I didn't think it would ever happen to me. I hoped it would never happen to me. I can't believe it happened to me. "I can't hear you...blahblahblah...!"

Backstory:

We live in a subdivision where our backyard sits against an elementary ...

I am the coolest dad ever. There.I said it.

I don't want to toot my own horn...I don't even have a horn, but if I did I could probably blow out about three slobbery notes before passing out from lack of oxygen to my brain. (Did I just ...

I'm going to start this post by saying...

I have made a concerted effort to remain apolitical on this blog...keep my personal political beliefs out of the mix.I am desperately going to try and continue that practice because this blog is supposed to be funny and entertaining; it's supposed to be about my kids and family. Well, I may be walking a fine line today, but I DO believe it IS about my children and family; however, not quite as humorous. It's about the safety and well-being ...

I was apparently raised in a prison camp by ruthless, evil parents whose only goal was to torture, maim and misguide me. Or not.

My P.C. friends, get ready for your underthings to get all wadded up, because I'm gonna bring it!

Ready? Society is forcibly nurturing a generation of self-entitled, spoiled rotten, whiny, smarty-ass little weenies we are calling...our children. For some of us, it is happening against our will...others embrace it and I, not

Look out...here comes the crazy...!

I mentioned at the inception of this blog that I may occasionally go off on a rant...that I may say things that can't be unsaid...that I may, at some point, sound a tad more nuts than I normally do. I have one festering inside me right now...a rant, that is. It is on simmer at the moment, but I am sensing that at any moment someone is going to throw gasoline on the embers and...POOF! I'm gonna go off. And with gas at $4.00+ a gallon...that's just not prudent. I am doing everything in my power to quell the urge to 'splode, but I'm losing the battle with myself. So...let's start typing and see what happens...

Yesterday was a true test for me...it was my make it or break it moment. If I was truly going to Sheen It, it was going to happen yesterday. After all the poo that's been flung at me recently, I am on the verge of pulling a Jack Torrance. I'm sharpening my axe and getting ready to hack my way through your bathroom door. Heeerrreee's Johnny!!! So far I am treading water, but I make no promises...I could go Vesuvius at any moment.

I think I'm a pretty laid back cat. I try to find the humor in almost everything. I can generally let most things that are annoying and troublesome roll off. But lately I've been wading through a crap-storm of weirdness and I can't seem to shake the desire to run screaming into the street. If I wasn't 100% certain that one of my neighbors would shoot me or run me over with their turbo-charged electric scooter, I'd do it. It all started when Charlie Sheen went cuckoo for Coco Puffs and then that freakin' Super Moon broke the horizon a few weeks back (see last week's post for the back story) and everything really started careening down the slippery slope of wacky. I don't know if it's all just coincidence or if I have actually gone insane. Probably the latter. I feel like Norm from Cheers...It's a dog eat dog world, and I'm wearing Milkbone underwear. Not really...I'm not wearing underwear. Yup. Insane.

My therapist (if I had one of those) would have a field day with me. She would be scheduling me on the frequent flyer plan of head shrinkage...as soon as I walked out, I'd be walking right back in like a revolving door. My psychowackologist would be at Staples opening an unlimited line of credit and stocking up on notepads and No. 2 pencils so she could sit there, nod and doodle $$$ signs and say, "So, how does that make you feel? Do you have suppressed feelings of inadequacy? Did you bring your Black Card? Are you wearing underwear?" She would look at me and all she would see is the reflection of gold doubloons in my darting, bloodshot eyes. Hundred dollar bills would be shooting out of my butt like paper airplanes. She would be fantasizing about buying her vacation home on the French Riviera with all of the loot she'd be hoovering out of me. I would have to put one or two head quackers on retainer, for sure. I imagine that if I had a therapist...she would need a therapist.

I'm not sure why my therapist is a she. There's nothing wrong with he psychoproctologists, but I just picture my future shrink as a woman for some reason. Maybe it's because I'd actually pay attention to a girl doctor because I'm a dude. Maybe it's because I would be hoping for a complimentary hernia check along with my 50 minute bitch session. Turn your head and cough. Hmmm...I feel a bit of tension? You'd have tension, too! Wanna see my axe? No? Figures. Maybe it's simply because women are smarter than men. Who knows...but my mind bender would definitely be a chick.

I was also tossing around other methods of therapy...trying to mix it up a bit and maybe stumble onto something.

How about yoga? Getting one with the universe; finding my zen place; having someone tell me when to bend over? Sounds a little too prison shower-ish for me. It works for a lot of folks...but for me? Naw. (Although I would look smokin' h.o.t.t. in yoga pants.) I'm not really the type to center my chi anyway. I'd much rather kick my chi's ass and go for martinis. What the hells bells is a Downward Tilting Doggysytle Bender-Over Thingy anyway, fercrapsakes? Hmmm...wait a dang minute...maybe I will try yoga...or at least watch it through the window... (Nice axe.)

Massage therapy sounds relaxing. I can feel the negative stress ions that are invading my aura releasing themselves into the terrestrial black orifice of peacefulness right now. Or I have gas. With my luck I'd get a masseuse from East Germany named Helga that was an olympic shotput gold medalist with hands like cinder blocks and a beard that would make any man jealous. Getting a massage from her (?) would be like getting hit by a Peterbilt hauling lead. I'll pass.

Acupuncture? I'm not afraid of needles, but voluntarily having a thousand of them jammed into my flesh just isn't buttering my bread...know what I mean? I'm not a weenie, but what if my acupressure point is a millimeter over that way...or that way...and my spear wielding healer had a few saki-bombs at lunch? The document on the wall that reads: ACME Skool of Accupunkchur...[Insert Name] Done Purtty Good...should be a clue. Keep your needles to yourself, Mr. Wang, thankyouverymuch.

I think I'll just stick to my old tried and true therapy. When all else fails:

Sapphire Martini, Extra Dry...drier than a camel fart...just let the gin know that there is vermouth in the general area. Up. 2 Olives. Gently shaken. And keep 'em coming, please.

Now.....what were we talking about...?

(Hey! Looky there...I'm my own therapist!)