I'm not mature enough for this.

Found in the back of my daughter's activity book from the Easter Bunny.

That's a pretty good deal.

Wish I could take credit for it. My sister found this one.

Compromise

TACO: You really ought to read the book I'm reading now.

WIFEZILLA: The nymphos one?

TACO: Yeah. I'd offer to read it aloud but, you know, the kids.

WIFEZILLA: Well, if you ever went to bed at the same time as me.

TACO: I'd go to bed at the same time for a blow job. Every time. I went to bed with you.

WIFEZILLA: Every time?

TACO: Yeah.

WIFEZILLA: I'll meet you half way.

TACO: Deal.

WIFEZILLA: Okay.

TACO: I'd like the second half, please.

WIFEZILLA: ...

TACO: *laughs*

WIFEZILLA: This is going on your blog, isn't it?

He's insulting people at an eighth grade level.

KIDZOOKIE: Dad?

TACO: Hmm?

KIDZOOKIE: What's a douchebag?

Bag of what now?

Noq: This AV is a fucking joke. WoW is minimized right now. That's how little i care about it.

Taco: Wow. That bad?

Noq: Yes.

Taco: I was in one of those last night. Pissed me off.

Noq: Imagine two bags full of retarded children being swung against one another.

Taco: *choke*

Noq: That's this AV.

Smack Talk

Sunday morning, Super Smash Bros. Brawl dropped. We loved Melee on das Gamencuben, so getting the new title for the Wii was a no brainer.

The kids and I dragged our asses out of bed and hauled on down to Target to pick up a copy. Target opens at 8, and I figured we'd be able to get a head start on the Christians going to church. They still had a huge stack of the game when we got there, and I was very proud of my cleverness... until I realized that I'd forgotten the time change, and Target had already been open for an hour when we arrived. I guess I needn't have worried so much.

We've put some miles on the game this week. Wifezilla even plays with us. They've kept the automatic handicap feature from Melee, so within a few fights, even my three year old daughter has a fair shot at winning a fight.

We've had a blast.

My son is six, and he's started to get the hang of the game. The handicap the computer assigns to me dwindles daily, and it's started to get really fun playing against him.

Unfortunately, I talk a lot of trash while I play without even realizing it. Last night, kidzookie was playing against his mom (and winning big time). He'd staked out a position on a ledge, and every time my wife would try to jump onto it, he'd send her flying, point at her, and yell, "Not in my house, little man!"

I couldn't stop laughing. Wifezilla was considerably less impressed.

The Wisdom of Kidzookie

On the drive back home tonight, kidzookie pipes up and asks his mom:

"Hey mom... why don't you have a brother? Is it because grandma and grandpa don't have sex any more?"

The Danger of Wishes

Lately, we've had a lot of trouble getting my son to stay in bed after bedtime. He comes downstairs over and over again, wanting hugs, wanting to ask questions, wanting to know what some noise was, you name it. We've established a firm rule that you have to keep your scrawny little ass in bed after you're tucked in, and no yelling downstairs to us, or you get no hugs, no second tuck-ins, nothing.

It doesn't do shit, of course, but we have the rule.

So last night, he's up over and over again, and I'm getting pissed. "I heard a noise upstairs, is the computer off?" (That's been a popular one, lately)

I log in remotely to the machine upstairs and check the volume. Nope, I had forgotten to mute it. I mute it remotely. "There ya go, kiddo, get back upstairs."

Two minutes later, he's back downstairs. "I heard a noise. Are you sure it's off?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Can you turn it off again?"

I'll check again. "Yep, it's off."

"But I heard something."

"The dishwasher's on. The washing machine's on. The dryer's on. You probably heard something from one of those. Or one of the cats moving around the house. Or maybe the wind blew one of the trees against the house. There's absolutely nothing to be worried about. Now get. Your. Butt. Upstairs."

"But..."

"Get upstairs now, and don't come down again, or you're going to be in a lot of trouble."

Tears. Snot. The works. I haven't even raised my voice at this point, so I don't understand this reaction at all. My wife goes upstairs with him to tuck him in and play good cop to my bad cop. She comes downstairs about five minutes later, smirking and suppressing giggles.

Turns out, the root of the matter was this: he had been curious to know whether wishes worked, so on the playground at school that day, he'd tested it by wishing on a dandelion that monsters were real. Every bump and thump that night sent the kid into hysterics.

My life, ladies and gentlemen.

/bow

The Chosen Beer

I wish my camera phone was better, because something as bizarrely awesome as this deserves something better than the grainy, out of focus crap my razr churns out.

We stopped by the beer shack near our house this evening to pick up a flavored beer my wife's fond of and can't find any place else, and as I passed the He'brew shelf, I swear the clouds parted and sunlight broke through to land dazzlingly upon the display even though it was night time, I was indoors, and the DVD I'd been shopping for at the previous store is apparently a figment of my imagination (at least according to the pubescent brainchildren at Best Buy).

Behold the glory. It's the chosen beer. L'Chaim!

Precocious little thing, isn't she?

So wifezilla, my daughter, and I stopped by Target today on our way home from breakfast. Wifezilla needed a few things and wanted to do a little Christmas shopping while we were there.

So while wifezilla was off doing her thing, I took the wee one over to the grocery side of the store to nab a free cookie. On the way there, she took a hard right and bolted into the personal hygiene aisle. When I rounded the corner, she was standing there with a box of tampons, which she proudly held up and informed me, "These are for mommy's butt."

The Tropic of Taco

Noq: i sent you some songs this morning

The Taco Prophet: Yay!

Noq: theyre both by a band called Ten Masked Men, who apparently just do death metal versions of pop songs

The Taco Prophet: <3

Noq: i sent you their versions of Sledgehammer and Livin la Vida Loca

The Taco Prophet: I am downloadifying now

Noq: yay!

The Taco Prophet: This music makes me humid in the britches.

Noq: everything makes your britches humid. it's a temperate zone

Noq: it's the Tropic of Taco

Parenting is hard to do...

...with a straight face.

So last night, we hit Sears to buy kidzookie a suit for Emu's wedding on Saturday. After a painful round of trying on dozens of suits while one kid whined that she was bored and the other that he was tired of trying shit on, we got him squared away, and headed back out into the mall. Wifezilla brought out a gift card to Victoria's Secret and said she'd like to go pick some stuff up if I didn't mind.

Mind? Pffft.

So we all pile into Vicki's, Wifezilla's digging through piles of stuff and having a grand old time, and the kids are bored shitless. My daughter asks me to spin her around and get her dizzy, and I look down to tell her no, this really isn't the place to play that kind of game.

Then I look up.

My son is wearing a thong on his head.

I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out exactly how best to approach this situation, and he takes the opportunity to inform me, "It's a superhero mask, dad."

Hrk.

She's my little princess.

So this weekend, we're riding around in the car, and my daughter is sitting in her car seat, red-faced, grunting, and straining:

TACO: You okay over there?

DAUGHTER: Nnnnngyeah.

TACO: Do you need to be changed?

DAUGHTER: Nnnnnnng...no.

TACO: You didn't poop your pants?

DAUGHTER: Nnnnnnng...no.

TACO: What are you doing over there?

DAUGHTER: Nnnnng... I'm trying to fart.