During the summers that I don't have to go to work and am working as a full time father, I take one day out of the week to drop Erik Noisewater off at daycare. This particular
Daycare Day I was surprisingly efficient. 

1. I always go to coffee shops because I know for a fact I won't get anything done at home. I'll just end up watching television, napping, burping the worm, and who knows what other useless things I can do to avoid getting shit done. I find it fun to keep trying out new coffee shops, and yesterday's was an awesome Colombian one where you can pour yourself regular or sparkling water out of taps. Now that is cool because to be honest I only typically sip one coffee all day, and that's enough to keep me going. But I probably have around 5 to 6 waters, and sparkling stuff makes me feel like a big timer. So that's one thing I did. Found a dope coffee shop in my new neighborhood.

I always find a couch because I have shit posture. 

2. I turned submitted all my tests and essays for one online class and signed up for a new one. If I can knock down a couple more I can bump my pay grade up a little to help pay for necessities like diapers, mortgages, and craft beers.

3. Got a haircut. Do any of you have that place Sports Clips where it's a sports themed place in which you can watch ESPN, get a hot towel on your face, they massage your back with a vibrator (not that kind), and the ladies all wear referee outfits? It's probably a little sexist, right? I never really gave it much thought, but it's kind of like, "What do men like? Sports. Women in skimpy outfits. Women pampering them. And watching sports while women don't talk." Anyway, I did talk to my stylist, and she was a very nice young lady with an AD/HD 3-year-old. I was able to give her some advice in exchange for her maybe demeaning herself a little, for whatever that is worth.

I think they actually stopped wearing these, so I don't feel AS douchey going now.

4. After the haircut I stopped into my gym that is across the street. Not to work out. It's an off day with my marathon training. I just wanted a peanut butter, banana, and chocolate shake. Some guy named Jay came up when she swiped my gym pass, and I was like, "That's cool. Put that on Jay's account. Fuck him." The gym gal laughed and upgraded me to a large one for the price of a medium. The large one was way too much shake, as wide of a cup as a gallon of milk, but I still finished that bad boy because it tastes like chocolate, bananas, and peanut butter for God's sakes.

5. Then I thought I should get in a hot yoga class to stretch out my legs that are getting destroyed from all the running. I laid my gym mat on the floor, and then when I flapped the towel out to put on top of the mat, something went flying out that had been stuck to the towel. When I looked more closely tot see what it was, it was lacy. What could it be? Oh shit! Panties! I just shot panties across the room in a yoga studio. Everyone in there is going to think I'm some sort of panty-sniffing yoga pervert when in actuality my wife's panties just clung to the towel from the laundry. But who would believe that?

No, I don't wear those pants. Nor the glasses. And no, I can't do that with my legs. 

And they just had to be lacy, right? If they were her workout bloomers they would look like maybe it was a headband or something. Nope. Unmistakeably panties. I swiftly scooped them up and snuck them in my pocket. Honestly, it was hard to get into my zen mode during some of the more challenging stretches because in the back of my mind I was worried about the damn panties slipping out of my pocket and back onto the studio floor.

6. Aside from the panties thing, the yoga was really great. I left feeling very recharged and at one with where I was in that time and place, if that makes any sense. Hard to explain I suppose unless you do some yoga from time-to-time. I only get around to going to a class every so often, but every time I think to myself that I need to make it a weekly event. A lot like blogging, which I'm sure you can understand. Then as I'm walking to my car I see two meter maid guys looking at my license plate and typing in their computer thingies. Shit! I tried to explain that I had no idea it was a metered lot, which was true. They were having none of it. One guy was training the other guy, and he talked to the trainee like I wasn't even there. He wouldn't even look at me.



Every time I have come out to my car and the person was in the midst of writing a ticket, they have let me go. Isn't that kind of an unspoken rule? Like, "Okay, you win this round. But watch your ass!" Nope. This guy was having none of that. Maybe he had to be tough in front of the trainee, or maybe he was just a dick. I was thinking to myself that if I wanted out of this one I would have to grovel and kiss this guy's ass, and I couldn't bring myself to do that. I hated him, so I would rather just pay the fifty bucks. After getting in my car (because I always think of the right move after it's too late) what I thought I could have done was to throw a yoga towel, or a pair of panties, over the license plate and peel out of that bitch. Next time. All the more reason to keep a pair of panties in your pocket. What in the hell am I talking about?

Until next time, Seven Readers. Get shit done today like a daddy on a damn mission. What do you have cracking this weekend? I intend to go to a Cubs game tomorrow night with my season ticket buddies and it will likely be an evening of straight-up drunken, skin-tight* buffoonery. Talk to you again next week, probably a few brain cells lighter, but I'll still try to be funny as best I can.
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*No, that doesn't make any sense. It's a Guided By Voices lyrics. Few of their lyrics make any kind of sense, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I saw my good friend, Oates, at a Super Bowl party. It had been a long time since I had seen him. He is that guy who gets a girlfriend and then completely disappears, and he has demonstrated that it is a consistent pattern in all three of the committed relationships I have seen him in. Also, he typically likes mean and nasty princess bitch types. You see, Oates can be a little vain. He dresses very nicely, his hair is always styled perfectly with every hair right in place, and he expects the same from the women he chooses. Oates is a great guy, but the problem is, those types of women are sometimes terrible people. When he has one of those girlfriends in his life, he never brings them out around us, and in the rare cases when he does, he acts completely different - not himself.

But on Super Bowl Sunday the one he has been seeing is there, she is a great-looking gal, and she could not be nicer. And Oates was completely acting like good-old-Oates, being himself. There were a lot of babies crawling around the joint, and one of his former ladies would not agree to commit to a baby party. Probably partly out of fear of getting spit-up on her posh clothing (I wanted to use a name brand here, but I have no idea what is nice these days). Oates' lady could not get enough babies, as a matter of fact. She must have held four or five babies through the course of the four quarters, Lady Gaga's bungee jumping halftime performance, and the overtime.

The party was over at my buddy Haircut's place, and Haircut's son who just turned three was examining his foxy patient (Oates' Lady), checking her heart beat (but maybe more to check her boobies?), giving her shots and laughing hysterically, and trying to amputate her toes with a pair of scissors. Haircut said that his boy actually likes the company of pretty ladies. He is no dummy.

At one point I am walking around holding my guy, Baby Erik, sipping my Zombie Dust (that's a beer) and dipping things into crab dip with my spare hand, and I notice Oates' female companion smiling and staring at me. I walked over to the fridge to get a fresh beer, popped it open, looked up, and there she was again gawking at me with that smile. "Dang, Dr. Ken," I thought, "You still got it, you old dog, you." Must have been my new jeans, or maybe those long jogs or all those laps I swam had really payed off. Then it dawned on me that it was what I was holding that was the object of her affection. Baby Erik had charmed another one. I asked Oates' lady if she wanted to hold him, and she jumped off the couch as if she had been waiting forever for me to ask. Waiting for me to catch on that Erik is the cute one.

"Hey, girl. You staring at that line in my fat wrist?"

This kid is quite the charmer, I must say. And Doctor Kenneth and Doctor Haircut's Son both say so.

Okay, boys and girls.  I got a few topics in the memo thingy on my phone to talk to you all about.  Should be funny.  Here goes.

1. I used to get my haircuts at a place in Roscoe Village in Chicago that had a punk rock vibe, and I think you had to have at least a half dozen tattoos to work there.  When the gal working on me asked what I was doing I told her that I was helping a friend with dry wall in his condo.  She got excited about this and asked if I could help her out at her place.  Evidently her baby-daddy got pissed at her and punched a hole in the wall.  She seemed a little crazy, and by the sound of it, baby daddy was equally crazy and twice as violent.  Going over to her place sounded like sure fire way for Doctor Ken to a hole punched in his head, so I made an excuse to decline the offer.  I actually damn near leapt out of the chair with my hair half cut.

Dry Wall Punch: Makes You Feel Better.

2. I met up with my buddy's uncle last night.  I call him my uncle too.  He was nine or ten Schlitz deep as he was telling me that his work is trying to eliminate his position and trying to find a way to let him go.  Which might not be hard because apparently he called his boss an idiot.  Actually, it was his boss's boss, which sounds worse to me.  They sent him to the human resources guy who had his hair parted and draping high off of his head, spritzed down with aqua net, and when he talked his hair bounced around merily.  The HR guy said that it seemed as if Not-Uncle had a hard time looking him in the eye, and he inquired if maybe he had a hard time looking other coworkers in the eye, and he had to fight telling him that it was due to Not-Uncle being unable to take his eye off of HR guy's horrible parted hair bouncing around.  Had he knocked back one or two of those Schlitz at work, I'm quite sure he would have told him as much.  Not-Uncle is one of the funniest humans on planet earth.

Spray that part down and just watch it bounce!

3. I was at the doctor today because work has been stressful and making me break out with cole sores lately.  I guess it's herpes but not dick-herpes, thankfully.  But I don't want to give Mrs. Noisewater the gift that keeps on giving down in her nether regions the next time I decide to pay a visit to her . . .  Anyway, figured it's a good idea to get some good medication.  So the doctor is describing how people get it, and she says "You know, you might get it as a kid when an uncle kisses you and . . ."  I laughed my ass off and said, "What in the hell?!"  What crazy disease infested uncle is kissing his nephews on the lips?  I think she might want to rethink the vignettes she uses to illustrate these types of ailments.

"Come here and give your Uncle Rico a kiss."

4. Then when I'm walking home from the doctor, still mulling over the doctor's pervert uncle stories, I see a guy fighting with his girlfriend with his hands on his head and looking like he would rather be anywhere but on that corner right then.  More like she was fighting and he was just staring helplessly off in space.  A block later I saw another couple in the same scenario.  So I started singing "Run To the Hills" by Iron Maiden, as if to say run for the hills, young man!  I think this is a good idea to help out my fellow man.  Try this out some time, readers.

Enjoy your day and thanks for reading.

The Incredible Exploding Boobies

Last night I met Haircut and Oates for some buckets of beers and perhaps a few too many chilled shots of Rumplemintz at a hole in the wall bar nearby in Chicago.  The place is kind of famous for its giant boobed alcoholic bartender who gets a little too drunk while she is working, screwing up orders and saying insane stuff.  She wasn't working last night, but she did come in to hang out on her night off, something I have seen more than once before, and she was very excited to see Oates, who she views as a little brother, often giving him unsolicited romantic advice.

For some reason we got on the topic of her giant fake boobs, and she told us that she has had two accidents resulting in having to have them replaced.  The first happened when she was on a first date with a guy and she felt one of them suddenly leak, putting a damper on the date.  Literally.

The second one is the one that made me fall out laughing and just made me glad to be alive to hear wacky stuff like this.  She was leaning into a fence trying to get the perfect picture of a giraffe when she was suddenly jolted by the electric fence, exploding her tits!  After one of those mishaps, she said the owner of the bar payed for another round of boobs for her.  Two good perks to working at that bar! 

Can I help you?  Did you get a good enough look this time? (This isn't actually her, just a random Google image)

Have you ever heard of anything like this, or do you have a bartender or barfly tale you would like to share?