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6:13 a.m. - 2002-10-08


Soooo…after being told that my nephew the Perv would NOT be spending last night with us because he was going to some sort of meeting where some people stood around and looked at him and said “So, you want to be an engineer?” … guess who we had to babysit last night?

That’s right…my 15 year-old nephew, Pervy.

And it’s not just the fact that we had to babysit him … but the fact that we had to go pick him up from his engineering meeting 30 miles away from our home that pissed me off.

Wait…no…that’s not what pissed me off…what pissed ME off was that we were told to pick him up at 6:30. So naturally, I’m there at 6:30 to pick the dick up.

No perverted nephew waiting on me.

I go inside the school, lugging my son in with me. Andrew, who is now less than a month away from turning two, is hellbent on proving that he no longer needs Daddy around to carry him everywhere. Nope. Andrew can RUN everywhere he wants to run now. Thanks, Pops…but I’ve got this one covered. I think I’ll just JET DOWN THIS HALLWAY and see what trouble I can get into before my baby feet even touch the ground.

Uh-huh. Think again, son.

So I put Andrew down on the floor, because if I don’t, he’s going to squirm out of my arms and land head first on the floor anyway. At least this way, there’s no awkward trip to the emergency room afterward.

NURSE: “What happened?”

ME: “My son jumped out of my arms and landed head first on the floor.”

NURSE: “What kind of father are you?”

ME: “The kind that’s all tired and pissed off right about now. Stitch the kid up so I can take he and his perverted cousin home.”

So Andrew goes tearing off down this hallway, squealing like he’s won the lottery. With me chasing after him while scanning inside classrooms to see if there’s any kind of meeting with a bunch of nerds and geeks standing around talking about engineering and Pokemon.

I finally find the classroom. There’s the perv, sitting there like he’s actually paying attention to the guy talking to him and not mentally undressing Hello Kitty or whatever the hell the kid’s mind does when people talk engineering around him.

“I’m here to pick up Pervy,” I say, while my son reels off several high-pitched screams from further on down the hallway.

“We’re almost finished here,” the nerd man says. “I’ll send him out when we’re finished.”


You know…in my day, when an adult walked into a classroom and said “I need a perverted teenager to come with me”, the teacher was all like “Oh but of course! Take the little urchin! Blah blah blah!!”

But not this guy.

“I’ll send him out when we’re finished.”


So I round up Andrew and against his protest, I remove the pencil that he’s about to shove down his throat and we go outside to the van parked just outside the doors to the school.

Ten minutes pass.

Twenty minutes pass.

Thirty fucking minutes pass.

I’m sure the adults here have an inkling of what I was going through. I’ve got an almost two-year old in the backseat. It’s now 30 minutes past his dinnertime. He’s hungry. And he’s not just sitting there in his carseat saying “Father. Father. If you wouldn’t mind, a cracker or perhaps a wafer would be ideal in this situation.”

Oh HELL no. Andrew is screaming like a Rottweiler has mistaken his penis for a rawhide.

Through a miracle …. Yes…I truly believe God heard Andrew’s screams….I find a McDonald’s cookie that Susie had shoved in the glove compartment for just this type of situation.

I unwrap the cookie and give it to the kid. He scarfs it down like he was raised by wolves. He’s eating so fast that a piece of the cookie must have went down the wrong pipe because he starts coughing and sputtering. I reach around into the back seat to find his juice cup. Fumbling around in the dark, I finally get my hands on it.


I leap out of the car, using my superhuman Daddy strength that allows you to pick up cars off of your kid when you’ve accidently run them over and rush around to the back of the van, flinging the side door open.


He’s stopped coughing.

And he’s breathing.

And smiling.

Oh. Okay. Cool.

So we sit there and wait some more.

At 7:15….45 f’n minutes after the Perv was supposed to be finished, he comes waddling out the front door of the school. He has a very happy look on his face, which I chalk up to this probably being one of the few times he’s walked out the front door of his school and there’s no school bullies throwing shit at the back of his head, yelling “See ya tomorrow, ya fucking pervert!”

Naturally, I’m livid. I mentioned in my 100 Things You Need To Know About My Sorry Ass yesterday that I HATE waiting on people.

I especially hate waiting on people that it’s not my job to pick up from their little seminars at school only to take back to my home 30 miles away so that they can try their damndest to bore me to death with tales of engineering and Pokemon fan fiction, while my son screams and almost dies in the back seat.

“What took so long?” I ask through teeth so clenched that they run the risk of spontaneously bleeding.

“I had some questions that I wanted to ask after the seminar,” the husky little bastard says. “I’m hungry. Can we stop at McDonald’s?”

Hold the fucking phone.

I just sat in a parking lot for 45 minutes with a screaming child in the back seat, waiting on a dork that held up everyone involved with this charade because my nephew … one of the geekiest geeks God’s ever graced the Earth with … doesn’t know the difference between a simple question and a series of questions that will have professional engineers boxing his ears over.

And now the husky fuck wants me to take him to McDonald’s because HE’S hungry?!?

Meanwhile, my son’s eating month-old cookie crumbs wedged in the seats because he can’t figure out what he’s done that’s so wrong that Daddy refuses to feed him.

I swear … a lesser man would have unlocked the child lock on the doors, reached over to the passenger side, opened the passenger door and unhook my nephew’s safety belt with one fell swoop and push that goofy bastard out onto the highway where he can bounce like a Super Ball with curly hair.


I just said “You got any money?”

“No,” he said. “I thought you’d have money.”

“I don’t have any money,” I lied. “Didn’t they feed you at this seminar?”

“They had snacks and soft drinks,” he said. “But I’m still hungry.”

Well, of course you’re still hungry. It makes no sense for a growing boy of your stature to just stop at several bags of chips and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. By all means, let’s pull Uncle Bob’s Taxi Service over and make sure your cellulite-pocked ass has plenty to eat.

Can you tell I was a bit stressed last night?

So I take him home, I feed him our leftovers and by God...he'd better be happy eating them.

He wasn't. But Susie made a batch of brownies for some new neighbors that didn't turn out well at all, so he ate those instead.

After dinner, I announce that I feel like crap (I didn't...but I sounded like crap, which is 2/3 of "feeling like crap" if you're a whiny male baby), so I retired to my office to watch WWE wrestling and get some stuff done on the computer.

("Some stuff" being getting copies of Diaryland Ass Shakers made for those of you who have been waiting ever so patiently for your copies. My apologies...things got out of hand, I got slammed with a bunch of new discs ((all great, by the way!!)), we moved, we've been unpacking...I PROMISE everyone will get their discs.)

So I'm sitting at the computer, arranging to burn a copy of the Ass Shakers when Pervy waddles in.

....And sits down in my recliner to chat about wrestling. I said yesterday...I've been watching this crap for 30 years. I know it's fake. I know it's boring and I know I'm one of the last few people on earth still watching the crap. I understand this. It's not something I need ridiculed over. I have a high IQ. I am NOT semi-retarded. I have all my original teeth. I just enjoy watching the male soap opera which is WWE wrestling. I apologize for this slight lapse in common sense. It's a sickness. Et cetera.

"You know this stuff is fake...right?" the little bastard says, trying to unnerve me.

"Yes," I said. "But did you know that Pokemon isn't real?"

"Ha ha," he says, sarcastically. "Very funny."

"Okay," I say, spinning around in my computer chair and getting up. "Get out of my recliner and sit on the floor."

"I want to sit in the recliner," he protests.


We're only watching this kid because he's addicted to internet porn and his parents can't trust him to leave him home alone.

He makes me sit in a parking lot for 45 minutes with a screaming baby because he's such a nerd that he makes everyone stay after a meeting so he can ask questions about an occupation that he can never hope to land because it would require going to college and his parents can only afford to send one of their three kids to college and she's already there.

He wants me to spend my hard-earned money to feed him some junk food rather than wait until we get home and then pouts about it afterwards.

He picks at the food my wife cooked and only eats her brownies.

THEN...THEN...THEN....he insults my main guilty pleasure for the last 30 years and wants to sit in my comfy old recliner while doing it.

So what do I do??

WHAT DO I DO?!?!?!?

....I take a picture of him so that you people can finally see what I've been talking about all along.

Here you go.

Yes, he's flashing a peace sign because it's the nerdy thing to do.

Oh what the more photo of him won't kill you, will it?

I hope not, anyway.

So there. That should satisfy your curiosity for a while.

In the meantime, I will continue suffering each and every Monday night as this kid makes my life a living hell.

Well...not really a "living hell".

I tend to exaggerate a bit.

In case you haven't figured that out yet.

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