Badass, though.)
-bin Laden (durka durka durka)
-Bryant Gumbel (“Do you like my self-consciously smooth, palatable delivery of news and opinion? Am I being smarmy enough? Let me check around and see if I can find just a touch more smarm.”)
-Everyone responsible for the condom. Seriously, there has to be another way to avoid the HIV. What if there was some sort of post-coital bleach?
-Bob Knight, who actually goes by “Bobby”, which is a strongly preferred name for assholes. It’s a complete mystery to me. It’s like how anyone named “Cody” is a douchebag. I don’t know why. It just is.
-Tommy Lasorda. Irwin Fletcher backs me up on this.
-The Vice Principal of your high school (he always punished kids because the principal was too gutless. Fucker.)
-Any non-white gang member (see douchebag section for white gangs)
-Darth Vader (pre-Emperor disposal)
-Germans who don’t tip when they come to the U.S.
-Rock band The Eagles and the DJs who actually think "Hotel California" is a good song.
-The guy Al Pacino played in "Heat". If De Niro wins at the end of that flick, it rivals “The Godfather”. But they had to go and fuck it all up. Nice job, Michael Mann, if that is your real name.
-Almost any Mexican bartender. Look, I know I don’t have a vagina, but my pesos are just as good as anyone else’s.
-Dennis Miller and Bill Maher. True, sometimes comics are more insightful about the world than most other people. But when they know that to be the case, it’s a recipe for assholedom.
-Proponents of cockfighting (the kind with chickens, not penises like in the movie “Skin Deep”, which is highly underrated)
-Most any Fortune 500 CEO. You don’t get to the top by loving your wife and paying attention to your children.
-All bouncers
-Smurf nemesis Gargamel. Will you just kill that fucking cat already? All it does is fuck up! Johan and Pee Wee could figure that shit out!
-Traffic cops who make you take a detour with no way to get back to the main road. This actually happened to me once. Mother. Fuckers.
-Pete Rose (Note: belongs in the Grade A class, beats Ty Cobb for baseball’s King Asshole)
-Anyone who has more money than me
-Whoever’s President during a game of Asshole. The Asshole, ironically, is actually a douchebag.
-Joe Pesci’s character in any feature film
-The drill sergeant in "Full Metal Jacket" (perhaps the funniest asshole in the history of cinema)
-Any guy who steals porn from another guy. I, shockingly, have never done this. It’s as if I respect the sanctity of masturbation too much to infringe upon it.
-The Emperor in "Star Wars"
-The guy Kevin Costner plays in any Kevin Costner movie. Talk, damn you! You’re the main character! Fucking talk!
-Barry Bonds
-The Terminator in "The Terminator"
-Roger Clemens
-My Dad at a fancy restaurant. Waiters, this man will bring down hellfire and brimstone upon you if you serve that halibut to the wrong person. So study that table chart carefully.
-Andy Sipowicz on "NYPD Blue" – TV’s most lovable racist!
-The two brothers in Oasis
-The one roommate who eats all the food you bought and then bitches about how there’s nothing to eat. Again, I have never done this.
-Michael Corleone. There are some who may say Michael is a Badass, but that is wrong. His father is the Badass. Michael almost makes the douchebag list because he’s deluded himself into thinking that he’s protecting his family. But he’s just too cold to belong there. He goes here.
-Any rapper on MTV Cribs who shows off everything he bought after he got his advance that will soon be taken away because he got all of it with bad credit.

FKS Field Guide – Assholes and Badasses

2006-07-18T16:40:00.000-04:00

I got a note from Yahoo saying my old site dedicated to Assholes, Douchebags, and Badasses was about to be erased. So this week and next, I’ll be updating you on the modern definitions of all three terms and listing examples of guys who fit snugly into each category. If you’ve seen this before, don’t worry. It’s all been updated and revised.

The world, as you may or may not know, contains roughly 3 billion men (There are more women on the planet than men. Which, for you ladies, explains why that one fat friend of yours can’t find a husband.) These men fall into four separate categories: Asshole, Douchebag, Good Shit, and Badass. There is no overlap. You cannot be both at the same time. This categorization is more important than ever now, as the douchebag population has grown wildly out of control in recent years. We need to recognize and curtail the problem now, before it’s too late. Today, we’ll be covering Assholes and Badasses. Let’s go to the Asshole FAQ:

Q: What is an asshole?
A: An asshole is a heterosexual male who is knowingly inconsiderate, self-serving, and obnoxious.

Q: That’s a boring definition. Can’t you give details?
A: Assholes are part of all our lives. They are everywhere, from the fucker who cut you off on the way to work, to that piece of shit weatherman who smiles as he tells you a violent hailstorm is coming tomorrow. Assholes cut in line. Assholes mess up families with one wife and then start a new a family with another wife so they can "get it right this time." Assholes hog the bong. Assholes are never wrong. Assholes fart and don’t own up to it. Assholes, simply put, are assholes.

Q: Hey, isn’t an asshole also the place where poopy comes out?
A: Yes, but that is not relevant here.

Q: Are you an asshole?
A: I used to think of myself as more of a douchebag. I work in advertising. I also went to prep school. And, of course, my roommate’s girlfriend walked in on me when I was beating off to "The Price is Right" during freshman year. Typical douchebag behavior. The poor girl is probably blind now. But no, now that I have gone five days alone caring for The Girl, I am a Badass. There’s no doubt about it.

Q: My father beat me up when I was a kid. Is he an asshole?
A: Yes, unless you were a douche and had it coming.

Q: Why do assholes have to be men?
A: Because women who exhibit assholish behavior are called Bitches.

Q: Why is there no Bitch List?
A: Because I can only write so much. Suffice it to say, the list starts with my ex-girlfriend and unspools for miles thereafter.

Q: Why can’t gay men be assholes?
A: Because gay men who exhibit assholish behavior are also called Bitches.

Q: What about lesbians, then? Can they be assholes?
A: No, lesbian bitches are still just bitches. Funny how that works.

Q: Do assholes split along party lines?
A: Somewhat. Republicans, who take money from big corporations while feasting on the innards of immigrant children, tend to be assholes. Democrats, who are huge pussies when it comes to having to blow shit up, tend to be more douchebag in nature. This is not a hard and fast rule, as you will find that Former President George H.W. Bush is a douchebag. And, of course, Former President Bill Clinton is a Grade A Flaming Red Asshole.

Q: Grade A? Are there degrees of assholishness?
A: Absolutely, and here they are:
GRADE F: Asshole. This is your standard, everyday asshole. Like the guy at the convenience store who bitches when I give him a twenty. He’s an asshole.
GRADE D: Real Asshole. This is a guy who busts balls for the everyday fun of it. Your Boss generally belongs here.
GRADE C: Major Asshole. This is where assholes start to get dangerous. Major assholes blatantly inconvenience you for the sake of their own assholishness. Major Assholes are prevalent at the Department of Motor Vehicles.
GRADE B: Fuckin’ Asshole. Now people start to get hurt. Fuckin’ assholes beat wives, bat .230 when they’re making $10 million a year, and can indirectly hurt people for their own profit. These can range from Major League Baseball player Carl Everett to any oil company executive.
GRADE A: Flaming Red Asshole. Reserved only for men whose assholish behavior was innovative and historic. Hitler? Stalin? Flaming Red Assholes.

Q: Hey, speaking of Hitler and Stalin, who’s the biggest asshole in history?
A: The Kraut and the Pinko are neck and neck, but we’ll go with Hitler. Stalin starved 20 million people to death but did it with no regard to race or gender, whereas Hitler devised a system to kill 6 million people, and would have gladly killed more if it weren’t for Uncle Sam and Co. Bonus points for the mustache. But, I’d also like to think that the world’s biggest asshole is out there, somewhere, hidden and lurking among us. Where could he be? And what waiter is he planning to insult? If I see the fucker, I’mma punch him in throat.

Q: Are assholes more prevalent in certain areas of the country?
A: In general, you can say the East Coast is full of assholes, while the West Coast tends to be awash in whiny little douchebags. And the Midwest, of course, is full of fat people.

Q: Can fictional characters be assholes?
A: You bet. How about that police chief in "Die Hard"? What was up his ass? Total asshole.

Q: What’s the difference between an asshole and an asswipe?
A: Asswipes are douchebags. Same term.

Q: Are assholes good for the world?
A: They absolutely can be. Assholes get things done. And that’s a healthy thing for scoiety. Assholes also keep things interesting. Every guy has an asshole friend. Why be friends with that guy? Because you need an asshole in your hip pocket. They yell at women. They steal things. It’s always handy to know one. As for the good assholes, former NYC mayor Rudy Guiliani cleaned up Manhattan by adhering to a strict code of persistent assholish behavior. And it takes the leadership of a born asshole to get New York through 9/11 the way he did. But, on the flipside, assholes like Hitler did some serious bad for the world. Killing Jews, at least in this country, is a big no-no.

Q: Can assholes reform?
A: Absolutely. Look at Darth Vader. Oppresses the Rebel fighters and tries to lure Luke Skywalker to the Dark Side, only to pull it together in the end and toss the Emperor down a fancy-looking garbage chute, automatically qualifying him as a Badass. Nice job, asshole!

Q: Can you be an asshole and a douchebag at the same time?
A: Again, no. The difference between the two is that the asshole knowingly aggravates. The douchebag unknowingly agitates. It’s impossible to pull both off, unless you suffer from schizophrenia like the guy in "A Beautiful Mind," who brilliantly pulled off the asshole/douchebag twin billing.

Q: Is there an Asshole Heaven?
A: Not sure, but there is definitely an Asshole Hell. Once there, you are given an IROC coupe, a carton of Winstons, and a monster kick in the nuts from Satan.

Q: If an asshole marries a bitch, do they have little assholes and little bitches?
A: Yup.

Q: Okay, if you aren’t a douchebag, you aren’t insane, and you aren’t an asshole, then what are you?
A: You are either a Good Shit or a Badass.

Q: What’s a Badass?
A: An asshole who can get away with it because he’s a cool fucker. If you need a visual explanation, see Col. Kilgore above. Badasses are extremely rare, accounting for less than 1% of the entire male population.

Q: What’s a Good Shit?
A: A normal, everyday, fairly unexciting guy. This species is slowly becoming more extinct, and this is not a good thing. Since 1900, the percentage of Good Shits in the population has decreased dramatically, with Douchebags coming on strong. And that could lead to severe Global Douching.

Q: Can assholes be Badasses?
A: No. Badasses get a pass from the Asshole List. Even Patton.

Q: Who’s the most surprising asshole?
A: Could be Muhammad Ali. Respected as a boxer and civil rights activist, Ali’s gone through wives like I go through a bag of Doritos, racially taunted noted Badass Joe Frazier for no good reason, and helped Don King rise to prominence. That’s an asshole!

Q: Are all serial killers assholes?
A: Surprisingly, no. Take Jeffery Dahmer. Dahmer went to work on time, did his business, didn’t bother anyone, and led a peaceful home life. If you take out the times when he kidnapped, sodomized, killed and ate young boys, he’s a relative Good Shit. Insane? Yes. But an asshole? Not really.

Q: Is the President an asshole?
A: Yes. But people who bring up politics in polite conversation are douchebags.

Q: Why is Santa Claus an asshole?
A: Anyone who’s seen the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Christmas Special knows that Santa Claus is the racist asshole who made Rudolph hide his nose for so long. Big jackoff. And when I asked for a copy of Velvet when I was twelve years old, Santa totally bagged out. What an asshole.

Q: Was Malcolm X an asshole?
A: Tough call, but no. Malcolm X was a Badass, a Righteous Black Man who inspired millions of American black people and spawned a line of really cool X baseball caps. And, without Brother Malcolm, there’d be no Public Enemy. And Public Enemy was the tits.

Q: Help! Everyone at my office is an asshole!
A: You must work in finance or in law. Most assholes go straight into those fields right after graduating from Dartmouth and stealing your girlfriend. Now they get to be millionaires. Bullshit world, eh?

Q: Does the animal kingdom have assholes and douchebags?
A: Yes. I think we’ve all seen asshole dogs in action. They bark at everything, bitch about the food they get, and shit all over the place. Asshole dogs, of course, are owned by asshole owners, hence the similarity in looks.

Q: Okay, so let’s see the lists of Assholes and Badasses.
A: You’ll have to wait until Friday for that. Told you I was a bit of a douche.

Grading the Celebrity Children

2006-07-17T09:31:00.000-04:00

In case you haven’t noticed, it’s fucking hot outside. I saw a weather map yesterday and the entire country was red. And not that pussyass cherry red that means it’s only 80. I’m talking the deep crimson “You’re in Really Serious Shit” red; the red that usually only surrounds Phoenix on the USA Today map. It ain’t no dry heat either. It’s a dripping wet balls-sticking-to-your-thigh heat. Which means my brain isn’t working so good today. So let’s point out the faults of celebrity children, which requires no thought whatsoever.

Remember, we’ll be grading these children using my patented Baby Rating System. Any baby or toddler that scores lower than a 3 should be discarded immediately!

-Apple Martin. Grade: 5
Getting Apple started early on the Coldplay, are we? Smart move. You have to get people listening to Coldplay early on in life. That way, they become inured to songs that are completely sterile and devoid of anything remotely resembling passion. Are you ready to not rock? Apple sure is! This is a fairly cute kid. That shirt she’s wearing is way too billowy. Those jeans are last year’s. And the giant pink earphones, combined with the thumbsucking, suggest that Apple is not all that advanced (that stupid fucking name is no help either). But no worries for her. In time, she’ll be just like her mommy: a pretentious Anglophile who seriously overestimates her own beauty, talent, and intellect. Jolly good!

-Rowan Henchy. Grade: 6
Grier Henchy. Grade: 2
These are Brooke Shields kids, which means they’ll be smoking hot at age 16, only to slowly turn into men in drag by age 35. Did you know Brooke had postpartum depression? She did! She even wrote a book about it in order to cope! And, if you pay $22.95 for it, you’ll be helping Brooke cope even more! Let’s start with Rowan. Mildly cute. Bonus points for the hair. The nose is turned too far upwards for my taste. But she is doing that precious “I’m holding my own hand” thing, which gets her another bonus point. Grier, on the other hand, is a problem. Notice how low the eyes are set. That’s a five-head in the making. The side of the head also looks misshapen, like a bad avocado at Whole Foods. And she’s got that pasty newborn skin – almost a sort of an Eddie Munster complexion. You’re batting .500, Brooke. Let’s get that average up!

-Sean Preston Spears Federline. Grade: 9
Say what you will about Britney and the anchor she chained herself to, but this is a good-looking kid. Sean has the whole cherub thing down pat: full cheeks, doe eyes, and that perfect little tuft of baby hair. It’s almost a shame to know that this kid is probably going to die soon. Babies are more attractive when their heads and limbs are intact. Also, a point deduction for the folds of fat on the upper body. We don’t want to end up like Mommy now, do we?

-Shiloh Jolie-Pitt. Grade: 3
What a letdown. I was expecting full lips and a penchant for sex with knives. No such luck. I’m not liking that piggy nose. At this rate, Shiloh won’t even be as hot as the two chicks in that car crash mix-up over in the corner. And that would be a damn shame. By the way, there are two types of guys out there: There’s the guy that sleeps with the crazy woman but manages to get out of it just before he gets locked into a life of abject misery, and then there’s the guy who sleeps with the crazy woman one too many times and ends up with three children in the span of a year. You don’t want to be in the latter category.

-Sam Sheen. Grade: 4
When Sam is 16, I want her Dad to say this to her at least once a day: “You wear too much eye makeup. My sister wears too much. People think she’s a whore.”

-Violet Affleck. Grade: 1
Ouch. That is one dour-ass baby. Give that girl a cigar and a golf hat. “Yeah! I’m a baby, see? Yeah. And I want you to push me this way. Yeah. And I want a nice stroller. A Bugaboo, yeah. And I want you to pay for it in unmarked $100 bills, see? Yeah. Not so tough now, are ya, Agent Bristow? Yeah.”

-Suri Cruise. Grade: Imcomplete

-The Girl. Grade: 10
Dan Brown wasn't bullshitting you about the whole Sacred Feminine thing. Have your frankincense ready if you visit.

Five Things That Will Scare The Living Shit Out Of Your Kids

2006-07-14T10:27:00.000-04:00

Anyone can beat their children. That’s easy. Just ball up a fist and send them flying. But if you want to inflict true psychological scars on your offspring, well you need to be a bit more ambitious than that. When I was a freshman in college, I went to go see “Natural Born Killers” in the theater with my brother. Sitting in front of me was a man who had brought his five-year-old. You see? Now that’s what I’m talking about. I could barely watch the movie, I was so horrified for the kid’s future. That kid is probably seventeen now. If he wants to buy a pack of Winstons at your convenience store, I highly recommend you let him.

Anyway, here are five things I experienced as a youngster so that The Girl doesn’t have to:

-The Wicked Witch of the West
God dammit, this woman is scary. Imagine the worst fire-breathing bitch of a librarian you’ve ever met, only now she’s a bloodthirsty maniac who wants to fuck you up and steal your shoes. Think of the damage this über-harpy could wreak on the streets of Southeast DC. She’d have eight pairs of vintage Air Force Ones in her possession within an hour. And they call “The Wizard of Oz” a family film. What kind of fucked up opium/ether speedball was needed to invent this story? Flying monkeys? Homicidal green women who are deathly allergic to water? Organized lollipop unions? No wonder that one munchkin hung himself backstage. This is fucking disturbing stuff. This chick’s laugh still haunts my night terrors. Keep your kid away.

-The End Reveal of “Psycho”
Everyone is scared shitless by the shower scene in “Psycho”. And yeah, that one will have you bypassing washing your back so you can get the fuck out of the bathroom. But no one talks about end of that movie, when the chick in the fruit cellar discovers Norman Bates’ mom is a corpse and whirls around to see a knife-wielding cross-dresser with a stabbing fetish smiling at her. Sometimes I go into the basement to get laundry and my brain will say to me, “Hey, there could be a guy in a dress in the room next door who wants to slash the shit of you, you know.” Do I then sprint the fuck up the stairs with my whites? Yes I do. This is what happens when you watch “Psycho” when you’re eight. My asshole closes at the mere thought of it.

-The Steak That Eats That One Guy’s Face in “Poltergeist”
At least, I think it eats the guy’s face. Fuck if I know what actually happens, because my eyelids are over my lips at that point. Up until I saw this flick, meat had been my friend. It was soft, tender, and delicious. It did not slowly creep along the fucking countertop, waiting to fuck my shit up. You see that steak start to move, and you just know something bad is about to happen. And no one notices! God dammit, people, a tree already tried to eat your kid. Don’t just leave a ribeye sitting around. It’s gonna turn on you. Dumbshits.

-Old Radio Ads for “The Fly”
I never saw this flick in ‘86, but the radio ads were enough. I had a radio in my room when I was 10, and I’d listen to music to get to sleep. So imagine, after spending a quality night trying to unlock the secrets of my penis and listening to “The Power of Love”, a creepy old lady coming on the air and singing this song:

There was a young man who turned into a fly.
I don’t know why he turned into a fly.
Perhaps we’ll die.
Perhaps we’ll dieeeeeeeee.

I slept with my brother for the next month. You don’t just put ads like that one the radio. That song is creepy enough in its original version. Why is that song a kid’s song? An old lady is eating insects and we’re speculating on her death? That’s fucked. That song is banned.

-The Metallica “One” Video
“This young man will be as unfeeling, as unthinking as the dead, until the day he joins them.” You know, I just wanted to rock. That’s really all I came to the table for. This video scared the shit out of so many people, they had to release the “jammin’ version” without any of that fucked up “Johnny Got His Gun” footage. Seriously, when the kid with no arms and legs started to flip out, I had to change the channel, then check back periodically to see if they had gone back to Kirk Hammett wailing on his shit. But I’d always fuck up and get that “I’m like a piece of meat that keeps on living!” line. Guhhhhh. I want metal to celebrate violence, not make me think of the existential consequences of it. Brutal. Awesome song, though.

NOTE: Last night I had to go downstairs to make the Girl a bottle at 4AM. Because of this bit, I thought of all five of the above things at the same time and almost had a nervous breakdown. If anyone ever tells you writing is cathartic, stab that person with a knife for me.

Children With Penises Are Overrated

2006-07-11T21:50:00.000-04:00

The other day the family and I packed up the car and headed over to Marshall’s. Marshall’s – It’s just like a department store, except that you’re poor! Anyway, we go into the store and I start looking for some white t-shirts. If you’ve ever been to a Marshall’s (or a TJ Maxx, or any other place that’s the retail equivalent of Goodwill), you know that finding anything specific in there is like trying to find your dog’s shit after dark. The entire store is gigantic bargain rack, which means the clothing you’re looking for was likely thrown on the floor, or placed next to a 64 oz. jar of apple butter.

At any other store, I’d look for an employee to tell me where the shirts are. But this is Marshall’s. You’d have better luck finding a copy of High Society at Ryan Seacrest’s house than finding an employee at Marshall’s. Or, if you’re like me, you do the thing where you accidentally ask a black guy who doesn’t work there where something is. Hooray, casual racism! And, even if you do find an actual employee, it’s unlikely that their brain has synapses that actually fire.

So I go to find my stuff the old fashioned way, when I notice a kid in the shoe section. This kid was probably 13 years old. He weighed roughly 200 pounds, wore dirty mesh shorts that hung down below his knees, and a t-shirt that was three sizes too big (didn’t know they made quintuple XL’s). He wore knee-high socks that had no elastic in them. He had bedhead and clearly hadn’t showered in two or three days. I thought I had already seen my worst nightmare. I was wrong.

God, I’m glad my child doesn’t have a penis. Yes, there are things to worry about when you have a girl. Will she date normal guys? Will she fall in with the wrong crowd? What if she can’t get on the list at Bungalow 8? Those are all normal concerns. But a son comes with worries all his own. You’ll always love a daughter. But what if, for reasons beyond your control, your son becomes a complete and utter tool? What if you love him, but don’t actually like him? What if he ends up being fucking Stewart from “Beavis & Butthead”?

Looking at that kid at Marshall’s, I thought to myself that, if he was my kid, I’d probably spend 12 hours a day just punching the shit out of him. Until I suddenly realized why the kid frightened me so. Because, at that age, I was exactly the same. When I was 13, I ordered a t-shirt from the back pages of Rolling Stone that said “New Kids on the Chopping Block.” It featured an illustration of Joe, Jordan, Donnie, Danny, and Jon (I listed that from memory) with their heads cut off. I thought it was the greatest t-shirt ever. God, what a fucking douche.

It gets worse. I was overweight. I had dandruff. When I sat on the couch, I stuck my hands in my pants. I liked making cinnamon toast 3 times a day. I thought Baja shirts were cool. I fucked my sheets. This is not the stuff greatness is made of. If I have a son, it’s likely I’ll be confronted with a spitting image of myself at the most awkward, miserable time of my life. Stupid Freudian insight! The Girl comes with no such baggage. She’s perfect. She’s clean, affable, and smells like apricots. My son would likely have none of those features.

My plan is to hold off on having the next kid until I’m 65. Then, we can have a boy by surrogate. That way, by the time he’s morphed into 13-year-old dipshit with unmistakable Drew-like qualities, I’ll be long dead of cirrhosis of the liver. Now that’s Planned Parenthood.

Oh, and I found the t-shirts. You can hide all you want, Calvin Klein men’s crew necks, but I’ll always find you.

The Playboy Channel Story

2006-07-10T08:35:00.000-04:00

My buddy Jeremy (not his real name) has a cousin named Gary. Back in ’99, Gary worked in sales for the Playboy Channel. More importantly, Gary somehow convinced Playboy executives to give him his own show on the channel. It was called The Helmetcam Show. Maybe you’ve seen it, or maybe you’re a liar.

Here was the premise of The Helmetcam Show: Gary, wearing a bike helmet with a camera mounted on top, interviewed porn stars and Playmates live in the studio, took some calls, and did field pieces from strip clubs, porn award shows, and porn star conventions. Oh, and the theme song of the show was performed by Sir Mix-A-Lot. Here’s a sample of the lyrics:

…And if you like a little three-way,
Helmetcam’s got it!
…Or a tight shot on the pussy,
Helmetcam’s got it!

There is absolutely no good reason for this show to have ever existed. How Gary convinced Playboy execs that this was a good idea is beyond me. He must be the greatest salesman in the history of the universe. Pissing off horny, lonely men is a terrible idea. Every man knows that the longest time ever comes between the moment you purchase porn and the moment you see a naked body on the screen. So imagine plunking down your hard-earned $11.99 for a three-hour block of Playboy, dick in hand, only to first encounter a short, balding Jewish man wearing a Giro helmet on top of his head. Wars start over things like this.

And helmetcams are a bad idea during football games. In porn, they’re even more useless. During the show, Gary would often stare at a stripper’s breasts, only to realize the camera was aiming at the girl’s throat, which meant he had to pan down and sort of search around for the girl’s rack. All while a perfectly competent professional cameraman, with years of experience lighting and shooting breasts, was standing five feet away.

But all criticisms of the show are beside the point. The important thing here is that Jeremy and I knew someone with his own show on the Playboy Channel, and that was fucking awesome. Our story (which happened before I met Mrs. Drew) begins at the now defunct Park Avalon restaurant near Union Square in Manhattan. That’s where I first met Gary. Jeremy and I met him for drinks there. He was accompanied by a friend of his from work. That friend was Tiffany Granath, host of Playboy’s “Night Calls”, a show Gary occasionally wrote for (make of that what you will). Here’s a picture of Tiffany that is safe for work:

If you do a Google image search (and turn the SafeSearch off. That’s for pussies.), you will find Tiffany far more naked than she is here. Not that I would know anything about that.

Jeremy and I sat down. Within 10 minutes, Tiffany was talking about losing her virginity to Pauly Shore. We were complete strangers to this girl, yet she had no problem divulging that she had lost her innocence to the douchebag from “Bio-Dome”. It’s not often you get a chance to meet someone that completely and utterly vapid. Jeremy and I were transfixed.

During drinks, Gary said he would let Jeremy call in to his show one night, provided that he not disclose his relationship to Gary while on air. Also, due to Playboy’s erratic shooting schedule, there was no telling when Jeremy would be able to call in. Gary might call him at a moment’s notice to let him know he could get on the air. Jeremy agreed to all these conditions immediately.

A bit of background on the people who call into these shows: almost all of them a) Are shitfaced, b) Have a Southern accent, and c) Claim to be “partying,” when you know damn well they’re laying spread eagle at the foot of a Motel 6 bed. So calling into these shows without making yourself sound like a convicted sex offender from Arkansas isn’t easy. But Jeremy would triumph over these formidable obstacles, though certainly not on purpose.

Jeremy and I lived together in a studio apartment on 57th St. in Manhattan. A few weeks after meeting Gary and Tiffany, I went out to drink with a few friends. Jeremy was out with people from his work, so we never bothered to meet up. Adequately shitfaced, and with no prospects for the night, I went back to the apartment.

When I walked in the door, the place had been wrecked. Given that Jeremy and I never took out the trash, did dishes, or vacuumed, it took a lot to make the place look considerably worse than it already did. No matter. My nightstand had been torn down. Sheets had been ripped off my bed. Lamps were strewn about the floor. I thought I had been robbed. Some motherfucker had clearly made off with my George Foreman Grill, and the idea of that really pissed me off.

But no one had robbed me. Over on the bed was Jeremy, out-of-his-mind shitfaced and trying to find the phone. He had come back to apartment, failed to turn on any of the lights, and decided to search for the phone by feel alone. I jumped on Jeremy and immediately began beating the shit out of him. And not in a playful way. I was actually assaulting him. Here was the conversation that ensued. Try and picture Jeremy laughing during this entire exchange:

“You stupid fuck!”
“No, wait!”
“You will fucking die now!”
“No! Gary!”
“Die!”
“Gary!”
“Fuck!”
“Gary!”
“Die, fuck!”
“I’m trying to call Gary!”
“What?”
“Tonight! I have to call Gary!”

I paused. Jeremy pointed to the TV. Gary’s show was on. Jeremy couldn’t find the phone, or the light. Yet he had managed to grab the remote, turn on the TV, and order pay-per-view porn. All while in the dark. If that doesn’t sum up the male species as a whole, I don’t know what does. Jeremy called in and got someone on the other end of the line. It was the show producer. He was going on.

This was a special night for Gary’s show. In the studio were none other than Jenna Jameson and Nikki Tyler. Mind you, this was 1999, seven years and roughly 200 kilos of blow removed from the weatherbeaten Jenna Jameson you see today. It was an electrifying moment. Jenna and Nikki sat on the couch. Gary took Jeremy's call. With me on top of Jeremy, and literally thousands of naked men watching, this is what happened:

Gary: And, on the phone we have Jeremy. Jeremy, you there?
Jeremy: Uh… uh… Helmetcam!
Gary: Hey, Jeremy.
Jeremy: Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Gary: Hey Jeremy, you been partying?
Jeremy: Yeah, whatever. Hey Jenna!
Jenna: Yes, Jeremy?
Jeremy: Jenna, why don’t you help Nikki out there?
Jenna, apropos of nothing: You want me to take her pants off?
Jeremy: Uh… yeah.

Jenna whipped out a pair of scissors and cut off Nikki’s pants. I have no idea why she did that. Pants are made so that you can remove them without scissors. And these were skintight Lycra pants. The odds of Jenna giving Nikki an ad-libbed episiotomy were quite high. Regardless, Jeremy was excited.

Jenna: How’s that?
Jeremy: That is… FANTASTIC.

Then, Jeremy had an epiphany.

Jeremy: Hey, Jenna!
Jenna: Yeah?
Jeremy: Why don’t you give Nikki a little kiss?

Jenna agreed and began to hoover Nikki’s face with extreme prejudice.

Jeremy: That is… FANTASTIC.

Jeremy had done it. He had called in and made himself into an impromptu porn director. It was riveting theatre. Better than “Schindler’s List.” Jeremy and I were likely the only people watching who were not climaxing at that very moment. Astounding. But then, Jeremy got cocky, and his inner douchebag got the best of him.

Jeremy: Hey Jenna, if you’re ever in New York and want to date an investment banker…
Gary, cutting him off: Okay Jeremy, thanks a lot!

And Jeremy's offer still stands to this very day.

(An epilogue to this story: Gary made a tape of Jeremy's performance and sent it to him. Jeremy's entire family watched it. Jeremy's mom said she thought the tape was “cute”. Nothing cuter than getting shitfaced and hitting on a porn star on live television!

Jeremy is still in possession of this tape. I’ve asked him to send me the tape so I can convert it to video and post it here. If you would like to see it, I strongly urge you to let him know in the comments section.)

(One other note: Jeremy's other cousin was present at the taping. After the show, he and Gary went for dinner with Jenna and Nikki. He said he’s never met two more annoying people in his life.)

FKS Field Trip: Tha Muthaphuckkin’ Beach, Part II

2006-06-29T12:22:00.000-04:00

Well, we’ve taken the Girl to the beach and gotten sand in each of her orifices. Maybe we can use her to sand down the house molding later on.

I forgot my camera this trip, so all photographic recollections come courtesy of Google Images! Because rights protection is for pussies! Let’s see what else there is to admire out on the lovely coast of Delaware! Yeah, fucking Delaware!

-Gay Man in Thong (not pictured for obvious reasons)
Rehoboth Beach in Delaware is famous for two things: gay men and taffy. Makes sense. Both require an awful lot of pulling. The man I saw at the beach was sporting a Canadian Grape Smuggler and had a perfectly even tan across his legs, back, and buttocks. It was actually kind of impressive. This also means the guy must have had one of those really cute t-back tan lines. I’d eat sushi off of that!

-Fat People
The beach had a surprising number of fat people this year. I don’t get this. If you’re fat, isn’t the beach the absolute last place you want to go? It’s hot. Hermit crabs can nestle into your folds. Children might try and skip rocks off of you. How long do you think it takes someone like this to apply sunscreen? Do they start immediately after sunset? There’s a Grotto Pizza mere yards away, tubbies. There you can spend your day engaged in a veritable orgy of cheesy, doughy delights. I also saw at least three fat women who were all sporting mysterious thigh bruises. Are all fat people hemophiliacs?

-Happy Drunk People
Next to Rehoboth is Dewey Beach, where college students and young professionals go to get drunk and accidentally knock up a sharemate. “Does this make you feel old?” Mrs. Drew asked. And the answer to that question is, of course, “Good Lord, Mr. Brain and I need scotch!” We both felt old because we couldn’t get loaded. Yet the desire was there. And the desire to get inappropriately drunk and shit your bed is what will keep us all young. Mrs. Drew said she noticed younger guys walking by me and looking at me with that, “Oh fuck, you have a kid? Sorry, Dude” look. Don’t feel sorry for me, man! I still rock! Don’t I? Don’t I? Please, tell me I haven’t stopped rocking. I don’t rock? Fuck.

-Girly Drinks
I like girly drinks. I’m not ashamed to say it. They taste like candy! And sometimes you get a pineapple wedge! In fact, the girlier, the better. I’ll take the strawberry banana pina colada margarita daiquiri with the penis-shaped straw, please. Note to all girly drink orderers: never get the pre-mixed drinks. Your frozen margarita has less alcohol in it than an O’Douls brewed in Utah. You need the margarita on the rocks. Or the rum runner. Ah, the rum runner. So fruity. So delicious. And so very, very feminine. I could slurp you down all night long, big boy!

-Odd Ice Cream
We walked the boardwalk and got some kickass ice cream. But there were two flavors on the menu at the Ice Cream Store that really stood out: Bacon and Barbecue. That’s right. Someone makes bacon ice cream. And someone pays money to eat that bacon ice cream. I assume they spoon hollandaise sauce on top of it. I’m also assuming the person who buys this enjoys eating their pancakes and sausage on a stick. See, fat people? See what your missing out on when you go to the beach? There’s ice cream with barbecue sauce and hog fat in it!

-Sunblock
When my dad puts on sunblock, he squirts a bunch onto his hand and slaps it onto his chest. He doesn’t even bother rubbing it in. Thus he ends up getting sunburned all over, except for a giant white handprint in the middle of his body. I always miss at least one or two areas of my body when putting on sunblock, which is how I end up with third degree burns on the bottom half of my earlobe. I also cannot apply sunscreen or bug spray without getting a generous portion of it in my mouth and eyes. The burning pain lets you know it’s working!

And with that, I’m off for more beach adventures. It’s a full week vacation for me. Back with all new bits on July 10. Happy 4th. In the meantime, enjoy this kid breaking his leg on a trampoline.

FKS Field Trip: Tha Muthaphuckkin’ Beach, Part I

2006-06-27T10:58:00.000-04:00

There were two things I forgot to bring up with regards to the best number of kids to have. First thing: if you have a shitload of kids, you increase your odds of having one who’s a real superstar. It’s like scratch tickets. You’re bound to hit paydirt sooner or later. Oh sure, 60% of your brood will turn out to be worthless fuckups, and you’ll be miserable. But who cares about that shit if you end up squeezing out a multi-millionaire? For example: Stephen Colbert is the youngest of 11 children. Imagine if his parents had stopped at 10! Boy, would they have been nonplussed when God told them they missed out on the genetic equivalent of filling out an entire Subway card!

Also, if you have two kids, you’re only compensating the Earth for you and your spouse when you both die. For example, let’s say Mrs. Drew and I are fucking badasses (true). If we only have two kids, we won’t have added to the world’s Badass population. We will only have kept it level. And we need Badasses to fight all the douchebags. Wyatt Earp had no kids. Selfish dick. We need more Earps and less Frankie Munizes. Not the other way around.

Anyway, let’s go to the beach, everyone! It’s both sandy AND windy! Shit yeah! Hooray!

I’ve done many dumb things in my life. One time I was at a department store and purposely walked into a mirror because my head was down, and I thought I had encountered someone who was stubbornly refusing to get out of my way. Whenever I tell Mrs. Drew this story, I need to show her pictures of burn victims to get her to stop laughing. And really, that story is just the tip of the iceberg.

But bringing a four-month-old baby to a beach has to rank right up there on the stupidity scale. If you’re going to the beach, it better be because you want to go into the ocean. The ocean is fucking sweet. It’s cool, refreshing, and can kill you at any second. I love that shit. There is no other reason to go to the beach. Without the ocean, going to the beach is the same as camping in the fucking desert. To accommodate the Girl (who is not yet old enough to appreciate the virtues of coastal real estate), Mrs. Drew, and myself, here’s a list of what I had to bring:

-Diaper Bag
-Water Bottle
-Beach Bag
-2 Beach Chairs
-Towels
-Sheet (to lay under towels)
-Sun Umbrella

(Let’s pause right here to talk about umbrellas. I fucking hate umbrellas. You know what an umbrella is? It’s a kite with +10 Impaling ability. The only useful umbrellas are the ones they have at outdoor cafes, and you know why? Because they’re attached to a fucking cinder block, that’s why. Rain umbrellas are dogshit. You burn 5,000 calories just trying to hold the thing steady in the rain. And once you’ve made it shelter to put the umbrella away, all the water still on top of the thing slides back onto you. We can’t do better than the umbrella in this century? And we’re supposed to be close to having hydrogen cars? My ass.)

You’ll notice that beer isn’t anywhere to be found on that list. Memo to the kid who was born with three arms, one of which was removed: you just lost out, kid. That third arm would have been a fucking godsend. You had an extra hand available for beer, ass-grabbing, and meat-rubbing. Instead, some know-it-all, asswipe doctor took it away from you. Sue.

But hey, we’re at the beach! Weeee!!! Let’s have fun now! Oh, wait. What’s that? I forgot the extension for the umbrella? So I have to walk all the way back? Someone find me a mirror to walk into.

(Come back to Part II Thursday.)

The Proper Number of Kids for Optimum Awesomeness

2006-06-23T10:51:00.000-04:00

Here’s a question I get a lot:

“So, how many kids do you think you want to have?”

Why do you care? Do you find the number of people like me on Earth alarmingly deficient? Do you want to see how many kids it takes for me to go into financial ruin, so that you can then adjust your own number accordingly? Are you planning on stealing Mrs. Drew’s eggs if she has no intention of using them? Questions like this make me think about shit, and I fucking hate that.

It seems odd coming from me, but sometimes I wonder if Mrs. Drew and I should go all batshit Mormon and just try and have as many kids as possible. Here’s why. Britney Spears has already announced that she is having another kid. That’s a second extra jackass of hers that will now join the population. You can’t just let that stand. You have to balance that shit out. This country is already headed in a seemingly inescapable downward spiral toward complete and utter douchebaggery. It’s up to people like Mrs. Drew and I to restock the human trout farm with sane, capable human beings. People that can do things like point out water on a map, or unwrap a straw. There’s no way Britney’s children will be able to do that.

So how many to have? Well, zero’s out. Having no kids is stupid anyway. If you’re married for 40 years and have no kids, what do you talk about? I’ve had friends that meet new girls and then tell me, “God, I could just talk to her all night.” Oh yeah? Not ten years later, you can’t. And who’s gonna pay for my funeral? I want to be blasted out of a Navy battleship while a live orchestra plays “Whole Lotta Rosie” by AC/DC. It’ll be like Hunter S. Thompson’s funeral, only awesomer. You need a kid to foot that tab.

What about one kid, which is what we have now? Meh. I’m not down with the whole only child thing. I made this statistic up, but only children are 97% more likely to have an imaginary friend who wants to murder you. That’s a fact. Damien from “The Omen”? Only child. Rosemary’s baby? Only child. Only children also get all the attention, which makes them think they’re “special”, and that’s a lie. Plus, what if it dies? You need that extra kid to punish with your grief.

Two kids are a little more sensible. Two kids can make their own fun. They don’t need me. I can leave them to claw each other’s eyes out while I go lay in a hammock. Mrs. Drew comes from a family of four. You will not find a more normal human being in this lifetime or the next. Plus, four is two squared. And numbers mean shit!

I happen to come from a family of five. Here’s how a family of five often comes to pass: a couple has two children of the same sex, so they reluctantly decide to try one last shot at balancing out the gender count, which is like staying at the blackjack table after you’ve already lost the deed to your house and pawned off your blood. The other problem with a family of five is the restaurant factor. Restaurants love to squeeze a family of five at a four-top. Which means someone gets that end-of-the-table bitch seat. That’s bullshit. I want the round table, dammit! Or the long booth! Five people equals a six-top. Period. You fucking maitre’d assholes.

As for four kids or more, forget it. Three is tempting fate already. You have four kids or more, one of them will be a fuck-up. Guaranteed. They’ll end up like Tom Hulce in Parenthood, where they move to Peru and have a kid they name Cool. And that’s just a 1980’s douchebag. Douchebags have evolved into far worse in this century. One of the kids will slip through the cracks and land straight in the douche. Parental attention has a half-life. The more kids you have, the smaller share of attention each gets. In fact, let’s do a mathematical hypothesis of it:

If (100% of Your Attention)/(Number of Children) < 33%, that means > 0 Fucking Losers will be produced.

Two to three kids it is.

The FKS Gay Children’s Book Review – "Hey, Diddle, Diddle!"

2006-06-21T10:46:00.000-04:00

Before Mrs. Drew had the Girl, we spent one Saturday night hanging around at Barnes & Noble looking at children’s books. I have many tests to determine whether or not my life is truly over, and this is one of them. It was 10PM on a Saturday night, and we were in a bookstore. What. The. Fuck.

Before the Girl, I only knew the B&N children’s book area as the section that had the cleanest shitter, which I would then promptly go ruin with a 500 lb. neutron bomb. But now here I was, actually looking at children’s books. Quite a leap forward. You’d think that children’s books were all the same. Some barnyard animals. Some gay little drawings. And a solid lesson about counting, or spelling, or how much your uncle in prison loves you. But no, you’d be shocked at the disparity in children’s books. Some are great. Some make you want to sit on a corncob. It’s a wide gulf, to say the least.

I also love the fact that half the books in the section were written by celebrities. You can just picture Madonna or some other jackass calling their agent and saying, “Hey, I’d love to write a book! But not one of those adult books, with lots of words and thoughts! I think I’m really good at writing children’s books, yeah! They’ve got lots of pictures I don’t have to draw! And really big font sizes! And only six sentences! And I don’t have to use my brain so much! Because using my brain makes my tits hurt!” Actually, that quote right there would make a terrific children’s book. Someone call Random House.

Anyway, I’m here to steer you through the maze of children’s literature. Any asswipe online can review movies and CD’s and books. But only I am Badass enough to venture into kiddie book land. This won’t be like one of those dipshit New York Times reviews, where you read 500 words and still can’t figure out whether or not the critic liked it. I hate that shit. Rather, I’ll be using my patented Gay Kid’s Book Rating System:

4 Poopy Diapers – Classic
3 Poopy Diapers – Decent
2 Poopy Diapers – Whatever
1 Poopy Diaper – Coaster

Today’s book: “Hey, Diddle, Diddle!” by Salley Mavor.

I picked up this book, looked at the title, and immediately figured it was a manual for helping teenage girls learn to masturbate. No such luck. No, this is the classic nursery rhyme (which Mavor, if that is her real name, didn’t even write) complete with creepy illustrations made from like, felt and shit. Here’s the book:

Hey, diddle, diddle!
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed
To see such sport
And the dish ran away with the spoon

That’s the book. All of it. Yet they manage to stretch that shit over 14 pages, including one audacious page that only says, “Hey.” Try this technique on your Victorian Lit term paper and you will fucking fail, my friend. But in the children’s book industry, that earns you the tag of “beloved children’s author”. No wonder celebrities think it’s so easy.

I have many issues with the rhyme itself. What’s the first thing we see here? That’s right. Another goddamn, rabbit-murdering cat. And what’s the cat playing? That inbred mountain cousin of the violin: the fiddle. I also have a real problem with plate/utensil cohabitation. If we let dishes and spoons run off together, what’s to stop the salt and pepper shakers from divorcing and shacking up with the cheese grater? Or the fucking whisk? That is moral decay in the kitchen, and it disgusts me.

Oh, and the illustrations are like looking at a quilt your great aunt gave you for Christmas that you know was just lying around in her attic for sixty years. So, Salley Mavor, I regret to inform you that your book only gets One Poopy Diaper.

Hope you like looking at the bottom of a rum and Coke, Mr. Cow.

The FKS Guide to a Semi-Badass Father’s Day

2006-06-19T09:51:00.000-04:00

Mrs. Drew deemed my original plan for Father’s Day to be completely unrealistic, especially the part where we have sex more than once. Fair enough. Maybe I was asking for too much. But my Father’s Day ended up being uncommonly shitty, for three reasons:

1. I had a dream the night before where a bat landed on my shoulder. It was one of those dreams where my mouth wouldn’t open, so I’m trying to tell everyone in the dream, “Hey, there’s a fucking bat on me!” but all I can muster is “Mmmph! Mmmph!” Thus, here’s how I woke up Father’s Day morning:

“Mmmph! Mmmph!”

“Drew, what’s wrong?!!”

“Mmmph! Mmmph!... BAT!”

There’s nothing quite like waking up to discover that you are both a moron and a total pussy. Thanks for that Father’s Day gift, God. Everyone says God is Love. Bullshit. God is the biggest hater of them all.

2. I realized I forgot to pay my quarterly taxes, which is like remembering date rape.

3. I had to work. And not only did I have to work, I also got to the office to discover the air conditioning was broken. It was 95 degrees out yesterday. No amount of Triple Action Gold Powder in the world was going to stop my grundle from smelling like oatmeal cookies and hot garbage at the end of the day. My assignment for work was to write ads for a local health club. Here’s the ad I wrote:

“ Go to Joe’s Health Club, because they have fucking air conditioning. Holy fuck, is that ass sweat in my pants or is it diarrhea?”

Good ad. Catchy.

Things improved at day’s end. I went home, showered, ate all the sausage I wanted, and got to play with the Girl. Solid evening all around. In fact, here are some basic rules for you ladies to make sure your man has a realistically decent Father’s Day next time around:

-Sex
Goes without saying.

-Let Him Grill
Grilling is the greatest coup ever invented. Mrs. Drew always thanks me for grilling dinner, as if it’s some kind of chore. Hardly. Here’s what grilling entails: standing around, drinking beer, and watching fire burn shit. When I was 11, I would have given anything to do this all day. And now, here I am, living the fantasy. Plus, you don’t have to wash a pot. All you have to do is scrape the grill with a wire brush. I don’t know why the standards for cleanliness are so much lower for a grill. There’s chicken fat in there that pre-dates my first wet dream. But I’m not quibbling.

-Acceptable Gifts
1. Grill tools
2. Golf equipment
3. Alcohol
That’s it. That’s the list. If you get him something that is not on this list, that something had better be Laetitia Casta in thigh-highs.

-No Discussion Of Annoying Shit
Getting new shutters. Writing thank-you notes to people who refuse to write you’re-welcome notes back. Researching preschools. The only thing worse than doing this shit is having to talk about doing it. So lay off for a day. Here are some acceptable conversation topics: football, spanking, Metallica, and people you saw trip and fall the other day.

-Let Him Turn Up The Volume On The TV Set
For once, I’d like to actually hear what the little people inside the TV are saying. Call me crazy.

-Offer Beer
But you knew that already. And bring me some chips and salsa while you’re at it, okay? Thanks, Toots.

A Father’s Day Fit For A Fucking Badass

2006-06-15T18:18:00.000-04:00

Guess what day Sunday is? You see that calendar? You see what it says? That’s right, sluts. Motherfucking Father’s Day. This day used to be for all the other douchebags that had kids. Well, now it’s my turn. And I’m not settling for one of those half-assed Father’s Days my dad always had, when he got socks and a card and ended up washing the dishes anyway. I’m not playing that shit. In fact, I submitted this itinerary to Mrs. Drew and have instructed her to follow it to a tee.

7:00AM – Baby cries. Someone who is not me tends to it.

9:00AM – Mrs. Drew wakes me up while wearing the uniform of a service industry employee of my choosing. I’m thinking a 1920’s speakeasy cigarette girl. It’s eccentric, yet boneriffic.

9:01AM – Hot monkey sex.

9:15AM – Shower.

9:37AM – Watch news. Find out Brett Favre has been killed in a hunting accident. Cry hot tears of joy.

9:38AM – Play with the Girl until tired of doing so.

9:45AM – Tired of doing so.

9:46AM – Greet in-laws at the door and hand the Girl over to them. Bye, Girl!

9:47AM – Bong hit.

10:00AM – Eggs.

10:10AM – Boooooooooong hit.

10:30AM – Limo ride to Dave & Buster’s, where I down three boilermakers and beat the living shit out of a random 15-year-old at Pop-A-Shot. Yell to everyone, “I’m the Daddy here, bitches!”

11:10AM – Limo ride to airport. Drink a bottle of Cristal. Listen to “Master of Puppets” in its entirety, singing both the vocal and guitar parts. Come up with the idea for a cologne that smells like gunfire. Call my brother to have it patented. Develop marketing plan to sell it exclusively in nightclubs in downtown Houston, Atlanta, and Miami. Call venture capitalist. Secure a $100 million investment.

11:35AM – Have limo pull over. Have hot monkey sex on the shoulder.

12:00PM – Private Concorde to Atlantis in the Bahamas. Drink three Stoli & grapefruits while watching the in-flight movie, which is the first 40 minutes of “Full Metal Jacket”, followed by the first 20 minutes of “Saving Private Ryan”. Fucking. Awesome.

1:04PM – Smoke a bowl.

1:05PM – Spontaneously orgasm.

1:10PM – Land. Limo to casino. Hit blackjack table. Immediately go up $250,000.

1:42PM – Russell Crowe enters the casino. Sits down next to me. Tells me he’s a huge fan of my work and wishes he were more like me. Rubs my thigh and tells me I’m the first man he’s ever been gay for.

1:43PM – Slap the shit out of Russell Crowe. Get another $50,000 in chips compliments of the casino bellhop staff.

2:00PM – Late lunch. Two five pound lobsters. Entire smoked salmon. Gallon of beluga caviar. Bottle of Dalmore.

2:45PM – Escorted to private suite with Mrs. Drew.

2:59PM – Act out entire sequences from the movie “Night Trips,” starring the legendary Tori Welles.

4:29PM – Shower. Play with myself, just to mix things up a bit.

4:45PM – Limo back to airport. Private Concorde to New York City. Turn on satellite television to watch the World Cup. Find out soccer has been preempted by highlights of the Vikings 31-17 playoff win at Lambeau Field two years ago, the one where Randy Moss pretends to take a shit on the field. Except, in this version, Moss really does take a shit on the field, and then Joe Buck dies on the air in a hail of gunfire.

6:00PM – Land in Manhattan. Limo ride to Hudson Hotel. Get fitted for a suit by the very finest Italian tailor while in the car. Inhale entire nitrous oxide tank.

6:30PM – Arrive at Hudson Hotel Bar. Bouncer looks at guest list. I am the only name on the list. Enter the bar and instruct bouncer to bring me headshots of people who would like to get in for my approval.

6:49PM – Approve of no one. Get fucking drunk.

8:00PM – Dinner at Per Se. Thomas Keller comes to our table, tells me he’s a huge fan. Offers complimentary foie gras, fellatio. I take the former.

9:43PM – Helicopter ride back to Bethesda. Ask pilot to hover five feet off the ground in select areas. Use long-range hunting rifle and night scope to gun down cats at random.

10:30PM – Pick up the Girl. She smiles at me, laughs a little, and then falls asleep.

10:45PM – Limo ride home.

11:00PM – Tuck in Girl.

11:01PM – Hot monkey sex in front of mirror. I look good.

11:15PM – Turn on news. Find out Osama bin Laden, Paris Hilton, and Jimmy Fallon all died. Drink a bottle of Cabernet in celebration.

11:29PM – Leave witty comment on deadspin.com that only I find funny.

11:30PM – Kiss Mrs. Drew good night. Throw massive kegger.

7:00AM – Sleep well, Big Drew. You are truly the king of kings.

Happy Father's Day, everybody.

The FKS Guide To Dating Other Heterosexual Men

2006-06-13T17:24:00.000-04:00

I date other men. It wasn’t always supposed to be this way. My ambition at 22 was to live in Manhattan for a few years, then head out to LA, produce movies, live in a house on stilts, snort only the finest yayo, and nail every vaginally-advantaged person I could along the way. I still believe that plan had some really strong points.

But you know how this story ends. I met Mrs. Drew, quickly realized she was the only sane woman left on Earth, and immediately married her. Excellent move. Second smartest thing I’ve ever done, next to getting out of grand jury duty. So no regrets there. Well, maybe one.

Mrs. Drew talked me into moving down to DC two and a half years ago. I have no friends from high school or college here, so I’ve had to go through the fun experience of making new friends, either with the husbands of all of Mrs. Drew’s friends, or with people at work. This is basically the same as dating. You try and find people who have similar interests. Then you see if you have chemistry. Then, you decide if you want to spend more time together. And then, of course, you have hot buttsex.

Everything has been reversed. The same flirting and chasing I used to do with chicks I now do with guys. And I can't even begin to tell you how gay that is. Gayer that the gayest gay that has ever gayed. Regardless, I’ve netted a decent friend or two out of this process, but there are rules you need to follow when you’re dating your fellow man, and here they are:

-How To Ask Another Man Out
This can be done by email or over the phone and should consist of only five words: “Hey, wanna grab some beers?” Any longer than that, and you’re a flaming queer. And, for God’s sake, don’t ask him to dinner. Fucking the guy would be less awkward.

-Dress Code
Shirt. Sneakers. Jeans. Old baseball cap of a legitimate college/NFL/MLB/NBA sports team. Any more formal than that and you may as well bring your assless chaps.

-Never Date A Guy Who Isn’t Into Sports
You wouldn’t believe the number of men I’ve met down here who have barely any interest in sports. They’d rather talk about things like “the war”, or “the stock market”, or “why Drew likes to put his hand on his sack and then smell it”. I can talk to Mrs. Drew about shit like that. That’s what she’s there for. I need another guy to discuss important shit, like Vikings’ glaring need for wideout depth, or why Stuart Scott needs to be humanely destroyed. Mrs. Drew is beyond worthless for this. The point of making friends is so you can talk about shit with them that you can’t with the wife. So make sure the guy you’re into likes sports. Unless he’s a Packer fan, in which case he can pull a Sonny Bono for all I care.

-Make Sure He’s The Reliable Sort
You have a wife and/or a kid. Getting free time to use for the express purpose of drinking is hard to come by. You gotta find a potential friend who is ready to drink when you are. There’s no point in making friends with someone if you have to actually make an effort with them. That’s what women do with each other, and it sucks.

-Make Sure He Drinks
Drinking is awesome and promotes dick jokes. If the guy you’re going out with doesn’t drink, you may as well befriend a fucking tree.

-Mention The Fact That You Have Other Friends That You Did Lots of Awesome Shit With
No one wants to be friends with a loser. Make sure you tell at least one story about the time you pissed somewhere you weren’t supposed to piss.

-Rules About Calling
If you and the guy have a good time, call him again two weeks later. Any sooner and you’ll look desperate. If he doesn't like you, he won’t call back. Move on. Find a new man-crush. And if you don’t like the guy, never call him back. You don’t want to be stuck with a friend you don’t actually like. Again, that’s what women do with each other, and it sucks.

-Bring Astroglide, a Stick of Butter, and a Pair of Flippers
Hey, you never know.

Confessions Of An Old Navy Whore

2006-06-08T20:22:00.000-04:00

My entire wardrobe is from Old Navy. My shirts. My shorts. My entire set of surfing-themed cock rings. All Old Navy. I must have over 200 items from Old Navy in my closet. Total cost? Probably about three dollars. God bless Polynesia and its relaxed child labor laws. You wouldn’t believe the attention to detail that comes from a 7-year-old seamstress who gets beaten with sugar cane every ten minutes. Mrs. Drew does most of her shopping at Old Navy. Many of the girl’s clothes come from there. Will you be seeing our family rock madras this summer? Fuck yes, you will.

I’ve shopped at the Gap. And I’ve shopped at Banana Republic, which was a much better store when it had a 19th century African colonist theme and only sold brown clothing. Both stores now specialize in making ugly clothes for small, gay Italian men. I don’t get it. Gap stockholders, you might want to inform the company to stock pants larger than a 32” waist. This is America. We eat hollowed-out potato skins filled with cheese, bacon, and sour cream in this country. Thirty-two inches makes a tight garter size here. Let that shit out.

Old Navy (which, oddly enough, is owned by the same company that owns Gap and Banana. Wait a second. Gap and Banana? Oh, now the tight clothing makes sense to me.), on the other hand, is the greatest store on Earth. I particularly love the graphic t-shirts, which are supposed to look like vintage t-shirts, but instead sport invented, non-trademarked company logos. It makes me feel like a Japanese tourist. I have one that says “Shasta Lake Beach Camp.” What is Shasta Lake Beach Camp, you ask? Fuck if I know. I like to tell people I lost my virginity there at age 8. Or I say it’s where Shasta Diet Orange Soda comes from. I also have one that says “Mexico” for no reason at all. And I have one that has the number 34 on it. What’s 34 mean? Who cares! That’s my fucking number now! All three of those shirts together were 10 bucks. They could say, “I love fudge!” for all I care.

Old Navy also specializes in my pant style, which is the 40-inch waist pant for men who have no ass but have thighs like Beyonce. Awesome! I even found a swimsuit that didn’t have that meshy, bullhugging lining on the inside. You know the one I’m talking about.

They also have roughly 8,567,873 pairs of cargo pants. They have cargo pants with cargo pockets on the cargo pockets. You could hook up the entire crowd at a fucking Pearl Jam concert with these pants. These pants have so many pockets, I need to go through two zippers and a Velcro flap just to scratch my balls. The detail is mind-blowing.

Flip flops? They have them. Belts? Got ‘em. Sunglasses? Got ‘em. Randomly placed vending machines that sell you superballs for a quarter? Got ‘em. They don’t leave anything to chance in this store. There’s enough fleece in one Old Navy store to cushion a botched skydive. There are enough Hawaiian shirts there to keep John Lasseter of Pixar molesting children for at least another three decades. It’s a miraculous store, I tell you.

And yet, whenever the checkout clerk asks me if I want an Old Navy card, my response is always the same. It starts with “Fuck” and ends with “No”.

Is There An Abbreviation For Dipshit?

2006-06-06T14:57:00.000-04:00

Do you have a sticker like this somewhere on your car?

Then do me a favor. Get in your car. Find a river. And then, fast as you can, drive into that river. Be sure your seat belt is fastened, your doors are locked, and your windows and sunroof are sealed tight! We wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen, like you surviving.

Seriously, the vacation sticker trend is getting completely out of hand. Oh, you summer on Nantucket? Well, guess what? You’re a red-short-wearing, lobster-eating, whale-hat-sporting MegaDouche. If you’re the kind of person who feels compelled to announce to other motorists where you spend your leisure time, just know that my new goal in life is to one day beat you to death with a docksider.

Like anything that’s stupid and gay, this whole thing has its origins in Europe. Euro decals were placed on cars to identify each vehicle’s country of origin, like England (GB), the Netherlands (KB), France (DBAG), and Germany (SS). So over there it serves a fairly useful purpose. The only purpose is serves here is to separate which people are normal from those who need to be whipped repeatedly with a water skiing rope.

Or perhaps these people are speaking a code language to each other. After all, who else but buttfucks from Kennebunkport, ME would know the abbreviation KPT? Perhaps these people place that sticker on their Jeep Wrangler (official vehicle of Douchebags the world over), in hopes that they’ll bump into another Wrangler on the road, and then perhaps go meet and share a glass of Turning Leaf. Then maybe they’d head up to Maine together, to join all the other shitboxes with KPT cars and hold a clambake. They could even compare lighthouse cufflinks! That would be so cute! Brandy-swilling, President-knowing sacks of fuck. Die.

This whole Euro-decal trend isn’t even restricted to resort towns now. See for yourself. You can get one for your state, which is so useful considering that the name of your state appears on your license plate. Or perhaps you’re a displaced Delaware native just yearning to let people know where your heart truly lies. Bully to you.

Or you can get one for your dog breed. Oh look, everybody! It’s a Mastiff owner! Awesome! You can also get one for the dipshit-packed, lacrosse-playing Northeastern asswipe college of your choice! Choose from Dartmouth or Cornell! You’ll be an unbearably pretentious asshole with a job at Morgan Stanley either way! Or you can just get one for the city you live in. After all, there’s no better way to show civic pride than by placing a coy abbreviation on the back of your car.

We all know bumper stickers are for losers. Political bumper stickers, radio station bumper stickers, or even the perennial “Keep honking. I’m reloading.” bumper sticker (classy!) are all hallmarks of severe douchebaggery. But people who sport the euro decals on their cars somehow think they don’t belong in that category. Well guess what, people of Chappaquiddick, Block Island, and the Outer Banks? I’ve got an abbreviation for all of you. And you don’t need a degree from Cornell to figure out what it is.

Incidents in the Life of a Slave Boy

2006-06-05T09:19:00.000-04:00

The other day I told Mrs. Drew I was going upstairs to take a shower. Here was her response:

“You can’t take a shower, because all the towels are in the washer. Actually, will you go downstairs, put the towels in the dryer, and then put a load of whites in the washer?”

And that, my friends, is adulthood in a nutshell. One minute I’m about to take a nice, hot shower. Maybe even rub some body wash on my penis. The next minute I’m doing manual labor. Shit. This never would have happened if I were alone and unhappy.

The depressing thing about chores is that they never end. Clothes and dishes will always get dirty again. Garbage will always pile up. Weeds will always grow. There’s almost something existential about how hard they suck. But I’ll let an actual writer tackle the gayness of that idea. No, I’m here to grade each individual chore, on my patented Scale of Annoyance™:

1 – Stubbed Toe
2 – Canker Sore
3 – Slow Cashier at the Grocery Store
4 – Cancer
5 – Episode of “Sex and the City”

As you can see, any chore that ranks a 5 is pretty goddamn annoying. Let’s see how badly these tasks destroy my will to live:

-Emptying the Dishwasher
We have a dishwasher. You must thoroughly rinse any dish before placing it into the dishwasher. You can imagine the confusion this causes in my tiny little brain. Once a week, I’ll open the dishwasher, stare at the dishes, and ask myself: Are these dishes clean or are they dirty, and how quickly can the bloodstream absorb a cyanide tablet? I’ve unloaded dirty dishes from the dishwasher. I’ve rewashed dishes that were already clean. They make paper plates, utensils, and cups, you know. You can just throw them away when you’re done eating. That sounds like bliss to me. But noooooooo, we have to live all classy and shit. Annoyance Factor™: 2

-Washing Pots and Pans
I used to think Thanksgiving was the greatest holiday ever, until I realized that every Thanksgiving I’m forced to A) Hang out with family members who irritate me, B) Watch the Detroit Lions try and play football, and C) Wash roughly 900 pots and pans. The wreckage after Thanksgiving Day dinner is just brutal. It’s like cleaning up after Katrina. Not fun.

Oh, and I’d just like to say here that items that are not dishwasher-safe should be outlawed. Take steak knives, for instance. The steak knife is the biggest pussy in the utensil population. How ironic. Oh, you can cut a 64 oz. porterhouse, but a little Cascade ruins your shit? You disgust me, steak knife. The sundae spoon owns you. Loser. Annoyance Factor™: 3

-Laundry
Women always make men feel so dumb when they explain how laundry works. “You just put all the whites in hot, and all the colors in cold.” Well all right, Super Teacher Lady. But what about my white boxers with blue polka dots? Huh? What the fuck do I do with those?! Riddle me that, Batman! Annoyance Factor™: 3

-Taking Out The Garbage/Recycling
I have no beef with taking out the garbage, except for one thing. Mrs. Drew always asks me to spray a little Lysol in the garbage can before I replace the bag. Fine. I can do that without starting a fire. But this is where Mrs. Drew displays her knack for placing things at the very back of the lowest possible shelf. Reaching for that can of Lysol is like visiting a Dominican chiropractor. Thanks, Mrs. Drew! I had no idea nerves could send pain signals to the brain so quickly! Annoyance Factor™: 1

-Vacuuming
I never vacuumed when I was single. And my apartment in New York had wall-to-wall carpeting. The resulting death spores probably took 10 years off my life. I say it was worth it. Annoyance Factor™: 4

-Watering the Plants
Now this is a great fucking chore. All you have to do is stand there and spray water on shit. You also get a free hand to do things like hold a beer, or vigorously masturbate. I like to pretend I’m in the “Nothin’ But a G Thang” video and I’m hosing down that one cold bitch at the party with St. Ides. That’ll teach her not to put out! I also like to talk to the plants. I tell them, “I am giving you life, bitches. Don’t you ever forget it.” Annoyance Factor™: 0

-Making the Bed
I am incapable of making a bed properly. When I try and make the bed, it invariably ends up looking like Green Day just played a three-hour show on it. And we have a comforter! It’s not like I have a sheet AND blanket to deal with. If that were the case, the sheet would probably end up in my ass somehow. Annoyance Factor™: 1

-Yardwork
Can’t do it. That’s my reward for two back surgeries. Maybe I’ll get a third. Annoyance Factor™: N/A

You might be saying to yourself, “Hey Drew, nothing here ranks a 5? Is there no chore worse than having to watch horse-faced Sarah Jessica Parker try and be funny?” And the answer to that question, of course, is a resounding no.

FKS Field Trip – The Smithsonian National Zoo (Featuring Monkeys And Shit)

2006-06-01T09:35:00.000-04:00

Hey, it’s Memorial Day weekend. It’s over 90 degrees in the greater DC area. Let’s go to the zoo, which combines the crowding of amusement parks with the odors of a livestock rodeo! Fuck yeah!

Joining me on our field trip are Mrs. Drew, the Girl, my brother and his wife, and their kid. Their kid is one year and nine months old. I do not want a one-year-and-nine-month old. One-and-niners are like wind-up toys equipped with all the verbal dexterity of Timmy from “South Park.” They also like to throw shit. I’m not looking forward to that.

Before I get into the animals, I have to tell you about one thing we saw before we went into the zoo. It was a homeless guy lying down on a park bench, smoking two cigarettes at one time. Seriously. He had one cigarette in one hand and one in the other, and he alternated puffing between the two. Who double-fists Marlboros? When it’s 8,000 degrees outside? And this guy was homeless. Smoking a cigarette was clearly the most exciting thing he was going to do all day. Learn some patience, buddy. It’s not like you had a packed schedule ahead of you.

Anyway, let’s get right to the hot bestiality action:

-Panda Bears
I don’t get the worldwide hardon raging for panda bears. They’re the most overrated part of the zoo. All they do is sit there and eat bamboo. And to see them, you have to wade through a twenty-deep crowd of Japanese tourists. Hey Japanese people, pandas come from your country. You shouldn’t come to America to see them. You should come to America to buy guns and goat porn like everyone else. Here’s one other thing that annoys me about the zoo in general. There are acres upon acres of space at the zoo, and yet the viewing area to see each animal is roughly the width of a stick of Doublemint. Try thinking about the humans, once in a while, zookeepers. We’re cute little animals, too.

-The Mighty Elephant
Broad. Majestic. Juggernaut of the Sahara. There is much to admire about our friend the elephant. Sadly, not long after this picture was taken, ivory hunters gunned down this beautiful creature, hacked off her tusks, and used her ample hide to build an exclusive resort of wigwam villas. Sad, really.

-Zebras
The least fashionable of all animals. It’s like a horse wearing Zubaz pants. Not a good look.

-Lions
You know what the easiest job in the world is? Lion tamer. What taming needs to be done? Zoo signs say the lion only gets up and hunts and dusk, if at all. The rest of the day it just sits there on its fat ass like Kathleen Turner. King of the jungle, my ass. Well, you know what? I’m not playing that shit. I looked for a parking spot outside this zoo for 10 whole minutes, and I demand to be entertained. You’re in my home country, lion, which means you need to adjust to my culture, bitch. A zookeeper should stick a cattle prod up that lion’s ass every 5 minutes so that I can watch it roar like the lion in the MGM logo. That’s how we roll in America.

-Badass Muthaphuckkin’ Gorillas
This gorilla could clearly benefit from the benefits of Victoria’s Secret Ipex technology. I have only two real problems with gorillas: 1) They remind me of the movie “Congo,” which sucked, and 2) They remind me of Britney Spears. No one ever talks about the fact that Britney Spears has a neck like a fucking linebacker, even before she became a walking Bob Evans Restaurant. This annoys me to no end for some reason. Otherwise, gorillas are the best part of the zoo. They look cool, they interact with one another, they make funny sounds, and there’s always the lingering chance of a shitfight. Good stuff.

Later on, this gorilla found a stick. And when she threw the stick up in the air, it turned into a spaceship! Trippy shit.

-Giant Tortoise
This tortoise has lived for over 150 years and has taken a grand total of four steps. A real firecracker, this one. What’s it say about you when a nearby boulder has more agility than you do? When I saw this tortoise, I immediately jumped on top of him and screamed out, “Eat shit, Koopa Troopa!” Then I threw his shell at all the evil mushrooms.

-Prairie Dogs
Tell me you don’t want to whack these guys with a giant plush mallet. The urge is just overwhelming.

-Wild Fucking Boars
Now we’re talking. Speaking of urges, all I wanted to do when I saw these savage beasts was find a big stick, whittle it down to a razor sharp point, paint my face with burnt ash, and hunt the fuckers down. Then I’d impale a boar’s head on my hunting stick, beat the living shit out of Piggy, and rule my island kingdom with an iron fist. But maybe that’s just me.

-The Zoo Plant Life
Uh, okay. Let’s just move on.

-Kangaroos
I just want to put boxing gloves on this bastard and fight him to the death. What’s in the pocket of those ‘Roos? My steel-toed boot, that’s what.

-The Hippo Pool (not pictured)
You see a sign that says “Hippos.” You get excited for some Badass hippo fighting. You go to the hippo pool. You look around for the hippo. You try and see the silhouette of the hippo in the pool. You think to yourself, “Where is the motherfucking hippo?” And then you see the sign that says the hippos are being kept inside today. Thanks for the experience, Mr. Zookeeper. That was fun.

All in all, a fun experience. Now let’s never do it again.

Cats: A Reasonable Case for Planned Genocide

2006-05-30T10:57:00.000-04:00

I fucking hate cats. In fact, if you were to list the things I hate most, in order, here’s where cats would rank:

1. Mayonnaise
2. Cats
3. Katie Couric
4. Hitler

I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably right. Katie Couric is a little low on that list. Vapid fucking slut. But no, cats are worse. What is the point of owning a cat? It says a lot about you if you enjoy the company of a pet that does nothing but sit around all day and stare at you with complete and utter contempt. It’s like having a shallow Asian girlfriend. I don’t get the appeal.

Cats also rank on high Mrs. Drew’s shit list, which looks something like this:

1. Jennifer Love Hewitt
2. Gwyneth Paltrow
3. Ann Curry (The Today Show is about as welcome in our house as a hot fart)
4. Fucking cats

But recent events may push cats to the top of our respective lists. Two weeks ago, Mrs. Drew discovered a litter of baby rabbits in our frontyard. I took a picture of them. Here it is:

Awwwwww. Aren’t they cute? I even named them. From left to right, that’s Pussykiller, Lightning Balls, Russell J. Trombone, and TT Boy. Mrs. Drew watched the mama rabbit give birth to them, stunned that no epidural was administered. But she also noticed that the baby rabbits should not have been born so out in the open, where they could be easily spotted by predators and/or Richard Gere. We both agreed, as new parents ourselves, that we should do our best to shelter the litter, so that they could enjoy a long life of eating carrots, outwitting hunters, battling space aliens, and fighting bulls. So Mrs. Drew surrounded them with a complex wall of twigs, sticks, and twiggy sticks.

But then, what should appear in our yard but one of the outdoor cats that roam our neighborhood. Apparently, cats are divided into two groups: indoor cats and outdoor cats. The idea of an outdoor cat is idiotic to me. It’s basically a stray cat someone assigned themselves to. I own a group of outdoor seagulls myself. Retarded.

Anyway, Mrs. Drew knew this cat wanted to go all Sylvester on the litter, so she stayed outside to shoo it away. But then, two things happened. First, the Girl started crying, which Mrs. Drew had to take care of. Second, I realized I had to check on some chicken I had cooking on the grill. I had that shit marinating overnight. Fuck if I was burning it. The cat was nowhere to be seen. So we went off to do our respective duties. While we were away, the inevitable happened. We came back to find a bloodbath. Only two baby rabbits remained. One was gone, the other badly wounded. Fucking cat.

What is the call here? Do you call the Humane Society? Do you take in the surviving rabbits and raise them as humans? Or do you let cruel nature take its course? I went to go look up animal services on the internet. But the time I got back, it was too late. They were all gone.

I’m well aware that these are rabbits we’re talking about. I’m sure the mama rabbit slutted it up three minutes later and pumped out a new batch without even thinking about it. But still, she lost four kids at once. We couldn’t even save one of them ala Private Ryan. And it was all because of an animal no one with a chemically balanced psyche likes. As a result, Mrs. Drew have combined our respective shit lists into one:

1. Outdoor cats
2. Indoor cats
3. Thundercats
4. Aristocats
5. Any other stupid fucking cats

I hate cats.

I Am A Better Father Than You

2006-05-24T09:04:00.000-04:00

I never set out to be a hero. Like, say, John McCain, or Christ, I had greatness thrust upon me. Barring an unforeseen mailtruck accident this afternoon, here are the facts from my stint as a single father:

-Days: 5
-Dead Babies: 0
-Temper Tantrums: 0
-Poopy Diapers: 6
-Commenters that called me a “sick animal”: 1 (I deleted it. Censoring is fun!)

It’s clear now. I can do anything. I can pitch a perfect game. I can bowl 300. I can go 12-12 from three-point range. I can invade Poland, and then waltz into France like I own the place. I can stop the flow of illegal drugs across our border. I can defeat the terrorists. I can apply to Harvard Business as a safety school. I can bat for both power and average.

I can actually give 110%, although it is not physically possible. I can beat the house odds at Spanish Blackjack. I can MAKE money by going to a strip club. I can outrun the majestic gazelle. I can paint masterly works of 19th century impressionist art. I can wake up at 3AM and have fresh brioches ready for everyone to enjoy by six. I can catch a 45 lb. brook trout, and then release it. I can go a round at Winged Foot and hit every green in regulation. I can be both coach and GM. I can play a convincing love interest opposite Renee Zellweger. I can be elected President of Papua/New Guinea.

I can talk to the animals, and walk with the animals. I can beat David Blaine at any contrived test of endurance. I can resolve the standoff between Pakistan and India over the hotly disputed Kashmir region. I can rip off countless Bill Brasky jokes and get away with it. I can believe it’s not butter. It’s not butter, you fucks. It’s margarine. I can win a Tony. I can climb the K12 without supplemental oxygen. I can text message without resorting to shorthand. I can cater a party for 2,000 heads and have every dish arrive piping hot to the table. I can leg press more than Pat Robertson. I can clarify butter instantly. I can anchor The CBS Evening News. I can replace Cliff Burton with no dropoff.

I can do all that. But I think I like hanging out with the Girl.

Day 4 Alone With The Baby – The Girl’s Turn to Bitch

2006-05-23T15:47:00.000-04:00

Enough from me. Time to turn today’s proceedings over to the Girl.

8:02AM – It’s him again. I think I’m gonna cry.

8:05AM – Is he trying to grow a beard? That’s so lame.

8:15AM – Hey Asshole, when you’re feeding me, can you not put your keys in your front pocket? It’s hard to enjoy breakfast with a Sam Adams bottle opener up my ass.

8:45AM – Hey, we’re bouncing up and down! This is hilarious! God damn! Who knew going up and down could be so entertaining?

8:47AM – I don’t feel so good. You don’t like that shirt, right?

9:04AM – Hey, why are you strapping me down?! What is this fiendish contraption?! Where are you taking me?! You call this a democracy?!

9:05AM – Actually, I changed my mind. This car seat’s not that bad.

9:35AM – So this is the grocery store. Do they have pork tidbits? I fucking love pork tidbits.

10:57AM – Hey jerkoff, get off the computer or else I’ll marry a Greek shipping heir.

11:25AM – Does anyone else here remember that movie “Look Who’s Talking”? It was that movie that starred John Travolta before everyone found he was gay, and Kirstie Alley before everyone found out she was a humpback whale. Remember how it had that crazy Bruce Willis doing the voice-over for a baby, and how the writers thought it would be a funny device to make the baby all sassy? That was fucking lame.

12:04PM – What the fuck does a broad have to do to get a drink around here?

12:45PM – Where’s the Woman? I liked her better.

1:34PM – Hey, why is he looking at my nose like that? Do I have a booger? Oh shit, I have a booger. That means… oh fuck!The bulb syringe!

No, no, no! Keep that fucking thing away from me. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it…NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

I’ll get you for that, you bastard. I will poop in your sock drawer. I promise you.

3:40PM – He thinks I can’t possibly be hungry an hour after I already ate. But I just watched this prick dig into a pack of crumbled feta ten minutes after lunch. I’m your daughter. Figure it out, you jackass.

3:42PM – One more day. Just keep saying it to yourself…

Day 3 Alone With The Baby – Next Train to Poopytown

2006-05-22T17:19:00.000-04:00

4:59AM – Who’s goddamn idea was it to skip the Girl’s 10PM feeding last night? Who fucking thought the Girl would just sleep clear through the night without noticing those extra 4 ounces of fluid were missing? Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.

8:30AM – The Girl’s up. I’m up. We’re now two full days in, and the body count stands at a respectable zero. I’m gonna open a Day Care facility exclusively for children of Badasses. Russell Crowe’s kids will go. As will any direct descendants of Doc Holliday or Teddy Roosevelt. Tuition will be paid in whisky and lobster tails.

9:05AM – Bath time! The Girl loves her bath. You would too if you only got one every three days. Mrs. Drew rubs the baby down with apricot oil after every bath. I do the same but often use too much, so the Girl ends up smelling like an aperitif. Rubbing down the Girl weirds me out a little bit. I read in one of those annoying baby manuals that babies love massage. This book suggested making a night of it, including turning down the lights and (I’m serious) lighting candles. That’s going a bit too far, don’t you think? Why don’t I just throw a Jimmy Cliff record on while I’m at it? I’ll be keeping it strictly businesslike, thank you very much. Baby freaks.

9:47AM – Can I eat strawberry preserves right out of the jar? I can.

11:12AM – I’m working from home today. If I ever ran a company (not likely), I’d never let any employee work from home. Ever. It’s like a license to waste payroll. I love the call into work when you’re working at home. “Uh, just let me know if you need anything.” Translation: I’m currently doing nothing. I may even be naked at this very moment. Ha ha ha.

11:17AM – I would really, really like it to be lunchtime. I think about lunch immediately after eating breakfast. That can’t be good.

11:29AM – Sometimes I wonder if I bore the Girl. Is she getting enough attention? Does she get enough affection? Do I need to talk to her more?

11:30AM – Hey, Judge Hatchett’s on!

12:12PM – For the record, I am trying to grow a beard this week. It’s my playoff beard - a talisman that will bring me good fortune during this stretch. Unfortunately, I can’t actually grow facial hair that resembles a beard. After five days without shaving, it usually looks like I rubbed my face with flypaper and then tried to wipe it off with dryer lint. No matter. It’s my fucking playoff beard!

1:38PM – Watched “The Squid and the Whale.” What a fucking terrible title for a movie. “Hey, I have a movie idea! It’s a wrenching drama about the devastating effects of divorce on a couple of adolescent boys. I call it ‘The Rhinoceros Burglar.’” I also resent any movie that says “Strong Sexual Content,” only to have said content be a scene where a 12-year-old whacks off in the school library and then wipes it on a stack of books. That offends me as a pervert.

2:47PM – I take the Girl out for a walk. It’s hot outside, and I forgot sunblock. To protect my neck, I pop my collar.

2:48PM – I put my collar back down. I can’t rock a popped collar. I just can’t. Next thing you know, I’ll be spiking my hair, wearing a visor, and committing other wanton acts of douchebaggery.

3:00PM – Feed the Girl. A tip to would-be parents: to avoid air bubbles, swirl the formula powder in the water, instead of shaking the whole bottle. Actual parenting advice on this site? Oh hell yeah.

3:15PM – The Girl’s favorite song is “Kamera,” by Wilco. If the pretentious assholes at Pitchfork reviewed the Girl, they’d give her a 9.8.

4:58PM – I wondered over the past couple days if the Girl realizes if her mom is gone. Does she know? And, if so, does it affect her? Or does it take months, even years, to develop the complex emotions involved in longing for a loved one? Well, now I have my answer. The Girl just let out a cry. It doesn’t sound like any other cry she’s ever made. It sounds like the cry you or I make when we’ve been really hurt. It isn’t loud, or shrill. It’s a quiet cry, as if she wanted to keep it all to herself. I know immediately what it means. I miss your Mom too, Girl.

4:59PM – Never mind. Turns out she was just really hungry. Who knew?

Day 2 Alone With The Baby – Birth of a Dadass

2006-05-21T14:54:00.000-04:00

7:51AM – Guess who’s not dead? For those keeping score, that’s 24 hours now in my care that the baby has survived and, dare I say, prospered? I am a Dad. I am a Badass. I am a Dadass. New word. Look for it in Urban Dictionary 13 years from now. You know how I had newfound appreciation for single mothers earlier? I lied. I can do it, so by definition it’s not that hard.

Having the bed to myself without Mrs. Drew around, by the way, gives me the exact same feeling I get the first five minutes of driving a rental car. Completely disorienting.

I watched “Munich” last night. A movie about neurotic Jewish hitmen? Hey, that’s for me. But Jesus Christ, is every movie required to be two-and-a-half hours long now? I have things to do, Hollywood. People to parent. I’m not some fat horse molester like Harry Knowles. Would it kill you to make a movie in 90 minutes or less, you tuna tartare-eating assholes?

Final note: For dinner last night, I had sausages. That’s it. Just a plate of sausages. With NO salad. Fucking manly. And Mrs. Drew was none the wiser! Tee hee hee!

8:15AM – Hey, let’s watch some TV. Speaking of short movies, it’s “Clue”! Remember “Clue”? It had three different endings! And Martin Mull! You won’t find 90 shittier minutes of entertainment!

9:34AM – I always thought it was weird when my brother let his kid suck on his finger. “You’ll feel different when you have a kid,” he said.

Nope. Not true. Still feels creepy. Hey kid, I’ve got nine more.

10:54AM – It occurred to me yesterday that I don’t have to replace Mommy just to make the baby happy. I’m the dad, so by nature I’m going to handle the Girl differently. The Girl seems to have no problem with this. And that’s great, because I suck at baby talk, dog talk, or any other sort of talk that’s childish and stupid. “You’re so cute! Yes you are! YES YOU ARE!” Shoot me in the balls.

11:09AM – Time to go outside and read with the Girl. I’m reading “The Tipping Point,” which is a book everyone in my occupation (advertising) reads so that they can pass off its ideas as their own. “Hey, I was reading this book 'The Tipping Point' (inference: I am smart because I read one friggin’ book), and it said Mavens help spread word-of-mouth phenomena. What if we hired a Maven to help sell our product? That’s my idea!”

I’ll also be reading a book to the Girl. I’ll cover off reading to babies in our special upcoming series of FKS Gay Children’s Book Reviews. But let me just say this: reading to a child is fucking murder on a man’s back. You have to peer over the book and read it with the kid, then you have to point out shit on every page. Brutal. And learn-to-count books are like two days on a Judas Cradle. I leave those to Mrs. Drew.

11:41AM – Reading cancelled. I can’t find a shady spot in the backyard. Stupid, cushy American home, with its abundance of sunlight!

12:01PM – The Girl falls asleep upstairs.

12:01:30PM – Jerk off. Good stuff.

12:02PM – Hey, these baby wipes work on adults, too!

1:00PM – I’m taking the Girl downtown.

1:15PM – Arrive downtown.

1:25PM – Sit down at restaurant. Order tempura. Fucking excited.

1:26PM – Hey, did I remember to bring the Girl’s diaper bag?

1:27PM – God dammit.

2:00PM – Hey, we made it home with no issues stemming from my incompetence. Nice!

2:49PM – Time to go to the in-laws, where I can watch the NBA playoffs while they watch the Girl. There’s a reason I graduated cum laude. Somebody better die on The Sopranos tonight.

Day 1 Alone With The Baby – The Poopening

2006-05-20T17:06:00.000-04:00

8:47AM – You’re a new mom, about to leave your husband and child for five days. You might get a touch emotional. All right, you might get very emotional. Okay, now you’re going a little overboard, Mrs. Drew. And now you’re acting like you’re being sent on a railcar to an internment camp. Calm down, Mrs. Drew. Time is finite. After five days, five days will be over.

8:49AM – Mrs. Drew pulls out of the driveway. I wave goodbye to her. I’m wearing flip flops with socks and the same pair of glasses I’ve had since 1990. I also smell like vanilla for no real reason. I doubt she will miss me all that much.

8:50AM – Time. To. Fucking. Party.

8:51AM – Actually, maybe I’ll eat breakfast.

8:55AM – Breakfast with the Girl. I eat cereal. She eats her bib. The Girl sits in her bouncy seat. Her bouncy seat contains the following warnings:

-“Not intended for carrying baby.” Oops.
-“Always use restraint system.” Oops.
-“Never place on countertops, tables, or other elevated surfaces.” Oops.
-“Always use on the floor.” Oops. Isn’t that kind of just rephrasing the previous warning?
-“Never use recline feature or move bouncer while child is in seat.” Fuck.
-“Never leave child unattended.” How unattended? Do they mean, like, don’t go to Vancouver? I don’t do that.
-“Never use with a child who is able to sit upright unassisted.” Ding! Ding! Ding! I definitely don’t do that!

So, if you ever catch me making jokes about Britney Spears being a shitty mom, feel free to slap my ballsack.

9:20AM – Breakfast is over. Time to spend the day together!

9:21AM – Uh, what exactly do we do all day? Seriously, it’s not like we can go tubing down a river or anything. Do we just do nothing? What does Mrs. Drew do with the Girl every day? Mrs. Drew? Mrs. Drew? Would you mind coming back?

9:22AM – The Girl falls asleep. Problem solved. I’m watching a movie.

9:23AM – The Girl naps. I watch “Capote”. I had planned on renting the complete works of Andrew Blake, but Blockbuster won’t stock them. Stupid corporations, with all their “ethics”.

11:47AM – The Girl is up now. Okay, seriously, what the hell do we do? Perhaps a staring contest.

11:49AM – The Girl wins. Shit. Uh, time for lunch!

12:15PM - Lunch over. Let’s go walking, like a good, responsible parent! I’m taking a beer.

2:00PM – Walking the Girl with a beer? Not so bad. Although it dawns on me that I probably look like I have abducted the child. Still worth it.

2:58PM – Let’s bake some brownies. Really. Not the metaphorical, gay kind of baking brownies. The literal kind. Do you like your brownies cakey? Then fuck off. We make our brownies fudgy in this house. None of that cakey bullshit.

3:12PM – I can hold the Girl with one hand and pee with the other.

3:23PM – Brownies are done. Go freshen up, Betty Crocker. I’m finished having my way with you.

4:00PM – While feeding, the Girl spits up. The Girl has the incredible ability to dunk her own hands into her spit-up, and then rub the regurgitated formula all over her body. You can probably get a similar a spa treatment in Mission Viejo.

4:57PM – The Girl falls asleep. For the record, that’s 8 hours with no temper tantrums. Who’s your mommy now, bitch?

5:00PM – Let’s open another beer. I’ve earned it.

Five Days Alone With A Baby – The Preparation for Armageddon

2006-05-19T11:26:00.000-04:00

Mrs. Drew has her own stationery business. I’d leave a link, but I doubt there’s a lot of cross-pollination between the four readers of this site and people who like pretty wedding invitations. As such, Mrs. Drew has to go up to New York for the next five days to man her own booth at the National Stationery Show. It’s like a Dark Shadows convention, but with pastel paper. Needless to say, she will be going alone.

That’s right. For the next five days, I’m in charge. It’s a risky venture. I am, after all, me. Before parenthood, when I had the place to myself for a night, I’d order moo shu chicken, drink a sixer of tall boys, watch the most violent movie I could possibly find, smoke a bowl, and then masturbate all over myself. Twice. A great night all around. But things have changed. I probably won’t be able to smoke that bowl before helping myself to myself this time around.

No matter. Big Drew does not back down from a challenge. I’ve got five days alone to bond with the Girl, and dammit if she ain’t gonna come out of this thing not dead. And I’ve got some goals in mind for her. By the end of this little venture, she will:

-Fully grasp the problems the Minnesota Vikings are having at middle linebacker
-Hear the entire Queens of the Stone Age catalog, acapella
-Find out just how well Daddy can change a poopy diaper after five rum and Cokes
-Watch an NBA playoff game in its entirety for the first time this year (Thank fucking God)
-Possibly get a Husker Du tattoo on her left shoulder blade
-Cry for her mommy like a Marine who just got his leg shot off

I’ve also prepared my menu for the week, which is strictly limited to Italian sausage, frozen Trader Joe’s dim sum, Stouffer’s French Bread Pizza, Skor bars, and Cool Ranch Doritos. I’ve also planned outdoor activities for the Girl. For example, I will take her to the Urban Outfitters in Georgetown and stand around to see if chicks hit on me. That will be fucking awesome. I’ll also be making calls regularly to Mrs. Drew, during which I fully expect to hear things like:

-“Don’t do that.”
-“I told you not to do that.”
-“Why did you do that?”
-“Just don’t do it, that’s why.”
-“I told you she doesn’t like that.”
-“Maybe this was a bad idea.”
-“I miss her so much” (just the Girl)
-“Did you try feeding her?”
-“Did you try feeding her more?”
-“Did you try feeding her again?”

Awwwww, yeah. Get ready for some fucking fun, everybody!

Come back to the site the next five days. I’ll be filing daily reports that will almost certainly not be spell-checked. If you need to report me, DC child services can reached at (202) 328-2191.

Daddy Can Give Directions Like a Motherfucker

2006-05-17T11:15:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, people on the street who are lost will walk up to me and ask me for directions. I fucking love it when this happens, because it means that random strangers can just look at me and assume two things:

1. I know geography.
2. I do not look like the kind of person who will gag and rape them.

When you generate that sort of confidence from people you don't even know, you’ve got the Game of Life already won, my friends. Anyway, a woman (more a damsel, actually) this morning asked me for directions to the North Bethesda Marriott, and I came through like a fucking champ. I immediately puffed out my chest and began to barrage her with knowledge:

“Which way are you headed? No, no, no. That’s the wrong way…”

See what I did there? With one swift stroke, I have managed to establish her as completely helpless, and establish myself as the only possible person that can guide her in the right direction. An Oracle, if you will. God damn it, I’m good.

“You want to go back TOWARDS the Beltway…”

That’s right, little sweetheart. You thought it might be further up the road, but I changed the whole game on you! You gotta go back where you were! I got more twists than M. Night Shayamalan, bitch!

“…And then you’re gonna see a sign that says White Flint Mall…”

Landmarks. People fucking love landmarks. “Oh my God, this road is so confusing, with all its crazy lanes and intersections! If only there were a beacon to signify my progress! A mall! He hath given me a mall! Praise to He!!!!”

“…and then you turn at Marinelli, and it’s right there. And that’s it.”

See how easy I make it sound? The key here is, “That’s it.” By saying that, I make the task of finding her destination far less intimidating. I make it all look so easy, not unlike a Michael Jordan, or a Tiger Woods, or a Josef Stalin. I’m definitely in that stratosphere.

Because giving directions isn’t a chance to help people. It’s a chance to impress them. And I deliver the goods. Every time. MapQuest can suck my enormous balls.

The FKS Guide To Murdering Common Household Insects

2006-05-15T11:34:00.000-04:00

It’s a relatively quiet day in your house. The TV’s on. The wife is reading. The baby has something in her mouth to keep her from bitching. Things are good all around. And then, your wife jumps up and shrieks:

“(Your name, which in my case is Drew)!!!!!”

You know exactly what this means. Women don’t jump up and scream randomly, unless they happen to be my ex-girlfriend. No, this is something your fatherly instincts have long readied you for. There is a bug flying around in your house. Time to protect your family and deal with the beast. Severely.

Immediately, you spring to your feet. A bug? In your house? That little motherfucking, cocksucking, exoskeleton-having piece of shit! How could it be? Is there a crack in the window? Is the front door ajar? Did it come down the chimney? Is he alone? Did he bring his “friends” with him? And why are you writing about this in the second person? Fuck him. He must die. Time to take action.

This is serious shit. For most men, this is the only time in your life you’ll get to kill a living thing without remorse or pity. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to run over a cat “by accident” one day. But for now, this will have to do. You tell your wife to leave the room and get away from the intruder. But you also make sure she’s still close by enough to watch you kill the bug, so she can bear witness to you taking command. Later, you will have sex because of this.

You spot the bug. It’s an ugly one, all right. It looks like a member of the cicada family. You know this because cicadas swarmed the DC area two years ago, and it was icky and gross. The first thing you must do in this scenario is choose your weapon. Your arsenal:

-A Shoe. Shoes are all right, but the curvature of the sole sometimes gives you less surface area for killing than you might think. Also, the shoe may be dirty on the bottom. And the only thing worse than having to kill a bug is having your wife bitch about you getting a footprint on the wall. If you go with a shoe, I suggest a flip flop for superior control.

-The Remote. Not an option. Too valuable. Why would you even consider this, you stupid asshole?

-A Newspaper. A reliable option in your artillery. It’s pliable, light to carry, and you never read the opinion section because George Will’s columns are trite, boring, and gay. If you use a newspaper, you must roll it up and handle it like a lead pipe and/or half a numchuk.

-A Magazine. Magazines are my personal favorite instrument of death. They roll up with minimal creasing (saddle stitch ones in particular), and the glossy print makes for easy cleaning after eradication. Ah, but which magazine do you choose?

Sports Illustrated and Entertainment Weekly? Out of the question. Too important.

Lucky? In a perfect world, you’d use it. But your wife loves it. Why? Who knows? For fuck’s sake, it’s a magazine of nothing but ads, ladies. Figure it out.

Parenting? You’re getting closer. Nothing’s more expendable than a magazine filled with worthless, conflicting parenting advice from editors who live in Manhattan and leave their kid 18 hours a day with the Puerto Rican nanny.

Crate and Barrel catalog? Ding! Ding! Ding! Time to kill!

You roll up your magazine and assume the proper killing stance: legs akimbo, bent in an Army Ranger half-crouch, with both arms coiled at chest level. The bug flies out you. You spastically move out of the way so that the bug doesn’t land on you. Because if a bug touches you, it’ll totally gross you out. The bug has now gone behind the couch. Or has it? You knock the couch. Nothing. You peer between the couch and the wall. Gone! Where did the bastard go?

“(Your name, which in my case is Drew)!!! There it is!!!”

Your wife’s pathetic shrieks have you spinning around like a whirling dervish. The bug has magically teleported across the room and is now infiltrating your cherished lampshade! You have to hand it to the clever little fucker. An impressive move. But sure to be his last! For now he has cornered himself! Soon he will taste your bitter wrath!

You wait for the bug to move to the wall. Like a sucker, he does! You move quickly to strike, when your wife shouts out…

“Don’t smush it against the wall!”

Well, what the fuck the else are you supposed to do, woman? That’s what the wall is there for, you crazy harpy! You ignore your wife and move to strike, whacking away like a man possessed and commanding the insect to “Die! Die! Die!” as you smack it. The importance of screaming out “Die!” while you kill something cannot be understated. It lets your victim know just how determined you are.

The insect falls to the floor behind the chair. You check to see if it’s dead. Alas, it’s disappeared! Criminy! What part of “Die!” did this varmint not understand?

But then, you spot the bug once more, crawling out from under the chair. It cannot fly now, its flying apparatus disabled by your punishing blows. A weaker man might show mercy on his enemy in this moment. He might consider sparing this poor bastard.

But not you. You are a man. A man with a large penis and a thirst for vengeance. And you don’t forget the anguish this miserable creature has put you and your family through. He even woke up the baby. Fucking prick.

You raise your shoe, casting an ominous shadow over the perpetrator. And then, you allow yourself a slight grin before mustering the best one-liner you can think of in this moment of chaos:

“Adios, muthaphuckka!”

You really need to work on your one-liners.

FKS Field Trip: The Local Grocery Store, Part 2

2006-05-10T10:40:00.000-04:00

What other random ass shit can be found at the local grocery store? Form a circle so that we can all hear each other…

-Dial For Men
Regular shower soap? That’s for pussies. But, if you take that same soap and put it in a manly-looking bottle (preferably gunmetal grey), then we’re getting somewhere. This bottle even comes in a powerful ergonomic design, so that you can grip it like you would the controls of a fighter jet. Fuck being clean. This soap tells people that you won’t take any of their shit, that you’re an ambitious go-getter, and that you, sir, have immaculate balls. I bought a pallet of it. But not a pallet of this:

-Hormel Pork Tidbits
I think we all know what this really is: Pig balls. Suffice it to say, if the manufacturer himself can’t (or won’t) accurately describe what part of the pig you’re eating, you probably shouldn’t be eating it. Is there a recipe that calls specifically for tidbits?
-Bac-O’s
If you’re putting bacon-flavored Nerds on your salad, you don’t really want salad. You want bacon. So quit fighting it and fry up a couple slices. Bac-O’s don’t even taste like bacon. I’ve had bacon. It tastes good. It does not taste like something the vacuum picked up.

-The Baby Formula Disclaimer
I couldn’t get a photo of this (stupid auto-focus), but I swear to fucking God, on every can of formula powder I buy, there is this disclaimer:

“Add water before feeding.”

I can’t even imagine what the person who prompted this warning looks like. I’d give $5,000 for the look on the person dumb enough to try feeding dried formula powder, through a bottle, to a baby, only to then realize their folly. How are we the most powerful country in the history of mankind? The bar must be set fairly low.
-Fruit Gushers
You know how I said porn ruins fatherhood? It also ruins artificial fruit snacks. I also enjoy how these products advertise that they’re made from real fruit. If I want something made from real fruit, you know what I eat? Fruit. No need to keep this ruse up. Just tell me you formed it in a lab already.
-Graduates Pasta Pickups Chicken & Carrot Ravioli
-Lunchables Mini Hot Dogs
Hey, why wait for your kid to be a fatass? Why not get them used to a sedentary lifestyle right off the bat with the baby equivalent of Chef Boyardee, or a pre-packaged lunch of cold miniwieners? You’ll be grooming them for a lifetime of playing videogames, breathing heavily, and masturbating through their own tears.
-Creamed Chip Beef in a bag
My Dad had to eat this when he was a kid. He called it Shit on a Shingle. I see why. If I can teach the Girl one thing in life, it’s to stay away from meat that comes in cans, jars, tubes, sleeves, or bags. It’s just common sense.

-67 oz. Can of Nesquik
Three pounds of Nesquik is enough to survive the average nuclear holocaust. If you’re so terrified of running out of chocolate milk that you have to buy a can that can also double as a silo, perhaps you should cut back, no?
-Hellman’s Mayonnaise
I fucking hate mayonnaise. Mayonnaise tastes like a fraternity prank. And I hate people who automatically assume that everyone wants their sandwich tainted with this horrid shit. One time I was in England and saw a guy put two heaping tablespoons of mayo on his pasta. I had to leave the room. I had to leave the country. I can’t even talk about it, it’s so horrifying. God, I hate mayo. If the Girl ever prepares me a sandwich with mayo, she’s out of the will.

FKS Field Trip: The Local Grocery Store, Part 1

2006-05-08T10:39:00.000-04:00

Part of my husbandly duties includes the occasional trip to the grocery store. The whole grocery buying experience can vary. If I go to the grocery store at the wrong time, the aisles are crowded, the lines are endless, the parking lot is hell, and I end up wanting to beat myself to death with a box of Frosted Mini Wheats.

It also doesn’t help that my local store put their Token Retarded Employee in charge of the deli slicer. Are they insane? The TRE is supposed to mop floors, or stare at the produce, or stack cans in pyramids. You don’t give them the most important job in the whole fucking store. The guy isn’t even one of those jolly retards. He gets all pissy when you ask him to slice the turkey thin. Fuck him. I hope he fails his GED exam.

On the other hand, if I go to the store on, let’s say, a Saturday morning, shopping is a blast. Especially if I’m hungry and feeling generous about what I’m throwing into the cart, in which case the idea of eating two boxes of Dunkaroos seems like a good one. The possibilities are truly endless when the store isn’t crowded and you feel like ingesting everything in it.

Anyway, to provide you and your family with some educational value, I’ve earmarked a few choice items in the store which amuse and/or annoy me to no end.
-Jimmy Dean Pancakes ‘N’ Sausage On A Stick
This product provides us with a simple test for life. Do you eat this? Then you have fucking failed at life. This product was invented for the kind of person who also prays for the day they invent a wide-mouth syrup bottle, so that they can eliminate the use of plates, napkins, and utensils altogether.

Who asked for this product? Was there really someone out there who told the Jimmy Dean company, “You know, I love eating breakfast, but I wish it were more like eating a corndog.” The people who eat this are also the kind of people who stop when they see a Yield sign. If you eat this, you may as well eat the stick it comes on. That way you’ll choke. Keep in mind that grocery stores stock only two kinds of items: new items, and items that have a proven sales record. So a small population of people in my vicinity eats this shit regularly. My daughter is not safe.
-Olive Loaf
I do not get olive loaf. I at least enjoy the illusion that my sliced deli turkey wasn’t originally blasted with a fire hose and then reassembled into a larger solid. Olive loaf leaves no doubt. There’s a minimum age for people who eat olive loaf, and it is just around 87. No one under that age could possibly want anything to do with it. Just looking at it induces peristalsis. Let’s move on.
-Baby Corn
Baby corn is the veal of the canned vegetable world. Why would you endorse the wholesale slaughter of little baby ears of corn? What did they ever do to you, you heartless bastard?

-The Orange Juice Aisle
Pulp Free OJ. Low Pulp OJ. Calcium OJ. Vitamin D OJ. Calcium & Vitamin D OJ, with extra pulp. OJ with pecans in it. There were 47 different kinds of OJ in the aisle. Five kinds would be overkill. Forty-seven is Darfur-like. How did OJ get this specialized? If you’re this picky about your OJ, do you also go through a box of Rotini and toss out misshapen ones? Want to make a fortune? Sell a product called “Regular fucking orange juice for people who don’t have OCD”. I’ll buy it by the case.

-The Candy at the Checkout Aisle
Imagine being a parent and taking your three-year-old to the grocery store. You’ve survived a full hour of the kid wanting to throw everything he sees into the cart. At last, you’re ready to check out. And what do they have opposite every single fucking register? Enough candy to travel through time. Thanks a lot, grocery man. Looking forward to dealing with that. Why don’t you just use my penis as a rope swing? Asswipe. Is catering to stoned 17 year-olds really worth me burning your store to the ground?

Come back Wednesday for Part 2 of the field trip.

Drew Encounters His Worst Nightmare

2006-05-05T13:02:00.000-04:00

The worst part about having a baby is that the thing grows. By the time you’ve mastered how to take care of a two-month old baby, they’re already three months old, which is painful and annoying. It’s a constant state of readjustment. Which makes what I saw the other day all the more horrifying.

A couple weeks back, Mrs. Drew and I had to make one of our frequent trips to Buy Buy Baby (aka Eat Eat Shit). It’s a horrific shopping experience. You think being stuck in some department store with your girlfriend blows? Please. You can go to KB Toys and kick some 6-year-old’s ass at Xbox while you wait for her to try on shit she’ll end up returning three weeks later. Not at this shit-stained monolith. There’s no way out. There’s no place to sit. And, worst of all, every other person there has brought their screaming, insolent, lice-ridden spawn with them. Being stuck in the lingerie section at Macy’s is a wet dream compared to this.

Plus, there’s kid’s music blaring from all corners of the store. I’m talking the truly horrible kid’s music – large groups of children shouting out songs like “Old MacDonald Had A Farm.” Letting children sing together in unison is wrong. It’s why I want to stick corncob holders in my ears whenever I hear “Another Brick in the Wall”. Everyone hates the “It’s A Small World” ride at Disneyworld. What jackoff thought it was a good idea to relive that experience for two hours in a sterile, retail environment? I want the person responsible dead by Ooga Booga.

Anyway, we’re coming out of the store when I see it – clear and unmistakable. It was a guy, about my age, dragging his two-year-old out of the store. The kid was throwing a major temper tantrum – screaming, hitting, contorting her body like a Romanian gymnast - with a juice-stained shirt and hair that clearly just had gum cut out of it. This, my friends, is my nightmare.

What the fuck do you do if you have a kid that acts like they need an exorcism? You can't jam a pacifier in her mouth. You can’t wrap her in blankets and shush her. You can’t feed her on demand, because then she’ll get fat and disgusting. You can’t calm her down by singing “Love Song” by Tesla to her in your most tender falsetto. None of that works. What do you do?

I, of course, know the answer to this. The answer is, you grin and bear it. Failing that, you find a nice, quiet place to hang yourself. Let’s face it, I have it easy right now. The Girl sleeps through the night and takes a lot of naps during the day. That won’t last. Soon, she’ll be awake for the entire day. What the hell do I do with an awake kid all day? I can’t drink with her. Right? Right?

This is why I don’t even think of myself as a parent yet. Being a parent means doing actual parenting. And I haven’t had to do that yet. But it’s obvious that I’m living on borrowed time. Anyone want a free baby?

Really Horrible Shit You Shouldn’t Say To Your Wife

2006-05-02T13:59:00.000-04:00

A few years back, right after I got married, I went to a funeral reception. Funeral receptions, I might add, are completely underrated affairs. There’s always a smoked salmon out (quick note: smoked salmon is fucking Badass), there’s always an open bar, and everyone there is willing to put petty differences aside in the name of an enjoyable cocktail hour. And, since your expectations for fun are so low, you almost always find yourself having a better time than you imagined. It’s great. I hope someone I vaguely know dies soon. That would be sweet.

Anyway, I’m loading up on the spread, cocktail in hand, when I run into some random old dude looking to make a conversation. So I say what the fuck and humor the guy. He asks me about myself. I tell him that I just got married. His eyes raise a little at this, and then he drops this chestnut on me:

“Let me give you one piece of advice,” he says. “Never say anything cruel.”

Understand that I gave him no context whatsoever for offering me this little nugget of information. He just threw it out there. To this day, I remain fascinated by it. Not because it’s sound advice, of course, but because of this: It was obvious that this guy had clearly said something cruel to his own wife. Unbelievably cruel, I bet. What could he possibly have said that would cause him to warn complete strangers? How big of a prick could he have possibly been? Did he tell his wife she was fat? Like, super fucking Jumbotron fat? Did he tell her he wanted to bang the maid? Did he tell her he planned on sealing her into the drywall?

The guy’s wife wasn’t there. Was she even still alive? This was a funeral, after all. Maybe what he said caused her to jump into a ravine, and he was flashing back to it. Or maybe she got so pissed off that she divorced him and took all his money. I should have looked at the guy’s shoes to see if he was cash-poor. He could have been wearing Keds. Or maybe they were still married, only the wife still brought up what he said every day, just to make him feel like crap. Women don’t forget shit like whatever this asshole did.

I took his advice, of course. Not that I would ever say anything cruel to Mrs. Drew anyway. The whole reason we got married is because we don’t piss each other off (and if you aren’t married, I cannot advise you strongly enough: marry the person who annoys you the least). Besides, I wouldn’t want to be accused of Mental Cruelty and dragged into Judge Keane’s Divorce Court from the 1980’s, like this prick:

Does Einstein here look like he’s enjoying himself? I’ll be keeping my fat trap shut, thank you very much.

Drew’s Reasons To Have Children

2006-05-01T13:59:00.000-04:00

Read enough of this blog and you might think I’m against the idea of having kids. Couldn’t be further from the truth. 1% of caring for The Girl is a pain in the ass. The rest of it is fantastic but, sadly, makes for shitty material. So here are some good reasons to go ahead and plant your flag in a lady sometime down the pike:

1. Passive Aggression. Babies are a stellar outlet for passive aggression. You can air your grievances about people to the baby, all while those same people are in the same room! “Oh baby, mommy doesn’t like it when I lift you up in the air. But I’m gonna do it anyway, because she is not the fucking boss of me. Isn’t that right, little girl? Yeah, it is.”

2. The Mini-Me Factor. Babies are basically yours to mold in your own image. So take advantage. Don’t like Asian people? Well, here’s one more person to recruit to your side. Think your relatives are a bunch of assholes? Here’s someone who’ll readily agree with you. And if your kid ever disagrees with you, you can always get them to change their mind by beating them.

3. Chicks Dig Men With Babies. It’s a fact: having a baby communicates to women that you are a committed, responsible man. And that makes them hornier than me on a Friday. Never mind that you can still be a complete prick and have a kid, and that any married man with kids who hooks up with some other chick is the exact opposite of committed and responsible. To women, it looks like you’ve got your shit together. If you’re a single guy, consider adoption. With all the tail you’ll pull, the kid can have a new mommy every week.

4. The Ability To Indulge In Total Self-Congratulatory Behavior. A couple weeks ago, Mrs. Drew and I got The Girl to start sleeping clear through the night, 8-9 hours straight. Think we don’t brag about this other parents who are still tired and miserable? Fuck yeah, we do. I also brag to people if I can get the Girl to stop crying, or if she takes regular shits, or if the baby has survived another day in my care without dying and/or being dropped on her head. I may spend the rest of my life up my own ass.

5. You Always Have An Audience. Know why women love having babies? Because they can talk all day long to a baby, without the kid getting a word in edgewise. Like your average talk radio listener, babies are more than happy to listen to endless rantings, boring stories, and worthless opinions. They’re the perfect sounding board. Even for me. Do you think Mrs. Drew appreciates my rendition of Judas Priest’s “Rock Hard, Ride Free”, one of the underrated classics of our time? Shit no.

That’s why I have a kid.

You Are Not Lance Armstrong

2006-04-26T10:53:00.000-04:00

Hey, you!

Yes, you sir! You, riding your 12-speed Trek Roadster in the middle of MacArthur Boulevard in the middle of rush hour! I have something I desperately need to tell you, and that is this:

You are not Lance Armstrong.

Oh, I know you think you’re Lance Armstrong. The Livestrong band on your wrist tells me as much. You even got the bike with the toeloops. And the asstight spandex biking shorts. I bet you think that looks awesome. I see you’re also wearing the fancy Giro bike helmet, the one that makes your head look like a crimini mushroom. That’s professional! I bet you even show up at the office, all sweaty, bragging to people that you, indeed, do bike to work. Kudos to you. Maybe you even belong to a peleton on the weekends.

But, alas, none of that makes you Lance Armstrong. I looked at a picture of Lance Armstrong just to make sure, and wouldn’t you know it? You look nothing like him.

You see, Lance Armstrong is a former world champion cyclist and seven-time winner of the Tour de France. Did you win the Tour de France seven times? No, you did not. Only Lance Armstrong did that. That’s why he’s Lance Armstrong, and you are not.

Lance Armstrong also beat cancer. Did you know that? He beat cancer and now only has one testicle to show for it. How many testicles do you have? I’m betting two, though you probably don’t get a whole lot of use out of them. That extra ball, sadly, disqualifies you from being Lance Armstrong.

Lance Armstrong also banged Grammy-award winning recording artist Sheryl Crow. Have you ever banged a Grammy winner? No? Know why? Because you aren’t Lance Armstrong.

You ought to know that when Lance Armstrong rides his bike, he does it in internationally sanctioned races that are planned months in advance. That’s why you don’t see any cars on the road when he races. They’ve been closed. You, however, take that to mean that all roads are open to bicycles and cars equally. Which is why I’m now stuck behind you while you go an astonishing 11 miles per hour in the middle of a single-lane road. Hey, that’s pretty fast for a bike! But you know what? I drive a Honda, which goes significantly faster. And every second I spend behind you is another second I want to mow you down like a fucking dog.

And why are you wearing a Discovery Channel jersey, as if you are actually a member of Team Discovery? The only reason Lance Armstrong wears a Discovery Channel jersey is because Discovery Channel pays him to do so. Discovery Channel does not pay you to wear their jersey. Like any person who’s experimented with drugs, I enjoy the Discovery Channel a great deal. But that does not mean I imagine that I’m being sponsored by them to ruin other people’s commute.

If you notice, there’s a strip of pavement next to the road. This is called a shoulder. It was invented by very smart people to keep cyclists and pedestrians safe from oncoming car traffic. But you have chosen to ignore this ingenious invention. Why? Because, clearly, you believe that you’re Lance Armstrong. Some roads now even have bicycle lanes to accommodate miserable people such as yourself. I assume you ignore those as well. Man, you’re a rebel.

Even if your name is Lance Armstrong, you are still not Lance Armstrong. You are Lance Armstrong from Topeka. Or Lance Armstrong from Chelsea. You’re not that Lance Armstrong. In fact, any time you think you are Lance Armstrong, consult this picture:

See the difference? Notice how Lance looks a like a Badass and you do not? Do you look like this? No? Then this case of mistaken identity has been solved. You are not Lance Armstrong. You’re a fucking dipshit. Now move.

Tevas Are Worse Than Hitler

2006-04-24T13:09:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, I was walking around downtown when I spotted a guy hanging out with his kid. The guy was wearing Tevas. I immediately wanted to punch him in kidneys.

It’s 2006, people. If you’re still wearing Tevas, it better be because you carry a canoe around with you wherever you go. Otherwise, what excuse could you possibly have? I’m fully aware that having a child instantly makes you a fucking dork. But does it make you so unaware of your own dorkiness that you would actually go out in public wearing river shoes? If so, shoot me in the balls.

I went to prep school (Yes, I went to prep school. I know. I’m gay.) during the dreaded Teva/Birkenstock explosion of the early 90’s. People wore Tevas, played hacky-sack, and listened to Phish. This had to be the darkest period in our nation’s history. Far worse than slavery. The worst part is that girls got in on the trend. Have you ever seen a girl rock a pair of Tevas? Doesn’t it make you immediately want to gag yourself with a nail file? If you’re a girl, and your name is not Rosie O’Donnell, and you’re still wearing Tevas, give it up. You have no reason to continue living.

Don’t give me the whole “they’re comfortable” argument. Fuck that shit. Women are supposed to look hot, not be comfortable. Besides, flip flops are comfortable, and they don’t make you look like you rape maple trees. Buy a pair.

And if you’re a guy who’s still wearing these things, well… Let’s just say that you’re not really a man if you’re wearing shoes that have a fucking ankle strap. Even European men, who are all completely gay, wouldn’t be caught dead in these things. If you’re a guy, wearing Tevas is basically your announcement to the world that A) You have no real interest in your testicles, and B) You have no real concern for citizens of the world that have to look at your raggedy-ass feet. Seriously, look at those fucking things. Just thinking about it now is forcing bile up through my esophagus.

Do people think they look cool in Tevas? Do they think the jazzy nylon pattern is going to somehow make things right? It won’t. Tevas are a horror on par with mass genocide. If you have children and go out in public with them while wearing Tevas, child services should come and immediately place your kids in one of those retarded foster homes. Because, by sporting Tevas, you are telling your children that you hate them, and you are telling the world that your kid has no hope of growing up into something other than a complete douchebag.

I hate Tevas.

Drexl Spivey: The Man I Want My Daughter to Marry

2006-04-12T10:16:00.000-04:00

Now that I have a daughter, I get to spend the next 25-30 years worrying about just what sort of jackass she’ll end up marrying. It’s a known fact that 75% of all men are complete tools, so the odds of finding a decent one aren’t that great. It’s the reason why unmarried women over 30 want to hang themselves. They’re screwed. All the good men are taken by then. The only guys left at that age all have something wrong with them. Either they jerk off to dog porn, or they work in politics, or there’s something else repugnant and horrible about them. Ugh.

It makes me think that arranged marriages aren’t so bad. Assholes are easy to spot at an early age. If a young boy acts like a tool, chances are he will become a fully grown one (certainly true of myself). Whereas, if you find a nice young lad, you may have better odds. It’s a great cover-your-daughter’s-ass maneuver.

Even so, marrying a nice boy may not be enough. I want my girl to be protected. I want her taken care of. She’s gonna need a real man. That’s why I have decided exactly whom she will marry:

That’s right. It’s Drexl Spivey, the pimp from “True Romance”.

It’s no secret that “True Romance" is one of the 5 greatest films ever made. And if you believe otherwise, you deserve to be gassed to death. Among the great characters in the history of cinema, Drexl stands alone. This man is a fucking Badass. He’s such a badass, he not only pulls off the whole white-man-acting-like-a-black-man thing, he makes it look cool. No one can do that. But Drexl can. Know why?

Because, YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH DREXL SPIVEY.

Drexl will unload a six-barrel shotgun on you and then go right back to eating his egg roll. That’s the kind of confidence and decisiveness my daughter deserves. And Drexl cares about women, too. For example, there’s a scene where Christian Slater goes to meet Drexl and his bodyguard, Marty. He wants to tell Drexl that his wife, Alabama, won’t be whoring for him anymore. This is their exchange:

MARTY: He’s here about Alabama.
DREXL: (doesn’t bother looking up, because he is a Badass) Where the fuck is that bitch?
SLATER: She’s with me.
DREXL: Who the fuck are you?
SLATER: I’m her husband.
DREXL: (laughs, because he is a Badass) Well, that makes us practically related.

You see that? That is a man who instantly recognizes the importance of family. He also shows great concern for the whereabouts of his woman. And, best of all, he casts a skeptical eye on the man she has married, wary of any potential douchebaggery. How is this not the perfect son-in-law? I want to adopt the guy already.

Later on in that scene, Drexl beats the shit out of Christian Slater. Anyone who beats the shit out of Christian Slater gets an automatic Gold Star from me, but it gets better. After a thorough beating, Drexl turns to Marty:

DREXL: He musta thought it was White Boy Day. It ain’t White Boy Day, is it?
MARTY: No, man. It ain’t White Boy Day.

And this is a white man talking! And he pulls it off! Holy fuck, Drexl is a Badass. Sure, he’s a fictional character, and he ain’t as pretty as a couple of titties, and he gets a bullet to the nuts in the end, but who fucking cares? Look at the guy. Look at his scars! He’s only got one fucking eye! He’s wearing a leather chapeau! Backwards! Do you fuck with this man? No, you do not.

So consider it done. The Girl will be known one day as Mrs. Drexl Spivey. I can’t wait to give her away.

Bullshit Myths About Parenting

2006-04-11T11:50:00.000-04:00

When Mrs. Drew got pregnant, I got a lot of needless advice from dipshits with kids. People with kids love to push all their parenting know-how on me and anyone else unfortunate enough to come within earshot. These people need to get a life. I hate people who have no life outside of being a parent. It’s creepy. Go see a movie, for fuck’s sake. Most of what they said is horseshit anyway. To wit:

“Having a kid will change you forever.” Bullshit. Unbelievably wrong. I feel exactly the same as I did three months ago. People make it sound like having a kid is the equivalent of finding Jesus. I fully expected them to be right, too. I was all ready to start weeping at life insurance commercials and what not. But nope. I’m still the same: hornier than a 60-year-old divorcee and annoyed that I don’t have more time for drinking and gambling. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Girl, and I love hanging out with her. But having a kid doesn’t automatically make you a pussy. And if it does, you were probably a pussy to begin with. Pussy.

“Get ready for total sleep deprivation.” Wrong again, fuckstick. I sleep plenty. I wake up to feed the Girl once or twice a night. It takes a grand total of about an hour. So I go to sleep one hour earlier. Thus, I get the same amount of sleep. Amazing how the math works like that. Suck on it.

“Anyone can be a father, but it takes a real man to be a Dad.” Again, total lie. I’m anyone, and I’ve managed to do a good job thus far. The real man is the deadbeat dad. Ditching your wife and kid to go live on a houseboat in San Diego? Now that takes some serious balls.

“I can’t even remember life before (insert douchebag kid’s name here) was born!” No? Nothing memorable about life before you had a kid? Then that means you were a loser. And guess what? You still are one. I had fun before I had a kid, and I enjoy those memories just as much now as I did then. Probably even more so.

“Nothing’s more important than family.” These people obviously haven’t been waiting 29 years for the Vikings to win a Super Bowl.

“Cherish this time. They’ll be grown up before you know it.” This is, hands down, the most annoying thing people say about parenting. The Girl is two months old. These have to have been the longest two months of my life. What month is this? April? It’s only fucking April? Are we going by the Martian calendar? Jesus. The day the Girl can clothe herself, feed herself, mow the lawn and bring me a beer can’t come fast enough.

Daddy Gets His Mind Blown

2006-04-06T09:24:00.000-04:00

Do you know the songs "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" and "The Alphabet Song" (You know, "Now I know my ABC's, next time won't you sing with me.")?

Do you realize that they are, in fact, the same fucking song? Sing them back to back. It's the same melody. Twenty-nine years I've known those songs and never put two and two together.

Holy shitballs.

Trade Secrets From the Greatest Husband in the Fucking Universe

2006-04-05T12:04:00.000-04:00

It’s no understatement that I am the greatest husband mankind has ever produced. Compared to me, Ward Cleaver was an adulterous prick. I’m so good at husbanding, they should legalize polygamy just for me. I cook. I clean. I listen. I have a penis the size of a Mag-Lite. If you’re looking for the total package ladies, well tough shit. I’m already taken.

What’s the secret to a successful marriage, you ask? I’m about to tell you. Over the years, I’ve developed a repartee, if you will, of things to say to Mrs. Drew to keep her happy. For example, let’s say I fuck up and forget to take out the trash. Rarely happens, but I’m only a demigod. Here’s what I usually say in my defense:

“Honey, I’m just doing the best I can.”

And you know what? It fucking works, because it’s true. But here’s the catch: you actually do have to do the best you can. You can’t crash the car, bang the nanny, give your wife syphilis and then say, “I’m just doing the best I can.” Because, in that case, you are clearly not doing the best you can. If you put in some effort, and then point out that you’re making that effort, you’ll be at the bar playing Golden Tee with her blessing in no time.

Here’s another situation. Let’s say Mrs. Drew is telling me a long story that, for one reason or another, I have no real interest in. Mrs. Drew isn’t a babbler like your standard female lunatic, but sometimes I just won’t feel like listening. Here’s a gem I’ll usually throw out:

“Well, there you go.”

It’s the perfect thing to say, because it means absolutely nothing, but works in context with everything. Bad day at work? Well, there you go. The Girl was fussy today? Well, there you go. Dinosaurs have returned to Earth? Well, there you go. If I pepper that little saying through her story, she’ll be convinced that I’m retaining all the info she’s dumping on me. I’m not actually listening, of course. I’m really thinking about the NFL Draft. But a couple “There you go”’s and I give off the illusion of listening, which is just as good.

Here are some more sayings I’ve perfected:

“Well, what are ya gonna do.” Any time Mrs. Drew is angry about something not involving me, this usually calms her down. Something shitty happened? Well, what are ya gonna do. Daddy needs a scotch!

“Eh, that’s the way it goes.” See above.

“Well, if that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done, consider yourself lucky.” This works because there are so many dipshit guys out there. Shit, did I accidentally leave my Chap Stick in the wash? My bad, dear. But hey, at least I’m not as shitty a husband as Scott Peterson!

Mrs. Drew knows these sayings by heart now, but here’s the thing: any time I say one of these things to her, she laughs because it’s so transparent. And then she forgets what she was pissed at me for. So take the above advice to heart. When your wife/girlfriend/concubine/kidnapping victim is letting you eat ice cream and masturbate while playing online poker, you’ll thank me.

Babies: A Clear and Present Danger to Your Testicles

2006-04-03T10:47:00.000-04:00

I was administering the Girl’s 4AM feeding over the weekend when she spat up. Nothing new there. The Girl spits up with every meal, which is normal. Doctors have a saying that spitting up, “isn’t a health problem, it’s a laundry problem.” This passes for humor in medical circles. It also explains the existence of “Patch Adams”. And you thought lawyers were humorless pricks.

Anyway, the Girl spat up. Usually, I’m well-prepared for this to happen. I always have the burp cloth over the Girl’s mouth ready to catch it and everything. I’m that good. Not this time. No, this time the Girl spat up and scored a direct hit into the hole of my boxer shorts, which was open ever so slightly, nailing my testicles with a heaping tablespoon of spew. You haven’t lived until your daughter throws up on your nuts. Quite a moment.

Compounding the problem was the fact that I had just farted earlier. Ever have one of those farts that smells like food, which somehow even makes it more disgusting? Well, there you go. So I had a pair of warm, formula-moistened nuts that I had to tend to, while the scent of Hunan Chicken wafted in the air. And I haven’t eaten Hunan Chicken in seven years. Disturbing. Unpleasant.

Even with that event aside, feeding the Girl isn’t fun on my nuts. The Girl is a shifty sort, so I have to constantly readjust to keep her upright. This inevitably means that my nuts end up falling between my legs, which means that I have to keep rescuing them, which means I have to hold the baby with one hand, rest the end of the bottle on my chin, and use my free hand to pull my nuts back up for air. This happens about three or four times every feeding. Mrs. Drew averts her gaze when she sees it.

Women don’t understand the scratching testicles phenomenon. They seem to think that grabbing your nuts is some kind of come on, or a form of pre-masturbation. It’s not. It’s strictly done out of necessity. But women don’t buy that. They just think you’re a pervert. They’re right, of course, but they completely miss the point. Typical.

The Girl has also gotten extremely kicky and has grazed the top of my nuts on occasion. This doesn’t hurt, but the Girl’s legs are bound to get longer, reach farther, and eventually hit paydirt. Unless she turns out to be one of those super midgets, something I now pray for every day.

Fun with Rectal Thermometers

2006-03-31T10:23:00.000-05:00

Apart from biofeedback therapy, the only other time I got the Jellyfinger treatment was during a prostate exam. Since it was a prostate exam, I obviously knew well in advance that there was going to be some digital salad tossing involved. What the doctor didn’t tell me is that when he presses against your prostate, he also presses hard against the outer wall of your bladder. Holy shit, was I not ready for that. Fucking doctor. Thanks for the heads up, asshole. I’m becoming a Christian Scientist. Dick.

I thought of that the first week we brought the Girl home from the hospital. The first week home with a baby is terrifying. You fully expect the child to stop breathing at any second. It doesn’t help that babies can die from something called Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). I’m not kidding. That’s really the name of it. You’d think “Sudden Infant Death” would be enough of a descriptor. But no, suddenly dying is apparently also a “syndrome” of some kind. Like a cold. But with instant death. Great name. And when you get shot, I assume you die of Sudden Bulletwound Killing Disorder.

So as you leave the hospital, you get mixed messages. Don’t worry, they say. Everything will be fine. But oh, make sure your baby doesn’t inexplicably die in the middle of the night. And good luck! Jackasses.

Thus, the first week of caring for the Girl consisted of Mrs. Drew and I listening closely to the baby, wondering if each noise she made was her impending death rattle. Confounding the problem was the fact that the Girl loves spitting up. “Spitting up.” There’s another misnomer. What do you think of when you think of spitting up? You think of some mild drooling. Sounds safe enough. I do that every day, especially if I’m having a chili dog for lunch. But spitting up isn’t that. It’s basically vomiting. But, since they don’t call it vomiting in any of the baby books, you fucking freak the first time you see it. At least, Mrs. Drew and I did. So we called the doctor, who told us to take the girl’s temperature.

I’m not a fan of thermometers. When I was a kid, I learned from TV that the way to play sick is to hold the thermometer against a light bulb so that the temperature stays up once you put it under your tongue. Of course, being a kid, it didn’t dawn on me that placing a thermometer against a bare light bulb heats it up to roughly 8 million degrees. Once I stuck the thing under my tongue, I may as well have been reverse licking a curling iron. There’s no better way to realize you’re an idiot.

You can take a baby’s temperature three ways. You can put it in their mouth, which never works because they never closer their mouth long enough for the temperature to register (always 30 seconds longer than you expect it to take). You can stick it under their arm. Which sounds good in theory, provided your baby has been through Basic at Parris Island.

Or you can stick the thing right up the baby’s rectum. This is recommended and, shockingly, it’s also the method the Girl liked the best. Which alarmed me. But I have issues. Anyway, you put a little sheath on the thermometer, stick it up there, and you’re done. The baby doesn’t even know it’s happening. Which made me wonder: at what age does it dawn on you that hey, someone’s sticking a cold piece of metal up your ass? I thought Age 2. Mrs. Drew thinks Age 3.

We’ve got five bucks riding on it.

How Not to Raise a Filthy Whore

2006-03-28T11:35:00.000-05:00

My #1 Goal for raising the Girl remains the same: Make sure she never appears naked in any kind of public setting. God forbid, if the Girl grew up to be a stripper, or a hooker, or a porn star, you have permission to shoot me dead on the spot. Actually, shooting me isn’t fast enough. Build a high-tech laser of some kind and vaporize me. And if you can’t find it in your heart to kill me, then at least blind me. Because, honestly, what good would my eyes be after that? Just the thought of it makes my sphincter clench.

Any man worth his salt knows that your garden-variety stripper got to be that way because Daddy didn’t pay enough attention to her. This scares the shit out of me. And if you have a Girl, it should scare the piss out of you, too. Thinking of playing golf this weekend? Well, that means your daughter could be one step closer to sleeping with strangers for money, because you weren't there for her. Think about that the next time you’re putting for birdie.

That’s not happening to me. I’m lavishing every bit of attention I can on the Girl. I feed her. I change her. I nuzzle her. I sing to her (she likes the early Maiden catalog). It probably looks creepy. I don’t care. Shit, I’d take her to church if it helped. And churches, as you know, are evil.

But there are times I slip. The other night I was holding the Girl when a special on hippos came on Animal Planet. Sounded cool. Then they showed footage of a crocodile stalking and eating a baby hippo. With extreme prejudice. Holy shit. I mean, holy fucking shit, that was sweet. Did you know crocodiles ate hippos? I didn’t. There should be an entire channel devoted to crocodiles eating hippos. That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Hungry, hungry hippos don’t have shit on a hungry, hungry crocodile. Bad. Ass.

Then they showed two full-grown hippos fighting each other to the death! Holy Mega Shit! The Girl cried a bit. And I thought to myself, “Quiet, Girl. Nature is being awesome right now.” But quickly, my brain filled with every bad future thought imaginable. Hooker! Slut! Slutty slut! Swank magazine! Creepy gonzo porn! Gahhhh!!!!!! I hit the mute button and immediately began singing psalms to her.

I’ve also occasionally felt the urge to check my email or check this blog for comments (yeah, like that’ll ever happen) while the Girl is awake. I have to punch myself in the nuts every time this urge comes up. Maybe I should buy a crocodile and keep it outside the house. Don’t come knocking, Joe fucking Francis. My croc will go all hippo on you and shit.

The FKS Guide to Watching TV on Mute

2006-03-27T15:04:00.000-05:00

When I’m watching TV, Mrs. Drew will often ask me to keep the volume down. Way down. Apparently, noise is a huge distraction when you’re studying the latest issue of Lucky magazine. Whatever. She’ll also ask me to mute the TV when someone is being shot or killed, which defeats the purpose of watching television in the first place. I don’t watch TV to see people hold hands and skip over rainbows. I watch TV because I want to see people die. Violently. And I like to watch those deaths at jet-engine volume levels. And if hi-def, if at all possible. Death is awesomer that way.

No such luck for me these days. Having grown tired of watching TV at Mrs. Drew-approved volume levels (usually at about 1/6 of the way up the volume bar, which is horrible. You miss bits of dialogue. Explosions have all the impact of a mild fart. People don’t get shot loud enough. I need that volume bar all the way up, and even then, I still try and make the TV go louder), I now watch a lot of TV on mute. This is not as hard as you might think. While some shows are ruined by the mute button, others are actually enhanced. Here’s a rundown for your future reference:

NFL Football – Verdict: ENHANCED. Here are some of the commentators you can expect to find while watching any NFL game on TV: John Madden, Joe Theismann, Paul Maguire, Bill Maas, and Dan Dierdorf. That’s a combined IQ of about four right there. You’d learn more about football from watching Access Hollywood. I miss the crowd noise sometimes, but I’m usually too drunk to care.

Golf – Verdict: ENHANCED. The perfect sport to watch on mute. The commentators never talk. And when they do, it’s usually something I don’t understand anyway. Shit like, “He’s going light with the wedge and hoping to fly it over, Jim.” Combined with the hushed tones, it sounds like they’re devising a war plan. Lighten up, guys. You’re at a fucking country club. You should be drunk when you’re covering this, just like Pat Summerall used to be.

The Sopranos – Verdict: RUINED. I have collectively bargained with Mrs. Drew one hour a week to watch the Sopranos, with the volume on and her and the Girl upstairs. It’s the shrewdest deal I’ve ever made. Checkmate, Mrs. Drew!

Friends – Verdict: ENHANCED. I’m toying with watching this more, especially when the ’95 version of Jennifer Aniston (20 lbs. heavier and all woman) is on. The only problem is this: when the show is on mute, I can still tell that the characters are saying something annoying. And I can still tell that Matthew Perry is gay.

Deal or No Deal – Verdict: ENHANCED. Another perfect show to watch on mute. You get all the comedy of contestants blowing their chance at thousands of dollars, with none of residual damage that comes from having to listen to them speak. Bonus points if the contestant is a fat black woman. Fat black women always look like they want to eat the host.

Weather Channel – Verdict: WAY ENHANCED. You ever hear the music they play on the Weather Channel? Holy fuck, when did John Tesh and Zamfir mate and spawn offspring? That shit ain’t right. They should play Jimmy Cliff if the weather is going to be good, and they should play Slayer if the weather is going to make me want to slash my wrists. It just makes sense that way.

American Idol – Verdict: ENHANCED. I like watching the contestants cry. Hearing them cover old Barry Manilow songs? Shoot me in the balls.

Stupid Parenting FAQ, Part 2

2006-03-24T10:55:00.000-05:00

It’s Friday and I’m feeling particularly lazy, which is saying a lot. So it’s time for the second installment of the Stupid Parenting FAQ. Again, these are some of the completely and utterly inane questions Mrs. Drew and I get asked on regular basis by total strangers (usually female) who will soon be showing up my long-neglected douchebag list (http://drsteuss.tripod.com/assholes/index.html):

Q: Are you nursing?
A: No. And since we’re asking personal questions, do you allow anal? Because you seem like the permissive type.

Q; Because this one friend of mine breastfeeds, and she said…
A: Stop right there. Shut up. Stop talking. I strongly dislike you.

Q; What’s it like, having a kid?
A: Ever babysit? Without pay? Forever? Well, there you go.

Q: Who do you think she looks more like?
A: She looks more like any random baby you see on the street than Mrs. Drew or I. But since you’re an idiot, why don’t you just pick a random feature and force yourself to make a connection just for the sake of conversation? Look at her eyes. She totally has my eyes, don’t you think? Give yourself a second and you’ll actually allow yourself to believe it. Shithead.

Q: Does she have lots of poopy diapers?
A: Yes. Want to eat one?

Q: So, what does she do all day?
A: Pilates in the morning. Slam poetry in the afternoon. It’s a baby. It sleeps, eats, and shits, in no particular order. Are you new here on Earth?

Q: When are you having another one?
A: Good fucking Lord, is one child not enough for you? Are you in some sort of hurry to see my family to completion? Die.

Q: Are you getting enough sleep?
A: Yes. But Daddy isn’t getting anywhere near as much scotch as he normally likes. Be a dear and fetch me one.

Q: Can I hold her?
A: No. You’re fat. You want to eat her. I know it. Stay the hell away from my kid.

Daddy Sucks at Sports, Plus the Infamous Golf Story

2006-03-22T11:12:00.000-05:00

When it comes to sports, some parents like to live vicariously through their children. I have no hope of being able to do that. I suck at playing sports (as does Mrs. Drew), and am certain to pass on my suckiness to the Girl. Now, when it comes to watching sports, I am fucking money. I can watch sports from any position: prone, sitting, standing, supine. Watching sports is really where my talents lie.

It’s in the genetic makeup. To be a good athlete, you need muscles that twitch faster than Michael J. Fox. And that kind of thing is passed down from your folks. So thanks a lot, Mom and Dad. Your crummy genes put me on the bench. In my next life, I better be a black man. God owes me that much.

In fact, I may be the world’s least talented athlete. I played football for ten years in middle school, high school, and college. I started a grand total of three games. I should have been doing drugs that whole time. What a goddamn waste.

I tried other sports. In high school, I wrestled for a year. What a fucking horrible sport. Get twenty sexually confused young boys together, throw them in unitards that haven’t been washed since the previous season, and then have them grope each other on a disturbingly sticky floor mat for three awful minutes. They shouldn’t even call it Wrestling. They should just call it Discomfort. This is an afternoon prison activity, not a sport. I get diaper rash just thinking about it.

And then, there is golf. Mrs. Drew and I moved down to the DC area about two years ago at her merciless prodding. I had no friends in the area, but the husband of Mrs. Drew’s best friend was nice enough to invite me out for a round of golf with his buddies. So I go. And, shockingly enough, I played well. I even managed a par or two. Fucking great! Things were going well.

Cut to the 18th hole. I hit a long (for me) drive that goes into the bunker. Too bad, but whatever. I’m having a good round. I walk up to the bunker. I have a clear view to the green. I get ready to hit my shot, when suddenly I realize that I have to fart. So I back off the ball, look around to make sure no one is close by, and move to let one out.

And then, I shit my pants.

Not a lot. But really, is quantity all that important? Once you let the genie out of the bottle, you don’t care what size he is. In this case, it’s big enough to feel dribbling down the inside of my thigh. And, let me tell you, that is a sickening feeling. I slap my thighs together, hoping to stem the flow. Fun. Is it showing through my pants? I crane my neck to try and get a better look at my own ass. Impossible. The clubhouse is 200 yards away. I make a break for it, but I can’t run, because then the shit will just go flying down my leg. So I power walk, with a load in my pants, past the rest of the group. I look unusual.

“What’s up, Drew?
“Gotta shit.” (which sounds like “got a shit,” which is a more accurate assessment of my current situation)

I fly into the bathroom stall and take off my shorts. My boxers are lined with shit. I brace for the smell. It hits. I withstand it. I am a fucking man. A man who shits hits pants, but a man nonetheless. I toss the boxers out. I examine my shorts. There is, indeed, a stain in the back. Awesome. But, thank Christ, I am wearing a sweatshirt. I put my shorts back on and go commando, which is unpleasant to say the very least. I then quickly tie the sweatshirt around my waist to hide the proof of my own incontinence. I go and finish the hole. I get double bogey. Shit.

But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that the golf course was 45 minutes outside of town. So I had to spend the whole ride back sitting in my own filth, wondering if everyone knew that I had just dropped anchor in my own shorts. I don’t think they knew. But I knew, which was really all that mattered.

Two months ago, back injuries forced my to stop playing golf and, in turn, shitting my pants on golf courses. A checkered history with the sporting life, indeed. Sorry, my dear daughter. If you get an athletic scholarship, it’s gonna be in chess.

Drew’s Father-in-Law Discovers the Site

2006-03-20T10:13:00.000-05:00

I’ve had more than my fair share of mortifying moments over the course of my existence, the worst of which occurred freshman year in college, when my roommate and his girlfriend walked in on me masturbating during “The Price Is Right”. You know who the big loser that episode was? Me. When something like that happens, you hope (actually, you pray) that life will imitate pornography. In this case, it did not. I went to a school that had 1500 students. I may as well have spent the next four years wearing a t-shirt that said, “I’m the guy who was beating off to Switcheroo.” Sucked.

Of course, it was my own doing. I could have locked the door. But no, I had to whip my dick out the second I saw one of Barker’s Beauties straddling a jet ski. Nice going, Drew. Way to ruin the best four years of your life. Apparently, my dignity was the next item up for bids.

I’ve had other terrible moments too. One time I made a joke about Tourette’s Syndrome in front of a girl who, of course, had Tourette’s Syndrome. But that wasn’t the worst part. Here was the subsequent exchange:

“Oh, you have Tourette’s?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought you had OCD.”
“I have that, too.”
“Oh.” (This is the point where I contemplate stabbing myself with a butter knife.)

So if you’re looking for stories of humiliation, my life is a riches of embarrassment. Which makes the events of yesterday inevitable. I’m very close to my in-laws. Literally. They’re 10 minutes away. Some men would cringe at the idea. But I get along quite well with Mrs. Drew’s folks. Sure, we’ve had an awkward moment or two. For example, Mrs. Drew’s dad doesn’t like it when people drop the f-bomb. I learned the hard way during a particularly spirited game of Yahtzee. I had a bad roll, and then blurted this treasure out:

“Fuck! Oh shit, did I say fuck? I’m sorry.”

So that got me a few points deducted. Otherwise, our relationship has been sterling. Which made it easier when I walked in the door to their house last night and Mrs. Drew’s dad said, “Oh, I read your blog over the weekend.”

Huh? What? What the fuck? How did he know? I don’t have my full name on this shit. I turned to Mrs. Drew, giving her the “Holy fuck, did you forward this to your own dad?” look. She was as dumbfounded as I was.

“Yeah, you left the address in the browser window.”

Fu-uck!

In my mind, I freaked. Her dad doesn’t like the f-bomb? Christ, this site is littered with them! It’s not my fault! I’m just a lazy fucking writer! Oh God, I mention masturbation in the blog, too! He knows I hitchhike under the big top! I mention sex with Mrs. Drew! Porn! He knows I’ve seen porn! Gahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! Idiot! Moron! Asshat!

And so on and so forth. In the end, it wasn’t a big deal. Out of anybody, my father-in-law knows that men don’t really ever mature. They simply put up a more convincing façade for their immaturity as years go by. And he understood that I need the occasional creative outlet. He actually said the blog was funny. So that was good. But we both agreed he probably shouldn’t read it anymore. And I hope he doesn’t, given the first paragraph of this story.

Drew Avoids The Golden Shower

2006-03-16T10:04:00.000-05:00

I have a weak bladder. It must be made of paper, or some other flimsy substance with no stretching ability whatsoever. In fact it’s so weak, I went to physical therapy for it. That’s right. I had to consult a physical therapist because I couldn’t stop going weewee. Between my bladder and my back, I belong in assisted living.

The physical therapy used to strengthen your bladder is called biofeedback therapy. One of the urologists I visited said that only women can receive this sort of therapy. So, apparently, I am some kind of Superpussy. But whatever. I was getting up every 10 minutes from bed to go dribble out 1 oz. of fluid. Mrs. Drew was ready to smother me to death with her pillow.

So I went. The first thing they do when you receive this therapy is give you a rectal exam. Because, as you know, any diagnostic mystery can easily be solved by jamming a finger up someone’s large intestine. Annoying. I get the jellyfinger from the therapist, who was a woman, by the way. Talk about awkward. What do you say to each other? I don’t want her hand up my ass, and she’s not happy to be making this little trip herself. So I sat there, in painful silence as she dug around my ass as if she were trying to reach the last Pringle in the can. In the East Village, people pay to have stuff like this done to them. I got it for free with insurance. Lucky me.

The therapy started. They call it biofeedback because they monitor the muscles around your bladder, which means they have to place electrodes at the area around your asshole. I’m not kidding. So, once a week, I got two sticky electrodes jammed onto my taint, with wires leading out of my ass to a progress monitor. So the next time you feel emasculated, tell yourself, “Hey, it beats having my asshole wiretapped!" You’ll feel better.

To strengthen the bladder, you have to do daily kegel exercises. To do kegel exercises, you tighten up your asshole for 20 seconds and repeat. Why this helps strengthen your bladder, I don’t know. The ass, taint, and penis are all aligned on some sort of Axis of Bodily Fluids. Goody.

I got very good at kegels, so much so that I was psyched to go to therapy just to see how high my ass could make the monitor spike. One time I got to 100. I don’t know what 100 signified, or even what kind of unit of measurement it represented. All I know is that I hit it, and I felt like I had rung the bell at the Test of Strength at your local carnival. I fucking rule. My asshole is strong. Don’t try and rape me. You will hit a fucking brick wall.

Eventually, I wasn’t pissing as much. But I have clearly passed on my genes. When I check the Girl’s diaper, it’s almost always wet. And heavy. I swear there’s a pound of piss in there sometimes. And it’ll be wet again five minutes later.

Bad news for the Girl. The biofeedback monitor awaits.

Daddy Drinks

2006-03-14T11:55:00.000-05:00

Some people are beer snobs. I, on the other hand, am a beer whore. I’ll drink any beer, even if it’s not my own. If you put your beer down, I will drink it. I don’t care if you put three cigarette butts in it. Three days ago. It still tastes good to me, even if it doesn’t taste good at all. I don’t care if it’s regular old Budweiser. I don’t care if it’s one of those douchebaggy fruit porters brewed by some café-owning asshole in Oregon. I will drink any beer. Hell, I even drink hard cider, which is the gay man’s beer. I don’t care. If it’s brown and carbonated, I am ingesting it quickly. Beer has no hope around me. I’d take it in from both ends if it were physically feasible.

In a way, it’s a shame I don’t live in the United Kingdom. Here in America, if you’re drinking in a bar at 10AM, it means you’re an alcoholic. Over there, it means you’re an English professor. I like to drink. I saw on one website that binge drinking is defined as having “5 or more drinks in one sitting.” I’m sorry, but isn’t that happy hour? I have 5 or more drinks as an ‘hors deuvres to the rest of my night’s drinking. In fact, if you don’t have 5 or more drinks in one sitting, aren’t you just a complete and utter pussy? I think so.

The buildup to Mrs. Drew’s pregnancy was a mixed blessing. Mrs. Drew did lots of reading on male and female fertility. She learned that, in order to better increase your odds of pregnancy, you need to have lots and lots of sex. Awesome. But she also learned that alcohol and marijuana can inhibit male sperm. Fuck. I’m sure she read this on ivillage or some other site that flagrantly despises the male species as a whole. There was a time when men didn’t let women read, you know. That was a good time.

So I had to stop smoking weed. Fine. I like the occasional toke, but I can do without relatively easily. That’s like giving up eating smokehouse almonds. I can do that, even if I have a hankering for it every now and again. But then Mrs. Drew placed a 2-drink maximum on me for nights out. This was agony. I’d have been better off not drinking at all. You ever try and make 2 beers last 6 hours? It’s impossible. I may as well have been drinking it out of an eyedropper.

I tried to reason with Mrs. Drew. If alcohol really killed sperm, I argued, then how can we account for the current existence of Ireland? I also postulated that alcohol, in fact, causes far more pregnancies than it inhibits. How else would anyone in Wisconsin become impregnated otherwise? Come on. You’ve seen people from that state. They’re fat and hideous. Some of them still wear stirrup pants. No way they’re all hitting each other sober. But Mrs. Drew wouldn’t hear it.

Thankfully, Mrs. Drew got pregnant relatively quickly. And pregnancy is fucking money if you’re a guy. You get a designated driver for 9 full months. You bet seeing that baby come out was a bittersweet moment.

Since the Girl's birth, I've more or less had to ease up on drinking anyway. Getting up constantly at night to take care of a baby isn’t much fun when you have 8 beers in you. It tends to kill your buzz. And your soul. But once the little one is sleeping through the night, don't put your beer down around me.

Babies and Chest Hair – A Losing Combination

2006-03-10T15:25:00.000-05:00

I’m not a particularly hairy person. You wouldn’t deem me “swarthy” or “Magilla Gorilla-esque” if you saw me in person. My facial hair is, frankly, an embarrassment. I tried to grow a goatee once in college. I would’ve gotten less ridicule if I’d had a third nipple dangling from my chin. And I can’t grow any semblance of a beard. When I try, the end result is just like Al Gore’s beard – one that looks like it was glued on by a 1st grader who’s been held back.

I also lack Connectors - the strips of hair on either side of a guy’s mouth that act as liaison between mustache and beard. The importance of Connectors cannot be overstated if you’re a man who’s looking to facial hair to increase your outer manliness. Badasses have Connectors. James Hetfield, Kurt Russell, Ming the Merciless – those guys have got the goods. I’m nowhere near their league. More’s the pity. I blame my own father, that no-Connector-having bastard.

But I do have a healthy amount of hair in strategic places. You don’t need to know this, but my pubes grow so long I half expect leaves to start shooting out of them come April. There’s no question that I’ve been through puberty. Sometimes I make an attempt at grooming myself, but you try holding a pair of kitchen shears (the only scissors Mrs. Drew will let me use for the job) one inch from your scrotum. See what images flash through your mind. Not fun. I don’t have a brain surgeon’s hands. And I definitely don’t have a brain surgeon’s brain. So I usually let my boys stay nice and bushy as a result. I may have the occasional pube-stuck-in-zipper moment (completely underrated on your standard Pain Level chart), but that’s life.

As for my chest, it’s well represented. I have a few thatches of hair. It looks tasteful, certainly not overdone. And I’m not one of these douchebags that shaves their chest. I let it hang out. It makes for a more natural look. I may even dye it should it ever go gray.

But getting it anywhere near the Girl is a bad idea. Cut to the other night. I get up for my feeding shift (which lately I’ve come to enjoy). I make the bottle, I grab the Girl, and off we go. By the time I sit down, I realize I haven’t put a shirt on. Oh well, I reason. I don’t want to get up now. I’m all positioned. Besides, Mrs. Drew thinks it’s hot when I feed the Girl shirtless (not that this results in sex of any kind, but I do like being flattered nonetheless). So I keep going.

Bad move. Bad, bad, bad fucking move. If babies are anything, they are grabby. It’s like handling someone who’s drowning – they’ll just reach out and grab the first thing that’s there – an arm, a leg, a benign tumor – and they aren’t keen to let go. The Girl immediately grabs my chest hair with both hands and starts pulling it. Good fucking Lord, that hurts. I try and get her away from my chest, but now she’s attached to it like a piece of Velcro. I have to think fast. A distraction! The bottle? No good. Sing to her? Doesn’t work. My rendition of “Epic” by Faith No More fails to relax her grip. Bite her hands so she lets go? Probably illegal.

Out of options, I decide to take it like a man. I quickly pull her away from my chest (agony), lay her down, and make for the nearest bottle of aloe vera. Maybe those guys who shave their chests aren’t such douchebags after all.

My Child Is Advanced!

2006-03-08T13:04:00.000-05:00

Is your baby advanced? Mine is! My baby is very advanced! Look at her! She can occasionally smile! Doctors say babies aren’t supposed to smile for three months! But mine can do it right now! Can yours? No? Well then, you better start filling out a job application at Wal-Mart for her! Because my child is super advanced!

Is your child shitting three times a day yet? Because mine is! And not only that, she straightens her legs out when she shits! And her shit is yellow! I don’t know what it means, but I know it means she’s advanced! Is your child advanced? Is she? Because if your child isn’t advanced by the first month of life, she never will be! She’ll be left for dead, like a porn star on her 30th birthday!

My child likes staring at toys! That’s right! She can see tangible objects! That’s because she’s very advanced! Can your child do that? No? Maybe you should have her checked out! She might have Down’s Syndrome! My child doesn’t have Down’s Syndrome! Know why? Because she’s advanced!

Do you read to your child? I do, because she’s advanced! I even read to her when she was in utero! In fact, I read to her when she was a sperm in my ballsack! That’s right! I read to my balls! Every night! And not just kiddie stuff! I read Tolstoy to my balls! Do you do that? Well then, you probably don’t have an advanced child like I do!

Have you thought about where you child will attend preschool? I’m filling out applications as we speak! I already have a preschool, elementary school, middle school, prep school, college, graduate school, and plum Wall Street job position lined up for her! Do you have that ready for your child? No? Do you live in Pakistan? You may as well, because your child is clearly not advanced!

My child can grab things! She can stick her hand out and wrap it around various things! Which means she’s super advanced! Can your child grab things! No? Maybe my kid will wave to your kid while she’s on the way to her AP Calculus class and your kid’s heading to woodshop!

Can your child hold her head up? Because mine can! Her neck muscles are advanced! Your child may never be able to hold her head up if she isn’t now! She may grow up to have a head that rolls around like a broken joystick! Tough break for you! Not all of us can have an advanced child!

Oh my God! My child just said, “Ooooreghhh!!!” Can you child say that?! No? I already speak five different foreign languages to my child! I suppose you’re just speaking plain old English to your kid! That’s too bad, because advanced kids speak lots of languages, especially French! Because French is useful!

Are you breastfeeding? No? Then your child is sure to have cerebral palsy! At least that’s what I read! Because only breastfed children can be advanced! We even shopped for the choicest breast milk! Turns out it’s made by former New Jersey governor Christine Todd Whitman! God, that’s one tasty titty! And advanced, too!

Is your child advanced?! No? Then you should have a Chinese couple adopt it, before my advanced child crushes it! Sorry, but that’s life if you aren’t advanced!

Drew And The Baby Analyze The First 43 Minutes Of The Oscar Telecast

2006-03-06T10:58:00.000-05:00

Here at FKS, I’m more or less resigned to the fact that I will never be able to finish anything I start ever, ever again. In fact, if this blog entry gets abruptly cut off, it’s because the Girl needs immediate attention, or because Daddy has to run to the bathroom and drop a deuce while there’s an opening.

And so it is with this year’s Academy Awards. Every year, I watch the Oscar telecast in its entirety. Why? Mainly because I can cram a year’s worth of latent homosexuality into a single evening, so that I don’t have to worry about my repressed inner gayness for the rest of the year. Never mind that the Academy steadfastly refuses to acknowledge that Tombstone is the single greatest movie ever made (suck on it, Citizen Kane). I still watch.

Also, as an alleged writer, it boosts my confidence to know that, every year, the most talented actors and writers in all of Hollywood gather in one room to produce a show so mind-numbingly awful that even I could have done better. There’s no better way to feel good about yourself.

Anyway, in what I hope will become an annual tradition, the Girl and I sat down to enjoy this year’s ceremony, until she became very pissed off and demanded a new outfit, a new diaper, a new bottle, and a new father. And not in that order. Here’s my conversation with the Girl during that portion of the show, transcribed here:

“Look, Little G! It’s all the previous crappy hosts of this show joined together in a single crappy montage! There’s Billy Crystal pretending to be gay with Chris Rock, who has a mouth so big they could add a third guy to the mix and not suffer any dropoff whatsoever. And there’s Steve Martin, who always takes time off from being funny every year to make at least three shitty movies. And there’s David Letterman, who stopped being funny ten years ago without anyone actually noticing. And there’s Whoopi Goldberg, the first person to be considered funny solely due to Affirmative Action…

“All right, Little G, time for the monologue! This year’s host is Jon Stewart, who’s really funny…

“At least, I thought he was funny…

“When is he gonna start being funny? This is worse than the time I tried to do standup comedy…

“Look, it’s a montage of all the homoerotic moments in Westerns over the years. And guess which movie you won’t find in there? That’s right, Little G. Fucking Tombstone. And you know why? Because Tombstone is so badass it defies gayness. Don’t fuck with Kurt Russell...

“All right, here comes Nicole Kidman, Little G. Pretty hot for a cyborg, isn’t she?

“George Clooney just won Best Supporting Actor, Little G. He also congratulated Hollywood, and himself indirectly, by saying that Hollywood talked about Civil Rights before anyone else did. So suck on that, Martin Luther King! You didn’t need to go to jail in Alabama! Hollywood did all the work for you!

“Look, Little G! It’s Ben Stiller! And he’s actually being funny! You’d think that Ben Stiller would also make funny movies, wouldn’t you? Oh, Little G, Daddy has a lot to teach you…

“There’s Russell Crowe. Little G, Russell Crowe is what Daddy calls a ‘fucking badass’. Russell Crowe will hit you in the mouth with a pint glass if you accidentally see his reflection in a mirror. And if you look directly at Russell Crowe, he will tear your heart out of your chest and eat it in front of you – while it’s still beating! Now that’s an actor. If Daddy were gay, Little G, it would definitely be for Russell Crowe…

“Sainted Badass Russell Crowe is showing us another montage, this time of old biopics. Daddy loves it when they pad the Oscars with clips from shitty movies like Finding Neverland…

“It’s time for the award for Best Animated Short, Little G! The $5 I spent on this year’s Oscar pool rides on piddlyshit categories like this. So if ‘One Man Band’ doesn’t win, then it’s birch bark diapers for you this week!

“It didn’t win. Fuck, Little G. Fuck…

“Rachel Weisz just won Best Supporting Actress, Little G! Hey, look! Those are pregnancy boobs! Daddy knows pregnancy boobs when he sees them! Pregnancy boobs are fucking badass. I bet Russell Crowe ends up hitting that…

“What? You’re not happy, Little G! But it’s the Oscars! The Queer Super Bowl! Girls are supposed to like this shit! No? Well, since the supporting categories have been handed out and the next two hours are garbage dump, you win. Same time next year? No? Whatever you say. I’m your indentured servant.”

Disneyworld Can Eat a Bag of Shit

2006-03-03T11:20:00.000-05:00

I always thought you could solve the whole Middle East conflict by giving the Palestinians most of Central Florida. Because, honestly, it’s a spitting image of your standard Middle Eastern war zone. Random car parts lay on the side of the road. Shit is on fire for no reason. Buildings are half-finished. People walking down the road look like they just fled a homicide. Add a little more razor wire and you’ve got yourself a brand new Holy Land. But what do I know? I’m just a sane person.

(And, since we’re on the subject, I find the whole idea of bringing democracy to the Middle East hysterical. If people in the Middle East really wanted democracy, wouldn’t they all just move here? There are no sane people left in the Middle East. All of them left for Michigan ages ago. I mean, if you want democracy, you don’t fuck around. You go to the source. Would you go to McDonald’s for a seafood dinner? Fuck no. And if you do, then you deserve whatever demonic afterbirth they serve you.)

But I digress. My point is this: Central Florida is a dump. And in this dump sits Disneyworld, which is an even bigger dump. As a parent, it’s been hammered into my head that I have to, at some point, bring my kid to this Hitler Youth camp in disguise. But I wonder if that’s the case anymore. I went to Disneyworld a few years ago (more or less by accident), and it’s clear to me that no kid would ever want to set foot in it. All the buildings are old. There are grown men in mouse costumes running around. For shit’s sake, I think they still have showings of Captain EO. I’d say the place is just a touch dated, wouldn’t you? Universal Studios is just a couple miles away, and that place is the fucking bomb. They have roller coasters. They have Spiderman. They have churros. I’m thinking the average kid would tell Disneyworld to suck it after hitting Universal.

So I started thinking about places I would take the Girl during her childhood, places parents have long taken kids. Would I do the same? Here are the odds:

Disneyworld (5%) – I doubt the Girl would want to go here when every Six Flags park basically reams it out and leaves it in the gutter. And what kid now would give a shit about the Disney parade? My kid won’t know who Snow White is. And that’s a good thing, because Snow White was an idiot. Who eats apples from strangers? Are you really that hungry?

Disneyland (10%) – Slightly better odds because other interesting stuff is nearby. But considering that even people who live in LA would rather drink mercury than drive to Anaheim, why would I bother?

The Zoo (100%) – This is a lock. Hell, I go to the zoo on my own. Monkeys fucking rule.

State Fair (0%) – Maryland has no State Fair. Not that I know of. I don’t wanna know. State Fairs creep me out. I went to one when we lived in Minnesota. No one there weighed less than 400 pounds. And most of the people there were wearing leather. It was like some kind of BDSM biker festival, with fried cheddar cheese curds thrown in for good measure. I’ll pass.

Renaissance Fair (100%) – I’ve never been to one of these freakshows, so I’m rarin’ to go. For the purposes of this blog alone, I’d go. Fuck yeah, let’s joust.

Colonial Williamsburg (40%) – I live near this thing, which is the just like a Renaissance Fair, except that it isn’t interesting. It’s one of those places where people pretend that they live in Colonial times. Oh wow, let’s go churn some butter! Ooooh, that woman’s working on a loom! Fascinating! Shoot me in the balls.

Hershey, PA (5%) – I worked on the Hershey ad account. I had to go there every week for meetings. The whole town smells like chocolate. Sounds great, right? Try hanging around that smell for more than 3 hours. No wonder Willy Wonka was such a nutjob.

Drew Gets Mad At The Baby. Hilarity Ensues.

2006-02-28T15:14:00.000-05:00

Parenting guides are filled with annoying euphemisms. Babies “can get fussy”. What a load of shit. Babies are not fussy. When my dad sends back wine at a restaurant (the odds of which are always quite good), that’s being fussy. No, babies don’t get fussy. They get pissed off. The Girl gets so pissed off, they should make her an honorary Islamic Fundamentalist. I don’t blame the Girl. Imagine being her. You sit around all day, wearing a diaper sometimes packed with your own filth, you can’t move, and the only thing you can eat is formula, which tastes like a Slim Fast shake that’s been sitting on a radiator for a week. Oh, and you have me for a Dad. I’d cry a lot, too.

All of these guides warn you, on some level, that parenthood “can be frustrating”, which is like warning you that Billy Joel’s music can be a little gay. Both are ludicrous understatements, especially the latter. I knew personally that there would be times raising the Girl when I’d get annoyed with her. But no one prepares you for just how idiotic you feel when you get mad at a 3-week old baby. It’s a baby. It only cries because it has no other way of communicating. What else is it supposed to do? But that doesn’t stop adult stupidity when it’s on a roll.

Last night was a typical example. I get up for my shift. I go to get the Girl out of the bassinet. Immediately, she begins to emit a high-pitched, angry-dolphin kind of crying. Nothing puts pressure on you like an angry, hungry baby. I don’t care if you have to shoot a free throw to win a basketball game, naked in front of a crowd of 20,000 supermodels, with your father threatening to disown and sodomize you if you miss. The hungry baby still wins.

I rush to shake up the formula. I probably measure it wrong. I don’t care. I run, with the baby and the bottle, into the living room, turn on the TV (Daddy needs light, and he needs to watch ESPN to see if the Vikings have traded Daunte Culpepper yet), and grab a bib. Putting a bib on a baby is a bitch, largely because the baby has hands. The Girl’s hands consistently block my attempts to put the bib on her. Apparently, she knows she’s not about to have lobster. Damn you, little baby hands. Humans should only begin growing arms at age 4. Everyone would be better off.

I feed the Girl. It gets all over her, which makes her cry. But cleaning up the mess also makes her cry, because I have to take the bottle out of her mouth. Then I have to burp her, which also makes her cry. Often, the burping won’t work and the Girl has gas trapped inside her body (I think babies are 85% methane). Guess what that does? My head hurts.

The poor girl’s suffering isn’t over yet. After feeding her for a solid 30 minutes like this, I have to check her diaper. And holy shit, does that make her cry. The only problem? Her diaper is dry. I got nothing. No shit. No piss. I’ll even take blood at this point. But there are no bodily fluids to be had whatsoever. But fuck it. I change her diaper anyway. Once I get the new diaper positioned underneath her, she instantly starts shitting.

Quickly, I have to get the new diaper on the Girl. I get it on, with no time to spare. I should be hired for the Bethesda Bomb Squad. The Girl finally finishes the shit, and now is crying because she’s sitting in it. So I change the diaper again. But she’s still crying. So I feed her more. At this point, my blood pressure is higher than that of the average comic book reader. She’s still crying. And then it happens. I say to myself, in my head: “God, I just wish she’d just shut up.”

I freeze. I did not just think that. Holy fuck, I am white trash. You may as well ship me off to Tampa and get me a job at Papa John’s, because I am now no better than your average People’s Court litigant. I went to college. I even graduated. And here I am, getting mad at a baby. I am an asshat.

Now here’s the funny part. I set down the Girl, who is still crying, and then proceed to hit myself in the head. That’s right. I hit myself square in the head. Hard. And then, I do it again. Does any rational person do this? No, they do not. But I do this. I do not feel better. I have a headache. Only one thing can cure it.

I pick up the Girl and hold her. She stops crying. She looks at me. I look at her. My blood pressure goes down. The anger, the stress, the fatigue – all of it goes away. I can feel the past hour slipping out of my memory. I am no longer white trash. I am once again a loving Dad, and she is Daddy’s pretty little girl. All is well.

And that’s when she throws up.

Drew’s Daughter Dislikes TV. Drew Is Fucked.

2006-02-24T12:17:00.000-05:00

I’ve watched a lot of TV in my lifetime. Remember the Schmoo? Of course you don’t. Only I do, because that’s how much TV I watched when I was a kid. As a result, my attention span is about as long as a Taiwanese man’s penis. By the time I’m through writing this blog entry, I’ll have checked gorillamask 800 times to see videos of grizzly bears fighting sumo wrestlers, and what not. It’s a handicap.

This wasn’t my parents’ fault. They moved heaven and earth to get me away from the TV set (except getting rid of the TV altogether, which I guess would have made sense). They kept telling me it was beautiful day outside, which annoyed me because sunlight meant too much glare on the TV screen. I’d also get out of bed after they had fallen asleep at night, and go downstairs to watch TV for hours on end. Once we ended up getting Showtime, I became a walking imdb of obscure 70’s softcore porn. “Happy Housewives”; “Inhibition”; “The Naughty Stewardesses”; “The Sensuous Nurse”: you name it, I saw it. I even remember dialogue from these movies. I also remember that all of them featured bad dubbing and were usually set in Manila. Apparently, if you lived in the Philippines in 1972, you were never not fucking.

(My favorite one was a dirty version of “Cinderella.” In this version, Cinderella didn’t have a Fairy Godmother, she had a Fairy Godpimp, played by a black dude with a really bigass Afro in a role that likely set black people back another 75 years. The best part was when the Fairy Godpimp touched his cane on Cinderella’s crotch and said to her, “I just gave you a snappin’ poooooo-say!!” Put 30 Oscar-winning screenwriters in a room together and they’ll never come up with a line that memorable.)

I don’t watch as much TV these days, what with work, marriage and Mrs. Drew constantly demanding to do things like “talk” and “have sex”. Whatever. I’m missing The Colbert Report, lady.

The problem now is, I’ve watched so much television that my priorities are now completely reversed. Lots of people today complain that they would like to have more time to spend with their family. I, on the other hand, complain that I’d like to have more time to watch television. For example: I’ve never watched a single episode of Lost. It’s supposed to be an awesome show. Like, really awesome. Maybe even better than Alias, which I also haven’t seen. I should be watching it. I also haven’t seen 24, Oz, The Shield, or all of Arrested Development. I’ll probably regret missing those shows when I’m old, much in the same way old people regret things like alcoholism, smoking, or killing another man. And that makes me a fucking weirdo.

The Girl does not seem to enjoy television the same way I do. Turn it on and the flashing images and disparate voices distract her and make her upset. I, too, get distracted. On multiple occasions I’ve been feeding her and watching TV at the same time, only to get caught up on what’s on the screen, failing to see that I’m accidentally force-feeding the Girl, as if my goal is to turn her into pate. Half of what I feed her then gets spit up and her clothes get drenched. Then she starts crying. Then I start crying, because I missed seeing a figure skater eat it hard on the ice. It’s a vicious cycle. Damn you, cathode ray tube.

A stronger man would throw out the TV and become one of those insufferable people who brag about never watching TV. I hate people like that. Watch too much TV and yes, you’re a loser. But if you don’t watch any TV at all, then you’re a douche and I don’t want to know you. So what to do? I love TV. The Girl hates it. Do I love TV more than my own flesh and blood?

It probably depends on what’s on.

We Gave Birth To a Drunken Midget

2006-02-22T16:28:00.000-05:00

My old college roommate Kevin was a drinker. A legit drinker, the kind that warrants his own poorly-shot documentary. Multiple times Kevin pissed on his laundry basket in the middle of the night while shitfaced. This requires the same amount of effort to get up, find the toilet, and take a piss. But Kevin would be so shitfaced, he’d put that same effort instead into getting up, walking to the closet, opening the closet, and then pissing all over his own clothing. It was uncanny, really.

Another time, Kevin passed out in the common room of our dorm. During the course of the night, a group of basketball players across the hall decided to test out how drunk Kevin was. They began piling furniture on top of him. First a table. Then a chair. Then a whole sofa. And then basically anything else they could find within a 50-foot radius. Soon the stack of furniture on top of Kevin reached the ceiling. But he didn’t wake up until the morning. And what did he say when he woke up? “Oh, fuck. Not again.” That, folks, is a level of drunkenness I can only hope to aspire to.

But wait, we aren’t through just yet. One time Kevin brought over a friend from Ireland to stay in our dorm room. The kid came from a family of serious Irish drunks, the kind that eventually spawn a Kennedy. So we’re all out getting shitfaced that night while the Irish kid regales us with stories about his drunken family, including the time, as a young boy sleeping on the couch, he was traumatized when his own uncle took a piss all over him at 3AM after a night out at the pub. Imagine that. You’re just a little kid, with no grasp of what alcohol is or what it does to people, when a member of your own family uses you for his own personal stadium trough. Brutal, eh?

Well, when we got back from the bar that very same night, Kevin woke up shitfaced at 3AM, walked over to the Irish kid (who was sleeping on our couch), whipped out his dick, and then pissed all over him. That’s my Kevin: seizing the moment to recreate a poor friend’s traumatic childhood in spectacular fashion. Kevin didn’t even do it on purpose, which makes the story all the more entertaining.

Later on, when Mrs. Drew started living with me in Manhattan, Kevin came and visited for a night. At 4AM, Mrs. Drew woke me up.

“Drew, get up. Your friend just pissed on the floor.”

And, true to form, he had. He had tried to get to the bathroom but had failed, instead passing out in the hallway, with his pants down around his ankles, his balls sticking out behind his legs in traditional fruit-basket formation, in a puddle of his own piss. It was the last time Kevin was allowed to visit the apartment, strictly by Mrs. Drew’s extremely reasonable orders. The next time we saw Kevin was at our wedding, when he had to be sent home after showing up bombed and feeling up my friend’s cousin. I expected nothing less of the man. A true original.

I tell you all that about my dear friend to tell you this: Taking care of Kevin and taking care of a baby are relatively similar exercises. Although Kevin never shat himself (as far as I know). And he certainly never cried and kicked around wildly while you were forced to change his pants (which was often). And when Kevin demanded food (usually pizza around 1AM), he was able to procure it himself. With the Girl? No such luck. She's kind of a crippled version of Kevin. A crippled, drunken little midget. No wonder I like her so much.

One Night With a Baby – A Weeder Course For Those Smart Enough To Not Have Kids

2006-02-15T11:04:00.000-05:00

Considering having a baby? Think babies are cute and just want to hold them all day long, do you? Like how they look in those Johnson & Johnson ads? Stop right there. I’m about to take you through one night with the Girl (who is now one week old). Before you decide to procreate and subject the world to your miserable offspring, read this. If you want to have children afterwards, more power to you – you’re batshit crazy, anyway. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

9:00 PM – “Time for bed!” I say to baby, who has been hanging out peacefully all day long and immediately knows that now is the time to start making the same noises a steam engine would make.

9:05 – Check baby’s diaper for shit. There is no shit. Feel a strange sense of diappointment, as if shit somehow would make things better. Feel around for baby piss. Smell finger for baby piss. Smells like baby piss. Wash hands thoroughly.

9:10 – Change baby’s diaper.

9:12 – Make formula.

9:15* – Start feeding baby. (*Note – during the entire feeding process, the baby is crying)

9:18 – Burp baby by holding her face down over my leg and smacking her on the back. They actually tell you to do this. The baby hates it. What a shock. She doesn’t burp. Consider giving her a Sprite, which makes everyone burp.

9:20 – Baby burps and throws up all over outfit. Change outfit.

9:30 – Resume feeding.

9:37 – Baby throws up all over new outfit. Begin writing letter to neighbors for when I leave the baby on their doorstep.

9:40 - Change outfit. Again. Fuck.

9:45 – Resume feeding. Cease caring that the baby is drooling all over herself and now looks like she’s been bitten by a feral wolverine.

9:47 – Feel immense shooting pain down back during feeding. Try to get baby’s head to hold still for the bottle, which involves clamping her head with my thumb and middle finger. There is no way any pediatrician would approve of what I’m currently doing. But screw them.

9:54* – Feeding is over. That was super fun, everybody!

9:59 – Change baby’s diaper. Again. Baby continues to cry. Become angry at my own penis for the first time since I got whiskydick that one time back in ’97.

10:02 – Baby keeps crying. Before I had a kid, I had always assumed that, while other’s people’s crying babies annoyed the shit out of me, I wouldn’t mind my own child’s crying as much. I was wrong. I was so wrong, I should be beaten to death with a kendo stick. My baby’s crying is just as head-splitting as any other random baby’s. You annoy me, baby. Cut it out.

10:05 – Dr. Harvey Karp, a noted pediatrician, wrote a book detailing the Five “S’s” that should help calm the baby down – Swaddling her, Shushing her, Swinging her, putting her on her Side or Stomach, and Swinging her. You must do all five of these at the same time in order, in just the right way, to get the baby to keep quiet. It’s like playing Zork, only more painful. I begin my attempt.

10:06 – Swaddle baby. Still crying.

10:08 – Shush baby. This keeps her quiet, unless I stop shushing her. Then she immediately begins to sound like a cat having its leg amputated.

10:10 – Place baby on her side and begin swinging her while shushing her. I need a glass of water. My water glass is downstairs. It may as well be in Kenya.

10:12 – Stick pacifier in baby’s mouth. Pediatricians recommend you not use pacifiers until the baby is a few weeks old. But screw them.

10:27 – Walk around, shushing baby, swinging her, and waiting for her to close her eyes and drift off into a heavenly, peaceful, deep sleep.

10:43 – Baby’s eyes are still wide open. The doctor at the hospital told us the labor process would all be worth it in the end. They tell you this for two reasons. One, so you forget what a crummy job they did at the hospital. And two, so you feel good about yourself for five minutes before the next 20 years occur.

10:52 – Baby’s eyes still wide open. Put her in bassinet anyway and hope she falls asleep on her own. No plan in history been more destined to fail. Not Custer. Not 'Nam. Not even that Bette Midler sitcom.

10:56 – Get into bed and shut eyes tightly. Baby is still making little noises. She’s about to cry. I know it. I’m fucked.

10:58 – Baby makes a little gurgling sound. Is she choking? Have to check on her. She is not choking. Back in bed.

11:03 – Baby makes a slight cough. Possibly pneumonia. As long as she’s quiet about it, that’s fine with me.

11:06 – Baby again makes little tiny noises. She’s gonna cry again. Vow to self to never put penis in anything ever again.

11:08 – Baby, miraculously, stops making noises.

11:09 – Maybe because baby is dead.

11:10 – Check on baby. Is not dead. I will not be going to jail. Run back to bed.

11:11- Now would be a good time to sleep. Too bad my brain is cluttered with random bullshit that keeps me awake. Stuff like: “Hey brain, is there anything more disappointing than a bad orange? That’s a lotta work just for fruit!” My brain apparently talks like Jerry Seinfeld.

11:42 – 12:03AM – Sleep. Actual sleep. Holy fuckity fuck, I am asleep.

12:04 – Baby shrieks. I am no longer asleep.

12:07 – Turn on light, find baby’s head covered in her own vomit. Oh, shit. I AM going to jail.

12:10 – Call doctor. Turns out I’m feeding her too much and not burping her enough. I should also hold her upright for 15 minutes after a feeding. You saw how long it took to feed this thing. Now tack on 15 minutes to the end of it.

12:15 – End call with doctor. Relieved baby will not die. Realize doctors must get calls every five minutes during the night from retard parents like myself who have no idea what they’re doing. Am very glad I didn’t go to medical school.

12:16 – Hey, guess what? It’s feeding time for the baby again! Fucking sweet.

12:17 – And now, the best part of my night, handing the baby off to Mrs. Drew for her shift. Good luck, sweetheart.

12:17:01 – 2:59 – Sleep again. Am I really asleep? Holy shit, I’m asleep! I fucking love sleep! This is fantastic.

3:00 – Baby shrieks. Check clock. You mean I fell asleep? And now I can’t sleep anymore? But I was sleeping, god dammit! Well fuck you then, Jesus!

3:01 – Get up. Time for my shift.

3:02 – 6:44 – Repeat the events of 9PM to 11:42PM, only this time doing so with a massive erection from when I fell asleep. If you saw a grown man walking around a house carrying a baby with an enormous hardon, you might get the wrong impression. But you'd be mistaken. My penis, clearly, has no clue about what babies are, or even where they come from.

6:45 – Hand off, again, to Mrs. Drew. Glad Mrs. Drew exists. Seriously, if you’re a single parent, you are fucked for life. There’s just no other way to describe it. I got three hours of sleep during the night, and I’m ready to shoot people from a clock tower. You can’t possibly take care of a baby on your own and remain even remotely human. There’s just no way.

6:46 – 10AM – Sleep.

10:01 – Wake up somewhat refreshed. Go to play with baby. Baby falls asleep.

10:02 – Cry. Cry like a little bitch.

I Have a Daughter. Oh Fuck.

2006-02-11T13:00:00.000-05:00

The sex of your kid has pros and cons either way. I’d like to have a son someday, but I’ve seen my boss’s two teenage sons. There isn’t a 15-year-old boy alive who isn’t a complete and utter retard. These kids speak mainly in audible grunts and nods. I’d be shocked if their facial muscles actually work.

Besides, if I had a son, I’d probably put unrealistic expectations on him. No son of mine is likely to quarterback the Minnesota Vikings to their first ten Super Bowl victories, invent the flying skateboard, and become President and bomb the shit out of a country of my random choosing (I was thinking Mongolia, because who would notice?). Maybe he could do one of those things, but I’m likely to demand all three.

But now I have a girl, which is just as terrifying. I hope she doesn’t date a musician. Or an actor. Or a painter. Or anyone else who dabbles in the arts – that goes for sculptors, ballet dancers (fags), trumpet players (fucking perverts), cake decorators (assholes), and any other kind of dipshit. I hope if she gets married, she elopes so that I have an additional $30,000 more to spend on myself. I hope she doesn’t dress like a slut. In fact, I prefer she dress like a nun, even if I think Catholicism is random and useless. I hope she learns to drive better than the other 150 million lunatic women out on the American road. I hope she doesn’t have any black friends (Just kidding, of course. I’d much rather have her befriend a black girl instead of some smelly Puerto Rican). I hope her friends don’t annoy the shit out of me. Actually, I hope she has friends. I hope she doesn’t become autistic. Sure, there are gambling benefits to that, but I’d never be able to give her a bath. No one wants some stinky autistic stumbling around the house having an awkward conversation with herself.

That’s just a small number of hopes I have for what she doesn’t become. But I also have positive hopes for her as well. For example, I hope she makes more money than Oprah, and then uses her money to have Oprah sodomized and killed. I hope she puts me in one of those nursing homes that has unlimited morphine and tons of slutty old women. I hope she’s beautiful, but not sexy. I hope she’s good at foosball, because Daddy will kick her ass if she comes to the table unprepared. I hope she has her mother’s good taste (except in men). I hope she’s creative with things other than her own feces.

But mostly, I hope she can cook. I like my scrambled eggs moist, but not runny. Maybe with a touch of feta.

Labor, or Why I’m Glad I’m Not a Woman

2006-02-08T22:41:00.000-05:00

I hate hospitals. Have you ever been to a hospital and thought to yourself, “Hey, this hospital has way too many doctors and nurses! I’m getting way too much attention! They should leave me alone in my room for hours on end without telling me anything about what’s wrong with me or what’s going to happen next!” No. No one’s ever said that. And if they ever have, it’s because they’re in the psych ward.

Mrs. Drew was induced into labor yesterday, but that was after 24 hours of sitting there, after being “induced” to be induced. I wish I were making this up. More importantly, Mrs. Drew wishes I were making this up. Not so. A gel was applied to Mrs. Drew to get her to have contractions for 12 hours, PRIOR to being induced. And the gel had to be applied twice.

Waiting in a hospital is like being in your 7th grade Spanish class. Time ceases to pass, and in fact can often go backwards. All you want to do is leave. All the hospital wants you to do is leave so they can move on to the next patient. And yet, you can’t leave. Why? Because no one in medical school teaches doctors how to speak to human beings without sounding like an aloof jerkoff. But it seems they do teach them to never speak to nurses, ever. The majority of doctors I’ve met assume that I too went to medical school. As you can tell from this blog, I did not. Every question I ask a doctor gets treated rhetorically. I hate you, medicine men.

Anyway, Mrs. Drew spent the better part of 12 hours in complete and utter agony because her nurse said the pain medication available to her probably wouldn’t dull the pain and could, in fact, make her nauseous as well. We later found out that nurse had two children without the benefit of drugs. Her career objective, apparently, is cruel, twisted revenge.

Once Mrs. Drew got the drugs, she said “I should have done this ages ago,” which is the first thing that pops into my mind whenever I myself have drugs of any kind. By noon the next day, she was ready to push, except the baby was facing up coming out of the womb, already psyched to play peek-a-boo. This makes delivery harder. Now here’s where it gets bloody.

To get the baby out, the doctor decided he needed to use the forceps, i.e. the jaws of life, i.e. the salad spoons, i.e. the pitching wedges. The nurse then proceeds to roll in a host of equipment that, to me, looked like the kind of equipment used to cure women in the 1600’s of witchcraft.

There was no partition at Mrs. Drew’s bedside. In fact, there was a TV up on the ceiling that hit Mrs. Drew at precisely the wrong angle. I moved the TV. If it had weighed 74 tons, I still would have moved it. I stood at the side of bed at Mrs. Drew’s waist, facing her head and staring right at her. This worked well for the most part, except for the few occasional glimpses I got. Peripheral vision is useless and horrible.

They made Mrs. Drew push for a half hour. By this point, she had had an epidural, which had numbed her below the belly. Hard to push down when your lower body is paralyzed. But hey, that’s just the logic in my head talking. Pushing failed (shocker!), and they dug in with the forceps.

I won’t lie to you. Before your kid is born, you aren’t expecting it to be pretty. You know the birth will be a little messy. But it’s fairly shocking when the doctor holds up your baby and it looks like a prop from one of those horror flicks that gets called a “cult” flick because 42 fat dipshits on the internet like it a lot. The baby was covered in blood, head to toe, screaming. Screaming, I assume, for a shower.

That's what surprised me the most about the whole labor process. It takes forever, and when it's finally over, you're shocked that it's over, and that there's a baby sitting right there. When I first saw my daughter, I had the same reaction people have after seeing David Blaine perform a magic trick: "Oh my God? How did you... I'm so freaked out right now!" I still have a hard time believing it's our baby. I assume it's a baby we're borrowing from someone else who doesn't have the time for it, like an NBA player.

They cleaned my daughter off. She looked better. Beautiful in fact, bruises and all. She looked at me. I looked at her. I looked at Mrs. Drew. And Mrs. Drew looked at both of us. And we all agreed, in an unspoken fashion, that being stuck in a hospital blows.

If My Kid Grows Up to Be Like Me, They Will Be Awesome

2006-02-03T13:15:00.000-05:00

When I was a youngster, I got a big kick out of giving people what I liked to call the Rotten Pumpkin Moon. If you happen to be unfamiliar with the Rotten Pumpkin Moon, this is what it is: you pull your pants down, tuck your penis between your legs, and then moon someone with your asscheeks spread. What results is a fairly accurate representation of a real life rotten pumpkin. At least, that was the feedback given to me by the kids on the school bus.

Lest you think I’m not looking forward to having a kid (and who could blame you if you’ve read any of this blog), rest assured that nothing could be further from the truth. I’m interested to see which traits of my wife’s the baby assumes (good looks, well organized, stable mind), and which of mine he/she picks up (depraved psyche, severe alcoholism, spine made of peanut brittle, some gentle retardation). Needless to say, the kid can’t go wrong either way.

Especially if the kid ends up with my killer sense of humor. If that happens, you can bet that Rotten Pumpkin Moon will rear its ugly stem once again.

Shit You Didn’t Know About Childbirth

2006-02-01T15:16:00.000-05:00

Mrs. Drew is now four days past her due date. How’s her mental state? Picture the guy from Alien who has the alien coming out of his chest, only he’s been told in advance the alien was going to pop out, only then to find out the date set for it to happen was completely and utterly arbitrary. She is aggravated, to say the very least.

Anyway, since my execution has been stayed yet another day, I thought I’d enlighten you on some facts about childbirth and pregnancy you may not have known about:

-It is quite common for a woman giving birth to eviscerate her bowels on the birthing table during labor. When I’m in that delivery room, I’ll have my eyes shut as tight as Indiana Jones’ when they finally opened the Ark.

-Breastfeeding can cause mothers to become sexually aroused. Doctors say this is normal. Then again, doctors tell you anything is normal to make you feel better. “Oh, you drove a nail through your penis? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen that happen this week!” Seriously, the psychological ramifications of this fact are so sick and disturbing, I’d rather not think about it. Let’s move on quickly.

-The umbilical cord, traditionally cut by the father, is not some simple string you cut, like at the grand opening of a deli. It’s up to half-an-inch thick, with a large artery and a large vein. Cutting it requires “chewing” through it with a pair of scissors. Some men end up not wanting to do it. I’m going through it with a butter knife.

-The actual pushing out of a baby doesn’t take very long, sometimes only half-an-hour. The longer part comes beforehand, when the woman needs to have hundreds of contractions to clear enough room for the kid to come out. This part, apparently, consists of about 8 to 20 hours of total anguish. My job during that time is to eat Chex Mix and ask if her if she’s “all right” 8,000 times.

-Babies born early are completely covered in a white, mucus-like substance that protects their skin and makes them look like a prop creature from the movie Ghoulies. Thank God our baby’s late.

-Babies can’t drink water. Or swallow air. Pussies.

-Most babies are born with their eyesight so underdeveloped, they can only see immediately what’s right in front of them. Namely, titties.

-A baby’s cry can reach 115 decibels. This is louder than a car horn, a power saw, a leaf blower, a rock concert, a moving subway, a motorcycle, a power drill, or a tractor. Shoot me now.

-To soothe a baby’s crying, you have to expose them to noises LOUDER than the sound of their own cries. Did you shoot me yet? Shoot me again, and finish the job this time.

-Labor can start days, or even weeks before the baby is actually born. Shoot Mrs. Drew while you’re at it.

-Some men experience the same weight gain their wives go through during pregnancy. This is called Sympathy Weight. I call it Pussy Flab.

-Some women grow a full foot size from pregnancy. If you’re an Irish Catholic woman, that means you better start trying on clown shoes.

-Pregnant women, before giving birth, have to pass something called the “mucus plug”. It’s a bloody piece of snot that corks up the woman’s uterus during pregnancy. I just tasted my own bile.

-Some pregnant women get a thick, visible black vein running down the middle of their stomachs that never goes away. Mrs. Drew never got this. My deal with Satan is ironclad.

-Sex apparently brings on labor. Which sounds great, until you encounter the logistical difficulties of having sex at this stage of pregnancy. I’ve had an easier time putting together furniture from Ikea.

-Pregnant women cannot: drink, smoke, do drugs, or eat sushi. Which makes them all just like those creepy people who live in Utah.

They don’t tell you this crap before you decide to have children. Largely because there would be no children if they did.

My Kid Will Break Shit

2006-01-30T10:19:00.000-05:00

We’re now one day past Mrs. Drew’s due date. That’s right: it’s sudden death.

And so, we wait for the Kid to make landfall. Let me tell you something: there is nothing more tedious than waiting for your child to decide to leave the womb. It’s like waiting for Christmas without knowing what day Christmas falls on, which I imagine is what happens to poor people, because they’re too poor to afford calendars, which must blow. I sit at home, staring at Mrs. Drew’s stomach like it’s a burrito I have in the microwave. This makes Mrs. Drew both creeped out and annoyed. But what else am I supposed to do? The second Mrs. Drew doubles over in pain from that first really intense contraction, I’m doing the fist pump.

There is one thing I’ve managed to do during all the down time, and that is to say goodbye to all my stuff. Over the years, I’ve accumulated a number of things I like owning: my TV, my car, my mp3 player, and various framed pictures of myself looking really good in assorted poses. My child will break all of these things. It’s a lock.

I was a kid once. I broke every fucking thing my parents owned: stereos, furniture, vases, china, assorted car parts, my brother’s big toe, etc. Anything I found, I broke. I once backed my mom’s car into a police cruiser. I once turned on the sprinklers at my cousin’s wedding, drenching the bride, groom, and minister in the process, and also electrocuting the videographer (he lived). I broke any Christmas present I received within two days of opening it. I broke my brother’s Christmas gifts, often because I was throwing them at my sister. I ate kickboards.

My grandma often said I had “ten busy little fingers,” I assume as a for substitute for saying, “Quit breaking shit, you little fucking brat.” Now, much like my projectile vomit, everything’s about to boomerang right back at me. I’m ready for it. The kid will break everything. And that’s okay. Unless he breaks our new iMac. I’ll throw the kid in a landfill if he does that.

Stupid Parenting FAQ, Part 1

2006-01-28T09:22:00.000-05:00

As we get closer to Mrs. Drew’s due date (tomorrow), here’s a very small sampling of the breathtakingly inane questions I get asked on a repeated basis by complete strangers (usually female) who happens to notice my wife’s condition, along with the answers I’m so dire to provide:

Q: Are you ready? No, really, are you ready?
A: What the fuck do you think? Five years ago, I was smearing boogers on the walls of my apartment because I was too lazy to buy Kleenex. Who’s ready to be a parent if they haven’t been a parent before? Now fuck off.

Q: Are you excited?
A: No. In fact, I’m hoping we can still get that abortion I wanted. Then I can pawn the car seat for some meth. Now fuck off.

Q: Are you scared?
A: No. Only pussies are scared of babies. Are you scared of babies? Then you’re a loser. Now fuck off.

Q: Why don’t you want to know if it’s a boy or a girl? I couldn’t do that.
A: That’s because you’re weak, useless, and pathetic. I’m not a control freak, so I don’t have to know every goddamn thing in advance like the rest of our insane society. Now fuck off.

Q: Well, what sex do you think it’s gonna be? (precedes to give me their own prediction)
A: I’m not sure. Let me flip a coin so I can give you a completely arbitrary answer in hopes that you will then fuck off.

Q: When do you think the baby will arrive?
A: I don’t know. Let me check Mrs. Drew’s cervix for an accurate reading. Moron.

Q: What are you gonna name the baby?
A: Fuckoff. That’s what’s I’m gonna name it.

Q: Have you caught up on all your sleep?
A: No, and since there’s no physiological way to actually “catch up” on your sleep, why don’t you go scrape your knuckles and pour iodine on it? Now fuck off.

Q: Who’s your doctor?
A: Who fucking cares?

Q: Where are you having the baby?
A: Again, who fucking cares? In a trash can.

Q: Have you found a pediatrician?
A: Why the fuck do you care? Want to make me a to-do list?

Q: Will you have the baby christened?
A: Yes. In Miller High Life. Now fuck off.

Q: Can I visit you in the hospital?
A: If you’re that desperate and need to breathe in the baby fumes to bring on your own ovulation, then by all means, fuck off.

Q: Did you get everything you need?
A: No. Now go buy me something off the registry, you cheap sack of shit.

Q: (to Mrs. Drew) Are you getting an epidural? (I’m serious. People actually ask my wife if she’s getting anesthesia.)
A: (Mrs. Drew) Yes. (Me) Now fuck off.

I Will Be A Lame Parent

2006-01-28T08:57:00.000-05:00

A couple months back, I asked my brother (who has a kid) if he was planning on seeing King Kong. “Oh, they’re remaking King Kong?” he asked.

He had no clue the movie was out. Which means a couple things:

-He had not watched any TV, because he would have seen a commercial for it.
-He had not read a magazine or a newspaper, because he would have seen an ad or seen an article about it.
-He didn’t surf the web, because he hadn’t seen a banner ad.
-His head must have been trapped in a steel box of some kind for an undetermined period.
-His life is basically over.

My point is this: You have to go to great lengths to avoid hearing about whatever cinematic gonorrhea Hollywood is throwing out any given week, and having a kid pretty much covers it. I myself haven’t seen a movie in the theater in seven months (the movie was Batman Begins, and Katie Holmes is about as good an actress as I am a ballerina). So, for the next twenty years, I’ll be forced to abandon the practice of watching good movies and TV in favor of kiddie dogshit like Dora the Explorer. I don’t know who Dora is, and I don’t know what she’s exploring, but I’m pretty sure I’ll hate her soul.

And kids wonder why their parents are so lame. I wondered it myself when I was a kid. Now I know. Any parent worth their salt has to be lame, because they’re so busy taking care of their kids. “Cool” parents, on the other hand, are too busy going to “King Kong” to bother teaching you how to read. Congratulations, this means you’re Paris Hilton.

So if my kid ever says to me, “Dad, you’re so lame,” I’ll turn to them and say, “That’s because I was too busy wiping your ass.” That’ll clam ‘em right up.

Babies Need a Lot of Crap

2006-01-25T16:32:00.000-05:00

Before the kid makes landfall, here's just a short list of everything we had to buy:

-2 strollers
-Car seat (just an infant one. You also eventually need two other sizes as the kid grows. Fuckers.)
-Crib
-Crib sheets
-Waterproof crib pad (because all babies are bedwetters)
-Crib mattress
-Rocking chair
-Diapers
-Formula
-Breast pump (which I'd like to try on the dog sometime)
-Bibs
-Bottles
-Baby Swing
-High chair
-Clothes
-Baby wipes
-Baby grooming kit
-Baby thermometer (rectal, because real babies take it up the ass)
-Baby first aid kit
-Swaddling blankets
-Sippy cups (I knew a girl in high school who went around with one of these, sipping apple juice in it. I hate girls like this.)
-Nursing bras
-Bassinet
-Mobile
-Diaper bag
-Diaper Genie (which is a special diaper trash can that keeps your house from smelling like hot garbage)
-Baby Powder
-Bouncy seat
-Baby bath seat
-Baby toys
-Baby clothing
-Nursing pillow
-Pacifiers
-Baby announcements
-Baby Bjorn (which is a backpack you can carry the baby in. It's called a Baby Bjorn so that fathers can feel both Swedish and gay all at once)

That's just off the top of my head. Considering that I only retain about 5% of the information given to me on a daily basis, this list is barely the tip of the iceberg. I thought about totaling up the cost of all this shit, but frankly I'd rather have back surgery again.

My real question is: how much of this shit does one baby actually need? A car seat I understand. That's mandated by law. But the rest of it is fucking overkill. I'm a grown man. All I need is food, beer, a car, and cable television. I don't even really need clothes, given my jaw-dropping physique. When did little babies become so fucking needy? All they really should require are diapers and a titty. That's it.

The whole baby merchandise thing is a racket. Everything is expensive and nothing is useful. It's just like the wedding business. Or the country of Japan. I just don't get it.

Then again, I'm not a Dad yet. By the time the baby screams for the first time, I'll probably buy everything at Buy Buy Baby just to get the kid to shut up so I can finish watching the Sopranos.

Drew Gets Back Surgery 5 Days Before The Baby's Due

2006-01-25T11:28:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago, I was playing "touch" football when I ruptured a disc in my back, which then pressed against my sciatic nerve, which runs down my left leg. To give you an idea of the ensuing pain, try this fun exercise. Get yourself a power drill. A Craftsman, mind you, not one of those pussy Black & Decker things. Get the biggest drill bit you can find. Now put the drill on high speed and shove it right into your buttock. Be sure to wiggle it around! You don't want to miss out on all the fun!

I couldn't stand. I couldn't walk. I couldn't sit. Peeing was horrific. Shitting was even worse. Masturbating was pure anguish (but I did it anyway). I was far from the super-husband I normally am, with my flowing ringlets of flaxen gold hair and my impossibly large biceps. So off to the OR we go.

Surgery was a success. You don't really need to know the rest. People who talk about their illnesses or injuries are losers with nothing better to do. I, on the other hand, have tons going on. I write a blog, god dammit.

But you have to appreciate the irony of having your nine months pregnant wife standing at your bedside trying to get you to breathe away your soul-crushing pain. It's clear to me now that the breathing exercises we did in childbirth class are useless. They tell you to relax and go to your happy place (mine was a strip club with a dim sum bar) and that will help ease the pain. This does nothing. It's like to going to your happy place, only to have the bouncer kick you out and then club you to death. Trust me, breathing is overrated. Especially when the Devil is sticking a pitchfork up your ass.

The Art of Projectile Vomiting

2006-01-21T15:35:00.001-05:00

I have a skill very few people on this earth possess. If you take into account volume and speed, I am perhaps the greatest projectile vomiter in world history. I mean, we’re talking a fire hose, here. You ever see people do that half-assed barf, that kind of dribbles down the chin and only advances slightly forward? That’s weak. I can nail the opposite wall with a gallon of Drew Soup. People who witness the aftermath are never really the same, frightened both for their welfare and my own. Even if I make it to the toilet and have good aim, the periphery still gets hit. It’s a talent.

When Mrs. Drew and I were first dating, I went out to watch the World Wrestling Federation at the Meadowlands with a friend one night. On the way, we split four 40’s of Olde English (which gets ye shitfaced). At the arena, I drank so much beer that it began to replace the fluid in my eyeballs. When I came back to Mrs. Drew’s place, she and some friends we watching “The Way We Were”. I came in, told everyone the movie was for gay Jewish men, said Barbara Streisand looked like a dead ferret, and passed out upstairs.

Mrs. Drew lived in a duplex at the time. To get to the bathroom, you had to go downstairs. At 4AM that night, my stomach geared up for a gold medal hammer throw. I barfed in the bed, on the staircase and walls heading down to the first floor, in the kitchen, and everywhere in the bathroom but the toilet. Mrs. Drew cleaned all of it, with it being understood that I was now obligated to marry her and worship the ground she walks on from here to eternity.

And I tell you that to tell you this. The baby is due one week from now. This talent is a lifetime trait of mine. My mom said that, as a baby, all I did was eat and barf. And as a kid, too. In 1989, my mom took us to Leeann Chin’s in the Minneapolis Galleria, where they have an all-you-can-eat buffet. I ate so much I ended up barfing over the mall balcony onto the Atrium floor below, in an attack I called “General Tso’s Last Stand”. We moved from Minnesota shortly thereafter.

Now, the baby is almost certain to have acquired my gift. And I’d just like to say to anyone who has had to encounter my churn in unexpected places – sinks, showers, basements, bar seats, urinals, trash cans, shoes, mittens, China cabinets, etc. – you are about to be karmically repaid in full.

I’m ready with the Pine Sol.

Drew’s Prior Experiences with Babies

2006-01-21T15:35:00.000-05:00

I have so little experience with babies that a Justice Department inquiry should be made to determine if I’m really allowed to have one.

Up until a couple years ago, my only contact with babies was largely when I was trapped near one on an airplane. On the flight back from my bachelor party in Vegas, I was stuck in the very last row of the plane, near the shitter, with about 6 or 7 colicky babies on board. Whenever the moms tried to calm the babies down, they’d stand with them outside the can, right next to my seat. When the plane landed, we had to wait on the tarmac for another 45 minutes because no gate was free. If the Fasten Seat Belt sign hadn’t been turned on, I would’ve murdered everyone on board.

I’d also encounter babies at bus terminals and in department stores, almost always hoping they’d fall down a well (preferably an abandoned one). A couple years ago, we went to a dinner party (Christ I’m old) and this one girl brought her kid. Everyone played with the kid and made all these googoo faces at him. When the mom asked me if I’d like to play with the kid, I said sure. The kid handed me a toy of his. I said to the kid, “Go get it!” and tossed the toy over in the corner.

The mother looked at me like I had a third eye growing out of my forehead. “He’s not a dog,” she sneered. Fuck her. I made an effort. Her kid’s a pussy.

In the past year, I’ve hung out a little with my nephew, who’s now about one and a half. But I barely have any time to figure out how to play with the kid, because every time he’s in the room women swarm him like he’s the sweater rack at Anthropologie. How am I supposed to compete with that shit? It occurred to me that babies are the female equivalent of a football game. They crowd around one for three hours and ignore the shit out of you. Which is fine, but how can I learn to be a Dad when all women are clearly insane baby hogs? I’m considering using a sign-up sheet, similar to the treadmill at the gym. You get your 30 minutes, and then you have to fuck off. Sound idea.

Circumcision: Your Penis... to the Extreme!

2006-01-19T14:20:00.000-05:00

If we have a boy (and karma almost guarantees that’ll never happen), Mrs. Drew and I have the option of whether or not to take the hood off of the Baby’s shish kebab. At first, it was a no-brainer for me. I’m cut, and I think it makes for one mighty handsome penis. Honestly, I think my penis could easily get modeling gigs if I tried hard enough. But it’s overworked enough as is.

So it figured that Drew Jr. would get the same treatment. But then I thought about it. And, really, if you actually process what goes on during circumcision, it’s pretty fucked up. Hey, here’s your new son! But wait! Let’s do a little facelift on his John Thomas before he’s even had something to drink! Odd, right? When you have a baby girl, you don’t lop off a nipple just for posterity (maybe in Africa, but not in America, which is the only country that matters). So why do we do it to little boys?

Well, I did some research. Actually, no. I didn’t do any research. Research is for grad school douchebags. But it did make me pause for a second. Rarely do I pause to think about anything, but there you go.

Until I came to my senses. Is it odd that we do a little penis sculpting on our infants? Oh yeah. But clearly, people wouldn’t do it if it didn’t have advantages. Supposedly, a cut Johnson can help stave off infection. And I’d rather sit on a table saw than have any infection in that area. But whatever. It’s all about the looks here. Nobody wants to walk into their gym shower with a penis that looks like one of those water balloon sleeves they sell at your local science museum. And what would most girls say to an uncut member? Probably this: “You mean it can look like this, too? Oh.” (grimaces in disgust)

They say uncircumcised men have more sensitivity. Let me tell you, the last thing I need is MORE sensitivity down there. I’d forget to eat at some point. Sex feels plenty good already. Make it any better and the world would stop spinning on its axis.

So the decision is final. If it’s a boy, we’re calling the butcher.

NOTE: I learned during the course of reading (yes, I read) that all babies are born with enlarged genitalia. So if you have a son of your own, don’t think you passed on some previously unknown “huge cock” family gene on to him. And if you have a daughter of your own, rest assured that you did not give birth to Nicole Bass.

Drew is the Car Seat Master

2006-01-17T11:14:00.000-05:00

Apparently, child car seats are difficult to install. The hospital nurse said only about 1 in 10 people install them correctly prior to inspection.

Well, guess who can count himself among the superior Ten Fucking Percenters? Me, that’s who. The women at the inspection station gazed upon me with a mixture of shock and awe. At last, after all these years, they had encountered a real man.

Suck on that, all you other pussy dads out there who couldn’t get that shit right. My kid isn’t even born yet and I’m already twice the father you are. Think you can protect your family? You can’t even install a car seat right. You may as well feed your children to Mike Tyson.

I rule.

Drew is Supportive, Part I

2006-01-17T09:54:00.000-05:00

I’m a stellar fucking husband. Here’s just one of the many examples why:

One of the exercises in childbirth class was to get your partner to breathe right (They say “partner” because some of the women there were single and had their mothers with them. Bet that’s a fun household to hang out in.). I sucked at this. No woman likes a man telling her what to do.

The men in the birthing videos were literally nose-to-nose with their wives during the delivery. I’m assuming because the camera was there. The husbands in the video probably just didn’t want to be seen sitting in the corner, reading “Highlights for Children” with their dick in their hand while the wife was doing all the hard work.

Watching the men stare at their wives on the tape, I had a flashback to my own wedding, when the judge made me stare at my wife as we said our vows. You ever stare at a woman for ten minutes straight? You end up looking like John Wayne Gacy. My wife spent most of the ceremony looking down, because she was afraid to cry. It was also an outdoor wedding, and I was in a tuxedo with the temperature at 85 degrees. As a result, in the wedding video, it looks like I’m about to eat my wife. Horrifying.

So Mrs. Drew and I have reached an agreement of sorts. Even though she will be on drugs, and even she will almost certainly not know what’s best for her at the time, I am to await her instructions during delivery and follow them to a tee. It’s a mortal lock that she’ll order me out of the room about an hour before the birth.

That’s right. I’m willing to abandon my wife’s side mid-delivery. That’s how supportive I am.

Drew Ponders Watching the Birth

2006-01-14T08:53:00.000-05:00

In the old days, men weren’t even in the delivery room when a baby was born. They stood in the waiting room with family, taking in a snifter of brandy. Then, when the baby was born, the father would bust out the cigars, check the baby to make sure it was a boy (girls were usually thrown away), and then slap his wife on the ass for doing a good job.

I have no idea when they decided to change this method of doing things, because it sounds pretty good to me. But today men are not only expected to be in the delivery room, they are apparently also expected to be right up in the wife’s grill, telling her to calm down while she tries to push another human being out of her vaginal cavity.

I’m serious. Before we went to breastfeeding class, we had to attend birthing class, which is supposed to prepare you for labor. And if you thought watching women from 1986 breastfeed on tape was traumatizing, wait until you watch them on a hospital gurney, buck naked and making the same noises a bad porn star makes (the kind that let you know she isn’t actually enjoying herself, and is beginning to realize that banging Lexington Steele for $50 in residuals wasn’t a very good deal), as they pinch out a human loaf.

This is pretty revolting stuff. Why did they show it? Apparently, to frighten all the women in class and nauseate all the men. We had to watch three births in the class videos. Three! Seeing one was useless enough. But seeing three was like having to sit through the movie “Magnolia” again. And I fucking hated that movie.

After the videos, the nurse informed us that our hospital no longer uses stirrups in the delivery room. Instead, one nurse holds one of my wife’s legs. And I get to hold the other. This sounds idiotic to me. Stirrups were invented to hold legs up. They do their job quite well. I, on the other hand, have a really bad back. Is it really better for me to hold up my wife’s leg for hours on end? Fuck no, I say. I have back issues of Entertainment Weekly I need to catch up on.

And this is where we get to the real dilemma: Do I want to watch the actual birth of my kid? These birth videos were gross. Even Nicole Richie isn’t as much of a turnoff. Some books I read said men should be able to look at their wife’s anatomy two ways – as a vehicle for childbirth, and as a vehicle for sexual enjoyment. Fuck that. My brain is nowhere near sophisticated enough to do that. Maybe Dr. Cornel West can compartmentalize that shit, but I sure can’t.

One guy I asked had three words for me: “Don’t look down.” Sage advice, my friend. Sage advice.

Drew Goes to Breastfeeding Class

2006-01-13T11:24:00.000-05:00

Saturday I had to go to breastfeeding class. Makes sense. My manboobs can hold their own against any other woman’s set of funbags. But will I be able to lactate? That’s the million-dollar question.

I was one of the few husbands at the class who was suckered into going with their wives. I was there ostensibly to support my wife. And by “to support,” of course, I mean, “to suffer along with her for no logical reason.”

Besides Mrs. Drew and I, no one at this class was remotely attractive. Take your standard airport terminal crowd, hit them one more time with the ol’ ugly stick, and you begin to get an idea of the student “body” here. Normally, I could care less if my classmates were ungodly hideous. But this was a breastfeeding class. The idea that all these women would simultaneously bust out a titty profoundly alarmed me. I told Mrs. Drew as much. She pretended not to hear me.

At the beginning of class, there was a basket of plastic babies at the back of the room. Every couple (or every woman who came alone because their husbands had some spine) was supposed to grab a baby to practice on. If you were pregnant with twins, they told you to grab two babies to practice feeding both at the same time. Alternately, you could slash your wrists. At least that’s what I’d do if I had to breastfeed two of these things.

All of the plastic babies in the basket were white, except for one black one. And, I shit you not, the black baby was the last doll taken. You’d think it had been in a dumpster. So, so wrong.

I was relieved to find out that no one had to bare their rack live in class. Imagine my horror when I realized we’d be watching women breastfeed from an instructional video. I already told you how unappealing the people in the class were. Now put them in stirrup pants and the same hairdo as that lady in Texas who drowned all her kids. That’s who I got to watch breastfeed. You literally get to watch the milk squirt out. Ever see the movie “8MM”, where Joaquin Phoenix tells Nicolas Cage, “You’re gonna see some things here that you can’t un-see.”? Now I know what he meant. It was like watching a homemade fetish video. Not fun.

But we learned a lot. Basically, breastfeeding isn’t very easy and makes constant demands on the mother, possibly cracking her nipples in the process. Further proof in my eyes that God is a complete bastard. Recommendations on how long you do it range from six months to a year. You can also breastfeed your kid for longer than that, if you want him or her to become a complete pussy. Won’t be happening in this household. NO PUSSIES.

-D

Weekend Notes

2006-01-06T15:14:00.000-05:00

-I’m going to try and update the blog daily, but chances are my postings will be sporadic. I want each entry to read more like a column than entries from some dipshit’s journal.

-This weekend’s house Project is Installing the Baby Car Seat. Ever since we moved into a house, my weekend has consisted mainly of Projects (either painting shit, hanging shit, fixing shit, or moving shit), instead of my typical routine of watching football on the couch until my legs go numb. I have not adjusted well to the change. Painting, in particular, is a bitch. I usually start off any painting project with laser-like focus, painting every nook and cranny perfectly. Then ten minutes go by, my back starts to hurt, and I begin painting like epileptic on crystal meth. My advice? Never paint anything. It blows.

-I’m starting to compile a mental list of “Shit I Probably Won’t Be Able to Do For The Next 25 Years.” The list right now includes smoking weed, seeing a movie in a movie theater, and watching a football game in its entirety. I’m sure I’ll think of more when the baby makes landfall.

Naming the Kid

2006-01-05T15:03:00.000-05:00

Naming the Kid

Frankly, I’m still glad people are allowed to freely name their children. Once Google takes over the world, it’ll almost certainly determine your child’s perfect name by algorithm and force it upon you, lest their supercomputer drain you of all your blood.

But people have taken it way too far now. Forget celebrities – they’re all completely fucking insane anyway. I’m talking about normal people giving their children completely ludicrous names. You know what the third most popular girl’s name was last year? Madison. Two decades from now, if I yell “Madison” out loud at Cheetah’s in Vegas (and the odds of that happening are quite good), every girl in the room will turn and stare at me. Why don’t you just name your daughter Slutty McEasywhore and be done with it?

People over-think these names, just like they do with anything regarding their kids. You want your kid to be special? Teach it to juggle cats. Naming them Madison, or Diamond, or Heaven is like giving them a free ticket to Hookertown. That’s why I wanted to name our daughter Bertha. Nobody wants to have sex with a girl named Bertha. As far as I’m concerned, that makes it ideal. I’d name her Bertha Snatchfungus if I could.

Finding a name also made me realize that I know the names of way too many porn stars. Jenna? Porn star name. Anita? Porn star name. Sylvia? European porn star name. Jasmine? Gang bang name. It was both frustrating and shameful all at once. But it did help narrow the list considerably.

Girl’s names weren’t even a big issue for Mrs. Drew and I. We found a few pretty, non-stripper names and picked from there. The boy’s names were a fucking disaster. You know what the fifth most popular boy’s name was last year? Ethan. What a pussy name (see the previous post for my #1 goal for raising a son). When I think Ethan, I think Ethan Hawke, and when I think Ethan Hawke, I think of my boot crushing a failed novelist’s throat. Ethan Hawke is the only man alive both annoying enough to bang Uma Thurman and stupid enough to dump her. I hope he falls into a tar pit.

You know why Ethan is the fifth most popular boy’s name out there? Because women love forcing prettyboy names on their husbands. My wife’s favorite boy name was Tristan. After I recovered from the subsequent hemorrhage, I calmly explained to her that Tristan was a pussy name. Like I said, I have no issue with having a gay son. But that doesn’t mean I have to name him Tristan, buy him Judy Garland albums, and then drop him off at the Manhole in Chelsea. If he’s gonna be gay, he’s gonna be gay organically. He doesn’t need my help.

So I pushed back, with reasonable options. That’s the key. Naming a kid is like ordering takeout. If you don’t like someone’s suggestion, you sure as shit better have a reasonable suggestion to counter. If you just say, “I don’t like it,” you’re begging for a hostile response.

And you gotta have a decent suggestion at the ready. And this is where women come in handy. If men were solely allowed to name their kids, they’d give them the badassmotherfuckerest name they could think of. Left to my devices, I’d probably name our son Thundercock. Split the difference with the lady and you end up in the right spot between a douchebag name and an asshole name.

I worried about potential nicknames at first. But, frankly, kids are creative. They can find a way to rhyme “Josh” with “Vagina” if they decide they hate you. So I ended up not worrying so much about that.

In the end, we found names that qualified my basic requirements:

FOR BOYS – No pussy names
FOR GIRLS – No stripper/hooker/pornstar names. And anything but Jennifer, because my wife hates it.

More tomorrow.

-D

Introduction - Drew's Goals for the Kid

2006-01-04T12:35:00.000-05:00

This is Father Knows Shit. My name’s Drew, and three weeks from now, my wife is due to have our first child. Given my pedigree, it will almost certainly smell bad, shit often, masturbate at least 6 times a day, hump anything within eyeshot, and learn to drink itself blind by age 12.

Should be awesome.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m excited to be a parent. Lots of people become parents by accident. Not me. My wife and I made a mutual decision to begin the months of hardcore, bareback screwing necessary to ensure a pregnancy. Much to my chagrin, the plan worked too soon and she was pregnant within .5 seconds. That’s just how powerful my mighty little sperm are.

Since then, I’ve read through books and books on baby care, baby equipment, parenting styles, and mountains of other deadly bullshit from authors (usually women with an Oprah Complex, or born again Christian assholes) so self-serious about their parenthood, they probably plan on nailing their kid to a cross at age 33.

Frankly, I’m sick of reading this crap. People have been raising kids for 8 million years (or however long it’s been since we killed all the dinosaurs). How fucking complicated can it be? I’m writing this blog to find out. This won’t be a diary. You won’t read posts that say:

4:38 AM – Baby poops. YAY!

That shit is gay.

And frankly, most people (including me) don’t give a rat’s ass about other people’s children. Oh, your kid had a piano recital? Congrats. Maybe he’ll grow up to be the dipshit from Coldplay. No, what I plan to do is find the most entertaining aspects of raising a kid. We start with the planning stages.

GOALS
Mrs. Drew and I decided not to know if we’re having a boy or a girl (I hate spoilers). So I have laid out goals for myself as a dad. They are organized here by potential sex.

#1 BOY GOAL – Make sure he is not a fucking pussy.
I could care less if I have a gay son. Fine by me (the kid would at least lose his virginity well before the age I managed it). My family has a long history of having “the gay” anyways. But a pussy? Nobody wants their kid to end up being Fredo Corleone. I want a Michael Corleone-type. The kind that will kill you in your sleep. Or, barring that, a Sonny Corleone-type, who gets laid a lot and has a really sweet death. I swear to God, if my kid ends up opening up his own vegan teahouse or some bullshit like that, then I have fucking failed.

#2 BOY GOAL – Make sure he never wears a ‘do rag
If my kid ever goes out in public wearing the official headwear of Kevin Federline, then I have fucking failed.

That’s it for the boy goals. Lotta leeway there. Now for my potential daughter.

#1 GIRL GOAL – Make sure she’s never naked in public
Basically, an expansion of Chris Rock’s “Keep Her Off The Pole” Rule. If my daughter ever bares herself to anyone with a camera , then I have fucking failed. And I mean failed badly. Joe Francis, stay the fuck away from my kid.

#2 GIRL GOAL – Make sure she never marries an actor/musician/performance artist
If she ends up with some wallet leech like this asshole:
http://www.thesuperficial.com/archives/2005/10/31/mischa_barton_likes_em_classy.html
Then I have fucking failed. Be sure to tell me to my face, too.

#3 GIRL GOAL – Make sure she is not a slut
I wish I were a teenager now. Teenage girls today dress and act like complete slutbags. When I was in high school, they wore overalls and listened to Phish. God is an asshole. If my daughter ends up dressing and acting like any member of the Hilton family, then I have fucking failed.

#1 HERMAPHRODITE GOAL – Lose the penis, place a call in to Jamie Lee Curtis

That’s all for now. Next Entry – Naming the Thing.