I recently decided I will no longer read another Curious George story to my kids. Not only do I find the Man with the Yellow Hat‘s supervision skills suspect, Curious George is a shining example of how not to behave. Each one of George’s “adventures” has these key elements:
- The Man with the Yellow Hat decides to leave a juvenile monkey that he stole from Africa and smuggled into the country alone for a moment. This moment is usually prefaced with, “Wait right here, George. I have to go and do this thing….”
- George, unsupervised, gets distracted by something. He then sets off to investigate the distraction thereby disregarding the instructions he received to stay put.
- George causes a problem(s). At the height of said problem(s), authority figures and the Man with the Yellow Hat come rushing in to reprimand George and clean up the mess George created. George gets upset and doesn’t understand why everyone is mad at him.
- George fixes an issue (usually minor) that was the direct result of a problem he created. In Curious George At The Aquarium, for example, George hops into the penguin exhibit and opens the door letting all the penguins out to run amok. As authority figures swoop in to wrangle up the liberated penguins, George sees a baby penguin in the water that cannot swim. He then dives in to rescue the baby fowl in the chaos.
- George is praised and rewarded for fixing an issue that was the direct result of a problem he created. Again, in Curious George At The Aquarium, George is not only thanked for “saving” the baby penguin, he is given passes and invited back to the aquarium to visit “anytime”.
So, George disobeys his slave owner father figure, runs off, causes trouble, fixes something that is a direct result of his actions and is praised for being a “good monkey”? Not on my watch. If one of my kids jump in the penguin exhibit and frees the penguins, the aquarium better not be thanking my kid, giving them free passes and inviting us to come back anytime soon. They better be calling CPS.
Kaye: I have a playhouse that I bought for a friend’s kid for Christmas and she doesn’t want it. Interested?
Me: Maybe. What does it look like?
Kaye: It’s this thing.
Me: The Discovery Kids Playhouse?
Me: I’ll tell what I would discover in that thing. My son touching himself.
Boy: Daddy, where is Aunt Becky?
Me: Aunt Becky is at work today, buddy.
Boy: Where is Grandpa?
Me: Grandpa is in Ohio.
Boy: Where is Captain America?
Me: Fighting Nazis somewhere.
Boy: Captain America is awesome.
Me: Damn straight.
While the boy’s birthing was a marathon fight like Rocky Balboa versus Ivan Drago (minus the sweet “No Easy Way Out” montage), the Broz girl child fired her way out of the chute like a Hitler-hating Jesse Owens in the 1936 Olympics.
As labor approached the noon hour, my mom asked if I wanted to run downstairs and get a sandwich with her because, “You need to keep your strength up too, Matty.” The wife gave me the go ahead as her contractions were light and I was not planning on being gone for long. 20 minutes later I walked back into the labor and delivery room and the wife had gone from being dilated at 4 to 6 (for those of you unfamiliar with the cervix during childbirth, this is like hitting a thirty-pointer in basketball).
Within the hour, the girl child was being tagged and our nurse was quoted as saying, “That was pretty intense.”
The House of Broz is currently fun, crazy and full of poop. Lots of poop.
Almost a year has passed since my last post on the MB. To say I have been focused on other things might be more of an understatement than when General Custer uttered, “Where did all these Indians come from?”
What have I been up to, you ask?
- Making Babies. The wife and I are expecting a girl child at the end of March. I am studying my Disney princesses and learning how to braid hair.
- Fathering The Boy. His obsessions with Spider-Man and trains are either legendary or emotionally damaging. He also has a penchant for stripping naked in the middle of the night and yelling at his stuffed animals.
- Broz Design-ing. I have entered year three and may have to let go of some of my control issues and hire some help.
I am drinking copious amounts of coffee and occasionally sleeping. Every so often I will wipe the crust from eyes and emerge from the design bunker to kiss the wife, play a hockey game and have a whiskey.
I have been a creative juggernaut this past year. I will be uploading a smattering of essays in the coming months that I am hoping to piece together someday into a book. I am currently getting my Rembrandt on and painting a self-portrait. Finally, I am back posting to the MB once again. Bestiality links will be imminent.
I must own this book and pass on its wisdom to the boy. Here are some of my favorites maxims with comments directed at my infant son as if he were an adult with the ability to reason:
- Surround Yourself With Smart People. You are who you hang out with. Your friends will expect you to do what they are doing alongside them. Smart people expect you to be intelligent and well read. Drug addicts expect you to pass the Guns N’ Roses coke mirror you won at the carnival balloon-dart game after snorting a line.
- It Is Not A Gang Without The Cool Girl. Be sure to always have at least one cool girl in your inner-circle of friends (bonus if she is hot). She can provide invaluable feminine perspective and is bound to bring around other cool girls. You may even marry her someday.
- Ask Your Mother To Dance. There is no better way to make your mother’s night then taking her for a spin around the dance floor and acting like it is fun and not a chore. You will do this and you will like it.
- Do Not Get All Fancy About Your Beer Or Coffee. Coffee? Black. Beer? Yes, please. It is as simple as that.
- Do Not Have A Girlfriend In College. Think of all the awesome shenanigans you can get into while attending college. Now think about doing them while maintaining a steady relationship with an average looking girl that you met in the first week of your freshman year.
- Never Sit Down On A Ball Field. Take A Knee. You do not sit down on a sports field unless you are severed at the torso and have no legs. Even then, you still take a stump.
- Always Meet Your Date At The Door. Do not be the dickhead honking the horn in the driveway. Go up to the door and ring the bell. Doing this affords you the opportunity to open the car door for her as well. Double the points, my son.
- Yes Ma’am. No Sir. No Exceptions. People that are older than you are always sir or ma’am. Even if your friends parents tell you to call them by name you still call them sir or ma’am.
- Try To Lose The Adverbs. Nothing illustrates how weak your vocabulary is more than an adverb. You are not very tired. You are exhausted. You are not extremely happy. You are ecstatic.
- Keep Your Word. Even the over-consumption of liquor does not excuse you from this one. If you tell someone you will do something, you do it.
- If You Are Good At Something, Never Do It For Free. Excluding sex, masturbating and murder.
- Walk It Off. This philosophy that can be applied to many situations including electrocution, being on fire and venereal diseases.
- Never Be Afraid To Ask Out The Best Looking Girl In The Room. Be fearless. What is the worst that can happen? She says no and you call her a lesbian? You are still in the same position you were in when you walked into the room.
- You Do Not Get To Choose Your Own Nickname. You are luckier than most as you have a sweet last name that can be shortened to “Broz” or “Brozo.” Even so, you do not ask anyone to call you this. They must do it of their own accord.
I have to give credit where credit is due: this kid has a fantastic idea for a Halloween costume. He does not need a double amputee to pull it off, however. Roll behind a Kohl’s and look for some discarded mannequin parts in the dumpsters. Piece together a torso and some arms and legs. Pick up some gold spray paint and you have yourself a rudimentary (yet light) C3P0. Imagine the logistics of having a double amputee strapped to your back all night. What happens if you (or the amputee) has to take a shit? Even without legs I am assuming a double amputee weighs 75 pounds (if not more). That is a lot of weight to be huffing around sober let alone with your veins pumping Jack Daniels. What if there is a slut dressed as Slave Leia at the party? Are you prepared for that menage-a-trois?
I think my idea for a Halloween costume is better than what this kid is attempting to pull of, anyway. Me as the “host body” and my infant son strapped to my mid-section as the alien Kuato from the movie Total Recall. I may have to hold out until next year for when the boy is talking so he can quip “Open your mind” upon presentation.
Me: Call me if you need anything while watching the boy.
Dad: You will be away somewhere where you cannot help me. So why the hell would I call you if you could not help me?
Me: Um, okay.
Dad: I will see you when you pick him up. Gotta go. Your mother just made us some sandwiches.
My mom called this morning to inform me that the boy was exposed to some form of a coughing disease a few weekends ago at her house (my young nephew being the little monkey from Outbreak in this scenario). I told my mom that this weekend the boy was exposed to the drunken stupidity of my sixteenth annual fantasy football draft, his dad repeatedly calling the Rockies a “bunch of dirty ball sacks” for getting swept in San Francisco and the assorted programming of the History Channel including Gangland and one very disappointing show about prison tattoos that mostly focused on the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas. She said I should get him get him “checked out” just to be safe.
Fatherhood has yet to provide me with any kind of spiritual awakening. After speaking to the other expectant fathers in my various babying classes, I was expecting angels to descend from heaven and play a harp rendition of “MMMBop” while I recognized the kinship of all living things when my son was born. Instead, I was relieved that the boy arrived with no serious health/birth defects and his mother did not go all 19th Century on me and bleed to death during childbirth and leave me and the boy to resent our stations in life and grow bitter over the years while tending to the family farm. It’s cool to have an entire life dependent on you. It’s also scary as hell. I think the true measure of whether or not I was a successful parent will come when it is time for me to go into a nursing home. If I did well? The boy will come visit me with his family on a semi-regular basis and take me out for a steak on occasion while tolerating my rants at the waitress for being too slow with the gravy. If I didn’t do well? I will suffer in a multi-level town house in Thornton and eat Alpo out of the can and call my son “a fucking pussy” when he makes his annual call to wish me a happy birthday. Right now the boy is much like a zombie army; singularly focused on food, growing at an exponential rate and adverse to any kind of a rest. I am debating the Boggins Window Crib to make nap time more interesting. Not sure if that will get me the steak dinner or the Alpo. Only time will tell.