Dog People Have Gone Ape

I’m going to start this off by acknowledging that my own biases probably influenced how I viewed this as a kid, but when I was growing up, it seemed as if there was a collective understanding throughout society that owning a cat was weird. I mean, why would you? Cats are awful.

My bias probably developed from the fact that my family owned some kind of dog during most of my life. We never owned a cat, nor did we ever consider it, probably because no one in the family liked them.

But I clearly remember feeling a part of the majority. I certainly knew, and liked, people who owned cats, but most of my pet-owning friends and family members had dogs. And society as a whole seemed to own a dog, or at least agreed that they were fun and lovable. We bought paintings of them gambling, for crying out loud. “Awww. They have vices just like us!”

The president, no matter who it was, always owned a dog.

And we were constantly reminded of their greatness in books (Clifford, Where the Red Fern Grows), on TV (Rin Tin Tin, Lassie), and in movies (Benji, Lady & the Tramp, All Dogs Go To Heaven, Turner & Hooch, all those Beethoven sequels). One of the most famous dog movies, Old Yeller, ended with the dog getting shot after contracting rabies. And everyone who has seen it agrees that it’s one of the saddest movies ever. Hollywood wisely used a dog in the story so that packed theaters all across the country wouldn’t stand up and cheer at the sight of a cat being shot to death.

The only cat I remember holding a place in everyone’s collective consciousness was Garfield, which was a funny cartoon, but only because it depicted just how awful it is to own a cat.

The bottom line was: dogs saved kids from wells and cats got stuck in trees, which required being rescued by the fire department, which of course cost tax payers’ money.

Now, if owning a cat was weird, at the time it seemed a rather straightforward correlation that people who owned cats were weird. As Homer Simpson so acutely put it, cats are for “losers who live in apartments.” Even your sanity got called into question. Every town, including Springfield, had a woman who owned more than two cats, and everyone in those towns referred to her as the Crazy Cat Lady.

But mental health shortcomings aside, as I remember it, there were never actually negative traits that anyone associated with a cat owner. It simply had to do with the personalities of the pets – dogs are friendly, cats are not. It was that simple. As long as people kept their pets to three or fewer, there was no concern that either breed of owner was unstable.

Unfortunately that is no longer the case. Today’s generation of dog owners has absolutely lost its shit.

Now granted, cat people spend way too much time taking and uploading videos of their cats to YouTube. Videos the rest of us spend hours watching at work. But in order to see cats doing adorable things while we work, we have to rely on the internet because cat people don’t bring their cats to the office. You know why? Because there is no such thing as Bring Your Cat to Work Day.

I used to think the fact that Bring Your Cat to Work Day doesn’t exist is because non-cat owners would be too horrified by the notion, but the truth is, cat people never suggest a Bring Your Cat to Work Day. I’ve never even heard just one cat owner ask if they could pick a random day to bring in their cat, holiday or no holiday. And that’s because cat people are normal. (I just threw up a little.)

They have no desire to bring their pet to work, they know their pet has no desire to come to work, and they’re respectful of their co-workers who might otherwise have allergies or hang-ups about smelling cat piss. However, we’re about a month away from Tuesday permanently falling out of the week in place of Bring Your Dog to Work Day.

And since being away from our pets for 8-9 hours a day, 5 days a week, has gotten so hard, imagine how hard it is to go on vacation without them. Well, dog owners don’t imagine it. Not anymore. Going on a cross-country flight? No problem. Your dog doesn’t even have to ride with the luggage. Buy it a seat right next to you so it can shit in the aisle. And it will nervously shit in the aisle because like many people, dogs get a little freaked out when they ride on an airplane. But just keep telling yourself this isn’t what you want, it’s what he wants.

Maybe you sympathize with these folks by offering up the logic that it’s hard to be away from your pet for that long. Which is true. But what about the hour it takes to do your grocery shopping? Or the 10 minutes it takes to run into the post office? Doing both of those on the same day? Oh my God, then you have to bring your dog!

These days, if you know just a handful of dog owners, you likely know someone who loves their dog more than their kids or is in love with their dog more than they are with their spouse. You thought of at least one person instantly, didn’t you?

This is definitely a new phenomenon. It started innocently enough with the knitting of sweaters, but quickly grew into more intimate activities.

Remember the medical report that came out a couple of years ago that said it was bad for your health to let your dog sleep in your bed with you? Doctors didn’t release medical statements like that 30, 20 or even 10 years ago. That’s because the general public used to say things like, “I love my child more than life itself. I would do anything for her. I work at a job I hate so that she can have a better future and raise children that she will one day love as much as I love her. I also have a dog. He sleeps on the floor.”

Now the reverse is true.

If that’s not enough, we’ve all heard stories, some may be real, some not so much, of people using all varieties of food spread to, let’s say, “cajole” a dog into participating in activities it otherwise wouldn’t. I have never heard of anyone doing this with a cat. Ever. That alone is enough to say I wish I wasn’t a dog person. I don’t want anyone drawing any parallels between me and someone who would say, “I have peanut butter. I have a dog. I have plans for Saturday night.”

I wish I could say that dog people are getting dangerously close to surpassing cat people in terms of weirdness, but we eclipsed that threshold long ago. In fact, cat people should probably be insulted by that statement for insinuating they were ever weirder than the folks who take their pets to the hardware store, restaurants, ice cream shops, sporting events, shopping malls, etc… (sigh)

Like a certain surging GOP candidate, let's do all we can to end this trend.

Things I Pondered While Waiting to See if I Would Get Picked for Jury Duty

I wonder if we’ll get donuts.

I wonder if that cop’s gun is real.

Oh shit, I wonder if that citizen’s gun is real.

Or is that a shoe?

No, it’s an éclair. Motherfucker, where did he get that éclair?

What if we talked out of our butts and pooped out of our faces?

Would we still wear pants?

Our conversations would be very muffled. Especially through pants.

Then again, everyone could wear assless pants. Then we’d hear each other ok, I guess.

We’d be looking at each other’s asses all the time, though. I’m gonna wager that’d be an unpleasant view more often than not.

Of course, we wouldn’t be looking at the person’s ass we’re having a conversation with because the asses would be facing each other. We’d never see the facial expression of the person we’re talking to.

What if people wore pants on their heads?

If pants went on our heads due to the fact that we pooped out of our faces and we didn’t want to have muffled butt conversations, we wouldn’t be able to see.

I guess we could just cut eye holes in the pants. If we can cut the ass out of pants that we wear over our legs, we can just as easily cut eye holes out of pants we wear over our heads.

Plus, without pants on our heads, we would easily smell each other’s horrible breath. Breath so bad that it couldn’t be rectified. Oh, that’s a funny word – rectified – given this train of thought.

We’d have to wear pants on our heads.

Ah hell, that would look ridiculous though. There’d be nothing to fill the leg sleeves. We’d have unfilled leg sleeves just blowing in the wind. It would waste too much fabric.

Oh, oh, and if we didn’t have pants over our legs, everyone’s genitals would be hanging out. That would probably be a bigger concern than exposed buttocks.

So we either wear assless pants that at least cover our genitals and don’t muffle our conversations, or we wear pants on our heads that cover our poop breath, but waste a lot of fabric thanks to unfilled leg sleeves.

Huh.

I think it’s pretty irrefutable that we’d wear pants on our heads AND our legs.

That’s a lot of pants.

Oh wait, if we still put food in our mouths, while poop came out of them, there’s NO WAY we’d wear pants on our heads. That would be an enormous inconvenience. Can you imagine unbuttoning a pair of pants and raising them over your chin every time you wanted to shove a damn potato chip down your gullet? People love eating too much.

Like that guy over there.

Son of a bitch! He has an éclair too! They must be in the building.

I wonder if I can just ask a bailiff where the éclairs are?

Nah. He probably doesn’t want to field a bunch of éclair questions.

Oh, you know what else people love to do even more than eating? Breathing. Eye holes in the pants on our heads would be nice, but I didn’t factor the need for nose and mouth holes. Well, that’s that. Poop breath or not, we’d never wear pants on our heads.

Alright, so what if food didn’t continue to go in our mouths?

What if we talked out of AND ate with our butts? The pants on our legs would have to be assless, even if it meant we’d see fat guys’ asses like that jerk over there with the éclair. 

Oh shit. Would we stop sitting down? If we sat down we’d crush our voice boxes. We’d have to stand up to talk, watch TV, travel… Riding bikes would be a thing of the past. Cab drivers everywhere would be out of work. Sitting down to eat would suck too. Can you imagine leaning to the side every time you wanted to put a spoonful of Raisin Bran up your butt?

Our legs would get so tired from all the standing. We’d be a nation of wall-leaners.

Damn.

“How is this gonna work?”

“How is what going to work, sir?”

“Huh?”

“How is what going to work?”

“Oh, hello officer. Uhh… nothing. I guess I was just talking to myself.”

“Yeah, we see a lot of that from potential jurors.”

“Say, do you know what floor the éclairs are on?”

“They’re not here, I checked. That guy brought some in for himself and his friend, apparently.”

“Oh. Well that sucks.”

“Yeah. He can shove that éclair up his butt."

"I like the way you think, officer." 

Scenes From the Near Future: Vacationing Americans on Their First Guided Tour of Fidel Castro’s Home

Tour Guide: Welcome everyone! Thank you for coming. My name is Maria and I’ll be your tour guide this afternoon. You have the honor of being the first American tour group to see President Fidel Castro’s home! As you can see, it’s quite opulent, but once we’re inside, I think you’ll find that it’s rather cozy, and just like the White House for your president, it doubles as his work space.

Before we begin, I ask that you please refrain from taking pictures, touching anything within the house, or using any of the restrooms. The house has had some plumbing issues lately that we hope Doug’s Plumbing will have rectified by the end of the week.

We’ll enter the house through the sprawling veranda, which overlooks the beautiful Atlantic Coast. This is where Fidel hosts tea for many foreign dignitaries, including Kim Jung-Un, Xi Jinping, from time to time Vladimir Putin, and of course, the Pope. We’ll finish back here at the end of the tour so you can enjoy some freshly baked cookies and pink lemonade while taking in the view.

(A collective “Oooooh” rings out from the group)

Tour Guide: We’ll enter the house here through the kitchen, where you can see President Castro’s staff is dutifully tending to his lunch preparation. You might be interested to know that Fidel requests the same sandwich for lunch every day – two white pieces of bread covered in a food-like spread that you know more commonly in the States as PB&J.

Now, before anyone asks, I will not be able to divulge where Fidel eats his lunch. And no, he will not be joining us on the veranda during cookies and lemonade. For an additional $3,000 you may take the VIP tour with Simone, but your chances of having lunch with Fidel increase only slightly, depending on the day.

Let’s move onto the American memorabilia room. In here, the staff has compiled Fidel’s favorite pieces either from America, or that represent American culture. For instance, there on the wall is Elvis’ first gold record. Below that on the desk is George Steinbrenner’s ring from the New York Yankees’ 1978 World Series title. Here is an oil painting that Fidel did himself of George Lucas and Pee Wee Herman riding a tandem bicycle.

(Bob from St. Pete is heard taking a picture with his iPhone)

No pictures, please! I have to ask you to delete that. Fidel feels very strongly about maintaining his privacy from those who are not paying the tour fee. Thank you.

If you open this closet, you’ll see a box at the top that contains over 1,000 Cracker Jack toys dating back to 1983. Despite the fact that the toys haven’t varied much in over 30 years, he has insisted on saving every toy out of every Cracker Jack box he’s eaten. At the bottom of the closet is a box of VHS tapes that contain every episode of Golden Girls. Huuuuuge Blanche fan. He says he loved her accent, but we all suspect it was her promiscuity.

Now, the walls in this room are so full that we had to put Fidel’s framed photos of himself with the various U.S. Presidents in this hallway leading to the office.

Linda from Cincinnati: I’m sorry, did you say he has photos of himself with U.S. Presidents?

Tour Guide: Oh yes! All of them dating back 50 years. Well, all of them except President Obama. Every year on January 1^st, he insists that his Chief of Staff send President Obama a text that says “We’ll be sure to have you down just as soon as we finalize plans on the closing ceremonies for Guantanamo Bay.” He then has him send an emoji of a winky face followed by an emoji of a middle finger. We tell him how immature he’s being, but… you know dictators.

As you can see, in each photograph Fidel and the president are shoulder to shoulder, pointing at each other and smiling from ear to ear. It’s his favorite pose. Here he is with President Gerald Ford. Obviously it’s Christmas time because Ford is dressed as Santa Claus. Here he is with President Reagan during one of their all-night poker binges. Here he is with President Nixon. Interesting fact: Nixon came down every year for Cuba’s gay pride parade.

(The group let’s out a collective “Ahhhhhh”)

Here he is with President Carter sharing a Big Mac. Oddly enough, there were plenty of Big Macs at the luncheon. No one has really figured out why they were sharing one. Here is President Clinton visiting while Fidel’s nieces and their sorority sisters are home for the summer. Here is George H. W. Bush in town to see the cock fights. Here is Bush’s son, George W. Bush, dressed as a rodeo clown during the rodeo held on the property. He insisted on being in the barrel for the entire bull-riding portion of the competition. Drove your Secret Service crazy.

Ah, now here is Fidel with President Lyndon Johnson. You’ll notice that both of them are riding pigs and that the pigs are wearing berets. This is his favorite picture.

Todd from Mobile: Is there a photo of him with President Kennedy?

Tour Guide: (laughs very nervously while looking over her shoulder) Ok, let’s keep moving.

Now here is Fidel’s office. Beautiful wood paneling, the original shag carpeting, a security system that can monitor activity over the entire compound… this is where most of the decisions have been made that have shaped our country’s history for the last 55 years.

(The guide notices the entire group staring at a large, red button encased in glass on Castro’s desk.)

What? You all are fascinated by the button? It’s not terribly exciting, I’m afraid.

(The group lets out a collective gasp as she flips up the glass and pushes the button without hesitation. A brief siren goes off, followed by a loud bell. Everyone looks out the window to see dozens of chickens run out of their pens and into the yard.)

Fidel pushes this thing 3-5 times a day to let his chickens get some exercise. He’s raised all manner of hens since he was a boy. He has a certain kinship with the birds. (She pauses for a moment.) You all thought it was for something else?

(Everyone shakes their heads without speaking)

Dale from Boise: (picking up a box on Fidel’s desk) Oooh, are these real Cuban cigars? (He flips the box over) “Producto de China.”

Tour Guide: (quickly grabbing the box) Didn’t you hear me say at the beginning of the tour not to touch anything? I should have known this group was going to be a problem.

I’m afraid that’s the end of the inside portion of the tour, so let’s move back outside so you can watch the firing squad practice. And let’s hope everyone can follow the rules a little more closely out there than you did in here.

Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia’s Interpretations Away From the Bench

Justice Scalia gives a ‘Get Well Soon’ card to his brother, who is in the hospital recovering from surgery

“Aww, you didn’t have to do that.” (clears his throat and reads aloud)

          Hope you’re back on your feet again soon so you
          and I can get back to doing what we love most…

          (opens card)… Rolling in the hay!

“Uhh… what the hell, man?”

“Don’t you remember when we were kids and we used to jump off the hay bales at Grandpa Emmitt’s farm?”

“That’s not what this is referring to.”

“Says so right in the card. Anyway, I knew you’d like it.”


Justice Scalia and His Wife Attend a Party

“Pookie, everyone’s leaving. I think we should probably get our coats.”

“What are you talking about? There’s plenty of revelry to be had this evening.”

“Connie and David are walking out the door, and once they’re gone it’s just us and the Thompsons. And I don’t want to hear any more about their cat’s leprosy. We should go.”

“Scalia’s! Thanks so much for coming. Hope you had a great time.”

“We’re still having a great time! Can’t wait for charades.”

“Uhh… well, we might get a game going next time, but the crowds thinned quite a bit, so…”

“That’s ok, my wife and I will just have another glass of wine. Red, please.”

“Uhh… ok.”

- 20 minutes later -

“Sweetie, the Thompsons are gone and Roger is coming down the stairs in his pajamas.”

(Loud, exaggerated yawn) “Can’t believe how late it is. Well, thanks again for coming. And thanks for the head cheese.”

“Well don’t I feel silly in this coat and tie while you’re gallivanting around in your PJs! Here, let me just get these off and I’ll join you on the couch for a night cap. Cream, no sugar.”

“You want coffee now? Uhh… look… we’re… uhh… sort of… short on cream. But I think we have some half-n-half (dejectedly). Give me a minute.”

“I’ll be in the car, dear.”


Justice Scalia and His Wife Go to Dinner

“Sir, what looks good tonight?”

“Oh (audibly clicks his tongue)… I’m going to try the swordfish.”

“You may have noticed that below the swordfish listing it says ‘Availability subject to the season,’ and I’m afraid swordfish isn’t currently in season.”

“Sure it is.”

“It’s not, unfortunately.”

“How would you know? Your menu doesn’t specify which season its availability is subject to.”

“Swordfish happens to be one of those salt water fish that’s only in season during the fall.”

“Nonsense. I had some delicious swordfish last summer. Early summer, at that.”

“Well, that may be true, sir. But we only have it in the fall.”

“It’s always fall somewhere. You’re aware the earth revolves around the sun, aren’t you my good man? And revolutions around the sun cause a change in seasons all over the world, are you aware of that?”

“Yes sir, I’m aware of that. But it’s not fall in the United States, so we don’t currently have it.”

“Pookie, I don’t think this is one of those places where you order off the menu.”

“I’m not ordering off the menu. They have swordfish. I ordered swordfish. It matters not what season it is where the swordfish is served.”

“It matters precisely, sir. That’s why it says so on the menu.”

“If that’s your understanding of what it says on the menu, then words no longer have any meaning.”

“I’ll be in the car, dear.”


Justice Scalia Drives His Daughter to School

“Dad, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but mom says you’ve been driving a little erratically lately.”

“Your mother. Always with her opinions. I’ve had an impeccable driving record for more than 60 years. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“Just make sure you don’t miss the stop sign at the corner… Dad? Dad! Slow down, you’re almost there! Auuugggh! You just blew right through it!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The stop sign!”

“Oh please. That doesn’t mean anything. You know what I see when I look at that sign? Jiggery pokery.”

“What is wrong with you?! That doesn’t make any sense."

“Any reasonable person would agree that people have the right to decide for themselves if they should stop or not.”

“I’m riding with Mom from now on.”

Justice Scalia Tells Time

“Excuse me, sir. Do you know what time it is?”

“Well, if you look at my watch, you’ll see that it says exactly 6:30 p.m. To you, though, maybe. To me, the little hand and the big hand are both halfway between noon and midnight, which means that it should be 6 p.m. because exactly halfway between noon and midnight is 6 p.m., not 6:30.”

“Well, when it’s six o’clock, the hour hand is halfway between noon and midnight, so I think you just go by the hour hand.”

“BUT, at noon, both hands are pointing at the 12, right? And by the time it’s midnight, they both have traveled all the way around the face of the clock to end back at the same point. SO, when they’re both pointing at the six SHOULD be the halfway point, which means it SHOULD be six o’cl…

“You know what? Nevermind. I don’t care.”


Justice Scalia Watches Late-Night TV

“Maybe you heard this - earlier today the Supreme Court voted 5-4 that no state can deny gay couples the right to marry. How ‘bout that, huh? One of the dissenting votes came from 79-year-old Justice Antonin Scalia, who wrote in his opinion that the microwave in the break room doesn’t get his oatmeal warm enough."

(Scalia doubles over in laughter) "Zing! Right you are, my colleagues are idiots. I like this guy. He's no Alan King, but he's alright in my book."

Bullshit: A Parent's Best Friend

We’ve all heard the saying, “With age comes wisdom.” It’s an adage that’s been passed down for generations. It’s had quite the staying power and probably always will. And why not? It sounds good. Seems hard to argue with.

But at the time you heard it, you should have immediately become suspicious because you most certainly heard it from someone older than you. Parents are particularly prone to believing we have not only knowledge, but values that we must share with our offspring.

Parents of every generation think there are certain “absolutes” they must instill in children in order for the children to turn out as well-rounded as the adults instilling the absolutes. Not only do we believe that certain absolutes must be passed along, we are absolutely certain of their importance.

The kind of absolutes vary from parent to parent, but all parents have at least some. Patience is a virtue, competition teaches the value of trying hard and how to accept failure, we all must learn to compromise, etc…

All bullshit.

We tell ourselves that sharing these nuggets of wisdom is an important duty as parents, but really it just makes us feel important. Necessary, even. That doing this equates to good parenting. The reality is we just want our kids to suffer the same way we did as kids, which is really more questionable parenting than good parenting.

For instance, when it’s time to eat dinner, my kids want to pause the show they’re watching and pick it back up at the same spot after dinner’s over. Because kids can do that now. I, however, tell them they can’t pause it, that they need to just turn TV off. I usually follow that up with, “Missing a show while eating dinner with your family won’t kill you.”

Well, a lot of things won’t kill them. Pausing the show and starting it where they left off after they’re finished eating won’t kill them either. Or me. So why do I care? For a very good reason, actually. Because if kids never have to miss a TV show due to meals or homework or bedtime, they’ll never learn how to compromise.

Riiiiiiiight.

I’m pretty sure I care because I didn’t get to pause live TV when I was a kid. If a show I liked came on during dinner, I had to miss it. And damnit, missing that show made me the man I am today. The type of man who tells his children they don’t get to enjoy advancements in technology.

What if parents did this in the early 1900s, like bypass a trip to the dentist or turn down the cure for something in order to instill some misguided principle?

“Oh, we’re all just going to skirt death now? What kind of message does it send to say, ‘Take care of yourself and you can live longer?’ People are going to completely dismiss the fact that they’re going to die. Not only will everyone live well into their 40s, they’ll enjoy it!”


We want our kids to grow up the way we grew up, and we think what was good enough for us should be good enough for them. People tell themselves, “That’s how I was raised and I turned out fine.” Problem is, EVERYONE thinks they turned out fine.

People who honk their car horns in stop-and-go traffic think they turned out fine. Degenerate gamblers who can’t keep a job or a relationship or a clean rap sheet think they turned out fine. Fans who get thrown out of sports arenas filled with thousands of other people who are drinking and swearing and making threats against the players think they turned out fine. People who repeatedly tell their story about the time they were abducted by aliens think they turned out fine. They think they turned out fine despite the abduction! If you asked them, they’d do it all over again. “Alien abductions build character.”

Guys who take dick pics think they really turned out fine. Usually they feel quite confident in their exceptionalism.

Charles Manson thinks he turned out fine. And apparently he got a woman to believe the same thing.

People who videotape themselves holding a rocket launcher in one hand and a burning picture of a world leader in the other think they turned out fine. EVERYBODY thinks they turned out fine! Somebody’s got to be wrong.

Kids would probably be better off if most parents raised them in a completely opposite manner from which they were raised (I’m looking at you, Philadelphia Eagles fans). Do you ever look back at your childhood and think, “I wish my dad forced me to play baseball with a potato instead of a ball like he had to do when he was a kid. My life would be so much better today” ?

Parents mean well. We try to do right by our kids and it helps to think that we are. But come on. Remember the advice about dealing with a bully? “The best way to get a bully to leave you alone is to stand up to him.” Well what percentage of the population of Silicon Valley do you think is made up of bully pummelers?

I don’t advocate not teaching kids. We have to teach them. They are so, so dumb. But raising children has a way of making you feel like you don’t know anything either. Because you don’t. So let your kids teach you too. And let go of some of those principles that you try to instill out of stubbornness more than anything else.

"You should always tell the truth." Ok, Mother Theresa.

Help Yourself

Help Yourself

What’s this?

Help Yourself, it appears to say.

A second, more deliberate glance to ensure I’m not confused.

I am not.

Help Yourself

In cursive, no less. Delightful, bubbly letters joined together to make a sweet, almost smiling, offer.

Help Yourself

Oh really?

Help Yourself

Help. My. Self.

Hmmm.

It is indeed an enticing offer. One I’ve seen before, however.

Alluring? Certainly. Sincere? Ah, therein lies the real question.

Just who posted this sign, and how polite and free of judgment were their intentions?

A seemingly simple, straightforward statement. But Help Yourself can mean many things.

1) You work hard and your efforts are integral to our success. We want to show our appreciation, so Help Yourself to these delectable desserts. 2) We couldn’t finish these, so Help Yourself, you tubby, free-loading loser.

Help Yourself was the call of the sign sitting in front of the plate of brownies left in the break room in February. A genuine directive, depending on who was reading.

“Oh, I didn’t know you moved to accounting,” came Ted’s smug remark.

“Huh?” was the mumble through a mouthful of delicious fudgy walnut.

“Those were for the accounting department.”

The sign discriminated. The sign did me in.

And yet, it wasn’t the sign at all. The sign had no feelings, no agenda. The sign didn’t write itself. The sign was only a means to draw unsuspecting readers into Ted’s trap.

It was Ted with an agenda. Ted with a misleading courtesy. Ted… with a lie.

Now before me sits a half-full container of cupcakes, lightly sprinkled and not overly frosted. Topped, in fact, by what appears to be the perfect amount of frosting. Enough to give each cake a sweet, sugary zest, but not so much to pain the teeth and stomp on the taste buds.

Help Yourself

The writing doesn’t look familiar. Care free and kind. Written in pink by someone who certainly wanted the office to partake in the joy he or she experienced just moments earlier.

Not written by Ted, in his cold, black, hard-edged, chicken scratches.

But who?

Someone else from accounting?

Maybe someone in Marketing.

A kind soul from H.R.? They always have food.

And who would be watching? Who would be peering around their doors and into the hall, hoping to spot the first to be lured in by such a tantalizing tray?

Maybe they all would.

Most certainly they all would.

Perhaps none would make a comment as disdainful as Ted’s, but comment they would. If not to me, then to each other.

“Look. Look who’s taking advantage of the free food,” they’d say. “Oh, of course. Mike’s always on the lookout for cupcakes,” they’d say. “I hear his wife cheats on him,” they’d all laugh together.

“Screw you and your stupid cupcakes,” I tell myself as I turn towards my desk.

But something grabs hold. No turn is made. Not yet. I stare directly at the goodies. Straight down, too frightened to see who may be watching.

Come on, no one’s watching. No one cares. Just take one, damnit. You’ve stood here for so long, it will look weirder if you don’t take one.

Reaching… reaching… now grab! Pivot! Pink-frosted mini cake firmly in hand.

Racing down the hall, disapproving stares pierce my back; their judgments tug my limbs.

“Probably been waiting all day, hoping someone would put out snacks. Haven’t missed a free meal yet, huh buddy? Friday we’re having doughnuts! Bwah ha ha ha ha!”

Faster! Walk faster!! Oh, here comes Betty. Shove it in your pocket!

Wait. She turned into Carl’s office! Pull it back out.

Close the door. Turn off the lights. They won’t come in if I play back the recording of an old webinar on speaker, too afraid to interrupt a call. Eat under the desk. Stuff it down without chewing. Hurry up!

Uhhhh, ip’s suhhh guhhhhd!!!

(Knock, knock) “You dropped some papers out here,” says a familiar voice.

Fuck you, Ted. Fuck you.

Lessons in Masochism

Last weekend I thought I had a brilliant idea. I had the kids by myself and we needed a week’s worth of groceries. After they both spent Saturday playing in a basketball game, going to a party, watching cartoons and playing video games at their friends’ houses, I decided Sunday morning that the fun was over. I had access to free babysitting (their grandparents) while I did the shopping, but I chose to have the kids come with me to the store instead.

I wasn’t trying to punish them for anything, but apparently I was trying to punish myself. I told myself before we left that it was necessary for my children to learn that life isn’t all about having fun. That the food they enjoy every other day doesn’t just magically appear in the refrigerator. As their parents, my wife and I make sacrifices so they can eat when we tell them they can.

And that’s true. It’s better to learn young that life is full of responsibilities. This strategy of teaching your kids what it takes to run the household is a classic parenting technique. I certainly don’t suspect that all parents do this, but I also know it isn’t a practice specific to me. So I felt vindicated in my decision.

I also soon felt very stupid.

Because instead what happened was the kids enjoyed themselves at the grocery store and I spent most of the time telling them to “put that back,” “stop jumping on the cart,” and “when no one’s looking, spit the milk back in the carton!”

Why do we do this? I think it’s so we can convince ourselves we’re teaching a valuable life lesson, which in turn generates a positive feeling of our parenting skills. The only problem is, this rosy feeling towards the enriching lesson we’ve imparted is wildly disproportionate to the actual impact it makes on our kids.

The reality is, there are plenty of opportunities to teach the importance of responsibility. It’s kind of ridiculous to convince yourself that this one moment will be the one that drives home the point, especially when it’s to your own detriment. I sacrificed much more of my own happiness in order to keep my kids from extending theirs.

And I knew by doing this that I was in for a rough trip to the store; that by the car ride home, I would be beaten down and my kids would be singing the theme song to Sophia the First. I didn’t care. It was necessary, I told myself.

How masochistic is that? It’s perversely masochistic, I tell you. Way more perverse than anything you might request in the bedroom.

My kids could have spent a pleasant morning with their grandparents, with a lifetime ahead of them to learn about responsibility (not to mention the numerous times we had already taught them about responsibility), and I could have enjoyed a quiet trip to the store without people looking at me as if I was the one who put splotches of chocolate sauce all over an open pack of toilet paper.