What the Shit China? 9: Towels

HOOOOLYYYYY SHHHHIIIIIIT! I wanted to start writing this a week ago, and I wanted to write another story the week before that. As it turns out, I have an interesting little quirk. Every day, I do the same thing That's a lie. I do different shit every day. Not terribly different, but different. But on the way to work, I typically do the same thing. I get in the car, send a text message or email, start the car, and go to work. I listen to a 30-minute, Chinese Rosetta Stone lesson, I start talking to a voice-recorder, and then I start cussing at the slow-ass motherfuckers that drive in the right lane, when there is clearly room to merge into the left lane, so that I can merge onto the highway and not wonder if my son will see his father's picture on a roadside memorial. Then I get to work and start doing whatever it is that I am supposed to do.

Now I know what you are thinking, "He speaks Chinese?" To answer your question, the answer is no. No I do not. That's a lie. I speak some. I will say that I will rarely speak Chinese to someone that is from China. Even talking to my wife, I am cautious. Why? Because it is so easy to fuck up. I was learning a lesson and there was a word that I just could not understand. Of course, I did the rational thing and checked with Google Translate.

Now, for those that don't know, Chinese is tonal; the way you say the word will change the meaning of the word. And Google Translate is drunk at 6:45 AM. And so, when I am driving into the office, I am talking to Google and trying to figure out this fucking word. I said the word once, and the Google voice-over person translates the word to, "period". Okay, well that does not seem to fit the theme of kitchen and bedding. So I try it again. Google says, "ejaculation". Wow. That's a bit extreme. I try again. Google: "menstruation". Alright Google, I quit.

I asked my wife and it turns out that the word translates to "towel". On the one hand, why are those words all so similar!? On the other hand, it makes sense now about how the word for towel was derived. And with that, I can never say the word "towel" in Chinese. After all, what if I fuck it up when I go to China? Finish washing the dishes, turn to my mother-in-law, and say, "excuse me, can you please pass the ejaculation?" Get out of a pool and ask my father-in-law, "can you please pass some menstruation?" No! Fuck that! That is a sure fire way for me to "disappear" in China. Or for my wife to divorce. Either way, no.

Moral of the Story: If I talk into a voice-recorder, I forget to write stories. Also, I will never ask for a towel in Chinese. Oh yeah, and fuck that one car with the TRUMP 2016 bumper sticker, janky-ass tail-light, and the NRA sticker, who refuses to get into the left lane EVERY GODDAMN DAY. Jerk.

You Don't Know My Life: The Holidays

AAAAAHHHHH!!!!! I FINALLY remembered the story that I wanted to post two weeks ago. Unfortunately it is a relatively short story, so that's unfortunate. At the same time, I have fodder for three short stories. What does that mean? It means that you get the good fortune of one longer post. And with that, let's talk about the holidays. 

Holidays are weird as fuck, this year. Maybe it is the fact that we have a kid now. Maybe it is the fact that they came at the end of a hard-ass push at work. And maybe it is because the world today is weird as fuck. Regardless, I was not into the holidays. Now let me explain something, before I dig much deeper. The holidays are typically thus: Thanksgiving, my birthday, Chanukah, father's birthday, Christmas, New Years, wife's birthday, Valentine's day, son's birthday, mother's birthday, Easter. 

This year was weird. It started with Thanksgiving. My dad started feeding our son from the table. That would not be an issue, except the boy is no nine months old and refuses to eat anything other than grown-up foods. He hates Gerber, and will only drink milk/formula when he is ready for bed. Otherwise my son wants to eat real food, and with his own two hands. That would not be an issue either, except he is missing teeth on the top of his mouth. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a baby to eat, when they only have two teeth on bottom? He will gobble the food into his mouth, and accidentally gum it right out. 

No, that is not the weirdest part of the holidays. On Thanksgiving evening, we put our dearest son to bed. My folks were tired, and my wife and I wanted to experience adulthood. So we naturally went to the outlet mall to walk around and shop. We ended up walking into a Swarovski store. They had beautiful jewelry for ridiculous prices. While they were ridiculous to begin with, the discounts made for ridiculous savings. I decided to buy something at that store, at which point my wife said, "You don't need to buy that for me."

Before I thought, I hollered back, "You don't know that I am buying this for you! I could have a mistress! I could be buying it for my side-chick! You don't know me. You don't know my life!"

It should be noted that I do not, in fact, have a side-chick. And after yelling that across the store, I am surprised that I still have a wife. 

Now we will fast-forward to Chanukah. In case you are not aware, we just time-traveled three-ish weeks into the future, in the past. I will wait for that to sink in. Caught up? Good. With the holidays being the mess that they are, my folks and I had a family Chanukah on Night 5. We decided to go ahead and give all of our respective gifts, since we knew it would be the only night that we were all together. 

As we were opening gifts, by which I mean that we took them out of the trash bags that we carried them in, my wife begins laughing hysterically. As it turns out, my folks found a copy of the book, Five Chinese Brothers. Now it should be noted, this book is relatively racist. It comes form an era that was less politically correct. This is further proven, when the first page discusses how the five brothers look exactly the same. My wife, who is Chinese, laughed her ass off. She thought it was the funniest shit she had seen in a while. My folks shared a look of relief, before laughing their asses off, too. 

My laughter came when we gave them some Yankee Candles for my father's birthday. My folks were in the process of mocking us for giving something called "Yankee", while we live in the south, when they notices that the glass jars were engraved with pictures of them with their grandson. They literally stopped in mid-sentence, nearly dropped the fucking candle, and started fawning over the gift. I simply asked, "how 'bout dem Yank's?"

ON an unrelated note, I bought my wife some Shun knives, not realizing that they are gourmet restaurant caliber cutlery. I have given her two knives for each night of Chanukah, and test their sharpness by shaving my arm. At this rate, I will be completely manscaped by January. 

Moral of the Story: My wife reads my stories and no, I do not have a side-chick. Gifts this year have been with a side of laughter. Oh, and my arm is as smooth as my baby son's bottom.

Baby Daddy 41: Molestation and Beer Bottle Blowjobs

YES!!!!! I am writing another story!!! Are you excited?!?! You should be! And what am I going to write about? Well, I was originally going to write about my son's propensity to suck on things. At the same time, I just could not bring myself to write it. So instead, I am going to write about my recent travels. Now I will preface this by saying that my son is a goddamn champion. My son is not even a full 9 months (just two days short) and he is already trying to climb shit. That's right, my son got tired of moving the gate, and said, "Well, shit. Why not try to climb? That would be a new skill. Fuck it, I'm a climber now." Of course, he vocalized this in the form of grunts, screams, spits, and blowing raspberries.

(No, this is not my kid. Mine is 10,000 times cooler and better)

My son is also learning to eat real food. Little known fact, my son likes pickles. As it turns out, my father - his Saba - has been feeding my child normal food. The other day, Saba asked if my kid has ever eaten a pickle. When I said no, my father said, "I'mma give him one."

Next thing I know, my son is deep-throating a pickle, and using the few teeth on bottom to scrape the rind clean. He consistently had a sour, salty, and confused face, but my son kept eating the pickle. My wife took offense to this the next day, when she learned that pickles give my son very unpleasant poo-poos. That smell. Like pickles.

(Again, not my kid. Mine is 100,000 times cooler and better.)

So why the name for this post? No, nobody has molested my son. Trust me, there would be a dead body and I would be standing trial for said body. No, the molestation that occurred was my own. Last Friday, I took a flight to Salt Lake City. Why? Because I had a seminar at Gym Jones. Because there is so much training involved, I elected to bring my BCAAs. I won't get into the science behind it, but they are a powder supplement that help with athletic performance. And no, they are not 'roids. Unfortunately, the powder flagged as an explosive risk.

Little known fact, TSA is not known for their understanding or sense of humor. Other little known fact, they do not allow people to bring BCAAs on a plane, when said powder is an explosive risk. The irony is that I finally, finally, made it through the body-scanner without getting searched. Once they "pinged" the powder, however, I got the most thorough pat-down of my life. Short of stripping nekkid, they left nothing to chance. Somewhere, there is a TSA agent that may or may not be pregnant. Wherever he is, I hope that agent knows that he has mastered the art of being firm, yet gentle.

The rest of the trip was wonderful. I learned where I am strong, and learned where I need to get stronger. I also learned how much I miss my wife and kid. During one of the breaks, I took a moment to call them. My wife and I are talking, and suddenly she yells, "No, Baby, don't deep-throat the beer bottle!!"

(Note: Do not Google search for "baby deep-throat beer bottle")

Moral of the Story: My son likes pickles and performing fellatio on beer bottles. Oh, and I may have an illegitimate child with some TSA agent. I hope he calls me.

Baby Daddy 40: I No Longer Have Nipples

YES!!! I am posting twice in one month! Hell hath frozen over!! And what am I talking about? Of course, my kiddo. As I may or may not have shared in a previous post, my son is walking and trying to run. The Boy Beast Wonder is kicking ass and taking names. Unfortunately, he has not yet gotten the hang of running. He will start to walk, then run, then fall, then face-plant. Now, when he does, my son will often reach out for something to hold himself up. Adorable, right?

Wrong. Why? Because he reaches out to me. Now don't get me wrong, I am not one of those heartless fathers. The problem is that I am never wearing a shirt. Why, you may ask? Because we keep our house around 72-74 degrees Fahrenheit. That means that I am always sweating. So when my son reaches out for me to save him, he often times will grab my nipples. If I am lucky, he will fall on his face. If I am not, my son will actually grip my nipples in an atomic nipple twister, and then pull himself upright.

This issue has gotten serious enough that, when my son reaches out, I will actually pull-away. I'm sure, on some level, that I am damaging my son's psyche. On some level, I am giving him the deep-seeded daddy issues that will drive him toward getting a tramp-stamp of a butterfly, ass-less chaps, and making his money in tips. At the same time, I DON'T HAVE NIPPLES!

That's right! He has ripped at my chest so much that I just have two callouses for nipples. It looks like I used my chest to play the guitar. I just walked into a frozen room, ripped off my clothes, and began strumming! It looks like I got into some kinky BDSM shit, and was hanging from the ceiling for a while. 50 Shades of Grey ain't got shit on my kid.

What's worse? He even used my nipples to help poo! My son was walking toward me, arms stretched out for me to pick him up. This was early, before I knew to be afraid. Sure enough, my son fell and grabbed my nipples. He righted himself quickly, and I thought that would be it. I was wrong. Suddenly, he grips  down harder, turns his hands, dips his hips, *ugh*, looks up at me, and smiles. Then the smell. That's right, he used an atomic nipple twister on me, so that he could then ready and launch a biological warhead at me. I don't know what was worse - the pain in my nipples, or the pain in my nose. Secret answer "C" - the pain in my soul.

Moral of the Story: My son is walking and my nipples are missing. I will be posting a picture on a milk carton, shortly.