Good news, 2012! That ass massage I gave 2011 worked out so well that I’m pretty sure there’s fellatio in your future!

Two years ago today, while hurtling headlong toward a depression-induced midlife crisis (or a midlife-crisis-induced depression; either way), I had the audacity to tell 2010 I was going to kick its ass. Those of you who’ve been here for a while now know how well that worked out. (SPOILER: Really shitty!)

One year ago today, I proffered an epic mea culpa to 2011 by promising to massage its ass with exotic oils while feeding it hand-peeled grapes and telling it how wise and attractive and thin and youthful-looking it was. And in return for my whorish behavior, 2011 rewarded me with a perfectly vanilla year.

And that’s just fine with me.

Last night, we bid farewell to the delightfully milquetoast 2011 by taking the kids to a super-nice, ridiculously pricey restaurant that they had absolutely no ability to appreciate (another of my stellar ideas!), after which we returned home, donned party hats, poured a couple drinks and watched the kids run apeshit around the yard while blowing kazoos as loud as kazoos can be blown — and documented it all with some terrible flash photography:

Girl reveler

Boy reveler

Moderately inebriated middle-aged male reveler, expertly photographed in mid-blink by moderately inebriated wife.

In closing: 2011 was a year for catching my breath and recovering after being battered about the head in 2010 … but I’m hoping to make 2012 a bit more noteworthy … and I’m willing to do whatever it takes.

Happy New Year, you guys.

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Posted in Life, Parenthood | 6 Responses

A letter to my children from The Elf on the Shelf

An oldie but a goodie…

Don't judge me, you bastards. I defy ANY of you to do this job and NOT drink.

Dear Zan & Jayna,

I’ve tried to be nice, children. For days now, I’ve sat quietly on the shelf, or hung from the Christmas tree, or peered down upon you from atop the mantle or the cabinets or the china cupboard or whatever other wacky locale your father I could find. And I’ve tried.

I’ve tried, by virtue of my silent presence, to gently coax you into compliance with your parents’ wishes. And they I had hoped that my mere presence alone would be enough to keep you in line … but after the display the two of you put on this morning, it has become clear to me that my pixie-ish grin and my kind, blue eyes aren’t getting the message across … so here’s how it’s gonna be:

You two are going to get with the program right now, because if you don’t, there’s going to be nothing but a fuckload of coal up in this bitch on Christmas morning, you dig? And, no, this isn’t the booze talking. Don’t let the red pajamas and goofy look plastered on my face fool you, OK? Because I will cut a bitch.

Boy Child: Enough! Enough with the whining and the crying and the moody outbursts and the falling apart about every little thing your sister does. Stop being such a pussy. You think you’ve got it bad? How do you think I feel, huh? I’ve gotta live with you lunatics, sit stock still all day long, then spend every night flying back and forth to the North Pole so I can report your behavior to Santa! I mean, SERIOUSLY? All the technology that fat fuck delivers every Christmas, and he can’t figure out how to text? I’ve gotta fly the message to him? Asshole.

Girl Child: Same goes for you! STOP. IT. You’re cute, but you also are a spectacular ball-buster. Stop provoking your brother, because if you don’t, and he decides to smack you down, I will turn a blind eye. The jolly fat man won’t hear a word of it from me. What he will hear about, however, is your constant “No!”-ing and back-talking and grunting and screaming and crying every time your parents ask you to do something. That shit’s over.

Repeat after me, children: “OK, Mommy. OK, Daddy.”

Good. Now stick to that script and you might actually have a shot at seeing the fuck-ton of ridiculously expensive shit for which your parents worked their asses off gifts Santa is planning to give you this year.

Love,

Dusty

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Posted in Jayna, Parenthood, Zan | Tagged | 26 Responses

When you buy a $300,000 car, do you take out an auto loan … or a mortgage? (Actually, I’m guessing you pay for it with a bag of unmarked bills.)

When you buy a $300,000 car, do you take out an auto loan ... or a mortgage? (Actually, I'm guessing you pay for it with a bag of unmarked bills.)
Click the image above to view full-size photo.

So here’s that Lamborghini I was telling you about. It was parked outside the Rittenhouse Hotel in Philadelphia, widely considered the nicest hotel in the city. Wonder Woman and I… [read the rest]

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Posted in Featured Photo | 14 Responses

Proof that Pixar should have hired me to draw Lightning McQueen

This is me standing next to the Lamborghini that I happened upon while in Philadelphia this past weekend. As you can see, I had my camera with me … which was fortuitous, as it allowed me to capture a fabulous photograph of this kick-ass automobile. And I had fully intended to show you that photograph. However, despite going out of my way last night to make sure that I would be able to access from my work computer today the photograph in question, the Internet has chosen to instead flip me the digital bird.

(I’m flipping the Internet the digital bird right back.)

(The Internet doesn’t care.)

(I’m doing it anyway.)

Now, you might be saying to yourself, “Jon, why on earth would you take a picture of someone else’s car?” And I get that … because, normally, I wouldn’t do any such thing. Unless, of course, the car was a Lamborghini, an earlier version of which I fell in love with at the tender age of 11 (thank you, “Cannonball Run“), and every version of which I’ve coveted madly ever since. And given the automobile’s roughly $300,000 price tag, I can say with great certainty that I wish I had instead fallen deeply in love with something more in my price range … like, you know, a roller skate.

So, let’s review: Not only can I not get my hands on an actual Lamborghini of my own … I can’t even get my hands on the picture I took of someone else’s Lamborghini.

This about sums up how my Monday is going.

Sigh.

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Zombie Dinner Party … with your chef, Dr. Hannibal Lector

Before dinner

“Ugh. Brains,” I whispered to Wonder Woman after the chef announced that the third course would include sweetbreads.

“What?”

“Sweetbreads,” I whispered, “are brains.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding rather amused, though far from relieved. “I thought they were balls.”

Hey, they might as well have been balls, because guess what brains and balls both have in common? Neither one goes in my fucking mouth.

Equally as appetizing as balls

Listen, when my mother-in-law sprung for us to attend an expensive benefit dinner at a luxury apartment in the ritziest section of Philadelphia for a meal prepared by the chef of a well-known Italian restaurant, I knew it was unlikely that he’d be serving something as lowbrow as my beloved chicken parmesan, OK? But brains?

And not just any brains, mind you: Veal brains. Yes, that’s right: Brains from cute little baby cows:

Cute little baby cows, whose brains the chef wanted us to eat

Oh, thank you, cute little baby cows, for reminding me about the cringe-worthy first course, featuring:

Tongue is not a food, motherfucker

Please note that there is only one person on this earth to whom I utter the phrase “Give me some tongue,” and that person has neither a penis nor a culinary degree. So if you’re gonna start off my supposedly “Italian” dinner with tongue, the least you could do is disguise it amidst a tangy red sauce and some delicious pasta, am I right? Of course I’m right … which is why I was disappointed when the tongue instead was topped with this:

Now THAT'S Italian!

Ah, yes, that beloved Italian classic: Fried eggs and tongue. (PS: Does anyone have a phone number for the closest pizza joint?)

Thankfully, the second course featured pasta. Ravioli, in fact. Hallelujah. At last, a dish I can really — hey, wait a minute … What the fuck is in my ravioli?

Seriously? What’s for dessert, asshole? Pan-seared unicorn with baby-harp-seal sauce?

Mercifully, dessert turned out to be a plain-old flourless chocolate cake. I think. Probably, he pureed his mother and folded her into the mix … but at least he had the common decency to not tell us about it.

If nothing else, the wine was good. And the company. And the luxury apartment. Next time, though? I’m bringing some chicken parm.

After dinner

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