Pop Quiz, Hot Shot 1 comment
I only have the one kid, and somehow I can still relate to this commercial. At first, I thought he was deciding which cone he should keep for himself.
(Does anyone speak Swedish?)
(Thanks, Phil!)
Just Deserts 1 comment
Volkswagen has confirmed what I’ve always suspected. For men, life is nothing more than a downward spiral from strip clubs and casual sex into the squalid depths of matrimony and fatherhood.
But it’s all worth it if you have a cool car.
The consumer within me loves the concept; I can’t deny that it’s a clever ad. I’d probably appreciate it more if it weren’t for VW’s parting message: ‘Finally, it’s great to be a dad.’ Finally. At long last. After years of languishing under the yolk yoke of responsibility and compassion and unconditional love, we shall have our prize.
The father within me is livid at the implication that family isn’t its own reward.
(Thanks, Brent!)
Vote for Jimmy No comments yet
Living in St. Louis, we’ve heard about nothing for the past few months except Amendment 2, Michael J. Fox, and Claire McCaskill’s nursing homes. In this season of political apathy and confusion, it’s easy to forget what’s important.
Watching Paint Dry No comments yet
When I was in elementary school, I used to sift through dumpsters on the last day of school, looking for old textbooks and office supplies. Everyone needs a hobby.
Ian may be following in his father’s footsteps. Though, admittedly, to a more hygienic degree:
‘With just over an hour before Mommy’s return, I suddenly remembered the coiled tube lying in my drawer. Finally, my inner pack-rat had earned its keep! I called Ian to my desk, and slowly started to draw out the snake. Ian’s eyes widened as it emerged, link by link. I felt like a magician from Office Depot.’
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DadBloggers
Commitment No comments yet
All blogfathers are geeks, but there are few who will admit it. Fewer still are those who would use a newborn son’s two-week check-up to determine his character class:
‘There is no doubt about it; those are the stats for a Fighter. Oh sure, he’d make a pretty good Barbarian with those scores—but I don’t fancy him going into berserker rage every time he drops his sippy cup. No, Fighter it is. Maybe even a Paladin, but if he’s anything like his Dad his wisdom score won’t be high enough.’
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All That Comes with It
It’s never too early to worry about your son’s future.
VIP No comments yet
Ian leans against his desk, the highlighter held poised. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Hmm…can you draw Spongebob for me?’
‘No. I don’t draw Spongebob. I’m an important man.’
‘Important, huh?’
‘Yeah. I’m no fun.’
Metrical Friday: If No comments yet
If
By Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on’;
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man my son!
(I really thought I’d published this poem before. Wrong! Thanks, Atty-at-Work!)
Of Moses and the Burning Bush 1 comment
‘What are those?’
‘Those are locusts. They eat crops.’
‘Wha’d you say?’
‘Locusts. Bugs. They eat plants, like corn.’
‘I like corn! Do they eat fire cheese?’
‘Umm…fire cheese? What’s fire cheese?’
‘No! Fire trees! Do they eat fire trees?’
‘Oh! No. They don’t eat fire trees.’