March 30

The Mandatory Birthday Wisdom Post


My children turn three today, which means it is my civic duty to tell you about it.




I mean, it IS their birthday and what sort of parent would I be to not let the world know how blessed and happy I am on this day. It became my birthright three years ago to do so. It gives me the day to tell you their miracle story of entering this world. How we found a wounded stork, nursed it back to health, before it gifted us with the two most beautiful children ever created.

Seriously, your kids might be perfect, but my kids are perfect-er. And I have two of them.

This is where I break out into a list of life lessons for my children. A list they don’t know how to read and by the time they come of age to understand the list, I will likely have forgotten about writing it.

Remember when you were three? How come you didn’t take my damn advice. You whippersnappers never listen these days! In my day if you didn’t listen to your advice on your third birthday you got yourself a whooping!

1) Believe in yourself, the way I believe in you. 

You are an amazing little hyper ball of potential. Through the years, you will learn to hone your focus in on more than cartoons and gummy bears.When you have dreams and aspirations, seize them. Grind. Put in work. While the pulse on The American Dream seems faint, it is still beating. Believe in your ability to realize the things you want in your life and put that realization into action.

2) Try new things.

you never get in this world playing it safe. Step off into the great unknown. The thing about safety nets is they stop you from that potential we just talked about. Free fall and amaze yourself by learning how to fly. The greatest rewards in life come from stepping out without a back up plan. Learn. Adapt. Evolve. Survive. Thrive.

3) Never finish your plate.

this might sound contrary to what I tell you at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Stay hungry. Do not become content. Master a craft and then master another one. always leave room in your life for new things. Don’t ever get full of yourself.


If my advice doesn’t suit you, maybe because you can’t read or it’s “dad advice” you have to learn the hard way. I am also providing some audio advice. Calling in some of my own inspiration, to share with you in the hopes it ignites your fire too. Happy Birthday, Killian and Nicolas. Let’s eat cake.



“Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else’s. “



“you can fail at what you don’t want, so you might as well take a chance on doing what you love.”

“Great moments are born from great opportunity.

And that’s what you have here tonight, boys.

That’s what you’ve earned here, tonight.”





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March 17

“Hi! I Am Selling My Soul And You Can Too!”


I started doing a thirty-day abs and legs challenge. Basically, every day for five minutes I  do crunches, sit ups and squats while thinking body shaming thoughts about myself.

I have twenty-five more days of this self-loathing to do but I hope to see results that force me into another thirty-day ‘come on fat ass, one more’ cycle.

I have purposely kept this new workout regimen on the down low out of a fear. Usually I fear things like failure. This isn’t the reason in this case. My fear is about another thing. I am afraid someone will see my status about sit ups or crunches and think, “I bet he would like me to message him and sell him some shakes or maybe sell him some work out tips!”

I am so sick and tired of people trying to sell me stuff on Facebook I have taken to spending time in the real world to avoid them.



Beach Body


Wrap Thingy Magic

Nicotine Patches

These new age door to door salesmen are worse than the people who come to my door trying to help me find Jesus.

Profile to profile salesman. Always hitting you up with a greeting. Luring you into a false sense of conversation before trying to get their Mary Kay commission.

I can’t even hide most the time, Facebook won’t allow that. Right next to my name is a little green “I’M HERE FOR YOUR SALES PITCH” dot.

I like my money in my bank account. I don’t want to spend money to get in shape or wrap saran wrap around my waist.

This isn’t so much a post as a cease and desist order. And whoever is keeping these people in business please stop. I watch as one by one my friends become consultants and I worry that this virus will affect me and suddenly I will be posting videos on how to blend and make my eyelashes look ON FLEEK.

(On Fleek means on point. I hope, like I did with the term YOLO, to use it so much the kids find a new stupid fucking term to replace it with. My hashtag squad goals as an adult is to ruin cool terms for kids. One hunna bang bang bae bang bang scutta.)

I am really tired of friends turned consultants trying to get me to buy in to their magic cure for my laziness. “You can’t even taste the kale!”

Don’t fucking lie to me. I walk through the produce section of the store and get contact kale taste in my mouth.

Unless you are selling Girl Scout Cookies or your friday night to babysit my kids, don’t message me asking me how I am doing so you can try to sell me something. If you are trying to sell me something, be upfront with it. For example:

“Hey, I couldn’t help but see your round ass belly in that last profile picture of yours. Why don’t you lay off the meat sticks and blend up some green things and kill your taste buds before you have a heart attack, you fat motherfucker. While you’re at it, you can use this concealer to hide your acne because you’re not a fucking teenager but clearly don’t know how to wash your fucking face daily. Give me five hundred dollars and I will leave you alone for six months until you need to re-up.”

I actually might ask for your Paypal information if you sent that message.

Until then, back the fuck out of my inbox please.

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March 15

Dick Jokes


I walked in on my one year old with his diaper open, hand just busying itself to his little…uhhh. I don’t really want to illustrate this picture. My one year old enjoys touching himself. Anytime his diaper is removed, he goes to work with a big smile on his face.

I don’t remember this chapter in the parenting books. True Life: My one-year-old won’t stop jerking off.

This won’t be your normal blog post. There are no butterflies or words of wisdom to be found here. Just dick jokes. The masturbating baby story- that is your trigger warning. Dude humor ahead.

I live in a toddler frat house, full of random wet spots and smelling clothes to see if they have another wear in them. Any given afternoon you can find four boys sitting in front of the TV with their hands near their crotches wearing nothing but underoos.

The Underwoods love being in nothing but their Underoos. I like to think us lounging about like this helps keep laundry low. I am really doing a service by leading the underwear brigade.

As my son and I shared a Root Beer, we practiced our alphabets. In belches. Ever seen a three-year old hopped up on sugar, belching his alphabet? It rides the line between irresponsible and responsible. On one hand, he is getting really good at his alphabet. On the other, well maybe a three-year old shouldn’t be drinking soda.

But… he has to learn his alphabet by the fall for preschool. So the good outweighs the bad here. His twin brother doesn’t even really like soda. So I am 1 for 2 on the good parenting there.

My son peed on the dog a few weeks back. I wanted to scold him. I think the dog wanted to bite his private parts off. Here comes another but.

But… his aim was AMAZING! The dog tried to get out-of-the-way of the little super soaker but fireman toddler just held his hose and followed the flames.

The dog was justifiably pissed. I couldn’t bring myself to scold my son though. Aim is important when you have to spend your life standing.

We don’t get to sit. And if we do sit, we don’t get to admit it.

With a house full of boys I sometimes wonder about women. I like to think I would be a great dad if I had a daughter too. I would be a lot like Martin Lawrence in Bad Boys 2

You a virgin? Good, keep it that way. Aint gonna be no fuckin’ tonight!

I don’t know what you do with a daughter other than insinuate you will shoot any boy who comes near her. Build tampon dollhouses?

I think I would line her up with her brothers as we wrestled and fought.

No means I will fuck you up if you touch me. 

That would be her motto for sure. Raising girls is undoubtably tough. Especially in today’s ever more technologically driven age. Which, can I just say- who is teaching their children that whipping out their dicks is a great ice breaker???

I definitely missed the lesson in gentleman courtship where Romeo stood outside Juliet’s window and spun his wiener like a windmill to make her swoon.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!

Romeo unfastens tunic

My fair lady! O, how my tallywhacker spins

Again,O, Again for thee!

Juliet becomes hypnotized by the spinning

My sweet Romeo

Doth that be your unsolicited wee wee

O, great bastions of joy

I am transfixed upon your

Windmill love for thee

This is why you don’t spark notes Shakespeare. You miss the key parts of the play.

The more I think on it, the gladder I am I don’t have a daughter. Just three Romeos I will need to sit down and tell not to send dick pics to girls.


Life with boys really is amazing.

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March 10

I Need a Fucking Hobby


I am beginning to realize I need a hobby. Writing started out as a hobby, grew to an addiction and from there transitioned to being a part-time job. Seriously, Monday through Friday a few hours every day I sit and write. After writing, I sift through sites and send them some work hoping they like it enough to open their wallets to slide me a little thank you billfold.

I love writing but I need a hobby. I look at my friends with their fitness or scrapbooking they do for nothing other than personal enjoyment and think I need to be doing something like they are with my free time!!!

I don’t get much free time though, and for a while the little free time I got was taken up by Netflix. Can I count ‘Netflix and chill’ as my hobby of choice? Well, I am unable to binge watch like a true Netflixer. The last show I binge watched on Netflix was Curious George. Did you see the season six finale? Barn burner! My toddlers and I watched it THREE times. On Tuesday alone.

I don’t even  have the credentials to call Netflixing a hobby. I am a mere amateur Netflix enthusiast.

I did try to pick up knitting. I have always been fond of using my hands; whether it be to work, hit people in the face or raise donuts to my own face. I really like my hands. Well, knitting ended in me being frustrated and setting (read: flinging) the knitting needles. As I went for a cool off walk to the kitchen, I returned to my children using the knitting needles to stage a coup. As Ezra stabbed me with a knitting needle, I looked at him and said,

“Et tu, Baby?”

People, I need a hobby. This is me crowdsourcing, to fill the forty-five minutes in a day I don’t have children trying to show me how much they love me by throwing their meals on the floor or coloring on the walls. A couple of things I want to just stop before the crowd source process begins.

Hobbies I am not interested in:


I have running shoes. I went through a nice two-week phase where I quit smoking and began running. In that time I was so convinced I loved running and the freeness it provided. Now, sure, running isn’t that bad but I don’t want to do it and I have a few reasons. One- when I see someone running I automatically have the same reaction every single time. I shout at them. I shout, “YOU CAN’T RUN FROM YOUR PROBLEMS FOREVER” before howling to myself as I keel over and desperately search for my inhaler. I also have these weird daydreams of taking joggers out with my car. Then, there was that one time in high school someone was running on the side of the road and I threw a slice of pizza at them. All this accounts for a lot of bad karma when it comes to running. I would rather be overweight and safe than dead in a ditch covered in slices of pizza. Also, the asthma thing.

Weight lifting

I used to enjoy lifting. Just kidding, I always hated it. Everyday I weight train. I feel like Stanley Yelnats’ grandpa in Holes, everyday carrying the pig to drink from the stream. Except, instead of one pig, I have three toddlers I carry everywhere. I bet the pig didn’t spend the whole walk up to the creek going, “Dad! Dad! Hungry! Dad! Cookies? Dad! Dad! No walk! Daddddddd!” I weight lift enough with these ever-growing free weights. On top of that, I lift heavy stuff all night at work. I work in wholesale, which means bulk product because large families like mine absolutely need to buy their necessities in fifty pound bundles.

Anything similar to knitting.

My children used the knitting needles as stilettos. I have seen these kids take and turn the most mundane items into weapons of mass destruction or disturbance. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if my children taught some sort of shiv making class to people going into prison.

I haven’t gotten over being stabbed with a tool designed to make scarfs. It is just one of those traumatic experiences parents are built from. I don’t want to relive it.

Musical Instruments

This is similar to knitting, but more of a mental assault provided by my children. I used to play guitar for a little. By play, I mean I strummed awkwardly and sung Just Like Heaven by The Cure over and over again because it was the only song I took the time to learn. And why not? They made a movie based off that amazing masterpiece. I really love that song.

I had a guitar. I have actually owned three. The latest beauty cost me a full week’s paycheck and I bought it way before I had kids. It stuck around, enduring dust and drunken strumming, only to be destroyed by my children who fancy themselves to be the second coming of Pete fuckin’ Townshend.

Extreme couponing

I know some quirky person is going to chime in about their weird love for savings and how it has grown into a hobby. No, it has grown out of control. Buying forty bottles of shampoo for 38 cents is mental! Now, I am not judging. A part of me is a bit jealous of the savings provided but it seems a bit unhealthy, ya? Like, you really need fifteen hundred tampons because you were able to buy them for the low price of $1.15. It isn’t frugal or fiscally responsible. It is a TLC hoarding episode waiting to break tv viewer ratings.

I know I asked for help and have been a bit stand offish. I don’t want you to dig out that free machete coupon you have been saving to go all psycho stalker killer on some internet stranger. I really couldn’t hobby coupon because I hear it takes some serious organization. Probably the same level of organization and careful planning put into murders by serial killers like The Zodiac. I am very unorganized, so can we just say that is the reason I don’t want to do extreme coupling?

But seriously, I need a fucking hobby. I am starting to feel like the loser who spends all his time with his kids because he has no real life friends, only relationships fostered over the internet. The kind of person who incessantly posts updates on their children because they don’t have anything else to post about. That is so not Punk Rock Papa, people. Will you help me in my quest to find other things to talk about?

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March 8

What Would You Do For A Klondike Bar?


I received an email about a year ago to do a review of Klondike Bars. They offered to pay me in…Klondike Bars. Enthusiastically I fired off an email back saying,


Dear Klondike People,
If you’re asking me what I would do for a Klondike Bar, the answer is anything because those little chocolate coated frozen happiness bars are fuckin D-Lish. I will write the graces of your product while putting myself into a sweet Klondike Coma.
Forever Yours,


Okay, that isn’t EXACTLY how the email went. I am using creative license here. Sadly, Klondike People never got back to me, which meant I had to purchase my own Klondikes and I got tears all over them as I lamented the $3.50 or so I would have saved. There I was, not getting a response, like when I told Bri sophomore year that I really liked her. (I don’t like you anymore, Bri. In fact, I am better off not having the four or five blog posts I would have eventually written about you had you let me take you to Homecoming.)

Why didn’t they respond? This was before I decided to take some weird moral high ground and not run advertisements I found unappealing myself. I would have sold the shit out of Klondike bars. The Girl Scout Federation of American Obesity would have called and asked me to stand outside Walmart for them, slinging Samoas at elderly folk like some sort of Cookie Matchstick Man.

“Why yes, imagine if instead of the condo in Florida, you invested in a truck load of cookies. With these cookies, your grandkids will always love you.” 

Seriously, I can sell with the best of them. Now, I am sure by this point in my post, I have undoubtably garnered the attention of ALL the brands. Hi, Nabisco *wink face*. Make me swoon and I will push Fig Newtons down everyone’s throats.

But, Klondike never responded to me, which did not rub well with my fear of rejection. I endured, rose stronger from the rejection, if not five pounds heavier from shoving ice cream in my face hole like my date stood me up.

When I decided to try to get in on advertisements again, there was a Wendy’s campaign. The idea of clogging my arteries with a Baconater made me sizzle like a fresh patty. They asked me to strip down and show them my numbers. It was my first time and they could tell. I awkwardly stood there, naked in front of a corporation with way more experience than I. As they passed on me for bloggers with gaudier numbers, I picked myself up off the ground and promised never to show my numbers to someone again unless I truly loved them and they loved me.

But, Papa, didn’t you sell flatbread?

Wrong Papa. Also, don’t call me Papa. It is fucking weird. Fifty shades of not okay. And flatbread sucks, there I said it.

My name is Briton, nice to meet you.

Here I am, a broken blogger who has sworn off advertisements. I have to wonder though. What if? What if the Klondike People did respond? Would I be sitting here surrounded by promotional things, my children wearing brand name shoes? The brand being Hostess. Little TWIN-kie shoes!

See, brands are really missing out. Quick, another one!

When you feel the need to pour vodka into you and awaken your inner Russian, pair it with Cranberry Sprite. Your hiccups will taste delightful. Cranberry Sprite, the little Russian in you approves. 

What would I do for a Klondike Bar? I will tell you what I will do when Klondike People don’t get back to me after, I don’t know, three emails. I will write a long jilted blogger post showing what they are missing out on.

Also, I have never had flatbread. I don’t trust it. Why would you flatten bread? Personally, the bread rides passenger side with me so as NOT to get flattened. What is wrong with society that we now are buying our bread already flattened? This seems the same as buying ripped jeans and I fell into that trap for a few years in high school. Flatten your own bread instead of paying extra for someone else to do it for you. Just throw it next to the milk on the car ride home and it pretty much flattens itself. Maybe I don’t understand the concept of flatbread.

And Klondike People. I have moved on. But, if you send coupons I would use them. ExKlondikeLover68 (because you owe me one, *wink face*)

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