Bite Me Dr. Spock

We all presently live in what can undoubtedly be referred to as The Information Age. At no other time in history has knowledge in its countless forms been so readily accessible to the masses. As beneficial as this has been to mankind, it's also proven to be a detriment. Being privy to such limitless (and all too often unverified) amounts of data has led to a disturbing sociological trend; every clueless simpleton with access to the Internet or the Oprah Winfrey Show is becoming an authority on virtually everything.

I harbor a special animosity for the sanctimonious twerps who insist upon offering parenting advice. It's generally childless, politically correct yahoos that possess the greatest need to offer their unrealistically utopian vision of child rearing and label nearly every form of discipline as child abuse. These are the same quasi-intellectual, yuppie asswipes who invented the "time out". Only someone who's never raised a child would suggest a method of correction other than several open-handed ass slaps when your high-pitch screaming, foot stomping, juice box throwing, drool-spewing, snot-nosed three year old throws a mental patient variety temper tantrum at the Orange Julius.

In addition, I find pet owning balloon heads that base their so-called knowledge of child psychology solely upon their experiences pampering their miniature dog particularly nauseating. Only childless gay couples that rely upon the published works of Mr. Rogers for their expertise on child development rival their audacity. However, nothing sends me over the edge like the union of the two forces. I'm certain that more than a few parents out there have had their parenting skills questioned by at least one simply adorable, ultra-hip, jet-setting lesbian duo carrying a loathsome, spastic Shih-Tsu they call their baby and dress up in those insipid little sailor outfits.

What we all must understand is the fundamental truth about parenting; no official training manual exists for it. Parenting is not a science, it's a philosophy and experience is the only true teacher. With that in mind, I'd like to offer a bit of advice to any well intentioned non-parents out there who still feel they have sage counsel to offer regarding my abilities as a parent; kiss my ass.

All Grown Up

The older I get it becomes increasingly clear how overrated adulthood is. As children we eagerly strive to reach that stage in our lives only to be inundated with greater pressures and responsibilities once we do. For many this leads to an overwhelming need to relive the simpler joys of childhood. While adulthood certainly has its benefits, there are more than a few aspects of it that can be quite trying. One of the most trying being the way it tends to sneak up on you. There you are one moment, a longhaired adolescent violently spewing the gut twisting remains of a warm twelve pack on the dashboard of your best friend'’s Chevy Impala after an Anthrax show, then in what seems like the blink of an eye, you'’re a decade older, several jean sizes wider, sporting a comb over and holding your wife'’s purse in the mall; A rude awakening to say the least. The following is a condensed list of situations that tend to hammer home the fact that you'’ve reached adulthood. I'’m certain you all have lists of your own so feel free to share.

You Know You've Finally Become An Adult When:

1) The teacher from The Breakfast Club doesn'’t seem like such an asshole anymore.

2) You wait for your boss to leave the room before giving him/her the finger.

3) You apply the term "“young punk"” to people in their twenties.

4) Groups of two or more stoners appear menacing.

5) Your potbelly serves as a flotation device.

6) Gray hairs sprout from places other than your head.

7) At least two of the Golden Girls look kinda hot.

8) You make so many nightly visits to the bathroom you can make your way in the dark.

9) You'’re flattered beyond measure when proofed at bars.

10) "“Let'’s see, sex...sleep, sex...sleep, sex...Ah fuck it, sleep".

Return Of The Blogger

To all my regular readers (all three of you) I announce my return to the blogosphere. For the past several weeks my attention has been diverted from blogging to settling into a new home and acquainting myself with a new town. The move itself was a traumatic nightmare the likes of which I hope never to repeat as long as I live. That notwithstanding, my family and I came out of the experience relatively unscathed and are presently enjoying the pleasures of domestic tranquility.

That being said, I now move on to presenting this week's post:

A Hole In One

I've often wondered what prompts medical students to choose proctology as their specialty. Is there something truly wondrous about the rectum we as laymen simply aren't privy to? Is it possible the anus, a seemingly mundane body orifice could be some magical portal leading beyond the boundaries of ordinary reality into a vast plateau of strange and wonderful delights the likes of which have never been experienced and could not possibly be comprehended by the untrained masses? One can only speculate. Of course the acrid stench wafting from the average rectum conjures images of a very dissimilar sort; a virtual bubbling witches brew of caustic gastric sewage eating away at the very cauldron containing it comes specifically to mind. Despite this objectionable olfactory distraction however, we do not appear to be plagued by a shortage of qualified proctologists. That certainly leaves me in a quandary as to what could possibly be so appealing about a career involving the insertion of one's finger inside a total stranger's fetid stool duct. Perhaps proctology is a default profession, the type one "falls into" following an unsuccessful attempt at mastering another more challenging medical discipline. It is said, "Those who can't teach, teach gym"; a similar adage may apply in this instance such as, "If you can't sew it up, plug it up".