Just a Grown Man Eating Dinosaur Nuggets for Dinner

At least once a week, I’ll throw my dignity in the toilet and eat dinosaur nuggets for dinner. I’m not proud of it, but what are you going to do? Normally, a dinosaur nugget dinner will come about because I’m wiped out from work/kids and would rather catch strangers’ farts with my mouth then cook a full meal. Once the decision has been made, I shovel dinosaur nuggets into my face and try to convince myself that what I’m doing is more dignified than what the reality of the situation dictates.

The rationalization normally begins with two indisputable facts. Dinosaurs are majestic beasts. Also, nuggets are fucking delicious. Especially when you are a child or a thirty eight year old man with high cholesterol and B cup titties. As someone who once sprained his neck while reaching under his steering column in a 1990 Ford Tempo to salvage a loose McDonald’s fry, I make it pretty obvious that I take my shitty foods seriously. Not only am I a sucker for shitty foods, but I do back flips for shitty foods that are also shaped like something awesome. Okay, my belly is too big and my back too bad to do back flips, but I will fall backwards onto a bed to show how excited I am when a food I enjoy is shaped into something cool.

Even though the kids and I will usually enjoy dinosaur nuggets for the same meal, I like to wait until they are finished eating before I sit down at the table to enjoy my childish treats. I do this partially because I want to enjoy my meal in peace. Also, I do it because I don’t want anyone to see me eating dinosaur nuggets. It’s like hot dog production. By the time I’m done slathering my nuggs in ketchup and eating the shit out of these dinosaurs like some kind of human T-Rex who takes his money worries out on his prey, I’m normally thinking about microwaving five more nuggets. Most times, I’ll decide I’ve eaten enough, but not before going out with a disgusting bang, putting on some smooth R&B, holding my plate at an angle and performing cunnilingus on the smeared ketchup and dinosaur crumbs left on my plate. Dyno Gyno, if you will.

When this sad scene has finally ended and I’m about to take my bow on the toilet, regret will start to set in and I’ll wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. I’m a middle aged man who should know by now the importance of a well-balanced meal for not only me, but especially my kids. But then guilt will turn to logic and I realize that I’ll likely make nutrition a priority the instant that they start making kale, spinach and salmon into cool, predatory shapes.


Site Change

Hey guys. All of my blogs will be on terribledadblog.com now, so I will no longer be using this address. If you subscribe to the blog, I’ll gradually be transferring all addresses over to that site. Thank you for reading. I appreciate each of you.

Really Wanna Know Elf on the Shelf’s Background?

He was born Elfert Allen Shelfowitz in Gary, Indiana on December 25, 1990. Elfert was raised by his mother, Lerlene Babbage, who was forced to work three jobs after Elfert’s father, “Big” Len Shelfowitz abandoned them shortly after finding out about Lerlene’s pregnancy. As the only white elf in a predominantly black neighborhood, Elfert was often ridiculed for his many differences, including flamboyant style of dress and happy-go-lucky nature. Teachers described him as an average student who often angered other students as he was frequently caught staring with a wide grin on his face. In the fifth grade, he was referred to the school psychologist, Dr. Dave Flutterman, who diagnosed Elfert with antisocial personality disorder.

Elfert and Lerlene bounced around towns in Indiana, after multiple evictions forced them to do so. At the age of 11, Elfert was arrested and sent to juvenile hall for setting a garbage fire in the rear of a 7-11 convenience store. The fire quickly spread and engulfed the building. Store owner Raj Patel observed Elfert masturbating behind a dumpster as the fire raged, so he charged towards him and held him by the scruff of his neck until police arrived. At the juvenile detention center, Elfert Shelfowitz gave his name as “Elf on the Shelf” and was known as such from that day forward.

After being released from detention for his arson conviction, Elfert went to his last known address to find that his mother had abandoned him. Although the situation left him heartbroken, Elfert had spent his time in juvenile detention learning the tricks of the trade from kid grifters, angle boys and scores of creeps in training, so he was well equipped to survive on his own. His bunk mate, Jesse Lee Dorsey, was an accomplished burglar by the age of 10. He gladly furnished all of his criminal knowledge to Elfert. As a result of obtaining all of that knowledge, Elfert was able to survive on his own for years, lying, manipulating, stealing and burglarizing homes to simply watch people sleep. In a prison interview with the A&E Network, Elfert describes a typical break-in: “I would usually just jimmy the lock with a Swiss Army knife. Once inside, I wouldn’t care if I stole anything or not. For me, it was all about the rush I felt from watching people sleep, watching their chests rise and fall, putting my ear to their mouths and letting their air fill my tiny, elf ear canal. I would often pretend that I was a part of that family. Most times, I would curl up between the husband and wife while they slept. After a few minutes of that, though, I would normally get an anger hard-on, so I’d jerk off like my freedom depended on it. When I would cum…er…ejaculate, I apologize for my language, I would never jerk off onto the wife. If she woke up with jiz…I’m sorry…semen on her back, she’d just assume her husband did it. However, I’d always jerk off all over the husband’s back, neck and face. That way, when they would awaken, it would be utter chaos, as there would be no explanation for why a man’s back, neck and face was covered in cum with only a woman in the room. It was just one of my quirks, man”

Elf continued committing petty crimes and jerking off all over husbands in the Indianapolis area as they slept with their wives. But after a friend convinced him to come along to a Tony Robbins personal empowerment event at an Indianapolis Ramada, Elf realized that he needed to maximize his creep potential and find a way to have people invite him into their homes, so he could satisfy his deep, dark, disturbing cravings without running the risk of getting locked up again. After speaking with Tony Robbins during the event in front of several hundred other personal empowerment seekers, Elf decided that he would package himself and let people simply buy him, willingly place him in their homes and partake in his sick desires once they were asleep.

To date, Elf on the Shelf has willingly been placed in millions of homes.


My Time Being A Big, Dumb, Goofy Asshole Is Just About Up

For the past decade plus, I’ve been able to bullshit my way through being a dad. I quickly learned that as long as you’re a big, dumb, goofy asshole, you can kind of just coast along and have your kids love you anyway. I really feel like I’ve won my kids’ hearts with fart jokes and pizza. It’s becoming apparent, though, that I am on the verge of having to evolve from being a big, dumb goofy asshole as Bella is quickly transitioning out of childhood. My worst fears are becoming realized, as I now know that the real parenting work is just beginning.

When the kids were babies, I remember being angry a lot that I was missing out on something that I really wasn’t. I was very immature for a very long time and still acted as though I was on my own quite often. Although I loved my family from day one, they weren’t always my first priority. For years, my nights and weekends were dedicated to hanging with my buddies. What little time I did spend at home, I was satisfied with as I always told the kids that I loved them and would spend minimal quality time doing something kid-friendly. For me, that was enough to feel as though I was a good dad.

Sometime shortly after having Mikey, I started to realize I needed to get my shit together and since then, my life has revolved around my family. The weird thing is that I used to seem to have so much free time to kill when I didn’t give a fuck about anyone but myself. Now that the kids are the center of my life, I feel like it’s always a fucking sprint to spend quality time with them and make sure they feel loved by me. Mikey and Olivia are very easy to make happy, so if I only have enough time to wrestle with them after work for fifteen minutes before they go to bed, they seem cool with it. But now that Bella is eleven, her world is drastically different than her brother and sister’s worlds.

This scares the shit out of me because it’s the first time I’ve had to put significant thought into parenting any of my kids. Up until this point, it’s been primarily ensuring their survival and being a goofball. I do like it though, because it is forcing me to think differently. Think about all the things I have to teach her. Things like looking people in the eye, relying upon yourself to get things done, setting goals and going after them. Unfortunately, I also have to teach her things that I don’t want to. Things like how she’s going to often be treated unfairly because she’s a woman, how to react when boys harass her, boys trying to take advantage of her and boys just being total fucking assholes in just about every respect.

The biggest positive to all of this is that I’m beginning to feel as though I’m interacting with a small, thoughtful person as opposed to a child. It’s cool seeing the groundwork for the person I envision Bella to be as she moves towards adulthood. I just hope I can provide what she needs to help her go into the world as a confident young woman. I feel like I can, but I also feel as though the clock is ticking because there are only six and a half years left until she becomes an adult. It’s crazy how time flies when you’re being a big, dumb, goofy asshole…

Dreading Awkward Interactions With Coworkers

I’ve really gotten to a point where I enjoy going to work. However each day, I experience a significant amount of stress that normally begins during my commute. The stress has nothing to do with the actual work I have to do, but everything to do with dwelling upon awkward social interactions with coworkers I don’t even work with anymore.
I’m really lucky in that I honestly enjoy going to work. The work is fulfilling, I work in a nice area and I enjoy most of my coworkers. The problem is that I still think about two coworkers I used to have who made me wish that I was trapped in a coffin underwater rather than in a conversation with them. Every fucking time one of these people approached me, I instantly started visualizing myself smearing invisibility cream on myself from head to toe. I would also begin fantasizing that I was Sonic the Hedgehog and I would roll the fuck out of the interaction at lightning speed and back into my office before these soul suckers had the chance to tell me about eating at the goddamn Macaroni Grille the night before.
Truth be told, most of the interactions I had with either of them lasted no more than a minute or two. But unfortunately during our interactions, time seems to stand still and both of them read social cues like chimps read Shakespeare. I would rather hear what a state trooper who shows up at my doorstep in the middle of the night has to say than hear about the weekends that either one of these goofballs had.
You know somebody sucks when just the sight of their face is enough to make you silently say, “Fuck.” I did that at least six times a day at work. Even though I’ve made it perfectly clear that I had zero interest in speaking with either of these weirdos, some people are just so emotionally needy that they’d tell a fucking pile of turds about taking their grandchild to a parade simply because the turds were sitting still.
I don’t know why I even dwell on this because it just stresses me out and it’s entirely unnecessary. I guess I should probably get back to my real problems. I’ve got enough of those to keep me busy, plus I could always go to the basement and continue to work on developing my awkward social interaction invisibility cream.

Trying to Find a Polite Way to Ruin Santa Claus for My Kids

If you’re anything like me, you’re an insecure egomaniac who cannot bear the thought of doing something for another person without the deed being publicly recognized. Or maybe you’re a decent person. If so, I have no idea how you do it. Especially when it comes to spending hundreds of dollars on Christmas presents, only to be able to take credit for a portion of them. I’ve had enough. I’m pretty sure this will be the year I burst the kids’ bubble and tell them I’m the man behind the magic.

I spend a significant portion of each day, eyes glazed, daydreaming about what a good person I imagine myself to be. Today alone, I fantasized about saving puppies from a burning building, performing CPR on a dying kitten, and splinted a compound fracture that Topanga from Boy Meets World suffered while trying to rush the stage to meet me at the GQ/Hustler Magazine/Nobel Prize blogger of the year awards ceremony. The worst part about the daydreams is that I often feel as though I’ve accomplished the things I’ve fantasized about. It all stems from deep-seated insecurity that I should probably address at some point, but it will likely have to wait until after the holidays are over.

Christmas is rapidly approaching and I’m already getting anxious that Santa Claus will receive the attention that I justly deserve for buying all the kids’ presents. I’m conscious of the fact that the magic of Christmas is something that every child deserves, but I refuse to sit on the couch like some dildo in a fucking robe while I angrily blow on my coffee to keep from ruining the fun and blurting out that I bought all the shit that the kids are going bananas for. It’s already bad enough that I have to take bites out of the goddamn carrots so the kids believe that the reindeer nibbled on them. I don’t know about you, but I refuse to lie to my children. Especially at the expense of costing myself some well-deserved attention. Fuck carrots and fuck being humble.

I guess the best way to do it is to just sit the kids down and tell them. Maybe I’ll make it seem like Jaime and I are splitting up so that when I finally reveal that the big news is that Santa doesn’t exist, it will be a huge relief. Or I’ll just tell the kids to check out a funny cat video on my laptop and I’ll conveniently leave up my Amazon Prime checkout list that is comprised of all kinds of awesome shit that they’ll love. If they badger me about that, I’ll just lie to them and tell them that Santa got a sleigh DUI coming home late Thanksgiving night after meeting a frostitute at a North Pole Motel 6.

The bottom line is that I need this fucking attention. I’m tired of deferring it to some old, red-cheeked creep who watches kids sleep. Maybe I’ll just compromise and take the credit for just this year, so the kids can still believe in the magical ideal of Santa. I’ll just let them know that he’s just not going to be around this year, due to the fact that this was his third sleigh DUI.

Psychoanalyzing Mikey’s Preschool Work

Mikey Thanks

After seeing Mikey’s preschool artwork indicating what he is most thankful for, I have ambivalent feelings. He put me on the list, which was a slam dunk, so whatever. But I’m a little weirded out about most of the other shit. I hope I’m wrong on some of these, but here’s my interpretation:


This one weirded me out the most. I have no idea who Carolann is. The first thing that popped into my mind was that creepy dead kid from Poltergeist. If that’s the case, then not only is he chillin’ with some weirdo spirit who is a portal to the gates of hell, but now I have another kid in the house. Ghost kid or not, that’s the list thing I friggin’ need. She’s probably going to start waking me up in the middle of the night to bother me with bullshit like my worldly children do. “Mike, wake up. I’m scared. There’s a living boy in the room that my closet’s in.” No shit, Carolann. That’s because it’s Mikey’s room that you’re haunting. Go back to the netherworld and leave me alone.

The Color Red

I think he’s simply referring to the color red, which I can definitely understand because red is a pretty awesome color. Or he could be referring to a sequel to The Color Purple that I’m not aware of. I’m guessing The Color Red is a special Valentine’s themed sequel to The Color Purple where Danny Glover feels terrible for being such a jerk off to Whoopi and showers her with red roses. Look, I don’t know. It’s his fucking list, not mine.

Mommy and Daddy

Pretty good ones. Mommy is beautiful, does a lot for Mikey and is just pretty awesome. A little unstable, but again, his list, not mine. Daddy is an excellent choice. I’m easily the best blogger he knows and I pay for his food, clothing, shelter and Netflix. He has my full support on that choice.

The Red Door

I’m creeped out again because I just assume this is the portal that Carolann uses to commute from the kid afterlife into my house. If I find this door, I’m putting a deadbolt on my side and evicting Carolann from my home. If she’s got a problem with it, she can take it to Ghost Court.This ghost kid is already causing me more aggravation than I need. I swear to God, if I gotta take a day off from work to go to Ghost Court, I’m gonna go ape shit on this kid in the court room. I’ve seen A Few Good Men like 15 times. This kid has no idea what she’s in for. If she thinks purgatory was rough, wait til she sees my cross examination!


Mikey’s toys are pretty cool, so I can see his point here. Unless he’s referring to that horrendous Robin Williams movie, Toys. If that’s the case, I’m going to slowly phase this kid out of my life, because I just can’t associate with someone with such poor taste in movies.


Chairs really are pretty cool if you think about them. I enjoy chairs so much that one of the goals on my bucket list is to confine myself to one when I get to about 80 years old. In the meantime, I’m stuck being a part time chair user.

My Hammer

I’m assuming this is a euphemism for his penis. In which case, I admire him for feeling so confident about what he’s working with. My penis is so mediocre that I often dye my pubic hair neon green to make my genitals stand out. I’d kill to have enough briefs beef to brag about in preschool. No wonder this kid is attracting chicks from the afterlife.