I love cults.
Allow me to clarify before everyone starts screaming: I love cults in theory. Not in practice. Well, I love Scientology in practice. That shit’s hilarious.
I find the concept of “cults” fascinating. A bunch of people in thrall to an idea, blindly following a leader who is usually exploiting them for sex or money or world domination (or all three), and who often has a highly entertaining and/or incredibly dangerous god complex. Not that there are many beneficial types of God complexes, your opinion on Jesus and The Lawnmower Man notwithstanding.
"I am God!"
I’d almost join a cult to get in on some of that action. Non-stop entertainment, at least until the Flavor-Aid starts flowing. Unfortunately, I can’t even work up the guts to go watch the Scientology orientation movie for fear of being brainwashed.
Not everyone likes me.
I’ve done some bad things.
I didn’t get straight As. I swear too much. I am not religious, I am not even particularly kind. I may or may not have been arrested. I’ve been unemployed for longer than I’d care to admit. I drink a lot. And I once killed a man for touching my fries.
Is it my parents’ fault? And, more importantly, will my son’s shortcomings, personality defects and general life mistakes be MY fault?
Conversely, when my son wins the Olympics – and I don’t just mean his event, I mean when he wins the ENTIRE OLYMPICS – cures World Peace, obliterates the Black Eyed Peas from existence, solves the Kennedy Assassination and forms the Wyld Stallyns, will I get credit?
My life has changed immeasurably since I had my first (only?) child in September. I’ve spent a fair amount of time detailing how I’ve had to make sacrifices, how my free time has dwindled, where my money goes, etc. But I knew all that was coming.
What I didn’t expect was to have the way I view the world altered as much as it’s been. I just don’t see things the same way as a father as I did when I was childless. For better and worse.
Click below and together we can take a look at how my outlook on things has (or hasn’t) changed!
So my son turned four months old the other day. And today was my first day back at the gym since he was born.
I’d like to type more but my arms just fell off. Give me a second.
Okay, I’m better now. (Hint: my arms didn’t actually fall off.)
I’ve spoken before about how my life has taken some hits due to the birth of my son. One of the major birth-related casualties has been my ability, energy and desire to go to the gym. I wake up too early and too tired to go in the AM, am too busy at work to go during lunch, steadfastly refuse to go after work and am too exhausted/busy/hungover-after-nursing-two-beers-and-watching-a-Tosh.0-marathon-the-night-before-while-my-baby-screams-in-the-background to go on the weekends.
But over the past few months, as I’ve watched my incredible wife bounce back to her pre-pregnancy weight, I’ve also watched the beer baby that is my gut get closer to term. These days it looks like I’m the pregnant one. And I don’t have the benefit of bleeding fat straight out of my breasts in order to feed my son.
Nope. No miracle cure for me (especially since HydroxyCut gave my brother heart palipitations). I have to work it off the old-fashioned way. And today was day one of Project Gut Abortion.
I’ll keep you posted on my progress. Because I have a blog and that’s what they’re for!
I can already tell you this: aside from being 100% Christian-guilt-free, the best thing about this abortion is the lack of picket signs and death threats.
I posted recently about all the wacky gifts my baby son received this holiday season: clothes he’ll outgrow in two weeks, toys he won’t be able to use for two months, books he won’t be able to read for two years, and devices that make enough noise to ensure I’ll be insane in two minutes.
But there was one gift he received that stood above all others. But I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to let him use it…
…was a fur-less baby that can’t even talk.
Click below for more – including a picture!