Fine...I'll Confess...

True confessions…when I get nervous, my butt sweats.

There, I’ve said it and it’s out there for the world to know.

Headed in to a job interview…I can feel my ass sweat. The first date I had with the wife when we were 16…moist ass. Minutes away from giving a presentation to board members…you guessed it…wet butt.

It’s not a nasty swamp-ass kind of sweat. It’s like your armpits sweating, but just on the cheeks of my ass and without all the hair and stench. Actually…it’s nothing like armpit sweat.

The worst thing about it is if I’m sitting down whilst getting nervous, a lovely couple of wet spots appear on the back of my pants. So when I stand up, I get even more nervous and self-conscious about the fact I now look like my ass peed itself.

So I end up trying to walk in angles that won’t allow people to see my drippy butt marks.

When I was in college I’d wear basketball shorts under my regular shorts because it was normal after class to pass by friends on their way to play ultimate Frisbee, flag football, basketball, and I wanted to be ready to hop in the car and go.

It was during that time I realized they provided a Maxi-Pad-like protection against the ass moisture. I was invincible!!

I could plan to streak the next football game and kick-back, enjoying my nervousness without having to worry about my friends having to carry my damp underwear back to the police station with them to pick me up.

But I couldn’t go on living life wearing two pairs of pants forever.

So now I worry about passing this godforsaken trait on to my kid. Will he someday find himself sitting next to a really pretty girl and suddenly realize an uncomfortable dampness?

The poor guy already has my big ears, gapped front teeth, uncontrollable thick hair, Tourettes. I just hope to hell he was spared the ass-sweats.

And just to let you know how hard it was for me to reveal this little fact, I’m going to have to go change my shorts now. And no…not for the good reason.

So there…now I’ve revealed what my body does when I get nervous…now it’s your chance. Man-up and tell me what yours does!! Sweaty armpits, back sweat, habitually glance at pictures of Gary Busey? Whatever you do, let’s hear it!!

Why I'd Suck as a Figure Skater

Last night I turned the Olympics on and would you believe it—a couple dressed like my worst 80’s nightmare were throwing themselves around a circular sheet of ice to some of the world’s most awful music. I thought for a second the Russian Mafia had taken over American airways, but then I remembered – oh yeah, it’s prime time…of course NBC will play NOTHING but Winter Olympic figure skating.

Being the good American I am, I noticed I’d put the remote control down on my lap and immediately thought, “uuugh…it’s all the way down there. I don’t have the energy to reach way down there and pick up the remote to change the channel.” So I watched a couple of these talented, young, scary, boarder-line psychedelic athletes in their sport and was pretty damn amazed.

That shit takes talent. It takes years of practice, skill, balance, endurance, and a keen eye for horrific costumes. So then I thought…I could do that…until I saw the first twirling, leaping, landing of the skaters on ice. Then I thought – no…no I couldn’t.

And here are the top 10 reasons why I’d totally suck as a figure skater:

1) If you ever want to see me eat dirt or pavement faster than Octomom can find endorsements for birthing a country, just yell “ice” and I’ll hit the ground in a heartbeat.

2) Have you seen the crap these skaters wear? My partner would HATE me. We would be two minutes from having to perform and no one would be able to find me because I’d still be in front of a mirror making sure my “package” looked just right in tights for network TV.

3) The whole time they’re skating people are snapping pictures left and right. My ADD would kick-in something fierce and by the time I’d chased down just one of those shiny bright objects my partner would be a broken, bloody mess on ice.

4) I’ll admit it…I haven’t bought new clothes in quite a while. The wifey and our friends laugh at me because 90% of my clothes have at least one hole in them. But for shit-sake, I can still dress better than those bastards. Did you see the guy in the American couple? He looked like a mix between a pirate and Greg Brady. I rest my case.

5) I hate things on my feet. It’s taken me years to just master running, but skating? When I was 19 I went rollerblading with the wifey and being the stud-muffin I am, I only wore shorts…no shirt, pads, nothing. Within two minutes I was covered in blood, grass stains, mud, and shame. Twenty minutes later I was at Wal-Mart demanding a refund.

6) It would take me a year just to pick that one song…that perfect song for our skating performance. And I just know my partner would pick Wham! And then I’d have to call in a favor with Tonya Harding and the whole American figure skating world would be scarred yet again…

7) I’d try to be the NASCAR skater of the Olympics. I’d roll out on the ice with stickers all over me for sponsors that read: Jagermeister. Guinness. Legalize marijuana. Ford, cause our cars stop. Vegetarainism, cause beer is technically a meal.

8) I couldn’t for the life of me, meet a group of dudes, have them ask, “hey man, what do you do for a living?” and say, “Oh, I’m a figure skater! So…uh…how about the Bears this season huh?!”

9) My tourettes would totally fuck me up. I’d have to spend millions hiring a choreographer who could work head twitches, blinks, and other obscure body flailing into a routine that actually looked like something other than a fish out of water dying.

10) When I’d be sitting there on the bench, waiting for our score, after our performance, they’d never put a live camera on me…I’d be all, “that was fucking awesome. Holy shit we rocked that. Someone beer me!! Seriously – throw me a beer and tell the other teams to suck it cause they just got owned. Fuckin’ owned!!”

I’ll stick to running and trying to make sure I don’t bust my ass in the process.

My Kid's Gotta Big Schtick

My kid throws himself on the ground on purpose and it makes me wanna kick kittens.

Phew.... There, I said it. But damn it I don’t feel better. Not at all.

Everywhere we go the boy HAS to take his entire body and just throw it to the ground. Walking down Chicago streets – BAM. Grocery shopping – BAM. Walking out of his school – BAM. Watching Emeril Lagasse on TV – BAM.

It’s as annoying as listening to Miss Teen South Carolina 2007, Lauren Caitlin try to order cheese fries at a drive through with her window up.

 For a while I thought it was a tick. I thought he might have inherited my Tourettes. I’ve also wondered if maybe this was the beginning of some kind of insane fetish that would blossom into having to hide anything covered in leather or that has zippers.

Then, I picked him up from school yesterday. And being the deadbeat, outta work dad that I am, I was late. As I walked up to the school yard he was standing with three other kids talking and then he threw himself to the ground. Then just as I was about to throw a park bench through a school bus, I noticed all the kids were dying laughing. Ten seconds later he was on the ground again—more laughter.

How the hell did I miss this? This was his shtick. This little budding hack comedian has developed his first shtick and has been trying it out in downtown Chicago, grocery shoppers, school mates, and Emeril Lagasse. BAM!

I walked up, told the little dude to gather his things, ogled a few of the moms, made note that the boy had just ripped a hole in his band new jacket from his physical comedy routine,  and headed home. I was so conflicted.

I spent my entire life doing stupid shit to try and get people to like me. I wore only a red thong in the middle of a dorm party. I shaved a line down the middle of my chest at a wedding reception. I put two pairs of tube socks down my pants as a teenager and went into convenient stores to buy beer. I stole random bras from dryers in college and wore them in public. I was an I-D-I-O-T. Actually…the wifey would argue that I still am.

But regardless, the boy was just reacting to the really distorted genes I’d infected his body with. He was trying to be the class clown. He was trying to make sure everyone liked him. The beginning stages of the dreaded two words, “people pleaser.”

Go ahead….Google it…you’ll find a picture of me standing in a room filled with people with a big stupid grin on my face agreeing with everyone and making sure nothing controversial comes out of my mouth so that at the end of the day everyone’s thinks, “that big-eared gap-toothed idiot-boy we met today was really just a swell guy!”

So now I begin the process of trying to establish a balance for the little guy. A balance between allowing him to continue being unique, original, and true to his personality vs. showing up to school in his father’s red thong and nothing else while agreeing with what everyone says and does because he’s afraid of having even one single person not like him.

Just another item in the growing list of challenges that is parenthood. BAM!