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.

That, right there to the left, is the bane of my existence: unused baby formula. Babies never drink every bottle in its entirety and over the course of the day this leftover formula adds up.

It might be complete corporate bullshit, but every company that makes formula says: if your baby has not finished the bottle, do not reuse the formula, throw it out. That’s because they say bacteria from the child’s mouth can go back into the bottle through the nipple, contaminating the formula. And keeping this formula around only gives the bacteria time to multiply and become DEADLY!

I have twins, so that only makes this problem exponentially worse. So I did a little math on the value of the formula that’s being wasted.

On average, my kids are currently wasting about 12 ounces of mixed formula daily.

That’s 6 scoops of formula a day.

Even getting the big tubs at Sam’s Club, the cost per scoop is $0.233.

So let’s do a little math here: (6 scoops x $0.233) x 365 days per year = $510 over the course of the year.

Holy. Shit. I pay $500 a year for formula I pour down the drain. That makes me want to spit-up. Now that’s with twins, but still $250 for one child is nothing to scoff at.

So I ask, can corporate America please make some smarter bottles? Maybe put a little anti-siphon valve in there right below the nipple so that no “contaminated” formula can make it’s way back into the reservoir?

Surely someone with some engineering knowledge could solve this problem. It can’t be that complicated, can it? It’s 2011.  We’ve put a damn robot on Mars, we’ve elected the first Black-Irish President, we’ve even got Snuggies for dogs, this is within our reach!

And for whomever solves this problem: You could print money! You could sell these bottles for $100 a set and show people that they’re actually getting a great deal in the long run.

It’s probably too late for me, I know technology can only move so fast, but for the other parents out there, please, someone, solve this problem.

Fun Tidbit: If you search Google for “Can you reuse formula”, one of the top suggested results is “can you reuse a condom”. Which is funny because if you’re dumb enough to be searching Google for “can you reuse a condom” there’s a good chance you’ll be bitching about wasted formula soon.

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.

I have two four month old twins. As a result of this we go through somewhere in the neighborhood of 13,492 bottles every day. As if the injustice of having to pay for the formula to fill those bottles isn’t bad enough, we also use Dr.Brown’s Bottles.

For those of you unfamiliar with Dr.Brown’s bottles each bottle has six parts: the bottle, the venting straw, a rubber valve thingy, the nipple, a nipple holder-downer ring and the lid. Taking these things out of the dishwasher and assembling them makes you feel like you work at the Foxcon factory.

As part of this fancy system Dr.Brown makes nipples with different flow rates and it just so happens from time to time my twins are on different nipples. You give a kid the wrong nipple and they don’t eat right which messes them up until the next feeding.

Unfortunately, the only way to tell one nipple size from another is a number placed on the underside of the nipple that you need a goddamn electron microscope to see. As a result, a busy parent like myself has to spend hours painstakingly inspecting these things like an Amsterdam diamond dealer, “Boy, fetch daddy his loupe!”

I propose that this issue could easily be resolved if Dr.Brown’s simply colored their nipples. A different color for each flow rate and they’d save their customers hours of agony. It would be so easy.