As Dom grows older, his ever-growing cognitive capacity makes him more interesting by the day. Every now and then, he says something that gives me backstage passes into that innocent little brain of his. Generally, it’s incredibly refreshing to see the world through a four year-olds eyes, but tonight Dom said something that left me feeling what can only be described as terror.

Just to set the stage, some of you may remember my previous post, Notorious D.A.D. Rap Battles Volume I. In that post, I professed my hatred for Twist, Nickelodeon’s beat-boxing member of the Fresh Beat Band, otherwise known as, “Everthing that’s wrong with the Universe.” I pitted Twist against Dr. Dre, the unrivaled best rapper of all time. Spoiler Alert: Twist didn’t fare very well.

Tonight, I was reviewing “AP” rhyming words with my son (nap, gap, map, you get the point). One of the words that he picked out of the pile of flash cards was “rap.” You can imagine my horror when I had the following conversation with my son:

Dom: Daddy, what is “rap”

Me: It’s like singing and talking at the same time. Actually, Rappers use a lot of rhyming words. Did that help?

Dom: No. What is “rap”

Me (switching to a dead-on Dr. Dre impression): Where all the mad rappers at? It’s like a jungle in this habitat, but all you savage cats knew that I was strapped with gats while you was cuddling a Cabbage Patch. See? That’s rapping.

Dom: Ohhhhhhhhh, like Twist on Fresh Beat Band

There you have it, faithful readers. Twist is officially the bar that other rappers are measured against in my son’s fragile little mind. Oh the humanity.

It’s too late for Dominic–He’s a lost cause, but it’s not too late for your little guy. I implore you, don’t make the same mistake I did. Protect your son from Twist and his Fresh Beat Band cronies, or your namesake will become the next victim, cursed to live a life devoid of the joy that can only be provided by quality gangsta rap. 

Now, I know you’re going to look at the prices and think, “there is no way a plastic dinosaur is worth $8-$25,” but I will disrespectfully tell you that you’re horribly mistaken. Even my sub-par photography skills can’t make these dinos look bad. The detail of each is incredible, and the more expensive carnivores have mouths that actually open to rip the jugulars out of the herbivores in simulated prehistoric carnage (at least after my son goes to bed).

Still not convinced? What about if I tell you that Dominic will do just about anything to get his grubby little hands on Papo dinosaurs? After giving him the Velociraptor just because I like seeing him smile, I instituted a reward system that allows Dom to earn stickers for being helpful, listening without repeated requested, doing his chores without being reminded, etc. When the next Amazon box arrived, he was totally jacked. I showed him the new dinos, and then put them on his reward shelf with a “sticker” price that roughly equates to the actual cost (one sticker = one dollar). Not only is he motivated to do what I ask by the prospect of adding a new dinosaur to his menagerie, he learns to save up his stickers to go for the more expensive carnivores, teaching him about delayed gratification and money management in the process. Not to mention, he practices his counting every time he gets a sticker. The best part, the dude has been an angel since the T-Rex arrived on Tuesday. He can’t stop talking about it:

Me: Dom, did you just take your dishes to the sink without me having to ask?
Dom: Yes daddy. That means I get a sticker, and that means I almost get my T-Rex. ROAR!

But as usual, I digress. Back to the point (and the title of this post). Papo should be paying me, yo. I have not stopped gushing about Papo since the Velociraptor arrived on my doorstep. I reached an estimated 50 people through word-of-mouth alone. Now that I’ve posted about Papo, the total has likely sky-rocketed 60, maybe even 61. If only 10% of those parents take my advice and buy the relatively inexpensive $10 Pterosaur, I have generated $60.10 in revenue for Papo. This works out well, as I still need both the spinosaurus and the allosaurus for my collection. . .errr. . .Dom’s collection. This gives Papo the perfect opportunity to thank one of its most loyal brand advocates, assuming someone over at Papo finds this blog and knows how to speak American. 

Because I’d like to pass on my sedentary lifestyle to my son, we play a lot of MarioKart. The great outdoors are vastly over-rated in my opinion, and I’m pretty sure I’ve passed on both my allergies and my asthma to my son. Go run around outside? No thanks, I’d rather arouse my senses with an orgy of stimuli. And since it’s played on the Wii, it counts as exercise.

At first I just enjoyed getting to play video games with my three year-old son on my lap. I didn’t even mind his little hands pulling down on my steering wheel like an anchor. I just laughed off the fact that his complete and utter inability to turn caused at least 60% of my power-slides to fire off in the wrong direction. He was still learning the game, after all. And while he honed his skills, I faithfully fulfilled my fatherly duties by passing down important life lessons like, “if shortcuts were easy they would just be the way.” I also warned him that Waluigi is a real son of a bitch. 

However, as we’ve played more together, I’ve noticed a rather disturbing trend. Despite the wisdom I’ve tried to instill in my son, he doesn’t seem to understand that the game isn’t supposed to be fun unless you win. Dominic laughs and roars along with Bowser even when we only achieve a rank of “A”. Now, I’ve tried the rational approach. I’ve explained in small words his little brain can understand that we only unlock new content with a “star” rating or above, but he just doesn’t seem to care. I’ve explained that the appropriate response to a winged shell is a series of expletives so vulgar that they would make Mel Gibson blush, but he just giggles away like a little girl while Bowser slams his handlebars in frustration. I’m at my wits end.

I racked my brain trying to determine how best to convince Dominic that the fun is not in playing the game–only in winning the game. Eventually, I surmised a complex reward system based on our rank at the end of each four-race circuit. Any rank above an “A” would be reinforced with copious amounts of candy and juice. Obviously, as any good dad would, I have also outlined a series of punishments for ranks of “B” and below to teach Dominic the important life lesson that there are severe consequences for sucking at things. The scheduled punishments included:

B Rank–Loss of favorite toy
C Rank–Loss of bed sheet and pillows
D Rank–Loss of all fatherly affection for the period of one week
E Rank—adoption

Unfortunately, my buzzkill wife caught wind of my ingenious plan and nixed my reward schedule without even listening to my well-reasoned justification. Apparently she doesn’t want Dominic to succeed in life. Next thing you know, she’ll be saying I should stop forcing him to bat left-handed.

But because I’m devoted to honest journalism, I decided to break my usual routine of drinking whiskey and writing whatever pops into my head, and instead hunkered down on the porcelain throne to do five minutes of intense Wiki-research (okay, ten minutes). If I’m being honest, I was really looking for more gasoline to throw onto my glorious Fred Savage bonfire.

As expected I saw the ill-conceived attempts to capitalize on his Wonder Years fame (most notably The Wizard), and it didn’t surprise me that he’s worked on a bunch of suck-fest Disney Channel shows. But then I found what would surely be the final nail in the Fred Savage career coffin: He did some voice work on Captain Planet, the indisputable shittiest superhero of all time, who stands for everything I detest: environmental responsibility. Oh yes, friends, this was going to be a hate-fest for the ages indeed.

However, what I read next was like a sucker-punch to the kisser. Fred should thank the Chipotle I had for lunch yesterday for buying him enough time for me to read that he has gone on to direct no less than 18 episodes of Always Sunny in Philadelphia. How can I attack a man who has guest directed one of the funniest shows to ever grace basic cable? I was also reminded of his guest-appearance in Austin Powers Gold Finger and the time he lent his talented voice to an episode of Family Guy. Finally, I found that he married his childhood sweetheart and has since fathered two little Savages of his own.

Friends, this man does not deserve a lashing from my silver-tongue. He deserves my much sought-after, yet rarely given respect. Thank you, Mr. Savage, from the bottom of my pure and charismatic heart for proving that not every childhood star turns into a drug-addicted sexual deviant. I’m glad you found your calling on the other side of the camera.

However, if I may offer a word of advice: when your kids get old enough to ask about your film career, point them towards The Princess Bride, and avoid this abomination like my son avoids vegetables:

Clip #1:

Loyal readers will recognize Dom’s old nemesis, The Little Gym Olympian, mercilessly shoulder-checking my little guy to the ground. To his credit, Dominic doesn’t miss a beat. He’s back up and kangaroo-hopping in mere seconds.

Clip #2:

I had some reservations about posting this one because it did end in tears. However in the end, the flawlessly executed WWE-style Frog Splash from the pint-sized princess in pink was simply too hysterical to withhold from you, my faithful readers. And yes, I went and hugged him as soon as I stopped taping. Apologies for the length of the clip. I was too lazy to edit it, but I think the build-up actually adds to the suspense.

Like the last time and the time before, I’m struck by how routine all this has become and by how strong my wife is in the face of chronic pain and constant medical procedures with uncertain outcomes. The girl just doesn’t give up. Sure, she gets scared, but she refuses to lose her sense of humor. Besides the time we spent praying together, we quite literally cracked jokes until the moment the nurse banished me to the waiting area. I, of course, revisited all of our running gags developed over the last eleven years:

1. Mocking the flight attendant-style speech I get about the waiting area that, by now, I can repeat verbatim: “To your left is the bathroom and in the back alcove is the coffee machine. Your beeper signal extends to the cafe. . .blah blah blah.”
2. Telling Kerry to swing around the IV pole and singing Aerosmith’s Sweet Emotion while she prepares to change into her hospital gown 
3. Demanding that she make me a sandwich after she puts on the cafeteria-style surgery hairnet.
4. Asking Kerry if she remembers whether the radius of my beeper signal extends to the cafe (my wife loves a good call-back joke).

Also part of the routine: we invariably get placed next to someone much worse off than us, and that person is invariably incredibly flatulent. And they never have any shame about it either. Based on the robustness and clarity of sound, our pre-surgery neighbor this time around was clearly pushing. And I’m pretty sure he lied about not eating since midnight because those were eggs and home fry farts if I’ve ever heard them–and I have.

That’s when the shaving started. After enduring about 10 minutes of the constant hum from an electric razor, Kerry asked just loud enough that she was probably overheard, “what the hell are they shaving over there?” Because the thin pre-surgery pod drapes offer little privacy, we then clearly heard a doctor discussing the patient’s 3rd bypass surgery. Apparently the flatulent sasquatch has a bum ticker, which makes some sense since he’s a known Jack Link’s beef jerky addict. All kidding aside, this news quickly sobered us up and stopped the steady stream of hilarity, which is really too bad because I didn’t even get the chance to refer to our neighbor as “Farty McPoopypants” before feeling too sorry for him to continue.

Wait what? If I felt bad, why am I still making fun of him? Because besides making her comfortable and keeping her meds on a tight schedule, I consider it my most important duty to make her laugh both before and after her surgeries.

I guess instead of cracking jokes, I could tell you how much my head hurts from unconsciously grinding my teeth while imagining my fragile little wife passed out on a cold operating table. I guess I could tell you how much I’ve hated seeing the hope build in her that maybe, just maybe, this one will be different, only to be disappointed 16 consecutive times. I guess I could tell you how much I love her and how willing I would be to share her burden. I’d say “share” instead of “take” because I don’t know if I’m as strong as she is. I guess I could tell you how lucky I am to have married a woman who gives endometriosis the stink-eye and vows to never stop fighting–she’ll never give in and let the pain prevent her from being the wife, mother, and teacher she wants to be. While I could have said all of those things, I chose to instead focus on fart jokes because frankly, it’s easier, and they’ll make Kerry laugh when she reads this.

Here’s to hoping this surgery will be different. Lucky number 17–it was my baseball jersey number in high school, so at least that’s something. I am officially accepting positive thoughts and new-agey good vibes pointed in Kerry’s direction, but I’d prefer actual prayers. Please pray for my wife. Pray for the end of her pain, and don’t you dare water it down to “less pain” or “a little relief”. If this surgery doesn’t do it, I’ll keep fighting right along side her. Mark my words, faithful readers–that heating pad is getting torched in glorious, cleansing fire if it’s the last thing I do.

Last week I recorded my tragic encounter with Dixie’s Vanity Fair line of to-go coffee cups. Georgia Pacific, the company behind both brand names, sent an auto-reply stating that I would receive a response within 48 hours. Seven days of agonizing silence later, my righteous rage was is danger of becoming full-fledged blind fury. Lucky for the universe, the silence was broken that evening on official Georgia Pacific letterhead. 

Apparently, Georgia Pacific decided that engaging with such an influential blog via the interwebs might prove to be problematic, so in the age of technology and instant feedback, they chose to make first contact via the United States Postal Service. While Timeka, the helpful Consumer Affairs Specialist, chose the safe route and included only boring stock language in her response, she did include coupons equaling up to a $16 value. I applaud Timeka’s handling of this delicate situation, and want to make sure that she receives proper recognition from her peers. Consequently, before writing this post, I submitted this follow-up email to the Georgia Pacific Company:

Product Name: Dixie

Product Type: Cups, On-the-Go

UPC Code: 3187828122

Plant Code: CC28144/25

I would like to personally thank Timeka the Consumer Affairs Specialist for her fair and ethical handling of my previous letter-reference #750314. I consider the coupons an acceptable make-good, and consider the matter closed. While I hope Dixie R&D takes the Vanity Fair cup malfunctions seriously, I’m happy to instead use the coupons on fancy Vanity Fair disposable plates in my continued assault on the environment. Thank you for your response! See www.notoriousdad.com for your public thank you.

East Cobb Dad writes:

Sometimes, my baby’s mama & I need some time to ourselves, if you see what I am sayin’.  So, like, what can we do to occupy our son with an outside, like, activity while we interact?

Need an answer NOW,
East Cobb Dad

Well East Cobb Dad, you’ve come to the right place. Little brains are malleable and easy to influence. I have spent the last few months training my son for this exact situation:

At this point, I feel the need to stress the importance of proper ottoman ventilation. Safety first, people.

By providing foodstuffs and a pillow, my son will hide for upwards of 7 minutes before growing bored—plenty of time to take care of any necessary business and make a ham sandwich, at least in my experience.

If for some unknown reason you have a hankering to play some Candy Land before your little romance assassin emerges from his hiding spot, simply summon him forth as seen here:

Before you call Child Services on me, please note Dom’s excitement to play our special game again. Unfortunately, my wife rarely shares his enthusiasm. East Cobb Dad: you’re welcome.

For the rest of you, please feel free to take East Cobb Dad’s lead and use that little “Ask the Dads” button in the header. If your question isn’t horrible, I just might honor you with a response too. After all, without you I’d have to find some other outlet for my recycled humor and false bravado. And for that, I count each one of you as a special little gift.

That’s right, you charlatans, he is. No longer can this injustice be tolerated.

Below is the email I just submitted to Georgia Pacific Consumer Products regarding its Dixie brand Vanity Fair to-go Coffee Cups. They claim it’s their mission to make my life easier, but not only do they sell a coffee cup that leaks when it’s used to consume coffee, they have the audacity to limit my rapier wit to 500 characters or less. Fortunately, I like a challenge. After my email, I have given you, my faithful readers, the unabridged account of this tragedy.  

Product Name: Dixie

Product Type: Cups, On-the-Go

UPC Code: 3187828122

Plant Code: CC28144/25

500 char or less is too limited to express my anguish. My wife switched from PerfecTouch to Vanity Fair disposable coffee cups. They are fancier and eco-friendly; seemed like a win/win. With 315 char left, I can’t discuss what the concept of an eco-friendly disposable cup does to my brain, so I’ll get to it. The act of drinking coffee quickly breaks the seal on the cup’s bottom. Go to www.notoriousdad.com for an unabridged account of my strife. It’s a magical site free of character limitations.

The past two mornings, like all mornings, I poured myself a cup of coffee and carried it around with me while performing my usual pre-work rituals. The only difference was the coffee receptacle. As stated in my email, my wife switched it up this week and went with the fancy Vanity Fair Dixie brand coffee cups instead of our tried-and-true blue-collar PerfecTouch Dixie Grab ‘N Go cups. Don’t ask me why. I guess she likes to keep her shopping trips fresh by challenging the status quo. She also randomly decides we need to rearrange the living room every few months. As I’ve said many times before, she’s too pretty for me, so I just go with it.

Before continuing my story, I need to stop here to point out that I recognize it’s wasteful to use disposable coffee cups when I’m not even leaving the house. If you promise to forgive me, I promise to refrain from calling you a tree-hugging hippie. However, I think we can all agree that calling a disposable coffee cup made from 12% recycled material “eco-friendly” is like hailing BP for its heroic effort to clean our gulf beaches. But as usual, I digress.  

During the course of any given morning, my coffee cup is placed on a number of side tables and counters. When I got home from work today, Kerry pointed out a series of dried coffee rings dispersed throughout the house in incriminating locations: the bathroom, the table in front of the living room mirror, the other bathroom, etc. Now, I’ve never had this issue before, so I decided to run a little experiment.

I filled one of the new Vanity Fair coffee cups with fresh, hot coffee and let it sit on the side-table next to Mac the Truck and Roy the Bengal tiger, as depicted below. I waited 10 minutes. To my disappointment, no coffee ring appeared.  

I gave up and decided to drink my coffee, foolishly assuming that the whole thing was just a figment of my brilliant imagination. However, after taking a few sips, I noticed this:

After cleaning up the coffee rings to keep my wife from having an OCD induced heart-attack, I carried the Vanity Fair disposable cup into the kitchen to investigate. I poured out the remaining coffee and to my horror, I saw this atrocity:

After a painstaking dissection, I found that the bottom of the cup is made of a thin piece of paper wrapped in an even thinner layer of plastic. In minutes, the hot coffee heats the plastic, causing structural weakness. Once the plastic defenses have been breeched, the slightest squeeze of the cup causes catastrophic failure, resulting in what I think the entire coffee-drinking free world will agree is an abomination against all we hold dear.

Now, I’ll allow that it’s possible I have a firmer grip than the average coffee-drinker. Perhaps the Vanity Fair brand is designed to attract a more delicate touch with its dainty floral pattern. Whatever the reason, it’s clear that Vanity Fair was completely unprepared for the unabashed masculinity embodied by my vice-like grip. I ask you, my faithful readers, am I to blame for the raw power that courses through my mighty hands? Can a bird help but fly?

I think you’ll agree that Dixie owes me reparations. As always, I’ll post any response I receive in its entirety.