Baby Daddy 6: Discipline

YES!!!!!! Do you FEEL IT?!?! That's SECOND TRIMESTER, BITCHES!!! My wife is NOT nauseated anymore. She's still batshit crazy, but it is in a far better way. And that leads me to this next installment of the Baby Daddy Series. Today's subject? Discipline. (FOCUS!)

As you may or may not have known, I started learning Krav Maga a couple weeks ago. As someone described it on The Big Bang Theory, it's 1,000 ways to rip a guys testicles off. That's not entirely true, but it is. On a side note, Ahmed mentioned that I should enter a cage fight, now that I am learning how to defend myself. I told him that's a terrible choice. He asked why, and I told that I am literally learning every technique that is outlawed in professional fighting. What most cage-fighter try to avoid, Krav Maga avidly encourages. I'm talking eye-poke, dick-punch, fish hook, nose picker, and throat stomp. But I digress.

Why do I talk about Krav Maga, in a section about being a baby daddy? One, because nobody has a sense of humor. Last night, we learned about elbows. Of the eight elbow strikes we learned, there was one that goes to the back, and down. Think of this as elbowing a person in the gut. I then made the joke about going home to practice with my preggers wife. Evidently the women in the class have not figured out that I have a fucked up sense of humor. Their eyes got big and they immediately started asking if I was serious. I told them that I wasn't. Why? Because I'm not that stupid. If I tried to practice with my wife, she'd knock my ass out with a fucking skillet. How do I know? Because she playfully tried to do it last weekend. I then joked that I did look forward to when my boy interrupts my training, and I accidentally elbow him in the face. Again, the group had no humor. One was talking about all these safety precautions I could take. I told her my safety precaution would be that my son would hopefully block the elbow and whoop my ass. She then asked if I was talking about my unborn child. Like that makes a difference? Fuck that. I expect my boy to kick my ass by the time he's a month old. If he can't throw me across the room by the time he's 6-months old, I have failed him. 

But I digress...again. The reason why I discuss this is because I do plan on teaching my family Krav Maga. I believe that everyone should know how to protect themselves. I told my folks about it, and they couldn't wait to be the Krav Maga Saba and Tzavta (Grandpa and Grandma). I told my wife about this idea and she was thrilled. She immediately started talking about how she can then use the techniques to beat our son, and force him to get straight A's in Harvard Medical School. Yes, that's right. My Chinese wife wants to learn Israeli combat, so that she can force her son the be a doctor. Now before some asshole tries to call protective services, we will not beat our children. We may spar with them, and whoop their asses, but we won't beat them. 

And that part is true. One concern a lot of people have is that our kids will get picked on or get into fights. Being half Chinese, half Jewish, and raised in the South, that's a very realistic possibility. And that is why I am training them to know how to fight. Now there's a condition to that. They can never start a fight, but they had damn well better finish it. My wife was talking about how, if Chinese sons lose a fight, their fathers beat them so that the son loses twice. I told my wife that our boy won't lose. I also told her that, should our kids ever want to start a fight, they will come home and fight me. If they're justified in their aggression, having been victimized or slighted, they will win their fight. If they are just being a hormonal shit-brain teenager, I make sure they lose. Of course, if our kids win the fight, then it also means that I will be talking to parents, a school, and/or a lawyer after. If our kids lose the fight, then I'mma make them get me a beer and then ask their mother about science. That way I can crush them physically, and she can crush them mentally. Because fuck teenagers. Assholes.

Moral of the Story: My family is going to learn Krav Maga and I'm cautious when my wife has a pot, pan, or skillet in her hands.

My Wife is Becoming a Drug Dealer

So before everyone freaks out, no, my wife is not dealing meth. She may eventually deal math, but not meth. How is my wife a drug dealer, then? Well, she decided to buy catnip for the cat. Now everyone knows, or is about to learn, catnip is like weed for cats. I don't know why, but they go ape-shit for it. The funny part, however, is that our cat has a mixed reaction. When he first eats the nip, he gets stupid fucking hyper. He will run all over the fucking house, trying to get more. You can tell when the mellow hits, because suddenly he just stops. Next thing you know, his pupils are dilated like a motherfucker and he can't tell distance to save his life. The best was when he tried to jump on the couch and missed. You could tell he was trying hard, but his little legs just didn't want to work. One small thud later, and the cat is sprawled out on the floor, sleeping.

In giving the cat his dope, however, I have learned that it is also getting my wife her own high. There was a study released last year, which indicated that watching cat videos stimulates the same part of the brain that drugs can. Evidently, when our cat gets fucked up off the green, my wife gets fucked up from the cat. In fact, she finds him so adorable that the "cuteness" almost turns to rage. And before you ask, yes this is a thing. Evidently the brain chemistry that recognizes something as cute or adorable is closely related to the brain chemistry that registers rage or violence. This is why people talk about wanting to eat children, and why people secretly love to see a little kid in a parka get pushed into a snow bank. For my wife, she gets high on hugging, cuddling, and kicking the cat.

So what does this mean? It means that I have two drug addicts in the house. Only one is taking a legitimate drug, relative to the species. It also means that I am witnessing our house turn into an episode of Breaking Bad. The other night, the cat came up to my wife and started mewing. My wife asked what he wanted, and he kept pawing. When she went to get the bag of catnip, the cat jumped half-way across the room to get to it and meowed louder. I don't know why, but I suddenly got the image of our cat turning into a gangsta. When my wife asked what he wanted, I imagined the cat saying, "You know what I want!! Nip me, bitch! NIP ME!!" One pinch of nip later, and his drugged-out, happy-ass self is back in the middle of the floor, asleep. My wife's drugged-out, happy-ass self is stretched out on the couch, asleep. And my sober-ass self is in the other room, fixing my meals for the next day.

Moral of the Story: Our cat needs to go to rehab, and I'm eating turkey for lunch.

Panda Sex

Oh sweet mother of fuck. I was talking to my wife, and for some reason or another, we got on the topic of fucking panda bears. She was telling me about how panda bears are concentrated into areas, so that people can watch them eat bamboo and hump. All they do is eat and mate. She was talking and said, “Do you know the worst part? The panda does not want to hump!” The panda is just sitting there, saying, “I’m tired! I don’t want to hump. I just want to eat my bamboo! And look at her, she’s fat!” And then the female panda turns around and says, “Look at you. You’re no peach, either! I’ll just keep with my bamboo tonight.”

My wife was then talking about how the pandas, being lazy, receive help from their keepers in the mating. I suddenly got an image of a panda taking a position and saying, “Human! 'mere! Grab my fur. Now push my hips. Now pull....Now push....Now pull....Push..Pull..Push..Pull. Push. Pull. Push. Now get me a cigarette.” The female panda turns and says, “Get me my bamboo.”

Of course, I shared this and my wife said I had a fucked up sense of humor. She then shared with me the picture of a keeper helping the panda, and a headline from her hometown.

Yes, that’s right. The panda lasted 8 minutes, which was big news in China. My wife said that it is the most popular celebrity sex tape in China. So take that, Kim Kardashian.

Trees Slut-Shame Flowers

Finally!! I know, I know. It has been TOO DAMN LONG (!!!) since my last post. I got busy. It happens. I have a job, two companies, a Master's class, and just started Krav Maga. If shit sounds busy, it's because it is. But you know what? Fuck it. Time to write, bitches. It should be noted, by the way, that I am officially certified as a personal trainer. That's right, I took a test and can now charge a shit tonne ($25/hour) of money for helping people. Or, you can give me food. I eat a lot. So direct message or comment if you want to change your life!! I train everybody, and I have been told that I actually know what I'm doing. On a semi-related note, I deadlifted 470 pounds. So fuck you, I'm strong. Maybe. But I digress.

So what can I write on?! Where do I start?! Well I will start with the seasons. Fall is in the air!! That's right, the seasons are changing. They actually started to change a week ago. How do I know? Because we had that one cold morning. I went outside to go to work, and the sun was still down and there was a nip in the air. It got hot as shit later, but it was still the first change. And with that first change, I became very aware of the trees.

Have you ever noticed that, before autumn sets in fully, there are those two or three trees that start to turn? One gust of wind and they lose all of their leaves. I feel like, if autumn is a party, they are the ones that get there and get drunk way to quickly. You know the ones. The party starts at 8 PM, and by 8:30 PM, they are dancing on the table - swinging their shirts over their heads, saying, "WOOOO!!! I AM GROOT!!!! WOOO!!!!". By 9 PM, when everyone else starts to get drunk, those people are passed out, naked on the couch. They have their shoes on, of course, so they also have shit written all over their face. Shame and embarrassment from being the only naked trees in the crowd.

These are not to be confused with the trees that are the first to sprout leaves in the spring. Those are the ones that show up to the party early, and leave early. If the party starts at 8 PM, they are there at 7:55 PM. By the time everyone arrives and gets loose at 9 PM, those trees are saying, "Whelp, time for us to get home and get to sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow." And they just fucking leave. 

I told this idea to my wife, and we start discussing how plants would interact with each other. I suggested that they would judge each other. She replied that she doesn't think trees would talk or judge each other, but they would judge flowers. Flowers would be talking, "Fuck you, tree. You may be big, but we're pretty!!" Tree's would calmly reply, "Sluts."

Moral of the Story: Trees slut-shame flowers and flowers talk shit about trees. Oh, and autumn is in the air. On a side note, a Google Images search for "Tree slut shaming flower" did not yield any of the images I was hoping for. I don't know why I thought it would, but it didn't. So now you're stuck with a tree pollinating. Suck it. 

Pee-Pee Paranoia

There are so many things that I want to discuss, but 9/10 are ones that would make for a good joke, and not a good story. There is one thing I can discuss, which I realized this past week. I think way to much about peeing. That's right, you heard me. Peeing. Bear (Bare?) with me. 

I am paranoid about people hearing me go to the bathroom. I am. Once when I was a young lad, I went to the bathroom at my grandparents house. Evidently I didn't close the door all the way, because the noise echoed throughout their house. I came out to talk to everyone, and I could tell that the conversation was being forced. I didn't find out why until I was on the way home. Thus started my hypercritical analyses of going to the bathroom, and bathroom etiquette. Now before you people judge me, I want you to take a look at your behavior in the bathroom. And not that private bathroom that you go to, where there's a soundproof door and special insulation, where you could literally kill a man and nobody would hear, but the communal one.

On a side note, how many spy movies include people dying in the bathroom? Think about it. James Bond has killed SO MANY people after they finish peeing. I don't know if it was actually enough people to warrant the capital letters. I may have exaggerated. Even so, how do they know that nobody is going to come in? How do they know that some little kid isn't going to be walking in, holding his daddy's hand, getting ready to go pee-pee? If he's doing the pee-pee dance, would the spies stop fighting? After all, it's the pee-pee dance. Everyone knows that dance. The kid is going to go, no matter what. You don't want to be that guy that forces a kid to pee themselves. Even more, you don't want to be fighting someone and suddenly you slip because your foot hit the puddle on the floor, which could have been prevented if you just let the kid go pee-pee. But I digress.

Maybe I am weird, but I do not like the idea of peeing in public. First, there's noise. I don't know why, but I believe that my peeing should be private. It's worse when there are several people there, and then you start peeing, and you are so much louder than everyone else. What do you do? Do you try to change your aim? Do you try to reduce the intensity with which you are peeing? Or do you pee as hard and fast as you can pee, and embrace the resonance that is taking place from the room?

Another issue. I don't like to hear talking when I go pee-pee. You see in movies where someone in in the bathroom and suddenly a person comes in to try discussing a something. I see the logic of this when you are discuss a sensitive matter. Bathrooms (hopefully) do not have cameras or microphones. Even so, you are invading a person's privacy. What if that person has stage-fright? What kind of monster comes in when a person is at their most vulnerable, to discuss something serious? I understand that strategy in war, but this is a goddamn bathroom! The only war that should ever be taking place is between the person and either their bowels, their prostate, or their kidney stones. 

And if you doubt that the bathroom is your most vulnerable state, then I challenge you to run a fucking 40-meter dash in the middle of doing your business. Can't do it, can ya? You know how I know? Because you would end up peeing on yourself. And nobody likes wet clothes. People in movies that do stuff with wet clothes on are miserable. Even when they finally get the boy or the get the girl, they are miserable. And likely chafed. 

But I digress again. Two other items I've noticed. One, I firmly believe that more men pee sitting down because of their smartphone. It is far less risky to drop your phone in the toilet when you sit down. Why do you have your phone in the bathroom? Because your playing Pokemon GO, need to GO number 1, and you want to "catch 'em all". Or you are checking social media, which is dangerous. That's how you accidentally end up on a watch-list. On a related note, never answer the phone when you are in the bathroom. Why the fuck do you think your aunt wants to hear you peeing, while she asks for you to troubleshoot her computer? 

The other item is, I believe, is localized to men. I pray that there will one day be a urinal with a splash guard. If you wear flippy-floppies to the bathroom, as a man, you are guaranteed to be dancing around to avoid any splash. 100% guaranteed. It'll look like the wild west, trying to avoid any splatters. 

And so that's it. I was thinking about this when I was at work and noticed the lack of sound-proofing as my co-worker took care of their business. My greatest solace is knowing that anyone reading this may now develop the same pee-pee paranoia that I have. 

Oh, and on a completely unrelated note, I had five views from Romania this week. Buna ziua Romania!