"It's not nice to call people names." Okay, fine, but what about race horses? "Uh, what do you mean?" As you may know -- "I don't." -- I'm going to own race horses someday. "Really?" And you know what that means... "I hate to be mean, but, what does that mean?" As owner, I'll get to name my horses... "But sir, the horse already has a name..." Oh yeah, I'm going to flex my very creative muscles. "You have muscles?" I can't wait to get started. I'll give my ponies really cool names, something wild like 'El Caballo.' "You're going to name your horse 'Horse'?" Hey, I just have a knack for that sort of thing, I guess. It's a gift (though I still can't figure out why I wasn't allowed to name my own kids). Another name I have ready for one of my future horses is 'I Ate Too Much'. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think? "To be honest, sir, that makes my stomach churn..." Oh, you're just saying that... "Maybe you should stop while you're ahead." Nah, I'll keep going -- so many names, so little time: 'Where Have Those Hooves Been?' and 'Tail of Two Cities' are two of the many other monikers I'd have to consider for my four-legged friends. "Frankly, sir, a monkey could come up with better names." Yes, this name-calling thing is really my, uh, calling... "There's a couple of things I'd like to call you right about now." Having said that, why limit myself to horses? Maybe I should expand the business... "None of my business, but what business?" It's the one where expectant parents can come to me for name-calling advice... "We can't decide on 'Bruce ' or 'Wayne.'" I can do better -- name him 'Shirley.' (don't knock it -- it was a popular boys name awhile back) Yes, I'll be more than happy to name couples' children if they can't settle on a name. Something memorable, something unique... Something like -- I got it! -- Engelbert Humperdinck. "Uh, that name's already taken." Oh, well, in that case, how about 'Robert R. Roberts'? "Uh, we'll get back to you..."
We're paying for music lessons. "Oh, you're a singer?" Only in the shower. Actually, I'm talking about trumpet lessons. "Cool. We always knew you were talented at something." Uh, the lessons are for our younger son, a boy. "Oh, that's nice, too..." Yes, and the lessons are for good reason: the kid's got a lot of hot air in him. "That's wonderful!" His mother and I couldn't agree more. We put our heads together (not literally) and decided it was a good idea to steer our boy toward music. "Good... that's a good idea..." Not because he's my kid, but he displays an uncanny ability when it comes to the trumpet. I mean, you should see how good he is at putting the instrument back in its case at record speeds. "Sounds like you have a protegé on your hands." Oh, I wouldn't go that far... Though I do expect him to headline a concert someday. But no pressure. In the meantime, some have suggested that our Trumpet Boy get in a little practice time at freeway exits, maybe pick up a few bucks along the way... "It sure would help for college." That's what I say, right? It's never too soon to start saving. Yes, I really think our son has the talent to go a long way -- as long as he applies all that air in an appropriate, socially acceptable manner. Now, let's not fool ourselves. There are some inherent risks that come with trumpet playing -- like puffy cheeks that resemble a chipmunk's. "You don't want that for your son, do you?" No worries. I figure he could always audition for the Mexican version of The Godfather, right? "Don Corleone, how would you like your quesadillas?" I tell ya, my son's grandparents will be so proud. He'll be a one-boy mariachi band. "Play us 'La Cucaracha!'" And just to clarify, this is not a replay of when I was a kid. Back in the day, my dad 'encouraged' me to play my guitar for every friend and relative that set foot in our house... "Play something -- or else!" No siree, no way will I subject my kid to such awkward moments. No way... I want to ease him into the world of music, to make him feel comfortable with his God-given gift... Don't believe me? Then why else would I be trying to convince his brother and sister to play the tuba and trombone, respectively... "Not in a million years, Pops." It doesn't hurt to ask...
"Daddy, I know what I want to do when I grow up." No, absolutely not... Where in the world do kids get their crazy ideas? "From their parents, usually..." Oh... In any case, there's something I find very disturbing... "So, you're saying you're a disturbed person..." Look, my daughter's shown interest in dissecting a human body, maybe making it a career. "A dead body, right?" I'm not sure -- I'm too afraid to ask -- but let's hope so. I'm concerned. I mean, why such proclivity for the macabre? "Pro... maca... what?" I'd like to place all the blame for her strange career interests on horror flicks she watches. "Oh, you're just being silly..." Hey, you have to admit, slasher movies play tricks on kids' minds. I mean, why else would my kid want to cut open a body, right? Then again, as a parent, I'll take some responsibility. "It's about time..." You see, years ago -- over my wife's objections -- I decided it wasn't a good idea to let our daughter dissect frogs at school. "Why not? That's very educational." Nobody understood my hard-line stance at the time. And I was hesitant to explain my reasoning. Until now... I just hope it's not too late. You see, out of respect to frogs -- particularly Kermit the Frog -- I wouldn't allow it. Look, just between you and me, I always wanted a stuffed Kermit as a kid (my mom thought it was healthier for me to snuggle with a stuffed panda, instead). I never got a Kermit, so years later, even as an adult, I felt like I owed something to Kermit and his amphibious pals. "You made a pact?" Yes, I promised myself -- and Kermit -- that I'd never slice and dice a defenseless frog. "What about frog legs? Have you ever eaten those?" I'm going to ignore that... Anyway, that's the explanation for why I never let my kid dissect a frog. "I bet you feel better talking about it, huh?" Yeah, but now look at the results. My daughter's having weird thoughts. She's looking at humans in a whole different light. "Oh, you have nothing to worry about..." I can only hope it's just a phase she's going through... "Daddy, do you have an axe I can borrow...?" Gulp...
Before I start -- "You just did." -- I want to make something perfectly clear: In no way, shape, or form do I want to turn the following into sophomoric, silly, bathroom humor. "Fine, we'll behave like mature adults..." Don't get me wrong: bathroom humor has a place in our society... mainly in bathrooms, outhouses, and porta potties across America... So, where do I begin? "You began here quite a while ago..." Okay, so... Apparently, dinosaurs had much to do with Global Warming way back when... "When exactly was when?" Believe it or not, we can blame the change in climate during the Dinosaur Era on methane gas, if you catch my whiff, uh, drift... "You mean...?" It seems that British scientists with too much time on their hands learned that dinosaurs really affected the environment with their uh, bodily, uh, gases. "No way!" Yes way! "You've got to be joking!" Not at all. I'm being totally serious. "Totally? -- since when?" This is no time to joke. No time to laugh. "But it's funny!" No, it's not! We're talking science here, people! "I never liked science -- especially dissecting those frogs." Thank you for sharing... Simply put, dinosaurs were the first to cause global warming: the Allosaurus, the Brachiosaurus -- never mind the Ford Taurus... "You've got something against Al Gore, don't you? You're mocking him! You're poking fun at him!" Wait just a minute, I'm not poking anybody! And I'm certainly not trying to get political here. Please, listen to me -- and wipe that silly grin off your face, will ya? "But this is hilarious!" Please stop... "Okay, go on..." Thank you... So, to summarize, dinosaurs contributed to their own demise by -- "You're making this up." Think what you want, but why would I lie? "We know your type." I'm just the messenger, folks. Scientists are sure about this... By the way, I'd like to know what the families of these brilliant minds thought about the dinosaur findings... "We sent you to Cambridge and Oxford for this?!"
"Location. Location. Location." When I'm not busy solving many of our world's problems, I dabble in real estate. In fact, I consider myself somewhat of an expert in that department. "Expert? -- you?" Alright, wise guy... To be perfectly honest, I get amused when I read about those mansions that go up for sale. "Are you in the market?" Right now, the only market I'm into sells me 2 lbs. of chorizo. As far as purchasing a mansion, I'm not interested. Never will be... "Too expensive for you?" Please, don't insult me. "Are you envious of those than can actually afford big homes?" Now you're getting me mad. If you must know, there's something about big homes that really bugs me. "You are dripping with envy..." I don't drip for anyone! No one, you hear me?! Look, if you really must know, I can't get past the idea that these multi-million dollar homes have so many bathrooms. "Bathrooms? What do you have against bathrooms?" Nothing -- especially when I have to use one... If you'll allow me, awhile back I went to an Open House at one one of those luxury homes. "How luxurious was it?" You'll never believe the first thing the real estate agent says to me: "Let me show you the bathrooms." Really? For those who know me: Do I look like a guy that spends all his time in the bathroom? (better yet, don't answer that, please) Anyway, that house had so many bathrooms, I ran out of fingers for counting. "You should've taken off your shoes." The whole time I'm thinking, "Who actually has time to use all these bathrooms?" (I'd have to carry a map just to remember where each is located. ) And another thing, there's a lot of pressure in keeping up all those bathrooms. "Bathroom no. 17 needs more candles!" Imagine living in a home where double-digit toilet seats need to be put down -- and aren't. "That's a lot to worry about." Not to mention -- I'm about to -- all those wet towels that have to be picked up off the floor (my kids are allergic to doing so). Of course, my worst nightmare then comes to mind: "Where's my toothbrush?! I don't remember where I left my beloved toothbrush!" I'm sorry all you mansion lovers, but so many bathrooms are a waste of space -- and energy, if you ask me. "I don't ask you nothin'..." Uh, let's keep it that way...
Maybe I'm too sensitive, I don't know.... "Please, let it out. Let it all out..." Oh, I don't want to make a big deal about it, really... "No, you have to express your feelings, it's okay..." Well, if you insist... Everybody take a seat.... "I'd rather stand." Recently, I got my feelings hurt pretty badly. "You poor thing, what happened?" I'm heartbroken, actually. "Don't say it, she -- " He. It was a 'he.' "Huh?" I must say, I never thought it would happen to me. "Hey, it happens to the best of us..." You see, a few days ago -- it was morning, actually -- I was driving on the freeway and I let a big truck squeeze in front of me. Then, I waited. And I waited some more, for some sort of acknowledgment. Anything. Any sign of "Thank You!" Well, I got nothing... That's right, the truck driver did NOT bother to flash his tail lights -- nothing! "Why, the nerve of that guy!" That's what I said! To be taken for granted like that, it hurt. It really hurt. In case anyone's wondering, my eyes welled with tears. "You cried about that?" Wouldn't you? "Uh... no..." What's so difficult about flashing your light to someone in an appreciative way, right? Right?! "You may need some help..." So, what did I do after that? Why, I did what anybody else with half a brain would do: I followed that truck. "You what?" Yeah, I kept pace with that guy for a good long while... I even cut him off. "You really do need help." All with the hope that he'd finally flash his lights. "And...?" Negative. So, I slowed down, got behind the big, bad truck again and memorized the license place. I was determined to have the DMV hear about this absolute lack of manners (All I got was an answering machine, so I left a message.) Anyway, it seems I lost track of time in my quest for the trucker's attention. "How long were you driving?" Funny you should ask. First, the sun started to set -- more than once. Then, the next I knew, I saw a big sign. It read: "Welcome to Canada." Of all places... "You drove all the way to -- " Anybody know how to say "I don't have a passport " in Canadian?
"You don't want us to do what?" You heard me. "Why not?" My decision is final! "You can't be serious..." Yes -- I refuse to be considered for any Father of the Year awards... "But... but..." No matter what the masses think, my mind is set. Especially with Father's Day right around the corner. Nothing will change my mind... "You'll change your mind..." No! Do I make myself clear? "Yes, sir... Are you sure don't want -- ?" I'm not worthy of any Daddy awards, okay? Don't make me explain... "Please, explain yourself." I'm not going to -- I'm a bad dad, okay? That's all I'm going to say... I'm a rotten dad. "Rotten egg bad?" Call it what you will. You see, some weeks ago, I let my younger son near a very bad influence. Really bad. What was I thinking? I'm supposed to be there for him, to protect him, to steer him away from wrong... "You don't mean -- " Yes, the Evil Empire... "How could you?! -- the New York Yankees?!" Yes... "No! How could you do that to your own son?!" It's terrible, I know... I haven't been the same since. As a life-long Dodgers fan, I don't know how I ever allowed my child -- my own flesh and blood -- to wear a Yankees jersey. "Damn Yankees..." That's what I say. Now, I wake up every night, tossing and turning, hoping it was all a bad dream, but no, it really happened. "You let him wear a Yankees jersey?" It was only for a school project, but my conscience, it won't let me rest. You see, the kid wanted to do a report on Babe Ruth, but he had to dress up like the Bambino and... he got me at a weak moment, okay? Now, I'm haunted by Ghosts of Dodgers Past -- Pee Wee and Jackie -- Van Lingle Mungo! They follow me everywhere, they poke and they prod -- they won't leave me alone! "Good. You deserve that and more!" I totally agree. That's why I renounce my candidacy for any Father of the Year accolades. "Accolades? -- that's a joke." Look, I feel terrible for what I did. I can only hope my son recovers, that those nasty pinstripes didn't dig deep into his veins... "To the dungeon with you!" Yes, I know. I deserve whatever punishment comes my way, no matter what it is... Even if it's water boarding... But before we go there, I do have a question: the water's not too chilly, is it?
