The STINKEYE!

Yes, those are my eyes. No, I did not use Photoshop to color the left one.
I have…

con•junc•ti•vi•tis (kən-jŭngk'tə-vī'tĭs) n. inflammation or infection of the mucosal membrane that covers the eyeball and lines the eyelid. Conjunctivitis usually causes redness, discharge, and itching of the membrane. It may also cause fatigue, loss of libido, shrieking flatulence when surrounded by people, hair loss, deafness in the left ear and extreme sensitivity to sound in the right, twisted testicle, turrets, paralysis of the brain, shrinkage of the urethra to the point of complete urine blockage, expansion of the urethra to the point of incontinence, an emotional sensitivity to puns, road rage, athletes foot, explosive porcelain shattering diarrhea, spontaneous usage of Ebonics, tooth loss, cow-licks, edible toe-jam, spastic colon, whiplash, overbite, PMS in males, ear hair, arthritis in the middle finger making it unable to bend, southern drawl, facial hair and a propensity for "locker-room talk" in females, elephantitis, sympathy for Yoko Ono, cleft pallet, table-tennis elbow (not as severe as tennis elbow), club foot, pirate talk, and ghetto booty.
Commonly called pinkeye, conjunctivitis is also know as Blood-Clops, The Baboon’s Sphincter, and El ojo del Diablo.
If contracted one should regularly rinse eye with hot water, wash hands, avoid staring at the sun, avoid staring at women’s breasts (especially if they’re talking to you), not operate medium-light to medium heavy-ish machinery, avoid attempting to scrape the red off the eyeball, avoid legal gambling, avoid consorting with the mafia, avoid raiding meth labs without backup, avoid starting a meth lab without proper support, avoid alligator wrestling, bull fighting, dog fighting, bull dogging, cock fighting, cock dogging, dog cocking, and knitting. Also, refrain from greeting friends and loved-ones with butterfly kisses.

The Hot Seat

This may come as a surprise to some members of the opposite sex, especially the unmarried demographic, but one of the most enjoyable simple pleasures in a man’s daily life are the few he spends in the bathroom taking care of nature's business. Some, like myself, stretch those experiences to their maximum in an effort to get the most out of one sitting. I can read, play sudoku, play my guitar, or even return phone calls. (If you know me well, we've probably talked more than once while I was on the think tank). And the best part is, I can’t be called on to do anything. That time is my own and I’m beholden to none. No one can tell me to move, and I don't until my legs are conclusively asleep.

This experience, of course, has it’s antithesis; opposition in all things. There is the joy of the domestic restroom experience and the pain of the public restroom experience. Let me give one example to illustrate my point. At home one of the worst things associated with the long sit down is the initial sting of a cold seat, and unless you’re willing to do the Japanese "stand-and-squat" you are forced to endure this inevitable shock of cold. This is only compounded when I unwittingly place my freezing bowl of ice cream on my naked thighs.

In public the opposite is true. Shock occurs when I sit, not on a cold, but on a warm toilet seat. The warm toilet seat means one thing; someone has recently been there and his butt heat is still radiating from the very surface my skin is touching. I hit the seat; feel the heat, my stomach sinks, and my mind races in an attempt to decipher who may have been here last. It doesn’t take long since it was only about 30 seconds ago that I past a fat, hairy Italian on his way out laughing under his breath, and, that explains all the black hairs around the seat when I sat down. Gag reflexes kick in and now the taste of bile accumulates in the back of my mouth. Without recourse I resign myself to this temporary lavatory Hell and set aside my bowl of ice cream, for which I have totally lost my appetite. Maybe if the seat cools sufficiently the next guy can enjoy it. (the ice cream, not the seat)



Every once in a while I accidently leave the door unlocked and Maggie comes in, turns and sits in the mini hammock made by my dropped pants, and then hopes to get a private concert. And though the private moment is lost I can't help but oblige my number one fan.

Smallest Talk

Despite the common reaction of most women when they see a baby, they (babies) aren’t usually cute. If it’s their own child, women are deluded. If it’s someone else’s, they’re polite. However, the delusion to their own babies is a good thing. The fact that women are so heavily biased is simple nature, the result of our species evolution, and rightly so. Just think what would have happened to the human race if women were as objective as their male counterparts. Every time an ugly baby was born (a staggering 99% according to experts) they would have turned their backs on the helpless neonate uttering some heartless sentiment like “I’m not letting that mangy hairless ape suck on my crumb catchers.” We’d have never made it past the hunter-gatherer period of history. Mankind would have been wiped out, and the cause: maternal neglect. (NOTE: Crumb Catchers is what my mother-in-law calls breasts. I would have just given the female body it’s due respect and called them such, but I wanted the sentiment to come off as womanly as possible.) Speaking objectively, Babies are more like personified raisons: squirming, grunting, pooping raisons. Of course there are exceptions to this rule. My son Cash is one. My daughter, in infancy, not so much - she fit in the raison category, but Cash is the genuine article. It is not my intension to play favorites. I should say my daughter has developed surprisingly well and at just under two years of age has a wit and charm to rival most young adults. I only say this to illustrate the fact that I can be totally objective and not at all biased. So, although I can appreciate, on a purely phylogenic level, the subjectivity of women toward babies, it has been the cause of many redundantly annoying encounters, which brings me to my point.
Small talk has never been my strong suit, and the older I get the harder time I have hiding that fact. I think it is because small talk is such a surface level, insincere, culturally expected social interaction. That said, when you decide to bring a child into the world you have basically fated yourself to the same line of small talk every time your small child is with you in public.

“Oh my gosh, He is precious!” A passing stranger would say.
“He’s a she.”
“Of course she is. That explains the adorable bow in her hair.” [this is said with a squished up face, a high pitched voice, and a finger on the baby’s nose like she’s trying to get the baby to crap a Pez] “Where did you get it?”
“Well, when a man loves a woman sometimes their passions lead to…”
“I mean the bow.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Bed Bath & Bows. Or Bows Unlimited. I don’t know, my wife gets that stuff.”
“Well she is just precious.” The stranger says again.
“And now that we’ve come full circle I bid you good-bye.”

I should say that small talk is not one of those pet peeves that angers me (unless I’m talking to one of those non-closers who speaks in stream-of-thought like they’re brainstorming for a college term paper) so I don’t want to come off as cold and calloused. I know that it is just the result of nice people trying to show they care enough not to snub you or cross the street when they see you coming. I just wish that our culture had long ago established some way to show kindness without the exchange of meaningless tripe, especially when the tripe is blatant lies like my daughter is the cutest baby in the world. That’s sweet, but impossible. I mean, she has my genes. You can’t blow hot air up my butt and tell me it’s nice weather. Now, what the random passerby failed to notice is that my daughter learned sign language before she was a year old, can de-shell a walnut with her bare hands, and will probably go into zoology since she already knows all the animals and their corresponding sounds. Now that would have made a good conversation.