cash-cannon

Cloud Seeding

As a father I have goals for my children. Mostly those goals include helping the girls avoid drugs and stripping. Naturally, whenever I am presented with evidence of my failure I like to share it here.

A few days ago I was walking from my bedroom into the hallway when one of my daughters looked up from her iPad and said, “Hey Dad! Look what I learned at school.” What do you suppose she showed me? Guess which selection (1-4) is the right answer:

  1. She demonstrated how to properly calculate the square root.
  2. She recited the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet from memory.
  3. She marveled at the nuance of the English language and our variety of silent consonants?
  4. She twerked her butt straight into the air about six inches without moving any other part of her body.

If you are having trouble with the answer it may help to know my response was, “Don’t ever do that again.”

She went back to scanning Kids YouTube on her iPad and I walked into the kitchen in a stupor. Supermom and I finished cooking dinner and I eventually pushed it out of my mind. Until we went to Walmart later the same week.

At Walmart with four kids, I was trying to organize some sort of distraction to keep the kids engaged in our walk through the store. They decided that they were a wolfpack and that each wolf needed a nickname. The first three nicknames that were selected were AlphaWolf, Fire Extinguisher, and Corn Cob. I have zero idea why Corn Cob would be a nickname and, honestly, I don’t care. The fourth nickname came from the same child who demonstrated a twerking ability; Galaxy.

Awesome.

I have a daughter who nicknamed herself Galaxy and is capable of twerking. Two strikes.

Then, adding insult to injury, she asked me another question, “Hey Dad! Look what I learned at school!”

“Young lady we are in a public place. So help me God if you start air humping I am burning your iPad in a bucket in the backyard.”

“You’re so funny Daddy! It’s not a dance. I learned how to do this…”

She proceeded to hold her left hand out in front of her with her palm facing up. Shining to heaven. Under the judgement of countless angels and dead relatives.

Then with her right hand she started moving it back and forth over the left palm. Almost as if she had an invisible stack of playing cards and was distributing them to a group of people crowded around in front of her.

making-it-rain

Dear baby Jesus.

She is making it rain…

making-it-rain-2

Of course she looked more like this. 

For my readers who are of a more mature generation allow me to explain what “making it rain” means. When rap stars and athletes go to strip clubs with their new-found fortunes they shower strippers with a barrage of dollar bills. Some much money is trickling down on the naked entertainers that they feel like it is raining. Fun fact – that picture at the top of the article is called a “Cash Cannon” and is for the purpose of shooting one dollar bills at your stripper. It is the most American thing I have ever seen. We even automate payment to our strippers. Merica A.F.!

That’s right. Strike three. Girl who enjoys dancing, calls herself Galaxy, and already understands the universal sign for making it rain. My parenting stock is taking a market hit this week. I think I need to read her more Dr Suess before bed or something.

If you have children who are picking up skills that you are pretty sure they don’t need, this post is for you. You’re welcome. Stay tuned because next time I will be sharing a story that includes looking at a butthole under a blanket with a flashlight. Fun times.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

wat

Fifty Shades Darker – A Review

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears.

We went to the movies tonight for the first showing of Fifty Shades Darker. Once again a woman sitting near to us pulled out a bottle of pills before the show and asked the person next to her if they would like to partake. What are these people doing? Ecstasy?

lady_pills

Wait. Wait. I understand now.

Are women of the world not aware that all manner of porn and pictures and love stories are available for free online? A movie about a rich guy being possessive over a girl who likes to bang him is not necessarily cutting edge. I understand being excited to see a premier of a story you like but having a full-on drugged up rave at the Hollywood Cinema seems a bit much.

This showing was not as well attended as the last premier; described here. I thought long and hard about if I should attend the premier since the last one was so questionable. My reasoning landed on the fact that by attending the very first showing I had a good chance of avoiding seat stains from all the crowds that will eventually pass through. I knew Supermom would make me see it so we might as well be first in line.

However, what the movie lacked in depth it recovered in partial frontal nudity. There were abundant scenes of boobs. By boobs I mean exactly two boobs shown many times and not many different sets. I guess they weren’t as much “abundant” as they were “frequent”. There were also a couple of scenes that might have justified a stricter rating than R. Angry bondage is hard to categorize I guess.

The whole story seemed rushed and much like our primate cousins, Bonobos, the tempestuous couple always resolved any confrontation with sex.

Then there were the plot holes. In one confusing series, Christian Grey crashes a helicopter into uncharted wilderness only to show up, unscathed, later that night (4 hours after the crash in the wilderness) at his penthouse in the city. He couldn’t have walked out for help in that time and the news was reporting that he was still missing on the TV in the background. After fifteen minutes of assuring his family that he is okay, they leave so he can have sex with Anna on a marble rug. Sounds legit. Although what brand of narcissist has a rug made of stone? That was truly troubling.

grey_helicopter_crash

I swear it isn’t carpet.

Other scenes throughout the movie made me giggle. On what planet do any of these scenes work? Why is no one else laughing at this? Then I started think how half of those pretzel positions would made any normal person fart and I started laughing more. I struggled to keep it together.

One scene Christian commands Anna to remove her underwear in a fancy restaurant. They had unprotected sex about five times that day. I doubt she is wearing lace much less passing them under the table. Then he pleasures her in an elevator while other people are present. Tell me someone, in what world do women find this stuff tantalizing?

grey_eelvator

Lady on the left, “Sweet baby Jesus, get me outta here.”

In another scene, the psychotic billionaire dresses down the quasi-nudist protagonist and they make a good 45 seconds of loving. (which was the only believable part) Then before going to a party he convinces this woman to cram two steel Chinese medicine balls in her lady pocket and attend a ritzy gala. At the same time. After an entire evening of quiet orgasms at every turn, Christian sneaks Anna off to a bedroom and pulls the medicine balls out and she is suddenly ravenous for some love making. All I could conclude at the end of this movie is that Anna must have a vagina made of shoe leather and Christian must have a double jointed penis that makes Espresso.

I know this movie is fiction. I tried to enter the world of suspended disbelief. I couldn’t do it. If I tried any one of his smooth moves, any single attempt, I would be shut down immediately or possibly under investigation by a law enforcement agency.

trailer-trash

This is what it would look like if I tried to live that life. 

Supermom assures me that the books did a much better job of creating steamy scenes and dramatic tension. No doubt. While reading you can avoid the reality of what this stuff really looks like. Everyone likes to eat sausage but no one wants to see it made.

If you like weak plots, rich lifestyles, and Anna Steel’s boobs – this is the movie for you. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

volcano-rising

Indoor Fishing

I am happy to report that Don Threeto has learned an important lesson in personal responsibility. First though, I have recently discovered that the female form of a mafia Don is Donna. Heretofore Don Threeto shall be known as Donna Threeto or still DT for short. If you are asking “Who is Don Threeto?” then click the link and come back here when you are done.

Okay, so I came home the other day to find Donna happily playing with a yellow bouncy ball that she got from school. Lady Bug was following her around as they bounced it into walls and down the hallway. Jane was giving orders on where to bounce the ball and how hard. After a few moments of giggling I heard a splash followed by a few moments of pregnant silence that eventually gave birth to “Daaadddd!” I walked to the rear of the house and found three children in a semi-circle around the toilet, staring into the depths of the murky water.

It might be worth mentioning that in the world of toilet training the only step that none of my children have mastered is the art of flushing. Just yesterday I came home to find the dog drinking from the toilet. I knew the water might have been tainted so I chased Judy Cornbread from the bathroom and flushed the toilet for good measure. I wasn’t prepared. There was a mountain of milk-dud turds rising from the dark yellow toilet water like a mid-sea volcano. A driftwood line of toilet paper was the only evidence of the previous water level. Judy stood in the hallway licking her lips. Apparently, pee-turd-tea is a canine delicacy. Now back to the story…

Luckily, when the bouncy ball fell into the toilet it found a much cleaner environment. I looked in and the smiley face was sitting on the bottom of the bowl looking up at the four of us.

“Get it daddy”, urges the Donna.

“Oh no. If you want your ball then you have to get it out. I’ll just flush it.”

“But I got it from school! It’s my ball!”, she pleads.

“Exactly. Your ball. Not mine. If you want it then you get it.”

The pleading gets redirected to her sister, “Get it for me Jane! Help me!”

At this point I stepped back and watched the negotiations between the children. I could have just as easily have been watching three superpower countries discussing nuclear disarmament. In the end, all the nations reached the same conclusion; The ball belongs to Donna Threeto so she should retrieve it. I was proud at their learning progress and realization of what skin-in-the-game looks like. I was doubly proud when DT rolled up her sleeve and closed her eyes before plunging her hand into the toilet water. She was not prepared to lose that ball and I was fully prepared to flush it.

We washed the ball and her hands. Her sisters stood silently in awe of her bravery. Donna added to her already impressive list of street-cred.

If you are tired of putting up with crappy situations, this post is for you. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

ball

January Ended Nippy

I fear my relationship with my dog may be forever altered. She crossed a boundary yesterday and I don’t think I can be comfortable anymore. Also, I should have handled the situation better because I think the kids now think I am psychotic with a hair trigger between fun-normal dad and shoe throwing lunatic.

Everything started around dinner time which means all of the girls and I have our seats on the couch while we watched The Thundermans and Henry Danger. Judy Cornbread was feeling extra puppy-like and trying to play with her extra-long-used-to-be-stuffed fox. She would try to play and I would shoo her away. We repeated this every five minutes. On the last round of Judy’s offer to play she laid the sad limbless fox on my lap. I was distracted by the clever antics of Max Thunderman and Judy Cornbread thought better of leaving the fox unattended in my lap.

She grabbed the fox and in the process managed to clamp down on a rather sensitive area. In about 50 milliseconds, I had what could be described as a “stress reaction”. Something about my vibe, and demon-possessed rise from the couch, signaled to Judy that she should probably leave the country. I’m not sure of the obscenities I slurred or how it must have looked for me to be running across the room while looking into my pants to make sure I had the all-clear but somehow they bought the story that Judy had nipped at my leg and I was merely angry at her.

Luckily there was no problem beyond an uncomfortable pinch and a lingering awkwardness. I haven’t set out to write much lately and it is odd that this story makes the cut. I feel weird even typing it but one day in the future I might have forgotten this transgression and perhaps I can smile.

If your dog has accidentally bitten your junk, this post is for you. You’re welcome. I’ll explain the smiley-faced ball that I used for the cover photo in my next post. It was unrelated. I didn’t figure I could post any image that would be relevant.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

moon_landing

Dances with Aliens

I think I would like to live on the moon.

There are less people arguing there. Mainly because there are less people. If you don’t count the secret government installation on the dark side of the moon where we conduct our business with alien races who want to farm us for meat but also warn us against nuclear war and destroying our planet while they secretly kidnap us in the night amidst super bright lights, then the moon is, in fact, lifeless.

I would be willing to spearhead an effort to colonize the large crater area to the left of the center of the moon. I would hope that statistics would be on my side, protecting me from a large meteor impact because I would be living inside a large meteor crater. The whole “lightning doesn’t strike twice” method of wishful thinking. I would bury my little habitat with moon dust for a couple of hundred feet of thickness to protect against… something I guess. I read that in a Popular Science and it sounds like a good idea.

Water and fuel would be extracted from the Moon’s ample stores of water-ice and hydrogen. Supplies could be delivered via rocket from the Earth. I would string out a huge array of LED’s and when someone donated an item on my wish-list, I would light their name up on the moon for 24-hours. Maybe I could venture out into custom messages, “Vanessa would you like to go to the movies sometime?” Stuff like that. I would make millions or the moon would be pockmarked with all the deliveries. The pristine lunar valley would be a  junkyard of rocket husks scattered across the landscape. Martyrs for my insatiable appetite for pecan pie, Coca Cola, or stone fired pizza. I would sit in my living area and wait for a ‘thump’. Then I would go check the mail.

Maybe the military would give me a cool ray gun or missile launcher. After all, I would be the first outpost of Earth. Like Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves. I would whip my little fort into shape and protect the edge of the frontier from a race of beings who are, most likely, more friendly and understanding than my own. They would watch me from the shadows of a nearby asteroid and talk in their mind reading language about how peculiar I am, running in and out of my moon hole to fetch rocket launched treats. They would wonder how big of a douche I must be to be banished from my planet. They would also wonder why the moon says, “Carla will you marry me?” and assume I am trolling women online and attempting to woo them with a moon billboard. The aliens have conquered personal desire so they will not understand my trade system that is based on satisfying ego for canned goods.

One day they would land and three of them would approach me. One would appear hostile but he would be held in check by the older and wiser leader. They will attempt to talk directly to my mind and I will show them how to make an arm-fart. We will become awkward friends. I will learn later that the hostile alien is known by a name that is loosely translated as “Asshole” but he is deeply passionate about his friends and in a space battle in the future I will win his approval by showing aggression to my former race.

The citizens of Earth will become enraged at my defection and will be scared to think what the aliens might be capable of so they will launch an attack. A fierce thermonuclear response aimed at eliminating any and all moon people. Since I am the only moon person, the attack is against me. They won’t call it genocide though. Genocide is meant for a much bigger audience. No, the people of Earth will just be trying to murder me and shoo away the alien race. Luckily, my new friend, Asshole, will recognize the feeble Earthling attempt of murder and will invite me aboard a really cool starship. We will spend a few nights teleporting onto the steps of homes of the major world leaders, lighting bags of dog shit on fire and flying off into the night, laughing. Telepathically.

My laughter will settle and I will wipe a happy-nostalgic tear from my eye. Everyone will take a seat and look out the window at the Earth. As we suspend gravity and fire a weak thruster that accelerates us to near-light-speeds, I will look back on the fading Earth and think to myself. Jesus, that got out of hand fast. Maybe leaving Earth for the moon because of political bickering was a bit of an overstep. Oh well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.  

If you are over the whole presidency inauguration and election argument v2.0, this is for you. Let’s go do some cool shit on the moon. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.