If I Could Lick My Own Crotch

OK, let’s get the obvious out of the way.

I’m a dude

I have a wee wee. (At least, that’s what the wife calls it for some reason.)

If I had the backbone of my puppy and could reach my “Johnson,” well…you better believe my life would be completely different than today.

Oh sure, dudes talk about it. Ladies bust other guy’s balls saying they wish guys could do it. But when you have a puppy, and you see that little rat-bastard go to town on himself…I don’t care what kind of guy you are, you take a brief moment to just embrace the thought, “what if I could participate in that holy batch of awesomeness?”

Well, I took more than just a brief moment and jotted down the top 10 things I’d do if I could lick my own crotch.

Number 10

I would have been in diapers for 1 day and 1 day only. Which…probably would have made my parents rich for having the first kid ever that could bathe his own junk and poop in a toilet.

Number 9

Go to yoga and drop an epic shock-n-awe campaign on all the ladies as I bundled myself up all pretzel-like. OK…maybe 90% of the class would run out screaming and throwing up, but the other 10% of you…well, you know who you are and you know you’d totally watch.

Number 8

Well…I’d lick my own crotch. On Letterman. On The View. On The Today Show. And, on Oprah. Actually, I’d only do it on Oprah if Tom Cruise would jump on her couch afterwards in joy and she agreed to give away “Why Is Daddy Crying” bumper stickers under people’s chairs.

Number 7

I’d self-finance myself to appear at every talk Sarah Palin gave just so I could attend the Q & A at the end and start licking my own crotch in front of her. Plus, I’m sure her husband would be my biggest fan because we all know that sack of dumbass hasn’t had his crotch licked since his last hunting trip. Let’s move on shall we?

Number 6

I’d give classes on how to lick one’s own crotch, charging $39.99 for the first hour, resurrect Billy Mays, then hire him to sell them for me on street corners.

Number 5

I’d sell a logo of myself licking my own crotch to the Tea Party to use as their logo.

Number 4

I’d probably look like George Burns by the time I’m 40 years old. Actually, now that I think about it…his cigars did look an awful-lot like…

Number 3

Oh wait…my mom reads this blog. Mom!!!! STOP READING NOW MOM!!!! GO WATCH CIS OR SOMETHING!!!!

Number 2

I’d go on American Idol and do a rare but unique number where I have Mike Tyson pour sugar on me while I lick my own crotch and hum along to Def Leppard.

And now…the Number 1 thing I’d do if I could lick my own crotch like my disgusting little puppy can?

I’d never do any of the other 9 things on this list and simply spend my days in my basement licking my own crotch.

(Side note...I just read this blog post to the wifey before posting it and this is what she said Click Here.)



1-2-3 Magic Can Suck It!

Well, truthfully…three years ago I wanted to make love to the inventor of 1-2-3 Magic.

It saved our asses from many many a bad habit. But I have to admit…we never actually read it. We just read the title and immediately said, “oh shit we’ve got this down pat. You say one…then two…and if they haven’t stopped by three they’re in time out. Let’s do this!!!!”

And, low-and-behold, with just the quick, yet stern, announcement of the number “one” children within our household would immediately stop the madness.

Then, their tiny little minds started developing. They moved from just barely being able to walk, to flying around corners, to kicking the cat when you weren’t looking, to trying to open your bedroom door while you and the Mrs. were making whoopie.

That’s when they realize, “why in the hell am I stopping at one? I have a whole other second to continue my madness right in front of my parents and get away with it!”

And so we watched as the daughter gave our boy a wedgie as we slowly counted, “one!!!!!.....two!!!!!!” and by then everything she’d come here to do had been accomplished.

So…we did what we imagined the book would strongly recommend…we sped-up our counting. The numbers one and two quickly became one word, “Grayson!!! Onetwo…”

“Daddy you didn’t even pause between the numbers!!! That’s no fair!!!”

Then it dawned on me. My kids are about to be six and eight-year-old. I shouldn’t be 1-2-3 Magicing their asses. They should respect and obey me damn it!!!

So, I downed a beer, slammed the empty to the ground, and called a family meeting.

“Kids!,” I said as I put my arm around the wife to seem as though we were united in this epic announcement. “No more 1-2-3!! From now on, if you don’t do what we say the first time, you go to your rooms without toys. Your mother and I stand firm on this. Now….be-gone and go be children!”

3.8 seconds later the boy was the first to challenge this new rule by standing between his sister and the TV. It was at that very second that I realized how engrained 1-2-3 had become in my life. And it was at that very second I wanted to set a date for my first of a dozen 1-2-3 Magic book-burning parties.

I couldn’t count anymore. I just simply had to lay the law down and end it.

But I catch myself all the time wanting to count to stop things that annoy me.

Behind a slow-ass driver on the interstate – “move damn it!!!! One!!! Two!!!!”

Trying like hell to get my insanely fast and agile puppy to come to me at 11 p.m. at night – “Marty HERE!!!! HERE MARTY!!!! One!!! Two!!!!”

The wife hoping that I last at least three seconds tonight – “OK honey, you ready to start? You can do this. I know you can. I believe in you. OK…GO!!!! One….tw….oh honey it’s OK, it happens to everyone.”

So, yeah! I never read the book. And I used to believe in the awesomeness of its title and what it did for our beloved family.

But now, I’ve come to realize 1-2-3 isn’t “Magic,” it’s a freakin’ “Lifestyle!” And I really really miss it.