Couldn't let the year fade away without reviewing some of what made me laugh in 2007.

1) This was a huge year for Borat, but I never forgot his predecessor, Ali G. The following clip was the first Ali G. show in the U.S. -- and by far the funniest.

"Twenty-three-ten, there's three men. One brutha, one honky and one...Spanish!"

2) Cursing weathermen make me happy to be alive.

"Gonna be a gorgeous sunshit tonight."

3) This one hockey team I like won some trophy.

4) I discovered some phenomenal new blogs in 2007, some funny, some just brilliant in general. Among them:

Boobs, Injuries and Dr. Pepper
Cry It Out: Adventures of a Stay-At-Home Dad
I Am Bossy
The Sneeze
Girl's Gone Child
Baby On Bored
Not Quite What I Had Planned
A Day In the Life of An Ambulance Driver

5) Many of the blogs I began reading years ago reaffirmed this year why I love them. The writing has been crisp as hell, the photography has been spectacular, and I'm reminded by them frequently why I started blogging in the first place. I'm speaking specifically of:

Parent Hacks
Fussy
Amalah
Dooce
Finslippy
Sweet Juniper
Rockstar Mommy
Miss Doxie
McSweeney's Lists

Thanks to the readers of Dad Gone Mad for your continued support of the site, its writer and the many silly characters about whom I write. You've made my year.

Here's hoping that 2008 is a joyous, profitable and healthy year for all of you twatsicles, asshats, knob jockeys and twat waffles.

Before we turn the page and usher in 2008, I felt it wise to circle the wagons and contemplate what I might like to change about Dad Gone Mad as it enters it’s fifth full year of gleefully soiling the internet.

I thought about another redesign, but I have neither the graphic design chops nor the patience to make this thing look like anything short of an eighth-grade-level rip-off of The Drudge Report.

I thought about giving Hot Wife and/or Wondersis their own weekly outlet in this space, but that would take H-Dub away from her primary responsibilities, like darnin’ my socks and showering my fragile ego with unfounded praise and gratitude.

I thought about altogether halting the usage of profanity on the site. And then I was all, “Fuck that.” Cursing is to my writing what ketchup is to French fries; without it, the whole thing would taste bland and gross.

Finally, I have decided upon two specific changes to implement on the site effective 1/1/08.

Resolution #1: More Yiddish
I grew up with Yiddish, and the thing I came to appreciate about it as a kid was they way people pepper their speech with Yiddish vocabulary words that sound strikingly like anger and inappropriateness.

“Meh! That macher has shpilkiss in his baitsim!”

Loosely translated, that sentence means, “Shit! That big shot has anxiety in his balls!”

We all know someone like that don’t we? Think Rudy Giuliani. Jerry Seinfeld. Kobe.

The following list of words is fair game. They are yours to own, to play with, to use in your daily lives. Extra points for using them in the comments you leave here.

Shpilkiss: Anxiety
Baitsim: Balls
Feh: An exclamation of disapproval (e.g., “Stuffed cabbage? Feh!)
Shmatta: An old or ragged item of clothing
Tuches: Butt
Zye Gezunt: Goodbye and good luck
Mishegas: Craziness, non-essential bullshit
Plotz: To burst, as in “to have a tantrum”
Shmaltz: Sweet talk, unnecessary praise
Punim: Face
Shmutzik: Dirty

Resolution #2: Choose a New “Official Curse Word of DGM”
With a tip of the hat to my sister, I think it’s time to retire “cocksucker” to the Dad Gone Mad Profanity Hall of Fame. We are entering a new year – an election year, no less – and we’ll need a naughty term of degradation to sling about amongst ourselves.

Please cast your votes.

***SATURDAY UPDATE!***
We are down to three finalists. Winner will be announced Jan. 1, 208.

Two weeks ago in this space I mentioned that I have three ugly friends. All three are lawyers.

Last night I had dinner with one of them. He mentioned in passing that after seeing my assessment of their beauty (or lack thereof) on the site, all three conspired to sue me for defamation. You know…as a joke. According to my friend, they only halted the process when they realized they’d have to cough up a filing fee.

In order to prevent further legal action (for example, the electric chair) (or perhaps jury duty) from my three ugly, Jewish friends, I would like to issue the following statement:

(Ahem.)

To Marty, BG, and Adam the Ambulance-Chaser,

Dad Gone Mad and all sites affiliated thereto extend our most genuine apology for the disparaging remarks published on December 14, 2007 under the heading “From Way Downtown.”

Specifically, we regret referring to each of you as “ugly as sin.”

As you know, beauty is highly subjective. While one man may look into the multicolored ass of a baboon and see repulsion, another may look upon the same baboon ass and see a spectacular use of color and creative expression. As the saying goes, “opinions are like assholes (perhaps baboon assholes) – everybody’s got one.”

Indeed, I have an asshole, as well. Sometimes it talks. It can also type. Sadly, I permitted my asshole to write a blog entry that day and the result is the reason for this mea culpa. I’m aware that I am responsible for everything my asshole puts out there, and I’d like you to know that my asshole has been severely reprimanded for its role in calling you “ugly as sin.” Which you may or may not be. Pardon my language, but my asshole can be such an asshole sometimes.

As we embark on a new calendar year, I look forward to continued friendly banter with each of you. It is my most sincere hope that we will continue to make savage, inappropriate comments about common acquaintances so as to deflect attention away from our own shortcomings – which may or may not exist and, even if they do exist, may or may not be relative to how ugly each of you may or may not be. Who’s to say?

You have my humble apology.

Sincerely,
Danny Evans (also speaking on behalf of my asshole)

I wasn’t allowed to watch Three’s Company as a kid because my parents felt the portrayal of a single, horny man cohabitating with two single, horny women was abhorrent. Indecent. Inappropriate.

I railed against the absurdity of their decision. I raged at their naiveté about what I knew about the world around me.

“I’m nine years old! There’s nothing they could do on that show that I haven’t seen before. I know people smoke. I know people say bad words. Just let me watch it. Please?”

I have to laugh at that now, partly because it pains me to admit that my parents were completely right. The issues in play on Three’s Company – sex and promiscuity and all that comes with it – were out of bounds for a nine-year-old. Still are. My parents’ refusal was intended to let me be a kid as long as possible. A child who still carried a Fat Albert lunchbox to school had no business watching Chrissy Snow cavort around in a red bikini while Jack Tripper tried to summon the boner control to refrain from sporting wood on national television.

Fast-forward 30 years. I’m the parent now, which means I’m the judge of what is and is not acceptable for my own kids. Obviously, they’re not allowed to watch the modern day versions of Three’s Company – Desperate Housewives and shows of that provocative ilk – but now that there are cable stations expressly geared toward kids, they don’t really care about those grown-up shows anyway.

But...

One of the great and awful things about being a parent is that when you fuck up, you fuck up big-time. It’s not like, “Oops. I dropped your sippy cup on the floor and some apple juiced got on the rug. Have to clean that up.”

It’s more like, “Oops. I gave you free reign to watch Nickelodeon because I thought it was safe for kids and now the 16-year-old girl on one of the shows you like got pregnant.”

Now what?

Do we tell them? Do we expose them to the sort of grown-up issues that kept me from watching Three’s Company? Or do we hide it from them because they’re too young to know any of this yet? Too young to know why a 16-year-old girl should not be pregnant. Too young to know how a 16-year-old gets pregnant. Too young to comprehend anything more socially significant than that there isn’t really a giant sponge who lives in a pineapple under the sea.

I have no idea.

Amended Friday morning because I wrote this part initially and then chickened out but Hot Wife said I should post it so here.

(WARNING! SOCIAL COMMENTARY AHEAD! If you’re one of the readers who gets upset when I talk about something other than poop and who likes to belittle those with opinions that differ from your own, kindly piss off.)

There was a report by the Associate Press yesterday that announced Nickelodeon was considering a special program on its air about teen pregnancy. I nearly puked.

Fact: teen pregnancy is real.

Fact: kids need to know what this girl did was stupid, irresponsible, and ruinous.

Fiction: that message should be delivered on a television show.

I’m naïve. I went to a state university. I’ve had a mental illness. But this is what I want.

I want Nickelodeon – a channel that markets itself toward children – to take a fucking stand.

I want them to announce that they have canceled this show, and I want them to say they did so because their audience is children and Ms. Spears’ behavior does not reflect the image they want those children to see.

I want them to say that parents who wish to speak to their children about this issue can log onto a website where they can find resources and strategies written by professionals.

In my view, that would be the decent thing to do.

I do NOT want this girl to be lambasted, nor do I want to see her mother publicly humiliated. Her daughter is not the only pregnant teenager in America.

I’ve strongly considered the alternate point of view – that this TV special should air because this issue needs to be raised to the kids and their parents in the same forum where the girl became famous. But I'm cynical, and I'm also a realist, and I know such a show would be more about whoring out for advertisers than about discussing the issues in an educational manner.

Besides, it's my job to educate my kids. It's their job to entertain them.

Am I burying my head in the sand by not addressing this with my kids? No. I'm not saying I'll NEVER address the issue. They know about strangers and touching in inappropriate places and telling a grown up. But that's what they need to know NOW. But for today, I'd like to let them enjoy their blissful ignorance.

This morning I was behind a black pickup truck that had been mounted on four tires the size of my house – the kind of overzealous, overcompensative monstrosity that makes you want to pull up beside the driver and say, “Hey man, sorry about your small penis.” There was a bumper sticker on the back windshield of the truck. It said something along the line of MONKEYPISS MAFIA. (I won’t give you the real name because if it is in fact some sort of mafia, I don’t want them to kill me.)

I doubt this is unique to Southern California, but it seems everyone here is part of some kind of “mafia”, some brand of faux gang. When I was a kid we called it a “fan club”; I was in the Arthur Fonzarelli fan club. If that same organization existed today, it would be called The Fonz Mafia. We’d even have a tagline of some sort to show you how bad-ass we are. Don’t fuck with the Fonz, beyotch. You won’t like Fonzie when he’s angry. If you ain’t Pinky Tuscadero, you ain’t shit.

I’m currently without a mafia and it makes me feel naked. In a bad way. And since 37-year-old dads are decidedly unlikely to be the desirable demographic recruits of the monkeypissers and the Hannah Montana army or whatever-the-hell-else club, I’m taking the initiative to start my own mafia:

The Snip-Snip Mafia.

All are welcome as long as you meet one prerequisite: you’ve had a vasectomy.

Can you cut it in The Snip-Snip? (Get it? “Cut” it. As in cutting the vas deferens.)

I figure the SSM will attract guys very much like me: infertile, resigned, scarred for life. Maybe we’ll get some t-shirts printed up with a scrotum in the cross-hairs of a rifle or little sperm cell hanging from a noose. We’ll sit around in our lair, drinking shitty beer and telling tales of times gone by – pregnancy scares with old Mary Jane Rottencrotch, the experience of being vasectomized, and so forth. It’ll be bitchen.

But I’m keenly aware that in order to qualify as a real mafia we must have our own call to arms. We must have a threatening motto that evokes fear in people, like Live Hard But Don't Eat The Peas. If You Experience An Erection Lasting Longer Than Four Hours, Get Your Ass To The Bunny Ranch.

Nah. Not intimidating enough. I think we’ll go with this one:

The Snip-Snip Mafia. We’ll Shoot You, But We Only Shoot Blanks.

Brothers of the SSM, please identify yourself in the comments. Represent!

Hot_Wife: No new post today?

DGM: Nah.

Hot_Wife: Booo!

DGM: Boo yourself. Give me something to write about and I’ll write it.

Hot_Wife: Me.

DGM: More specific.

Hot_Wife: How much you love me.

DGM: Booooring. No one wants to read that shit.

Hot_Wife: I do.

DGM: You don’t count.

Hot_Wife: Ummm…

DGM: Maybe I should reveal my new TV crush.

Hot_Wife: What? Who?

DGM: Giada de Laurentis. From the food channel.

Hot_Wife: She’s cute.

DGM: I think so too. But not as cute as you.

Hot_Wife: Please. She’s gorgeous.

DGM: No. She’s pretty, you’re gorgeous. You win.

Hot_Wife: *blushing*

DGM: I have a feeling there are some deep dark secrets hiding behind her big toothy smile. She probably has irritable bowel syndrome or something. Maybe a tail.

Hot_Wife: Lovely.

DGM: Don’t make any dinner plans. Ducks are on tonight.

Hot_Wife: Ummmm. We already have plans.

DGM: Shit! What are they? Shit!

Hot_Wife: We’re having dinner with those people I was telling you about.

DGM: Which people? The people whose kid is in juvi? Shit!

Hot_Wife: Yeah. Don’t worry. You can TiVo your precious little Duckies.

DGM: You take that back. Right now.

Hot_Wife: Take what back? What is this, third grade?

DGM: My Ducks are NOT precious and they are most certainly NOT little. Take it back!

Hot_Wife: Fine. I take it back. You big baby.

DGM: You know what? I just changed my mind.

Hot_Wife: I thought I smelled something.

DGM: Giada is WAY hotter than you. Ha! Pwned! (Or whatever)

Hot_Wife: Right. Obviously. The chick with a tail and a runny ass is hotter than me.

DGM: Just kidding. I love you. And I’d still love you even if you had a runny ass. But maybe from a distance.

Hot_Wife: Love you too, honey. But no one wants to read about that. Remember?

One of the great unsolved mysteries of my life is how it came to pass that I was a candidate for something with the word "hottest" in the title. I've been called many things because of my appearance -- nerd, dork, Jewboy, beanstalk, Ichabod, Bob Saget, etc. -- but never "hottest" anything.

But it so happens that finishing a distant second in the voting for, ahem, Hottest Daddy Blogger, pays some pretty cool dividends. People I've never met come up to me on the street and go, "Damn! You're hot, daddy blogger! You're like that dude from The Fantastic Four who can light himself on fire!"

No, I'm serious. That really does happen.

The other perks of being hot are a little less intense, but just as life-affirming and wonderful. For example, you get to answer some questions via email and VOILA! you're spotlighted on The Father Life.

I thought you all might find it interesting to learn what I do for a living and what pearls of knowledge I deem most important in life.

Also, since I can see you with my special blogcam and I know that some of your are stark-ass nekkid right now, I'm nominating you all for Hottest Blog Readers this year. (One of you, and I won't say whom, really needs to put some clothes on RIGHT NOW.) (And see a doctor about that shrinkage issue.)

The Father Life Dad Blog Spotlight: Dad Gone Mad

(Dude. Seriously. Get dressed.)

Some weekend entertainment, Kosher style:

(Thanks, Wondersis)

A real live orthodox Jew kickin' out the jams.

Finally, this is what my friend BG did with the leftover dry ice from his daughter's birthday party.

I have only myself to blame, but at some point I made the catastrophic error of befriending three smarmy lawyers – BG, Adam the Ambulance Chaser, and Marty. All three are Jewish. All three are wealthy. And all three are as ugly as sin. Truth is I remain friendly with them only because they make me feel better about myself (because I let them regale me with stories about how they won a judgment on behalf of a giant corporation when it sued the tits off of some poor old lady for paying her bill one day late).

What really sucks about these three money-grubbing, ambulance-chasing whores is that they’re warm, genuine and extraordinarily generous people. It makes them very hard to hate.

BG is a charter member of this triumvirate. He recently decided to cease doing God’s work at the county D.A.’s office to accept a vulgar, heathenish gig at a behemoth and tres snotty law firm in downtown L.A. Total cash-grab. Big-time whore. If I had even a scintilla of self-respect, I’d never speak to him again. But I don’t have any, and when he invited me to join him in the company’s suite at the Lakers game last night, I gleefully accepted. (Does that make me a whore by association?)

In truth, the decision to join BG last night was a no-brainer. I’ve been a Lakers fan since I was seven years old and until last night I had been to exactly two games in person. The first was with my dad in the early 80s, during the era of Magic Johnson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. The second was in the early 90s during my tenure as a sportswriter for a newspaper in the Mojave Desert. It’s sad in a way that having been to so many live sporting events and interviewed so many athletes, I’ve lost my capacity to be awe-struck. But when we walked into Staples Center last night and saw that big purple and gold floor, I got a little weepy.

I think that has a lot to do with being a dad. I see things through his eyes now and I wished like hell he was there with me. Fatherhood changes everything.

I called the house at 8:30 with the hopes that the kids hadn’t yet gone to sleep. Hot Wife answered.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

“Are the kids awake?”

“Yep. They’re right here.”

“Can I talk to The Dude for a sec?”

It was loud in the arena, but with the phone pressed hard against my ear and my finger in the other, I could hear some rustling on the other side of the line.

“Hello? Daddy?”

“Hey, bud!”

“Hi, dad. How’s the game?”

“It’s good. They’re winning. I just wanted to tell you I miss you and I wish you were here with me.”

No response.

“Hello?” I queried. “Are you there?”

“What’s all that noise, dad?” he asked.

“Well, it’s lots of things. It’s the crowd. It’s music coming from the speakers. And you might also be hearing BG because he’s sitting next to me and he keeps sniffling so his boogers won’t drip onto his nice shirt.”

“Oh.”

“You tired, pal? You sound tired.”

“Daddy?”

“What.”

“I miss you. Will you come in and say goodnight to me when you get home?”

“Absolutely. I miss you too, buddy. G’night.”

“G’night, daddy.”

Click.

I looked over at BG and smiled that smile that washes over a dad’s face when he’s overcome with love and pride.

Then the two of us, BG and me, two Jews, went and got some ham.

What do you get when you combine caffeine withdrawal, stress and angst with a four-year-old girl who laughs in her daddy’s face when he tells her to stop splashing her brother in the bathtub?

Need a clue?

Here’s one:

And another:

And another:

For the first time since I became a parent, I completely lost my shit last night. Every parenting tactic and every fiber of common sense I’ve gleaned over the past seven-plus years suddenly disappeared into mid-air, as if they were a part of a helium-gorged balloon that suddenly exploded. Ka-boom!

Some back-story. Amid the madness of the property tax bill I mentioned in my previous post and the imperative review of our spending habits that followed, I declared my Starbucks patronage officially over. Cold turkey.

I know: idiot.

I clearly failed to realize the magnetic pull of that fookin’ coffee. I’m now fully convinced that they sprinkle heroin in the lattes. After two days without my heroin, my nerves were frayed and my temper was on a hair trigger. I dropped my fork during dinner and even that inconsequential almost flung myself out the window headfirst.

Further compounding my irritation are the latest machinations about the book I’m writing. Suffice it to say there is good news and not-so-good news – but true to my history, I’m ignoring the good news and spinning like a maniac on the not-so-good. I’ve never been a patient person (ask my mom) and that’s making things especially difficult right now.

So there’s me: undercaffeinated, impatient, stressed.

And there’s my daughter: loud, obstinate, insubordinate.

Ka-boom!

By the time we finally calmed her down, I had banished her to The Penalty Box about a dozen times, yelled at her, confiscated her Angelina Ballerina doll and thrown it in the trash, and attempted to explain the reasons for these actions in words only Ph.D. could interpret (when all I really wanted to say was, “Daddy’s pissed off because you’re not a barista or a publisher.”)

When she woke up this morning, she ambled into the bathroom. I was shaving.

“Good morning, daddy.”

“Morning, peanut. How’d you sleep?”

“Today’s gonna be a great day, daddy. I’m going to listen and behave myself allllllll day.”

It wasn’t an iced venti quad soy latte, but it was just as sweet.

Growing up, there was a little X carved into the sidewalk in front of our house. I once asked my dad what it meant and he told me it was the property line. Everything on our side of the X was our property and everything on the other side of it was the property of our asshole neighbors.

I was too young to say the word correctly. I called it “poppity”.

When the asshole neighbors began to tease me, I retorted: “Get off of my poppity! Get off before I call the police, you big weenie!”

Property was one of the words I used as a kid without knowing the true definition – a list that also included hump, douche, marinade, hernia and kosher. But now that I’m a grown man and a homeowner, I have a very clear understanding of what “property” means.

It means twice a year we have to dip into our savings to pay an astronomical tax on something we already own.

It means the money we’re trying to save for oh, I don’t know, emergencies and college and other such non-essential purposes, is redirected to some invisible entity in some government bureaucracy cubicle farm with wood paneling on the walls and mold at the bottom of the coffee cups in the communal sink.

Poppity taxes, you can hump my kosher hernia.

One of my favorite things about living in Southern California is the unbridled hysteria we witness at the mere suggestion of a “weather event.” Given that virtually every day of the year sees 75 degrees and a blanket of sunshine, any deviation from that perfection is deemed newsworthy and catastrophic. Then again, what else would you expect from a local news market that chooses to report on some coked-out starlet’s newest venereal disease before it falls back to more mundane subject matter – like the war or poison toys or other such trivial nonsense.

Case in point. The weather service forecast says a storm will soon make landfall SoCal. It’s supposed to start raining tonight, and the estimate is that we’ll get 1-3 inches of precipitation before the storm drifts east on Sunday. But we can all agree that on its own, that news is not quite sensational enough for Hollywood. So the newsroom puts a little polish on it and gives us this:

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Sam Shitfart and we have late breaking news tonight. The National Weather Service has issued an all points bulletin for Southern California warning that a once-in-a-century hellstorm is bearing down on the Southland tonight and it’s likely that we’ll all be dead by morning. Let’s go live to Manhattan Beach and check in with Dingleberry Bumblefuck. Dingleberry, what’s the latest?”

“Good evening, Sam. Things are starting to get pretty dicey down here along the coastline. Just in the last 10 minutes or so we have experienced some sprinkles and our cameraman, Tony, actually had to wipe down his camera lens with a handkerchief. And it’s only going to get worse from there. I think our viewers should now seriously consider building an ark. Live from a very soggy and rapidly eroding Manhattan Beach, I’m Dingleberry Bumblefuck. Back to you, Sam.”

I love this city. Where else on earth could two measly inches of rain be packaged as a tragedy of even greater proportion than production being halted on Desperate Housewives because the subcutaneous stitches from Teri Hatcher’s latest facelift popped loose?

If this is the last time we speak to each other, well, it’s been a blast. I’ll miss you all dearly.

Off to build the ark now. Anyone know where I can find a pair of emus?

FRIDAY UPDATE: As of 8 a.m. PST, the alleged hellstorm has deluged SoCal with exactly .27 inches of rain. I've had more precipitation than that in my underwear.

The grocery clerk didn’t even look up. She merely continued to scan the bar codes on my cans of soup.

“So,” she said, “you all ready for Christmas?”

“We celebrate Hanukkah at my house, ma’am,” I snapped. “GOD! I came in here for groceries, not to be disenfranchised. I’ll thank you very much not to oppress my people. OK…[looking down at her nametag]…Mindy?”

I’ve decided to take the low road this holiday season. After 37 years, I’ve finally grown tired of playing along, tired of pretending to be something I’m not, tired of the lies. IT’S TIME TO RISE UP AND KEEP IT REAL, BROTHERS AND SISTERS! CAN I GET AN AMEN?

In years past, I acquiesced in relative silence.

The Oppressor: “So, you all ready for Christmas?”

The Victim: “Yep. All set.”

The Oppressor: “Get your tree yet?”

The Victim: “Mmm-hmm.”

The Oppressor: “Wow. You’re organized. All you need now is for Santa to show up.”

The Victim: “Yeah. Santa.”

Oh humiliation, how you burden me. Scenes like these are very much like the times I’ve purchased condoms or porno mags or Reese’s-Pieces-flavored sex lube. In that case, I have to pretend the items aren’t mine. But with Christmas I have to pretend it IS mine.

BUT BROTHERS AND SISTERS! IT’S A NEW DAY! LET THE FREEDOM WASH OVER YOU! GLORY! GLORY!

I’m going to one of those special sex stores today and I’m going to pick out some nasty-ass, demented filth – midget blow-up dolls and rubbers with feathers on them and maybe a DVD that shows people having sex with breakfast cereal – and I’m going to march up to that cashier and say loudly and proudly, “THIS STUFF IS MINE! I’M BUYING IT FOR MYSELF! IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT, I SUGGEST YOU LOOK AWAY! I’M A GROWN MAN…MINDY…AND I’M HOT FOR FROOT LOOPS!”

“No problem,” Mindy will say. “Paper or plastic.”

“Neither,” I’ll say. “I’m going to wear them now.”

She will then hand me my weirdness and say, “Merry Christmas, sir.”

“NO, MINDY! NO! I AM A JEW! I WAS CIRCUMSIZED WHEN I WAS EIGHT DAYS OLD! I’M GOING HOME TO EAT BAGELS AND POTATO PANCAKES AND KUGEL! AND TONIGHT, BEFORE I MAKE THIS LITTLE MIDGET HERE MY SWEETHEART, I’M GOING TO SAY THE SAME BLESSING THE GREAT RABBIS HAVE SAID FOR CENTURIES! BLESSED ARE YOU O LORD, KING OF THE UNIVERSE, WHO CREATED HONEY NUT CHEERIOS AND FORTIFIED THEM WITH NINE VITAMINS AND MINERALS! RRRROOOOWWWWWR! AMEN!”

And then Mindy will call the authorities and I will spend the rest of Hanukkah in a prison cell with a drunkard named Carl.

But I’ll tell you right now: if Carl tries to wish me a merry Christmas, I’ll cut him.

(But not before I say the blessing.)

Amen.

“Oh. Shoot,” Hot Wife said last night after the kids had fallen asleep.

“What? What is it?” I asked.

“The Champ lost that tooth today and I almost forgot to do the whole Tooth Fairy thing.”

“Uh-oh. How much do you think we should give him this time?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I’d say about a buck,” I said. “I know lots of kids get more than that, but I don’t think we need to break the bank over this. It’s not like this is the first tooth he’s lost.”

“You’re right,” she said. (That’s the first time she’s ever said that.)

Hot Wife marched off to her purse to retrieve a dollar bill.

“Danny? Do you have any cash on you? All I have is a five and a twenty.”

“I have exactly zero dollars in my wallet,” I said. “I spent my last twenty bucks on gas.”

“Crap,” she said. “What do we do?”

“Wait. Are you telling me there isn’t a one-dollar bill anywhere in this house?”

“Actually,” she said, “there is one. But we can’t touch it.”

“Why not? Where is it?”

“It’s in our son’s wallet.”

“Oh,” I said.

We stared at each other long enough to realize we were thinking the same dastardly thing. Then we started to laugh. Could we really do such a thing? Were we really heartless enough to steal from our son and re-gift his own money?

I was.

She wasn’t.

Bless her ridiculously honest heart, she found a dollar somewhere and left it under his pillow.

This morning I was getting ready for work when the boy walked in. He squinted through the harsh light and said, “Hi, daddy.”

“Hey, bud. Did the Tooth Fairy come?”

“Yeah. But she only left me one stinkin’ dollar.”