I guess it's been about a year since I started shaving my head, and over that time I've developed a routine of sorts. I go outside, shave, shake the loose hairs from my head, and then call Hot Wife out to "touch it up." There are invariably little nooks and crannies that I miss.

I use setting 11 on my shaver, which leaves my hair looking like this:

[photo deleted]

We're going out with some friends tonight and since it has been about three weeks since I'd shaved my head, I followed my normal routine this afternoon. After I finished my part -- pretty well, I thought -- I asked Hot Wife to come out and work her magic. She took the guard off of the top of the shaver (RED FLAG!) to sweep it clean of little hair bits inside. Then she strode back and told me to put my head down. (RED FLAG!)

"Oh," she said. "You missed a big spot back here, Danny."

With that, she clicked the shaver on and drug the razored edge from left to right across the back of my head. It made an odd sound, sort of like a lawnmower when it runs over a sprinkler head, but I wasn't entirely convinced that something had gone wrong until Hot Wife said, and I quote, "OHMYGODDANNYWHATDIDIDOOOO!"

"I don't know. You tell me."

She didn't really have to. I knew the second I saw large tufts of hair falling to the ground around me that she'd forgotten to put the guard back onto the shaver. As a result, she had carved a straight line of baldness into my hair.

She felt horrible, but she couldn't stop laughing. Me? Not so much.

After some hemming and hawing, I told her we might as well finish the job. But she couldn't do it. She felt too bad. And she was laughing too hard. So I took the shaver and made myself look like an alien with really bushy eyebrows.

Like so:

I thought about wearing a hat for the next two weeks. I thought about getting a wig or some extensions. I thought about going into hiding. But then I remembered that thing tonight. With our friends. Whom I know are going to get quite a belly ache from laughing at this predicament.

Oh well. I can dish it out, and now it's time to find out if I can take it.

I need someone to explain this to me:

By a vote of 76-22, the Senate passed the Lieberman-Kyl amendment, which threatens to “combat, contain and [stop]” Iran via “military instruments.”

By "explain" I mean tell me how the elected leadership of the US is setting us up to go for a hat trick of overseas quagmires. Are we not having enough trouble in Iraq and Afghanistan? Have we not sacrificed enough?

I'm doubly sickened by the revelation that two Senators were too busy campaigning for President to cast a vote for this issue. Obama: No vote. McCain: No vote. In my mind, that's justifiable cause to eliminate those chickenshits from consideration for my vote. Someone who dodges the most horrifying issue conceivable just so he doesn't have to answer for it in a future debate is hardly what I'd call Presidential caliber.

I find this language morbidly humorous:

"Secretary of Defense Robert Gates stated on September 16, 2007 that 'I think that the administration believes at this point that continuing to try and deal with the Iranian threat, the Iranian challenge, through diplomatic and economic means is by the preferable approach. That the one we are using. We always say all options are on the table, but clearly, the diplomatic and economic approach is the one that we are pursuing.'"

Right. Because we've seen the current administration show all kinds of restraint when it comes to giving the order to bomb another country into the stone age. Should be finding those WMDs any day now.

I'm so sick of this. I'm so sick of our elected leaders using fear as a tool of governance. I'm so sick of us picking fights. I'm so sick of my own cynicism about whether we go to war for a purpose or as a money making venture for the powerful. I'm so sick of people using 9/11 as an excuse for any nonsensical government decision. I'm so sick of watching news reports about Katrina victims still living in squalor and inner-city hospitals closing their doors because they have no funding juxtaposed against a report that our mission in Iraq has now cost this country more than the entire Vietnam war. I'm so sick of this country's arrogance. I'm so sick of money taking precedence over decency.

I need someone to explain this to me.

When I was in the throes of depression I was inundated with suggestions exalting the efficacy of various healing behaviors. From clinically trained professionals, there was advocacy of the usual suspects: eat right, exercise, spend time with friends, avoid drugs and alcohol (see: deal-breaker) and so forth. From friends and acquaintances, there were claims about the healing powers of green tea, yoga, meditation, neti pots, marijuana, auto-asphyxiation, Oprah Winfrey, and medicated foot powder.

I tried a lot of those remedies but none of them worked. Wanna know what did work?

Rage Against The Machine.

For me, there's something primal and cathartic about putting on some loud, angry music peppered with curse words and screaming it at the top of my lungs. It feels like healing.

What's especially effective about Rage is the subject matter of their music. They're rebels. Their lyrics reflect the angst and disenfranchisement of the oppressed people in this country. They mention polarizing freedom fighters and figureheads of various causes, and their music is based largely on social justice and equality. I don't always agree with their politics, but the power and passion in their music is indisputable.

I was reminded of this yesterday while sitting in traffic. The entire world was stopped, as it is every day at that hour, and all I wanted was to go home and see my kids. I was pissed. So I hit play, and on came a song called "Killing In The Name." It's an ugly, hateful song -- but it draws my anger out every time I hear it. I play it loud, spraying spit into my windshield as I scream and drumming my index fingers against my steering wheel. I must look like a freak to the other drivers around me, especially when I shout these lyrics:

Yeah! Come on!

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Motherfuckerrrrrrrr!

Like I said: ugly, hateful, mean. But it's better than auto-asphyxiation.

(Not that I would know that for certain. Just hypothesizing.)

What do you do to manage stress and anger?

One of the great things about being a dad is that it forces a guy to perfect his negotiation skills. Others may call it bribery, which is their right, but that puts too negative a spin on it for my taste. I’m staying with negotiation.

Hot Wife’s friends took her out for a birthday dinner last night, which left me home alone with the kids. On virtually any other night, this would not have been a problematic scenario. But it so happened that I had a pretty important phone call to make last night, and if recent history meant anything, placing such a call at home with no security between the kids and me was a recipe for disaster.

“OK, guys,” I said, “We need to discuss something.”

“SHE HIT ME FIRST!” my son said. “SHE SHOULD BE IN TROUBLE, NOT ME!”

“That’s not what I want to discuss, Mr. Guilty Conscience,” I said.

“Oh. Never mind then.”

“Listen, I have to make a call right now and it’s important that you guys don’t interrupt me. So let’s figure this out. Do you think you can hang out and watch TV for a little while so I can talk to this person in peace?”

“OK,” my daughter said, “but I get to watch MY show.”

“NO!” he protested. “It’s my turn!”

“Is there anything that you can both watch without freaking out?” I asked. “How about Zack and Cody? Will that work?”

They agreed. I found their show on the list of recorded shows (thank you, Baby Jesus, for DVR) (Is it OK for me to thank you even if I’m Jewish?) (Also, I like to picture you in a tuxedo t-shirt, too). I pushed play and was thrilled to see that the kids became engaged immediately.

“You guys good? If so, I’m going to go make my phone call.”

Silence. Awesome.

I turned and began to leave the room, but a little voice halted me.

“Daddy?” she asked sweetly. “Can we have dessert?”

Enter The Negotiator.

“Hmm. What do you have in mind?”

“Ummmm. How about some chocolate chips?”

“Oooooh yeah!” her brother exclaimed. “Chocolate chips!”

Thinking. Scheming. Calculating.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “You can both have 10 chocolate chips…”

“YESSSSSS!” they said in unison.

“…and if you can keep yourselves busy while I make my call, you can have 10 more when I hang up. Deal?”

There was no verbal answer. There was merely the act of the two of them grabbing each other’s hands, jumping around with delight, and then a long, firm hug.

Now THAT’S a negotiation! Everybody wins.

As I apportioned the chocolate chips that served as the deposit on our deal, I stopped for a moment and said, “One more thing, you guys. If mommy ever finds out about this, I’ll deny every word of it.”

There may have been a thin shred of doubt in my mind that the world is plummeting headlong into the crapper, but that last little smidgen was obliterated the other night by the Discovery Health channel.

Hot Wife and I have taken a shine to the myriad “reality” shows based on surgical procedures. Dr. 90210 is a particular favorite because the relationship between that narcissistic Brazilian doctor with the heinous fashion sense and his ditzy, blond wife, “the codependent enabler”, makes us feel like maybe we’re not so abnormal after all. But we are equal opportunity gawkers. Any show that portrays folks going under the knife is OK with us.

But recently I have become aware of the most ridiculous double standard in the recorded history of shitty television.

These medical reality shows pull no punches when it comes to the surgical procedures. They’ll show pictures of someone’s intestines being filleted, a breast sliced open like a baked potato and a huge slab of skin and flesh that has been removed from someone’s body during a tummy tuck procedure. No gore too gory.

But nipples must be blurred out. Must not show nipples.

To review: Blood, gore and perforated colons = kosher. Nipples = bad.

I think I speak for many when I say WHAT THE FUCK!?

What dillweed made this decision? One can only assume the determination that nipples create a sexually explicit scenario was made by some suit at the FCC who hasn’t been laid since the Carter administration. Sir, if you’re reading this, here’s a word to the wise: when you are watching a woman have her boob slashed in two and held agape by the Jaws of Life, there is no room for titillation. They could superimpose a porno onto the lower portion of the screen and it STILL wouldn’t turn guys on. We all have nipples. Be a man. Lose the blur.

***A MUSICAL GIFT FROM WONDERSIS***

I’ve mentioned here before that my big sister is passionate about children’s music. One of her friends and favorite musicians, Enzo Garcia, has a new CD called Field Trip With Enzo. I’ve heard it. It’s fun.

In a show of support for both Enzo and this site, Wondersis has arranged a 10% discount on Enzo’s new CD for Dad Gone Mad readers.

Pokey Pup is the exclusive online retailer of Enzo's new CD for the first month of its release. If you aren't familiar with the Pokey Pup, it is an extraordinarily cool independent retailer of music, books and DVDs for kids. They are hosting a contest to win every one of Enzo’s CDs (nine in all) and an autographed copy of Field Trip with Enzo, all in a Pokey Pup tote bag. No purchase is necessary to enter the contest, but everyone who buys Enzo’s new CD is automatically entered. CLICK HERE to learn more.

The contest and discount run from today through October 22. There’s no obligation, other than entering the sale code “fieldtrip” on the website for the DGM discount.

Thanks to Wondersis for the savings. And thanks to DGM readers for your continued support.

I can remember walking through the produce section of the local supermarket. My baby boy was asleep in his little basket, which I’d clipped onto the shopping cart. When I stopped to pick out some tomatoes, an elderly woman approached and looked sweetly at the baby. She smelled like powder.

We chatted for a moment. What's his name? How old is he? Who knitted those cute little booties for him? Her face reflected a sense of melancholy, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of him, couldn't resist the urge to rub the back of her wrinkled hand up and down his tiny arm.

When the time came to move on, she put her hand on top of mine and said, “Enjoy him. They grow up so fast.” Then she turned and walked away. She seemed desperate, almost heartbroken.

I couldn’t relate. I’d heard that line – “They grow up so fast” – dozens of times since my son was born, and each time it struck me hollow. What are they talking about? He was just born! He was hardly growing at all, and he certainly wasn’t doing anything with even a faint wisp of speed. I let the words disintegrate into the air and attributed their incessant repetition to the aging hearts and minds of those who spoke them. They missed their own children.

When I got home from my basketball game last night, it was 9:30 and the kids were already asleep. I hate that. I hate not being there to lay with them while they fight the battle against their heavy eyelids – the fight they can never win. I was sweaty and stinky and couldn’t wait to shower, but I wanted to go in and kiss each of them before I did anything else.

I walked into my son’s room first. He was on his back, his mouth agape, a faint snore emanating from his nose. He rustled a bit when I kissed his forehead, but not enough to wake himself up. He readjusted his body in the bed, turning onto his right side and pulling the sheet up over his shoulders. When he finally settled, I stood there and looked at him.

He turned seven last week. Seven! It’s hard for me to wrap my head around that. I know it sounds cliché and scripted to say it, but where on earth did the time go? He’d only just taken his first steps. He’d only just started pretending his was Buzz Lightyear. But looking at him last night, I saw a boy. Not an infant. Not a toddler. A boy.

I can remember times when he was a baby when I'd wished he were just a little older. We’d be able to talk and play catch and go places together. I’d be his hero. He’d be my little buddy. Just like in the movies.

Strangely enough, he IS that person now. But all I can think about today is how much I wish he were still a baby.

I wasn’t done with that part yet.

I’m told today is a holiday.

“Ahoy, Danny! It’s Talk Like A Pirate Day. Arrrrr, matey.”

“Get away from me, Stanley,” I say. “Jews don’t talk like pirates. We produce major motion pictures about them and ‘arrrrr’ all the way to the bank.”

Having spent some time in a psychiatrist’s waiting room, I’m keenly aware that there is a segment of the population that needs no official excuse to talk like a pirate. They just do. (At lease one of their personalities does.) Neither do they wait for National Oh My God There Are Spiders Crawling All Over Me Day or The Evil Gnome Who Lives In My Linen Closet’s Birthday (Observed). Perhaps the fact that I find this pirate shit so ridiculous is a sign that I’m one of the normal ones.

Nah, probably not.

As soon as Stanley left my cubicle, I decided the only way to show the world how lame these unofficially official “holidays” are would be to create one even more preposterous. Here is my short list:

• Spontaneous Armfart Day
• Shave Your Pubes Day (a.k.a, The Greatest Day of the Year for Retailers That Sell Anti-Itch Salves)
• Finger Quotes Day
• The Day of Talking Passionately To Yourself In Public Places
• National Walk Up To a Perfect Stranger and Ask How Much He/She Charges For A Handjob Day
• Cheeto Hands Day
• Buy Your Child a Lemur Day
• Jared from Subway’s Birthday (Observed)

Cast your votes. And if you have an idea of your own, please share it with us.

This weekend, for the first time in his life, I saw my son act like an asshole.

He’s a good baseball player. He knows that. But somewhere along the way he came to believe that with excellence comes the right to disrespect and/or mistreat others. Saturday afternoon, after sliding into home on a teammate’s base hit, my son stood, looked down, and intentionally stomped on the catcher’s foot. I watched the whole thing.

“Hey!” I yelled at him from the opposite side of the chain link fence. “What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”

“It was an accident,” he said.

“Oh give me a break,” I barked. “I saw you. You did it on purpose.”

I really didn’t know what to do. I sat there stewing for a moment, trying to find a clear thought in that fog of anger and disappointment. I decided to pull him from the game and take him home – but at the precise moment, the game had reached its time limit and was called over. I waited outside the dugout while he collected his gear.

It’s hard to articulate the feeling I had at that moment. I was troubled – surprisingly so. But the other emotions were a hodge-podge in my head, all blending together to create something I’ve never before felt. To watch a boy I love so completely and from whom I take such immeasurable pride perpetrate an intentionally hurtful and disrespectful action confounded me. My thoughts drifted into the realm of, “He has to be punished. He has to know this will not be tolerated.”

As I stood there waiting for him, my buddy Tim walked up and noticed my scowl. He’s a coach on the team, but he hadn’t seen the incident at home plate. After I described it to him, Tim mentioned that my son could often be overheard talking smack to opponents when he’s near them. I’ve heard him talking to other players over the years but never paused to wonder what he was saying (too busy coaching the other 10 kids on the team, I suppose). I presumed innocence, as I imagine any parent would. But now I had gathered a more complete picture of my son’s behavior and I didn’t like what it projected.

In a stroke of great luck (for him), we’d taken two separate cars to the game that morning. I made Hot Wife drive our son home so I could use the drive time to cool off and think about the proper way to deal with this issue.

I’m certain many readers will disagree with this approach but we don’t hit or spank our kids. What kind of parent would I be if I hurt my son to show him that it’s not OK to hurt others? So the discipline would have to be something a little more imaginative, I said to myself. I considered holding him out of a game or two. I considered taking away privileges or material things. I even called the authorities to see if public stonings are legal in our city. Sadly, no.

Hot Wife and I ultimately decided the best course of action was to demonstrate the behaviors we want our son to exhibit. After all, this was an issue with ramifications far beyond a baseball diamond. This was about humanity. Respect. Decency.

I sat him down and sternly told him how disappointed I was to see and hear the way he was treating his opponents. I told him players who act that way develop a reputation for being dirty, and that’s a hard thing to escape. We discussed The Golden Rule. I told him that I have to pay money for him to play baseball and I would not continue to sponsor a poor sport.

Then I said if he pulls this shit again I will register him for the speech and debate team where, like his father, he will be doomed to a life of ridicule, social isolation and the inescapable stigma people attach to those who carry a briefcase to school. “Good luck getting laid if that happens,” I said.

I think we understand each other.

Having been married to the woman for almost 11 years, you’d think I would know my wife’s boundaries. I thought I could gauge her level of comfort and the thresholds that make her blush and/or break out in hives when she is the center of large-scale attention. But this weekend I learned she’s a much, much wilder than I thought.

I know this because Saturday night in a packed bar, my shy, reserved wife took her shoes off, climbed on top of a piano and hula-hooped in front of about 200 drunk-ass people.

None of other bar patrons could take their eyes off of Hot Wife (although that may have had less to do with her unfathomable beauty than it did with the fact that she looked like she was having a standing grand mal seizure, arms and hips flailing around like a scarecrow in a tornado). And I couldn’t take my eyes off of the bar patrons who couldn’t take their eyes off of my wife.

“SHE’S WITH ME, BITCHES!” I shouted. “SEIZURE GIRL GOES HOME WITH ME!”

To be fair, her piano-top display wasn’t exactly a spontaneous gesture. We were at the Mexican food bar slash piano party with 12 of our closest Jew friends, and the routine there was to request a song that embarrasses a certain member of the audience. Since Hot Wife’s birthday was last Thursday, one of our friends gave the pianist $20 to make my wife and her friend Kirsten make cute little asses of themselves. That’s normally the sort of self-deprecating floundering I handle for our family, but for some reason Hot Wife was thrilled to participate.

At other points during the evening, my buddy Adam’s recent vasectomy was celebrated with a mellifluous rendition of “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” and another woman in our group marked her 15th anniversary by drinking something called a “blow job” out of a shot glass in her husband’s crotch – without using her hands.

Somebody somewhere is writing a school essay about the negative effects of alcohol on human behavior. If that someone is you, my wife and my Jewish friends are available for interviews and experiments.

Speaking of inappropriate behavior, a reader named Paula Uupitik sent this email today:

Evening dadgonemad
Your longer penis will probe deeper searching those special nerve endings.

Man. If I had a nickel for every time someone said that to me, I could buy us all a blow job.

When I was a kid, people used to tell me my eyes were bigger than my stomach. Although I grew up believing the phrase was an odd, anatomical non sequitur, I have come to believe that underpins my entire existence. As evidenced by my recent, miserable forays into exercise and talking sense into a seven-year-old, I’m prone to believe I’m capable of more than I really am.

After coaching my son’s Little League teams for two grueling seasons, I declared when we registered him for “fall ball” that my participation would be strictly as a spectator. I wanted to enjoy my son this season and relinquish any obligation to make a lineup or soothe a parent’s ruffled bias or yell incessantly at the left-fielder to stop doing the pee-pee dance and watch the game.

For the first few weeks of practice, all was well. My son was actually benefiting from being told how to do things by someone besides me. He seemed to be learning the nuances of baseball and starting to understand strategy. And I was enjoying every second of it from a portable lawn chair behind the backstop. Freedom felt fantastic.

But the team played its first game last weekend and the whole thing went to shit.

My eyes were bigger than my lawn chair.

Aside from my son and his pal Ryan, the whole team sucks. If they can hit, they can’t field. If they can field, they can’t hit. The coaches know this, but because they are mandated to abide by that bullshit, politically correct notion of “fairness”, they put the uncoordinated kids in the positions closest to the ball and relegated MY kid to the outfield. FOR THE ENTIRE GAME!

I was just about to get angry about that and demand an investigation when it came to my attention that my son’s eyes are bigger than HIS stomach, too. Seems he knew there weren’t many good players to the team, too, because he evidently believed he was supposed to play every position on the field at the same time.

This is about the point where I completely lost my shit.

Suddenly, I was the coach again. Barking orders to the kids. Reminding them to keep their elbows up and keep their heads down. I could not sit still, nor could I keep my trap shut. This was a hostile takeover of a team of 12 seven-year-olds, and I was practically climbing over the chain link backstop to get the boys’ attention.

Shortly thereafter, I was asked to leave the ballpark.

She was pinching several strands of her long hair between her toes, and her foot was far enough away from her head that the hair was pulled as taut as a guitar string. She was strumming it, and as she did so she vocally mimicked the low, melodic sound of a bass guitar: “Uh-dumb-dumb-dumb-b’dumb-dumb.”

“What are you doing?” I asked in a playful, goofy a voice.

“What does it look like, daddy?” she said. “I’m dropping down a funky-ass baseline.”

(That’s a lie. She didn’t say that.)

(I don’t think the adjective “funky-ass” is even part of her four-year-old lexicon.)

(But wouldn’t it be a better world if all little girls spoke like Flavor Flav? Let’s play with that a little more…)

I finally convinced her the Foot-And-Hair Bass Guitar® would still be there so she could “Bring Tha Noise” in the morning and it was therefore safe for her to go to sleep without worry. Once she’d acquiesced, I covered her in her blanket and kissed her sweet forehead.

“Good night, sweetheart.”

“G’night, Holmes,” she said. “Mad love for you, G.”

I slinked away, but she stopped me before I made it to the door.

“Yo!”

“What is it, honey?”

“I’m the epitome: a public enemy,” she said. “But don’t believe tha hype, man. You dig?”

Then she smiled at me and her platinum-and-diamond grill sparkled with a glint straight out of Compton.

Given that "cocksucker" is the official profanity of Dad Gone Mad (thanks, Wondersis), I thought you all might enjoy this little gem from Saturday Night Live.

All you really need to know about my return to the basketball court after a nine-month layoff is this: before the end of the first half, I was outside lying prostrated on the ground and gasping for breath. I stayed in that position until halftime, when one of my new teammates walked over and said, “Are you dying?”

“Depends,” I said. “Are we winning?”

It was so much worse than I’d expected. I was a disaster. Still am. This morning my legs feel like quivering gravy, my back aches from shoulders to ass crack, and they’re taking a defibrillator to my pride.

As it turns out, a return to physical activity after a long respite should be progressive. Start with shorter workouts and work your way up until your lungs remember what it means to breathe. Conversely, storming back with a 60-minute, full-court basketball game in a hot, poorly ventilated gym does to one’s lungs what a burning cigarette butt does to a hillside covered with dry brush.

Beyond merely losing any semblance of cardiovascular stamina since I last played, my “feel” for the game has vanished entirely. I was a fish out of water before the game was three minutes old, running around the court like a blind man, forcing ridiculous passes into infinitesimal spots, and permitting the man I was supposed to defend to saunter right up to the basket for an easy lay-up. I was like an anorexic at an all-you-can-eat salad bar. “What do I do?!”

Still, my teammates saw fit to pass me the ball, perhaps out of pity. I hit two three-pointers and grabbed a few rebounds, but I also hit the side of the backboard twice, which is basketball’s equivalent of shitting the bed.

The game used to come to me so easily. I was always in the right place. My shot was true and pretty. I knew how to use my height and long arms to compensate for my slight build. If I my defensive opponent was the kind of guy who liked to talk shit, I’d spot up, drain a three in his face and say something mean about his mama. I want to believe that swagger will come flashing back after another game or two, but I’m 37 years old. Not as elastic or resilient as I used to be.

If it does come back, I’ll milk it.

If not, well, your mama’s so ugly she makes onions cry.

Why are there credits?

While I understand that the “actresses” elect to get implants because men like big boobies, are they altogether unaware that we can totally tell they’re fake? Is that OK for us to know? Is it cool for us to see the huge scars and the rippling effect and the preposterous wrongness of their size in relation to the rest of the woman's body? I thought the whole idea of fakeness is make people believe that what they see is real, even though it isn’t. Am I over-thinking this?

Sometimes things get in people’s eyes. Is this type of workplace hazard eligible for a worker’s comp claim?

Where do these people find their stage names? I’ve never known of a “community” so densely inhabited by people with one name. “Nice to meet you, friend. My name’s Peppermill.” “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Peppermill. My name’s Kiwi. I live three houses down, between Schlong and Pussywillow.”

Is anyone else disturbed to the point of nausea by the shots taken from behind and slightly underneath the male lead’s junk? Looks like the inside of Snuffaluffagus’ left nostril.

Sometimes the “actresses” look bored, as though they’d rather be reading a Sidney Sheldon book than lay there while Schlong grunts and drips sweat all over her. Is that a natural phenomenon?

Why do some of the “actresses” have to scream so much? Is that hot?

Don’t the cast members (pun intended) know that what they’re doing creates the perfect environment for the spread of cooties?

When casting an adult film, are there actual discussions about which “actress” is right for each part? “No, not her. She’s not flexible enough. And she has a mole.”

What are the qualifications for the job of titling for these movies? Beyond a filthy sense of humor and an address of “my parents’ basement”, how does one know he’s right for the job of naming a movie “What Can The Brown Eye Do For You?”

A man is depressed.

He eats to fill the void, to distract himself from his misery -- just as the alcoholic, the drug abuser, the compulsive shopper, the adulterer and the gambler aim to do with their addictions.

The corporation sees a market: obese people.

It develops foods high in fat, calories, sugar, corn syrup, additives, dyes, and chemically altered flavors, and it sells these foods in preposterous serving sizes. Because that's what its research says the customer wants.

The depressed man buys the shitty food. Likes it. Wants more.

Consume consume consume. More more more.

The corporation makes money.

Its shareholders are rich. But not rich enough.

The corporation wants more.

It decides to focus its collective attention on The Children, who will become loyal customers at an early age and stay loyal for a lifetime.

It puts up a website loaded with fun games for kids. The games can be played for free, but to get the most fun from the site the children must register. When they do so, they provide the corporation data that will be used throughout the rest of their lives.

A child registers and plays the games online. As he does so, he sees messages flickering on the screen, promoting shitty food.

The child wants the food. He gets it. He loves it.

As he grows into a man, he continues eat it. It's familiar.

The man becomes overweight.

The man is depressed.

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

It occurred to me this morning that my kids'€™ generation will never know privacy. If they haven't inadvertently done so already, they will soon expose their lives to the sordid world of "consumer relationship management." They will forever be pounded by marketing and advertising targeted directly at them: their weaknesses, the pressure of their peers, their need to feel cool, their need to anesthetize hard feelings instead of addressing them head on.

This is not an issue that can be torn down by debate. It's a fact. This is the way the world works now. Anything for a buck, even if it means helping us kill ourselves.

As I see it, the only wild card is us. The parents.

How do we fight this? How do we protect our children? Is it even possible? It's obvious that the messages will get through to them and that somehow their personal data will fall into corporate hands (talons?). So it becomes incumbent upon us to arm them with wisdom and savvy.

"Don't listen to that shit. They're lying. They just want your money."

"Don't try to ignore your feelings. Share them. Talk about them. Healing comes from within."

If I were seven years old, language like that would mean nothing. Blah blah blah.

So then what? Oh. Oh no. No no no. We have to lead by example? We have to model the behaviors and thought processes we want to instill in our children?

How did we get here? How did we consume ourselves into a world where our children will never know blissful oblivion? Isn't that what being a kid is supposed to be all about?

I’m not a big believer in doomsday scenarios but I’m no idiot either. The end is, in fact, near. Please adjust your schedules accordingly.

Indeed, Armageddon swept into Orange County with a vengeance this weekend (emphasis on “end”). Turns out God’s pretty pissed about something, as evidenced by the following developments:

• The temperature Sunday afternoon was 107 degrees.

• The epicenter of the magnitude 4.7 earthquake that shook Southern California Sunday morning was 1.6 miles below the crack of my ass.

• Friday afternoon, the repairman who came to fix the two rows of “dead pixels” on our three-month-old television succeeded in both correcting the problem and knocking out our cable connection – HOURS BEFORE THE START OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL SEASON! First available appointment with the cable company: Wednesday.

• To escape the heat, we took the kids to a movie at the mall Sunday – smack dab in the middle of The Festival of People Who Weigh Over 6,000 Pounds, Have a Wicked Jones For Cinnabon and Mouth-Breathe With Such Ferocity That You Won’t Be Able To Hear The Dialogue In The Movie.

By 8 p.m., the kids were flatly exhausted and, believe it or not, actually ASKING to go to bed. See? Armageddon.

While I was putting my daughter to bed, we started to play our nightly game of “I Love You More Than…”

“I love you more than chocolate chip ice cream,” I said.

“I love you more than Barney,” she said.

And back and forth we went, claiming that our love for one another surpassed Diet Coke, puppies, Zac Efron, Webkins, boobs, hockey, bacon, pink flip-flops, college football and Angelina Ballerina.

“OK,” I said. “Let’s both do one more. Then it’ll be time for bed.”

“Hmm,” she said, trying to think of a good one. “I love you more than… more than… SOUP!”

“SOUP?! It’s a gazillion degrees outside! How in the world can you think of soup in this heat?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just did. That’s all.”

“You’re weird.”

“OK, daddy. Your turn.”

“OK. Well. I love you more than… um… more than this.”

And then I farted.