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That one time I ALMOST got my tit in a wringer for ‘drugs’.

I have long been of the opinion that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree when it comes to the intellect of the children of some parents. This is an old story. Hope you enjoy the insight into the monumental stupidity that I brought upon myself when I was a kid. Thank god I was marginally smarter than this when my first child was conceived. 

Thanks for reading,

Matt

This is the story of how I almost got kicked out of high school for supposedly possessing drugs.

It is also a cautionary tale of:

  1. Me, being a dumbass.
  2. Why you should always research your drug choices.
  3. My extremely good luck in times of crises.

In high school, I was the drummer in a band called Argyle (yes, retrospect has shown me that there are better names that could have been chosen). When junior year rolled around, we (the band & I) were having some communication problems with one of our guitar players. This guitar player also went to the same school as I did (a Catholic, all boys school). This guitar player was also a firm believer in Christianity, so much so, that he would go on the “religious retreats” that the school would offer from time to time.

So, we were having problems with this said religious guitar player and it so happens that one of these retreats was coming up and he was going to be a leader of said retreat. Naturally, I get the bright idea that I should go on this retreat in an effort to find out what’s been bugging this guitar player.

My other band mates supported this marvelous idea of mine.

Any normal person would have went up to Guitar Player and said “What the fuck is your problem?”

Not me.

The first two days were not that bad.

The only thing I truly disliked was that they confiscated all of our time pieces. The exact reason why is completely out of my head. But I was definitely struck by how maddening it was not to know what time it was. The effect was almost suffocating.

After that, we were bombarded with the usual retreat-y type God stuff that you’d expect. Our group leaders (of which Guitar Player was a part of) all had to get up in front of us and talk about what God meant to them and possibly relate it to a tough time in their life that they were able to work through because of his “love”.

This always resulted in, being on the verge of, or drowning in their own tears.

The skeptic in me then (as well as now) has always been of the opinion that the only one who can get you through those tough times is you. No one else, just you.

Just when we were getting ready to turn in towards the end of the second night, I was bouncing-off-the-walls bored. It didn’t look like my original goal (of having a “sit-down” with the guitar player) was going to happen any time soon. Then I remembered something that someone had told me during the 7th grade:

I had heard somewhere that smoking tea could get you high.

As in the stuff that the British have coursing through their veins.

I told this to my roommate. He looked at me like How I’m sure you’re looking at this now, like I’m a moron.

It’s ok. I know I am a moron.

I sneak off to the kitchen area and procure a coffee filter and some Earl Grey. If there was one thing I remember from this whole fiasco it was the look on my roommate’s face while I was “working”. It was a good blend of “God you’re stupid” and “Man, I hope this works because I would like to get high, too.”

The next day, it was more of the same God Shenanigans.

Right before dinner time, my roommate, his brother and myself all duck out for a quick smoke. Stupidly, we all lit up on the main path that connected the chapel to where we were all “living”. Of course I thought that this would have been as good a time as any to see if my little experiment held water. When I lit up, it smelled exactly like weed. It was uncanny. While this may be exciting for a junior in high school who was testing an urban myth to sate his boredom, you can obviously see what kind of goober I really was.

After about five minutes, one of the teachers came trudging down the path.

We were fucked.

They pulled us out of the evening happenings and said they found what “appeared to be” a joint.

I told them that it was all my idea and that the two brothers had nothing to do with it. I went out to tell them that I ran out of cigarettes and I made the “joint” as a substitute (which wasn’t completely bullshit, by the way) and I completely reassured them that it wasn’t drugs.

They told me that was all well and good but what they found still needed to be “analyzed”.

I asked them what was going to happen to us. Without missing a beat, they said that they spoke to the dean and he said that they were to send us home and we were to be suspended.

I was completely fucked. My life, as I knew it, was over. My parents were on their way to get me.

I had never seen my father so angry at me. No band, no nothing. That’s what my parents told me.

Normally I would have taken that without saying a word. However, we had a major show coming up it didn’t make sense to punish people who didn’t have anything to do with me fucking up. I managed to convince my parents to let me play the show and then suspend my band privileges.

Here’s where the story gets better.

The day before I had to go back to school, we had band practice.

Bass Player and his girlfriend at the time were the first to show up.

I explained everything to them, the stupidity of my actions, the fallout from the school and my parents and what was going to happen after our big show.

The girlfriend said something to the effect of:

“I know what would make you feel better”.

“What’s that?”

“Smoking a big bag of weed.”

From her purse she whips out a bowl and a big bag of weed.

Band practice was at the very least, fun. I went to bed that night without a care in the world.

The next day was my first day back since getting suspended. During one of my morning classes, I was pulled out of class to speak with the Dean.

Basically, he wanted to give me a pep talk and to hear what happened from my own mouth. He concluded the whole conversation by telling me that the results of the testing on the “evidence” were inconclusive and that I needed to submit to psychological analysis and drug testing.

Drug. Testing.

I was doomed! I was sure of it! I had smoked up just the other day.

I was freaking out! I couldn’t go back to the Dean and ask him what kind of test it would be. That would be way too suspicious.

After school, I immediately started to drink water. I figured that if I drank enough of it, I could even the chances of flushing out my system. I then called Bass Player and explained to him the escalation of the situation. He was remarkably helpful. I learned that it was either going to be a blood test or a urine test.

Regardless of the type of test, I could go to any “head” shop and select from a wide array of products that would mask the presence of cannabis in my system. Thankfully, this all pre-dated hair sampling.

Bass Player also suggested that I drink Pectin, a preservative commonly used in canning foods.

At this point I had all ready been drinking enough water to hydrate a third world country so the pectin wouldn’t hurt. It wasn’t that bad. Had a bit of a sweet taste to it.

As an added measure I called the local NORML office to find out how long pot had stayed in your body. He told me that the length of time varies depending on your level of usage. Thankfully, I wasn’t a habitual smoker so I had about three days to clear out my system.

Relief very adequately describes how I felt after that conversation. I still drank water like a motherfucker, though. 

So the day finally came for me to face the music.

I was so nervous you couldn’t get a needle up my ass with a jack hammer. I was a relatively “good” kid. Getting in this kind of trouble was a new experience for me.

The psychoanalysis was completely unremarkable. No new emotional ground had been broken. No revelations were had. It was just an old, white man asking me questions that people have been asking me since I got suspended.

Peeing in a cup was fun. I really had to pee.

7 days later.

The dean of my school comes up to me wanting to know what was going on. Of course, I had no fucking idea what he was talking about. Apparently the clinic that I had gone to, did not inform the people of the school about my pee pee results.

The Dean told me that I needed to call them to find out what the story was.

So I call the clinic and I was informed that its standard operating procedure to not inform the drug testee if there is an absence of drugs in their urine.

An. Absence.

My pee was clean.

In a matter of three days I had managed to ingest enough water piss out all of the THC that was in my system.

Lessons learned:

  1. If you have a problem with someone, quit fucking around and address the situation.
  2. Smoking Tea will never, ever get you high.
  3. If you’re going to do drugs, make sure that there isn’t a possible drug test looming.
  4. As smart as you think you are, old age will always show you how stupid you really were.

One reason why more men aren’t staying at home with their children.

In my quest to make a blog that would provide a working, and accessible encyclopedia of knowledge that most men should have, I did what I normally do when I am writing about something: I got on my library’s website and I requested every book I could find on any given subject related to men (manhood, staying at home with the kids, fatherhood, etc).

A couple of weeks go by, and the books I had requested started to trickle back in to my house.

One such book had a single sentence in it that, for me, summed up why there hasn’t been a great influx in the amount of men willing to stay at home with their kids. Before I go on, I will not name the author nor will I name the book from whence such quote came. Additionally, I would like to put in print for the record, that I do not enjoy “trolling” someone or generally speaking ill of someone if they aren’t in front of me. Yes, that’s right: I’m that type of asshole.

“Here’s another example illustrating that men have lost the battle of the sexes: a modern hero needs to be able to hold, feed, and change a baby.”

Son of a bitch. This sentence is chock-a-block with things that piss me off!

Please allow me to be the Mr. Peabody to your Sherman as we jump back in the Way Back Machine (aka the Internet/Wikipedia) to find out exactly what the “battle of the sexes” was.

Let us look back 41 years ago. The date was May 13, 1973. The place was Houston, Texas. The “Battle of the Sexes” was in actuality a tennis match between Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean King (Billie being the female, in case you were too lazy to click around…). It was one of a series of three matches that pitted man against woman.

The first match, won by Riggs, made him a household name. As such, the promoters of the next match labeled it a “battle of the sexes” because of all of the dick-wagging that Riggs did prior to the meet between himself and King in Houston.

In Houston, Ms. King took Riggs over her knee and spanked him like the entitled shit he was.

In the years to come, there was rampant speculation that Riggs threw the match on purpose because he was up to his ass in debt to the mob.

Since then the phrase “battle of the sexes” has been misused and abused ad naseum.

Now, lets’ take a look at the last half of that shit-pile of a sentence: “…a modern hero needs to be able to hold, feed, and change a baby”.

Well, yeah, yeah they do. If there smart enough to figure out what to do with their penis when it changes into it’s “active state”, then they ought to be man enough to deal with any of the numerous outcomes that may arise when their ding-a-ling transfers back to it’s passive state.

When men start to think like a “hero” is usually when shit starts to go wrong. Furthermore, heroes don’t acknowledge the fact that they do heroic shit. They live their lives by doing what they think is the right thing.

When a man becomes a father, he should do the right thing and accept the fact that he is responsible for the life that he brought into the world and that he should make it his fucking duty to be the best damn father that he can be.

That includes the basics like holding, feeding, and changing a baby.

Ladies, want your man to stay at home with the kids so you can have “the career”? You better make damn sure he doesn’t believe ignorant things like he’s too good to take care of a child that the two of you brought into the world. 

A “word” on house guests.

 As I have made mention here previously, I’m not a native Southerner.

With that being said, my family and I had our first group of official houseguests this year. Sadly, one set right after the other.

The first set was my brother and his significant other. He came down first and palled around with me for a few days and then she came down on the following weekend. It was a good time.

The biggest takeaway from that first visit was that my family, as well as our home, isn’t set up to receive houseguests. Initially, my brother slept on an air mattress in the living room. Eventually, the fact that his schedule didn’t jive with that of my families’ necessitated in him getting a room. No biggie as I’m sure that he and his girl wanted to knock boots without the added pressure of perhaps traumatizing one of my children. Still a good time was had by all. 

The following week, my wife’s mother finally made good on her threat of driving down to visit us. 

It would have been fine if it weren’t for the fact that she waited until getting to Tenne-fucking-see to tell us that she brought her mother (that is, my wife’s grandmother, of whom she never, ever got along with) with her and that the two of them would be kicking my two girls out of their beds regardless of the fact that their visit coincided with the kids school days. 

Total dick move on the mother-in-law’s part. 

We all suffered it well, myself especially. My wife got off easy because she “had to work” 3 out of the 4 days that they were down here to visit.

(While it would be easy to say that my wife should have handled it, I would like to point out that I have absolved her from any wrong doings with respect to her involvement with her mother. My wife and I have had similar upbringings and I understand how hard it is to suffer a parent’s bullshit like that).

Suffice it to say, should her mother threaten us with a repeat visit like that, I will undoubtedly unleash a salvo of “OH FUCK NAW!” and blog about it here, subsequently. 

What dawned on me during my mother-in-law’s bullshit visit was the fact that I let the skinny little shit steal my joy at first.

Throughout the course of any given person’s life, they are only allowed a daily amount of joy. Said joy is taken, extinguished, pissed and/or shat on, and ultimately ruined. What’s often disregarded is the fact that to let someone do that to you, is a choice.

You choose to let the person ruin your day, or you choose to give them the proverbial finger. 

Go ahead: argue all you want. You know that I’m right.

After the aforementioned epiphany, I proceeded to fuck with my guests on a rather artistic level.

I never go in for being an obvious dick. I work up to it. Make them more than aware that I’m not serving them food, offhanded comments about how the girls didn’t sleep that well, the occasionally incendiary comment thrown at them letting them know that their welcome was worn out before they breached the state line, that type of stuff.

On their final full day, I had the wonderful idea to clean the entire garage. At this point it was completely fucked and I knew that it would eat up my entire day while the kids and the wife were away.

Not to be stingy with my joy, I pulled my wife into my web of fun. What follows is a text conversation I had with her throughout the course of that day.

************

Thought you’d like to know, CURRENTLY, “the guests” are on the back patio. The “skinny one” is doing a Leslie Sansome Walking Workout on a portable digital video disc player. The “fat one” is watching Leslie with rapt attention.

THE HORROR!

As I have been keeping my distance and maintaining minimal contact, I have noticed that the “skinny one” has migrated to the trampoline area. She’s not using the trampoline, merely using the edge of it to keep her digital video disc player off of the ground. I can only presume that there was a disagreement with the “large one”.

As I pretend not to watch, I can’t help but wonder if Security Forces will pick her up for vagrancy.
The “skinny one” has finished her “walk” and has made contact. I didn’t hear what she said as I had ear buds in.

I did however reply in Spanish. She seemed pleased.

wife:
I would check to see what she said unless you like surprises.

me:
This is true with the “fat one”, the “skinny one” seems quite benign.

wife:
You are awful!

me:
This is the highlight of your day: DONT DENY IT!

wife:
Yes it is.

me:
😎 glad I can be “too kewl fer skool” for ya!

IMG_3152

The “skinny one” seems confused as to the operation of the trampoline. Prior to her mounting it, she tried the “lick/sniff test” common to her people.

At this point, urination became a serious matter to my overall well being. Knowing full well where “the skinny one” was as she had now gone on to the tactile portion of her learning about something new (eg touching the previously mentioned foreign object and grunting her findings) common to her culture, I decided to throw caution to the wind and use one of the toilets inside.

Damn my cursed luck! The “fat one” was emerging from the toilet in the “commoners bathroom”. While it was rather thrilling for her to try and engage me in conversation (not breaking my stride for fear of pissing myself, she commented on the fact that I was lucky that I didn’t have to curl my hair. Out of fear I replied “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? MAH HUR IS NATURALLY STRAIGHT!) it is not something that I would like to repeat for the rest of my days.

**********

They left the following day. See?

THERE THEY GO!

THERE THEY GO!

Have a horrible house guest story you feel like sharing? Hit it in the comments at the top of this post!!!

The Story of Daniel J. Burgers.

IMG_3118

There is no other meal staple that encapsulates being a husband, a father, a man, more succinctly than the hamburger. I’d even go so far as to say that you could tell a lot about a man given the state of his burger making skills.

Jump in the Way Back machine with me, Sherman, as we go back to the first time that I got a wild hair up my ass to make burgers for my family. 

It was nearly 2 years ago. I was in a rut as far as making dinner was concerned and I was rather bothered by it.

You see, cooking for me at that time was my meditation. The kids were still young (and if I am not mistaken, this was the year that they were home-schooled. More on that later.)

When it was time to make dinner the tone of the entire day for me changed for me when I got into the kitchen. The kids knew not to fucking bother me when I was cooking and they also knew not to act like damn fools because if I had to stop what I was doing, it was guaranteed that I’d go ghetto on their little asses.

(For the record, I still hold them to those standards to this day.)

At the time, my wife was against ground beef and meat based dinners (which was and is, perfectly valid) but I needed to do something. I needed to branch out. So I decide that I’m going to make burgers.

Yes, that’s right: I was 3 years into being a stay at home parent before I fucked with ground beef. 

Fuck everything that you have ever heard about ground beef. Seriously, just forget it. In terms of versatility, ground beef in unparalleled. Hamburgers, lasagna, pasta dishes, meat balls, chili, tacos… You can do a lot with this shit.

Burger night rolls around and the recipe that I consulted told me that you can basically put anything in your burgers (beans, veg, cheese, fruit, etc) and still have it taste good as long as the seasoning you use doesn’t fuck everything up.

(Seriously, take it as gospel.)

Regardless, I decided a chopped up onion (it just felt right) and conservative seasoning was the way to go. The end result was a pretty decent burger for my first time out.

Cut to a few days later. It was lunch time and I didn’t have any buns so I decide to make a “burrito burger” out of the left over burgers. Everything came out good, so I decided to Instagram that shit (because at the time, it wasn’t that obnoxious to do so).

It took my sister to point out to me that our father used to do the same thing.

At this point he had been dead for about 10 years.

Boom. Not only did my burgers have a name, they brought back vague memories came back to me of when I was a small boy and it was Dad’s turn to cook (this was 30+ years ago).

Next up: I'll take you through making burgers on your own. It's easier than you think.

Next up: I’ll take you through making burgers on your own. It’s easier than you think.

Have pleasant food-related (or perhaps, induced) memories? Don’t be shy, share them in the comments section at the top of this post!

Getting kids to do things: putting away clothes

Any parent, let alone a stay-at-home Dad, needs to be a good communicator. You need to know what to say and when to say it.

Let me set the stage for you: 3 years ago one of the things that I have struggled with up until a couple of months ago, was getting my oldest daughter (who was 7 going on 40 at the time) to put away her clothes properly. This had been something that was a sore point for both me and my wife since we started having our daughter put away her clothes. (She was 5 when we started this agonizing process.)

Both together and on our own, my wife and I had taken the time to point out what article of clothing should be put away ‘where’ and what should be hung up on a hanger as opposed to what we were ok with being folded and put away in a drawer.

Our daughter speaks English. She’s not blind. There’s nothing holding her back from doing all of the normal, physical things that 7-year-old children do. She just chose not to put away her clothes the right way most of the time.

Don’t get me wrong, she’s been able to do it right the first time every so often but for the most part, she would do everything in her power to do it the wrong way. I would find dresses balled up behind her desk, underwear stashed underneath the bathroom sink… My personal favorites were the multiple times when she would cram everything that needed to be folded into one bin.

We’ve taken stuff away. We’ve threatened with grounding. We’ve made her do it over and over and over again. Then we thought we were doing something wrong. So we (my wife and I) and reevaluated our daughters clothing arrangements and made it ‘idiot proof’. Nothing was working. We had gotten to the point where we thought what might be considered effective, might not be appropriate.

It was after the last ‘idiot-proofing’ (what you see in the following picture) that my wife and I had our last straw. It was more of the same thing. Clothes stashed, knickers hidden, dresses barely on the hanger in the first place.

While my wife was ripping apart our daughters closet again, I calmly and severely reminded our child of the last room that she occupied. Prior to living where we are now, our daughter had to share a room with her younger brother (he’s 4 now) and her younger sister (she’s 2 now). It was a small room, taken up mainly by a bunk bed and crib that she, our eldest daughter, was in charge of keeping neat and tidy. It was something that she was able to do with great ease as the 3 of them only had a handful of personal belongings in it.

I told her quite plainly that it would be the same situation. Only now, it would be the 3 of them all in one room, with 3 separate beds, and all of their possessions. And she would be in charge of cleaning all of it. Regardless of ‘who’ made ‘what’ mess.

She understood me quite clearly and has long been aware of the fact that I never bluff. Her closet along with her room has never been a problem since.

I never claimed to have all of the answers. But I have some ideas on where you can get them.

Everyone needs a little help now and again. The loose idea with this part of my site is that it’s going to be a rolling list of links that people can click to because there will be some things in the future that I am a bit out of my depth on.

New as of Wednesday,  December 16th 2015

MISCELLANEOUS

MUSIC

  • I don’t like handing money over to iTunes to get some new music going. Does anyone, really? Through ways that escape me, I have found Listen to Youtube. Be careful where you click: this is an ad heavy site. It’s not completely obnoxious, you just have to “read” before you click. Wanna have a go with me about “pirating”? Fill out the contact form, fucker: I’ll show you what “swabbing the deck” really means. (Edited: I’d also like to point out that normally, I would get new audio stuffs from the local library. My current library stinks. As in, I can’t get new audio stuffs. They don’t have the funding. Seriously. So, there’s that).
  • BEHOLD! The Rollins Archive. Henry Rollins’ radio show from the very beginning. For free. Download it. You’ll be glad you did.
  • Fugazi created a comprehensive web site of all of their shows. Even if you don’t know who they are, you need to check this out. Also, the music can be bought on the cheap

PODCASTS

As a stay at home dad with three kids in school and a deep-seated phobia of having to deal with people on a regular basis, I have discovered the pot of veritable wonder that is podcasts. The first link is the home page for the podcast, the link underneath that is a specific podcast that everyone ought to listen to.

RECIPES AND FOOD

MOTIVATION!

Look no further than Henry Rollins. 

I first saw Henry in an ad for Macs in one of my sister’s Rolling Stone Magazines. I was super young, definitely pre-teen. If I’m not mistaken, shortly after that ad, he ended up having a column in Rolling Stone for a short period of time.

I have been a fan ever since.

Since I have come to be a certain age, a lot of what he has talked about has held a certain resonance with me. Just… Just check him out.

If that’s not your bag, try some Neil Gaiman on for size. 

Why I went to College. 

I’ve never wanted to go to college. Seriously.

Back in 1998, I was 18. I had no concept of how important an education was. I had it worked into my head that I was going to continue playing in my band (which broke up shortly after high school), I’d still work at the grocery store I was working at, and that things would somehow still be o.k.

Shows you how far my head was up my ass back then.

In the space of three months, my life took three different turns:

  1. My mother told me I could live in her house after high school, rent free, if I went to college.
  2. My girlfriend at the time gave me the ultimatum of ‘go to college or we’re through’ (we broke up before we graduated high school, in case you were wondering).
  3. As a graduation requirement, my high school required it’s students to fill out at least 1 college application.

So I took the plunge.

I filled out the application for my local community college and I got a good taste of what a ‘higher education’ could have given me.

By the time I had reached the end of that journey, the taste was effectively fucked out of my mouth.

It wasn’t like high school anymore. I couldn’t sleep my way through a class, do the bare minimum of work and still manage to pass somehow. This was my own time and money at stake.

I made the best of it and I still graduated. That was in 2004.

Hindsight has shown me that it’s not about the amount of time and money spent. It’s about the knowledge retained. While I may not have retained a lot from most of the classes I had taken then, I learned something about myself.

I think my biggest problem with going to a traditional school was the fact that your education/grade was contingent on someone else’s existence. That someone else being your professor.

You either got a professor who was self centered and who didn’t really care if their class was engaging or not (just as long as you were jumping through the hoops that they had set out for you). Or you got a professor who had a passion for what they were teaching and they wanted to pass that passion onto more impressionable minds.

It makes you wonder why, as a society that is constantly changing, we haven’t made substantial changes to this yet. Perhaps if there were more educational options, more than just going to school online and homeschooling (and if it was free), our children, our society might be better off.

When I enrolled at Kaplan there was no ‘A Ha!’ moment. It was something that I felt I needed to do. This emphasis, this inflation of education (the idea that the higher your educational degree, the better off you will be) was ingrained in me by society.

That was the fall of 2010.

I had taken online courses before and I had enjoyed the experience. So I had no trepidations about what Kaplan had to offer.

I was pleasantly surprised! It was everything I had expected and more.

Most colleges that offer on line classes completely eschew any sort of ‘classroom’ involvement. Kaplan provides you with live ‘class seminars’.

They also had realistic professors who were more concerned about the retention and application of content as opposed to the number of hoops the students had jumped through. The only thing that I had regretted was not doing this sooner.

In 2012, I graduated Summa Cum Laude with a BS in Communications. 

If you haven’t enrolled in Kaplan (or any other school, for that matter) and you want to get the education that you need, then enroll. Be warned! Like all colleges, like all classes, you need to put in the effort. If you are not putting in the effort, then why are you wasting everybody’s time?

There’s always going to be someone else who would be more than happy to take your place.

In which, you learn about Mr Did (or, ‘a little about me’).

One day, while I was going about my morning routine, I spied, my little bitty eye this fine fellow hanging out on the curtain in the room where I keep my computer.

katydid? katyDONE!

Naturally, I was taken a little aback by this given the fact that the room where I keep my computer is my bedroom and the curtain that he was camped out on was the curtain by the bed that I share with my wife. As a general rule, I don’t fuck with bugs. It’s not some convoluted religious philosophy, I just generally accept the fact that everything on this planet has it’s job. Everything. If the bug is keeping me from getting something done, or else is just generally being a nuisance, well, that’s a different story.

Given that I have never seen a bug like this before, I was filled with a mild consternation. And given that we are living in a digital age, I posted that shit to the internet.

Less than five minutes go by and one of my Facebook friends informs me that this is indeed a Katydid, it’s edible, and that I should establish dominance by eating it.

Alas, this was a minute too late!

I replied: 

“… it’s not really edible anymore. After having a long conversation with it, I learned that: 1. It’s voice is deeper than Barry White’s 2. It hailed from the Greater Ohio Katydid Orphanage 3. It truly enjoyed watching my wife sleep and it was plotting my untimely demise by attacking me repeatedly (after my wife had gone to bed, forcing me to read by the use of my book-light). I must admit that it was relatively successful because I had thought that it was the grasshopper that had gotten trapped in our room a few days ago. Yes, this is not the first time that an exotic bug has gotten trapped in our room. (Seriously, I don’t know how these little shits do it: Our house is two-stories and our bedroom is on the second floor!). After concluding my conversation with Mr. Did, He found out exactly how heavy my dictionary was. Repeatedly. The lesson? I value the weight of words.”

In short, if I am reading, do not bug me.

A brief word on food.

One of the cornerstones of our society is the necessity of food. While our bodies can survive for nearly three weeks without it (Gandhi, yep the “Be the change you wish to see in the world guy”, also known as Sir Ben Kingsley to others…. survived 21 days of complete starvation. Obviously he had water or else he would have been dead inside of 5 days) one would think that it would be common sense for an individual to have a working knowledge of food preparation (e.g. you know the difference between your ass and a hole in the ground when you step foot in the kitchen).

Sadly, most people cannot make the aforementioned distinction. 

If you marked my progress in the kitchen from when I first started out as a stay at home parent, to now, it would be a thick, black line that traveled through smoke (the smoke being whatever the fuck it was that I was cremating in the oven), traversed canyons of boxed dinners (mac ‘n’ cheese was not only friend to my family but also really friggin’ versatile: seriously google it. People have taken that staple a real long way) and is currently supporting someone who cannot only improvise on the fly, but also follow some pretty complicated recipes.

Cooking is not scary. It is following directions. That’s all that it is. 

If you’re not completely sold on the idea that you should be working on being considered a wizard in the kitchen, cooking is also SCIENCE. And I would be remiss if I did not point out that (even if you aren’t a dad, husband, whatever) chicks dig a guy who knows his way around the kitchen.

Currently, I have a very modest collection of recipes here. Unless otherwise noted, most of them ARE NOT MINE. 

If they are not mine, I will obviously say so. I will link to the origin site, the original recipe or (if it’s something out of a book, for instance) I will link to the Amazon page featuring the book (if there isn’t any other stones for me to turn over).

While a lot of people would consider this a “hack” thing to do, I would also like to point out that they are missing the obvious: IF  A RECIPE IS ON HERE, IT’S BECAUSE THE ORIGINAL RECIPE DIDN’T HAVE ANY FUCKING PICTURES. 

My main goal in making recipes a part of this site is to educate people (men, specifically) that they should be cooking more instead of relying on simpleton shit like fast food or boxed dinners or any other garbage. The sad truth is that Men are less likely to get their asses in the kitchen if there aren’t any pictures. 

It is my hope that in posting the steps, with the pictures, and the general amount of time it took me to work through the recipe, that some of the sting will be taken out of learning how to cook.

Additionally, if people have a general problem with what I’m doing (be it the creator of the recipe or people in general), I warmly invite them to shut up: if you didn’t want people giving you free publicity about something you created, you shouldn’t have put it on the internet in the first place.