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Go Nigel, Go!
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Would You Like To Buy My Monkeys?
Nov
7
“Hey, you’ve got to try my prescription toothpaste,” Dave says. “It’s like 100% fluoride.”
“It’s 1.5% fluoride.”
“Well, whatever. It has at least ten times more fluoride than your toothpaste. Try it.”
“Alright,” I say as I apply it to my toothbrush.
“Is that all you use?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t use enough toothpaste.”
“You’re not supposed to use too much,” I tell him. “Anyway, this has extra fluoride.” Then, I wet my toothbrush.
“No! No! You’re not supposed to do that.”
“Oops.”
“Well, go ahead and brush, but understand that it’s probably at about 0.8% fluoride. Still, that’s more than your toothpaste.”
“Uh huh.”
“So. What do you think?”
I spit. I rinse.
“No! You’re not supposed to do that either!”
“What?”
“Rinse. You’re gonna dilute all the fluoride!”
“Sorry.”
“Okay. What do you think?”
“It feels like my teeth are on steroids.”
“It’s awesome, isn’t it? You can’t eat or drink anything for a half an hour, by the way.”
“My teeth are juicing. The dentist will probably be able to tell.”
“Imagine if you hadn’t rinsed!”
“The next time I go to the dentist, he’s going to be all, ‘What’s up with your teeth? Have you been using Dave’s prescription toothpaste?’ We’re gonna be so busted. I mean, I used your prescription. That’s against the law, right?”
“Well, it’s pretty powerful stuff. You can say you just kissed me a lot after I brushed.”
“Yeah. Then they’ll have to add no kissing for a half hour to the label on the toothpaste.”
“So, do you want to kiss right now? We could make out.”
“Was this just a convoluted way to tell me that I have bad breath?”
“No, it’s just a convoluted way to get you to make out with me.”
“Okay. Let’s make out.”
“Thank you, prescription toothpaste!”
Oct
31
The HalloWeiners
by Leslie
Earlier this evening, I took the kids trick or treating.
All three of them.
We all had a good time. Dave’s Homer head garnered a lot of attention. so he was pleased. Julia was thrilled that Daddy dressed up (I wore my kitty ears, but that was so Wednesday), and she was stoked to be getting free candy. Lucy was excited just to watch. And I loved seeing this:
That was my treat.
Oct
28
Nuance
by Leslie
“What are you looking at? My hot, smokin’ ass?”
“Do you mean your smokin’ hot ass?”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said ‘hot, smokin’ ass.’ That’s different.”
“What’s the difference between that and smokin’ hot?”
“Whether or not you’ve had buffalo wings.”
Oct
17
When I have a dream about The Bizarro Husband, Dave gets the silent treatment. When Dave dreams about The Bizarro Wife, I get roses.
And laid. I won’t show you a picture of that, though, as it would give credence to my neighbor’s charge that the computer is a devil machine for making pornography and I stand by my response that, “My devil machine makes love, not porn.”
Sep
4
“When I was a kid, my mom used to think I smoked.”
“Why would she think that?”
“Because I used to burn my wrestling action figures.”
“Huh?”
“Well, I’d pretend that they were fighting and one would throw a bomb at another guy, then I’d melt the guy’s face. My mom would walk in and say, ‘Why is there smoke in here? Are you smoking?’ I was never smoking, though.”
“You were just maiming your toys.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not sure that’s better.”
Jul
25
Lucy has a propensity for ginormous poopy explosions. They are truly magnificent, in volume and frequency. Moving her into a bigger size diaper has made no difference. She is simply an extraordinary pooper.
However, I am the only one who can appreciate her special skill, because I am the only one who truly experiences them.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’m the only one who changes diapers in our house. I’m not. Dave changes diapers. Wet diapers. Even the occasional poopy diaper, though he tries to avoid it. But poopy explosions? NO WAY.
I explained it like this to my BBF Karly when she asked if Dave cleaned up the poopy explosion that hit on my birthday: The only way Dave would clean up a poopy explosion is if my arms were amputated and, even then, only after I’d proven I couldn’t do it with my feet.
Poopy explosions are Dave’s kryptonite; they render him completely helpless. The moment Lucy shows the slightest inclination that a poopy is in the works, he flees the scene. He happened to be holding her once when the launch sequence began. He immediately pushed her away from him and held her like a bomb. Then he tossed her to me, like a grenade as he ran away saying, “Here’s the baby. I think she needs changed.”
Dave would tell you that I’m overstating the situation. I offer the following incident from last Sunday as evidence to the contrary.
Dave was holding Lucy. I was downstairs in the family room playing Guitar Hero, because if I didn’t get fifteen minutes to blow off some steam, someone was going to have their face ripped off. I knew something was up when I could hear stomping and groaning over the music I had turned up to eleven. And then it started.
Dave: “HONEY? HONEY!”
Me: “Yes?”
Dave: “WHERE ARE THE DIAPERS?”
Me: (to Dave) “In the diaper caddy!” (to myself) “Dumbass.”
Dave: (suddenly sounding like a whiny 12-year-old) “BUT THERE AREN’T ANY IN THERE!!!”
Me: (to Dave) “Then try the changing table!!” (Seriously? Is that so hard to figure out? Think about it: if you were a diaper, where would you be?)
Dave: “AH, BUT…WELL…CAN YOU…? AHHHHHH, NEVERMIND!!!”
Me: “WHAT?!”
Dave: “Nah. You’re busy…”
And so I turned off my game and stomped up the stairs to “help,” but it was too late. He was determined to “do it on his own,” which meant he was hellbent on showing me how incredibly difficult the task was by exaggerating every agonizing step of the diaper changing process.
He held his hands like a surgeon who’d just washed up for an operation and ripped baby wipe after baby wipe out of the container. He groaned and gagged with each wipe, then turned in circles looking for a place to put the soiled items. He finally settled on the table. My dining room table. And when the struggle was over, he left the debris lie and dragged himself to the couch, sat there and sighed. For ten minutes.
I contemplated killing him, but instead, I cleaned up the dining room table and said, “You know, you left the dirty diaper on the table.”
“Oh. Sorry. I was gonna get that.”
“Uh-huh. So, where did you put her poopy outfit? I need to wash it out before it stains.”
“Oh, she didn’t get any on her outfit.”
“So, it wasn’t really a poopy explosion.”
“OH NO IT WAS! It got all over me!!! I had to go and change my shorts and everything!”
“When did you change your shorts?”
“Before I changed the baby.”
“And where was the baby?”
“I gave her to your mom.”
He actually tried to pass off the poopy explosion to my mom, first! The creep.
And then he said, “Yeah, but she was no help. She left it all up to me.”
“Gee Dave, I WONDER HOW THAT FEELS!”
Stinkin’ poop-fearing girly man. It’s a good thing he’s good in bed. Otherwise, he’d be dead. Or at least kicked in the weiner.
Jul
8
“Here’s your lunch. I’m sorry. It’s like the worst lunch ever.”
“It can’t be worse than the last lunch you packed me.”
“What did I pack for you last time? I can’t remember it.”
“Exactly.”
Jul
7
This morning as we lay in bed, Dave suddenly shouted, “I’m going to disappear!” and pulled the blanket up over his head and quickly turned away from me.
From inside his cocoon he called out, “Danger! Danger!” in a robot voice.
“What?” I asked as I sat up and drew closer to him.
Then he launched a loud and noxious blast of ass gas.
Jul
5
Hello, Dave here just to let everyone know that we are still alive and doing great. Well, that isn’t entirely true as we have been without any internet service since Sunday and each day that passes slowly sends Leslie closer to the edge of reality. Personally, I hope to have service restored before she throws the remote through the television the next time that @#$& HighesNet commercial comes on.
We are trying to keep our Daily Haiku going (just click that banner at the top there), and you can get an idea of our frustration.
We are hoping Leslie will be back in action in a day or so. If not, somebody come looking for me because if our internet doesn’t get reconnected soon - bad things are gonna happen.
May
23
I’m kind of an analytical person. I like to break things down. And I like it best when I can measure the things I break down.
For example, say I make two dozen cupcakes for an event. If less than twelve cupcakes are eaten, I would say they didn’t go over well. I have quantitative proof of it. If twelve or more are eaten, I can call them a success (with 12 - 17 being a moderate success and 18 - 24 being a significant success).
I know. I KNOW.
It gets worse.
I do the same thing when it comes to sex with Dave: I keep track of who initiates it. And I use that number as a measurement of attractiveness.
Things are best when our sex initiation score is even, because it means Dave and I are equallly attracted to each other. The system is in equilibrium. Our world is at peace.
Right now, there is unrest. And the numbers aren’t in my favor. Right now, I’m the ugly one in our relationship. And I hate being the ugly one.
You may suggest I just tell him he needs to jump me. And soon. He knows I’m crazy. He’ll get it, right? But then, it’ll feel like pity sex. And well…I don’t know…
I’m feeling so ugly, I think I just might take the pity sex.
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I Write A Haiku Each Day
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Hurts So Good
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Categories
- Daily Haiku
- Mommy’s Stuff
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You Should Do This
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Ooooooh. Aaaaah.
