Wednesday, December 28, 2005

I Leapt from a Twelve Story Building and all I got was a Blister on My Pinky Toe

Movies are destroying our reality.

Nowadays, when a person passes away in a hospital, often times the first thing that we think is “they must not have gotten improper medical care.” Why? Because modern medicine is not to be trusted? No (for the purposes of this argument, I’m not including pharmaceutical companies).

It’s because Dr. House can cure just about any life-threatening illness in an hour.

I’m guilty too. I can’t tell you how many times I tried to use the “Vulcan Neck Pinch” when I was a kid. As it turns out, you can’t debilitate your friends with a simple touch on the shoulder (but don’t let that stop you from trying. It’s fun).

And I can’t imagine the shock that people get when they punch someone in the face and don’t actually knock them out (yes, I spend a lot of time being concerned about the face-punchers of the world). When the reality of it is that if a person is knocked unconscious by a blow to the head, there probably has been some serious damage done. At the very least, a concussion.

And yet we continue to jump from burning buildings. We trust that our SUVs are going to save our stupid lives no matter how recklessly we drive them (if they don’t, it’s a design flaw and Ford Motors must pay). We search in vein for amazing and spacious, yet affordable, apartments. We live under the delusion that Halle Berry has talent.

The reason that I bring this up is because of the ridiculous things that I heard on the news this morning. It had to do with the incident that occurred in New Orleans. In case you don’t know, an aggravated man (in a suit) threatened police with a knife after he punched a store clerk in the face (the clerk never lost conciousness). About 100 cops followed the dude down the street with their weapons drawn until the aggravated man made a threatening move and three of the cops fired, killing him.

All of this was caught on video, of course. And as we all know, if it’s on video and we see it, then we become divinely qualified as experts. So opinions about the shooting are flying all over the place.

Now, I’m not here to defend the cops (personally, I don’t like cops). Nor am I here to justify the man with the knife. My purpose is not to judge the situation at all.

But man, it’s quite interesting to listen to all the “couch commissioner’s” theories as to what the police should have done. There were all the usual ones, non-lethal bullets (which occasionally do kill people, how’s that for a lawsuit?), bean bags (not the kind for sitting in), discourse (always a popular one, after all, knife-wielding weirdoes are known for their sharp debate skills), let the guy go (this one always baffles me, and yet it’s always proposed)…

And then there are the ones that come from people who obviously watch too many action movies.

Shoot him in the leg! Or the arm! Better yet, position a team of CIA sharp-shooters in triangulated positions on the roofs of nearby buildings, when the word is given (via walkie-talkie with a phrase like “the chicken’s in the hen-house” or “go for green” or something), shoot the knife from the man’s hand! At the worst, he’ll lose a fingertip, right?!

I’m sure that somewhere there’s a police force out there who could pull this off, but not in New Orleans. I’ve seen the tape (most of it, they don’t show the part where he gets “taken out”). The New Orleans cops are just lucky that they didn’t kill themselves.

And this is the second time I’ve seen cops do this. They did here in LA not too long ago. So I have a question for the people who run the police academy; I understand that you’re trained to aim at the “center mass…”

But who the hell is training the cops to shoot at a subject while standing around them in a circle?!

When I was a kid, I saw an illustration of this exact phenomenon. It was in a book called “Truly Tasteless Jokes.” It was placed over a caption that read “Polish Firing Squad.”

While I don’t think that it’s funny to make fun of the fine people of Poland (or any ethnicity. Truly Tasteless Joke books were horribly racist, I hope they don’t print them anymore, but really, are kids nowadays going to get jokes about the Italian army? “There was a World War 2?!”) I think the point is made.

And every time I see cops do this, I can’t help but think of a certain country in central Europe.

Fun Fact: I woke up this morning with the theme song from “Smokey and the Bandit” stuck in my head. I have no idea why. But I did.

Here, sing along with the song in my head:

East bound and down, loaded up and truckin'
We gonna do what they say can't be done
We've got a long way to go and a short time to get there
I'm east bound, just watch ol' 'Bandit' run

Keep your foot hard on the pedal
Son, never mind them brakes
Let it all hang out 'cause we got a run to make
The boys are thirsty in Atlanta and there's beer in Texarcana
And we'll bring it back no matter what it takes

East bound and down, loaded up and truckin'
We gonna do what they say can't be done
We've got a long way to go and a short time to get there
I'm east bound, just watch ol' 'Bandit' run...

East bound and down, loaded up and truckin'
We gonna do what they say can't be done
We've got a long way to go and a short time to get there
I'm east bound, just watch ol' 'Bandit' run...

Ol' Smokey's got them ears on
He's hot on your trail
He ain't gonna rest 'til you're in jail
So you got to dodge 'im and you got to duck 'im
You got to keep that diesel truckin'
Just put that hammer down and give it hell...

East bound and down, loaded up and truckin'
We gonna do what they say can't be done
We've got a long way to go and a short time to get there
I'm east bound, just watch ol' 'Bandit' run...

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

There is Never a “Good Reason” to Hit

That’s what I kept telling myself on Christmas Day. It became my mantra.

But before I get into that, let me tell you that my trip to Washington State (I got back to LA on Christmas Day) was fantastic. I got to see both of my parents (which is a feat that sounds less impressive than it is, they’ve been divorced for 27 years and my father lives in West Virginia), I got to see my brother (who also live in WV), I got to see my sister, my brother-in-law, my favorite niece, some of my extended family and finally, I got to meet my little nephew Asher.

Needless to say, my new mantra wasn’t a result of them (oh, and mom, I made it back safely. I just forgot how to pick up a phone. Yes, it actually happened!)

As you already know, kids are the bane of my existence. Let me rephrase that. Parents of bad kids are the bane of my existence. I should clarify again…I hate bad parents.

There are 172 seats on a Boeing 737-900. 156 of those are in coach. So, mathematically, the chances of riding next to screaming child are much lower for poor people. And I am a poor person. Ergo, my odds of being seated next to a bratty kid are mathematically low. But then you must consider that it’s the poor people who are repopulating the earth. And don’t forget to adjust for karma.

Not only did I get seated next to a bothersome baby, I was surrounded by them.

That plane was my Waterloo.

I had a screaming baby behind me (who stopped screaming soon. It was a good baby). Now if that was the worst that fate could do, I would have been pretty happy. But no. Karma brought in the heavy artillery. A family with 4 kids. Two sets of Irish twins. One set under two.

I should have known that this family was going to be trouble from the start. For one, they were late for the plane. Two, they didn’t care what their tickets said, they sat wherever there was empty space (they wanted to be close to each other. The worst families always want to be close to each other. They have to be. It’s a deep need. See, no one else can stand them. They don’t have any friends so…they breed them). And since I had a substantial scowl going full blast from the time that I got on the plane for the sole purpose of having a row completely to myself, I became the hapless neighbor of the Dumbshit Family.

The Dumbshit Family wasn’t intimidated by my twisted visage. The tweens in the seat in front of me were though. I actually found myself wishing I had been friendlier. I could have had 10-year-olds sitting next to me. At least the 10-year-olds were as intelligent as…well, 10-year-olds.

Here’s the thing about the Dumbshit Family. They looked normal. They looked like an average couple with four average kids and one average grandmother. But no. They were evil. They were stupid. They almost got punched…every one of them.

The dad and, what I had thought was a really ugly baby girl (it turned out to be an extremely ugly baby boy) as well as the grandmother sat down next to me. I was annoyed, but fine. I sat next to grandma and she was scared of me so she kept her little distance. The ugly baby eventually calmed down and things were bearable (I spent the vacation with my adorable little nephew, so I was being more patient than normal although, my nephew doesn’t really require a hell of a lot of patience. My sister has two really great kids).

I was getting so comfortable in fact, that I fell asleep. It’s what I woke up to that could have gotten me shot by an air marshal.

It seems that in the three seconds that I was asleep, the ugly baby started to fuss. Daddy felt that it must have had something to do with the seat he was sitting in I guess because he moved to another seat closer to the front of the plane (the poor suckers in that row…). Granny wasn’t going to sit next to me without a bodyguard so she moved back a row to join her two older grandchildren. That left only two members of the family. Dumbshit Mom and a “kid” who I’ll call Limbsy. A toe-headed little thing. The mutant offspring of an elbow and a steel-toed boot. That’s Limbsy. Not as ugly as Ugly Baby, but with a disposition that cleared up any reservations I ever had about trying children for crimes as adults (an issue that this kid would do well to tackle now. Get a jump on it, I say).

The only advantage that I could see to having Limbsy and Ma Dumbshit as neighbors was that they only took up one seat. I was seated next to the window and they could take the isle.

Nope. They sat right next to me. Evidently, the isle seat was to only be used by their huge bag-o-baby-crap. They then proceeded to make me wish that I had walked back to LA. I was kicked. I was elbowed. My tray table was used as a toy (not as much as theirs was. Limbsy was fascinated with the ease at which his own tray table could be used as a percussion instrument). Ma Dumbshit even got in a few good jabs with her hairy elbow. And through it all, Ma Dumbshit ignored me. She knew I was being molested. She just didn’t care. Not an apology. Nothing. Not even an acknowledgement.

And trust me, I did everything short of throwing her child out the window with nothing other than a prayer and a seat cushion (to be used as a floatation device in the event that he land in a mud puddle). I sighed heavily. I slammed my book down in frustration. I glared at them. I mean real glaring. Eye-contact and everything.

Still nothing.

I hate confrontation. I don’t like to complain to people…to their faces anyway. But I had to do something. I was becoming homicidal.

Finally, I said, with every ounce of charm and sweetness I could muster “hey, is there anyone sitting in that seat?” referring to the one next to the isle.

“oh, well…” she knew that I was frustrated with her, “my…uh…my husband…is…uh…sitting there…it’s his seat.”

Well for one. It wasn’t. It was nobody’s seat. But I was going to argue semantics. Plus Pa was sitting about four rows in front of us. The entire plane knew this. He was constantly walking around in the isle even after being told repeatedly to sit down. Plus Ma would shout to him every couple of minutes. (“Don! Don! Do you know where Limbsy’s food is?! Don?! Don. Don. Don! Limbsy needs to eat! His elbows are becoming flaccid and less lethal! Don! Where are the iron filings we usually serve him?! Don?! Don!”)

I say to her,“I was just wondering if maybe you could move over to that one? (the empty one) I’m starting to feel a little claustrophobic.” I wasn’t lying. I was feeling claustrophobic. Limbsy was standing on Ma’s lap and his elbows were moving ever closer, squishing me more and more into the plane’s fuselage. I felt like I was in a retarded James Bond fick.

At this point Ma Dumbshit became surprisingly put out.

“Oh, well…” She seethed with as much sarcasm as her little brain could produce “I wouldn’t want you to get claustrophobic.”

You would have thought that I had asked her to move to Alaska. I hadn’t…yet. I just wanted her to move one fucking seat to her left. She did it. She slammed her bag-o-crap around. She sighed. She fussed. She even explained to her half-wit child why she was moving “Come on Limbsy, we’re making HIM claustrophobic.”

I just smiled and thanked her. What a bitch. But my troubles were over, right?


When the plane finally landed I got up to get my stuff. She wouldn’t let me out of the row. She just had to get off first. Her and her entire retarded family. Fine. Whatever.

I finally get my crap and follow the Dumbshit clan to the exit. As soon as we get to the front of the plane, she asks to speak with the pilot. I was sure that it was about me. It wasn’t. It was one of her stupid kids’ birthday. And we couldn’t get past them. So for the next 5 minutes the rest of Alaska Airlines flight 902 had to wait for some brainless kid to get congratulated for being born.

If only the pilot had known.

If only he had known that this kid’s birth was just the beginning of a string of tragedies that he would call his life.

After that, it took me 10 minutes to get up the jetway.

Limbsy just had to walk.

There is never a “good reason” to hit. There is never a “good reason” to hit. There is never a “good reason” to hit...

Fun Fact: Evidently, I have a tattoo on my forehead that reads “come to me, I’m the guy you want to talk to.”

But only stupid people can read it. Nobody cool. Nobody that matters. Just stupid people. I'm a fucktard magnet.

I don't know how to feel about that.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Let’s Blow this Popsicle Stand

I’m starting to sound like a hooker with a frozen fruit fetish.

It’s time to do some holiday traveling. I’m heading back to the great state of Washington for a few days to visit my family. I just put Tanya on a plane to Texas, so there’s really no reason to hang out here anyway. Besides, it’s about to get hot around this place. Nothing says Christmas like 80º weather.

Seriously, it’s supposed to be in the upper 70’s for Christmas day in Los Angeles. Maybe I’m old and set in my ways, maybe I’m not old enough to enjoy temperatures that are hot enough to melt every plastic snowman in the southland (at what age do we become cold-blooded?), but I can’t stand it when it’s too warm in the winter. I’m a traditionalist I guess. A person who likes his winters to be winters.

So I’m getting out while the getting’s good (although I will be back on Christmas Day). Hopefully they’ll have snow in Spokane. And weathermen who don’t get happier in direct relation to the rising mercury (“Hey it’s going to be 2000º tomorrow! Cockroaches are about to inherit the earth. Why not head to the beach and enjoy the lovely weather!”).

Merry Christmas!

Fun Fact: The latest Tam Cartoon is up! You may notice that it’s a little sweeter than usual. I wanted to do something with “heart” for Christmas.

But if you look closely, you may notice that it’s actually just a regular old, horrifyingly unfunny TAM Cartoon with a “touching” ending tacked on to it.

It’s like a very special “According to Jim.”

But with a bigger audience. Sugarshocksational!

Thursday, December 15, 2005

No, Really, I Was

I was going to post something interesting today. I have a backlog of topics that have been piling up since last Sunday. Alas, it’s not going to happen. I have another fun day of editing ahead of me today.

So now you’ll never get my thoughts on Extreme Makeover Home Edition and how they traveled to the “devastated Mississippi gulf region” to hand out clothes to the poor displaced victims of hurricane Katrina who are still stuck living in crappy shelters. You’ll never know my surprise at just how many white people were living in those shelters when months of news coverage, speculation and political haranguing have led me to believe otherwise.

You’ll never know how I feel about morning news shows and their ridiculously inequitable coverage, like why does convicted murder (turned anti-gang activist) Stanley “Tookie” Williams get an 8-minute spot whereas innocent hostages in Iraq get about 20 seconds even though they were both about to die, or why does a baby being thrown out of a burning building get a 6-minute spot plus interview and the irrefutable and devastating effects of global warming get only a 2-minute package? I understand that a baby being thrown three stories to safety is compelling television, but doesn’t the eminent end of life as we know it deserve at least to have Charlie Gibson put his coffee down for a second? I guess mass extinction isn’t cute enough. Has the earth ever caught a burning baby?! No.

And you’ll never know why I’m beginning to think that “it wasn’t me I tell you…it was a band of crazed hippies!” might not be the best murder defense.

No, not today.

Fun Fact: I’m trying – I really am trying – to get a new TAM Cartoon up before Christmas. So to all of you who have been waiting for it…hold your horses!

And on a strange note – this just hit me – when I was a little kid I thought that the “horses” I just referred to were actually my genitals. Why? Well, I guess it’s because “hold your horses” was the response my mom gave me every time I had to go to the bathroom “really, really bad” and there wasn’t a toilet handy.

There’s nothing like holding your horses to get the pee-pee to go away.

Ironically, I still call my genitals “horses,” but for a much different reason.

Speaking of enormous genitals, I can’t wait to see King Kong to discover how they “tackled” that touchy “area.” Seriously, there had to be at least one production meeting about it, right?

This post is going downhill now...Sorry.

Friday, December 09, 2005

The Earth Keeps Spinning

Even without me! Although, I can’t be absolutely certain as I have never been on the Earth without me. You could all be figments of my imagination or a computer program embedded in my brain by jealous nemeses to convince me that I’m actually an out-of-work actor and screenwriter living in a humble apartment, enduring hours of the maddening construction that’s going on outside my windows instead of the highly successful and wealthy man-about-town that I actually am in the “real” world.

A guy can dream can’t he?

Anyway, the reason that I’m on this subject is because I was feeling a strange pang of guilt for not posting yesterday. I don’t know why. This isn’t some kind of public service or anything. Maybe it’s because there have been more than a few topics on which I was going to post – and then I got lazy.

But, rest assured, the world keeps moving even when I’m not around to bitch about it.

“Religious fundamentalist” politicians are still trying to win back Christmas – and the conservative vote.

Cops are still being suspended for making “sexist,” “racist,” and “generally insensitive” videos that don’t contain any more sexism, racism, or insensitivity than you would see on the average anything produced by MTV. Yes, the cops are being punished, basically, for poor production values. And for being idiots.

Good Morning America is still slowly turning into a Christian program by airing segments called “Keeping the Faith” with the vague notion that they’re including all religions, when the fact remains that this week, other than Christians talking about the bible, I’ve only seen one other religion represented…they found themselves one Jew. Am I supposed to believe that a network television show – a network television show that shoots in New York City – can’t find more than one Jewish person? And there were no Muslims or Hindus hanging around? Couldn’t flag down a cab or something?!

Kids in LA are still beating on each other because of the color of their skin.

The CIA still denies that there are any secret prisons operating in the world but are quick to state – hypothetically – that if there were, and if mistakes were made in regards to arrests and such, then those hypothetical mistakes would have been hypothetically handled in a hypothetically prudent manner…hypothetically.

George Bush is still a freaking moron.

Yes, the world keeps turning. The birds keep flying (although they are doing it wrong!). Even though I don’t draw unnecessary attention to it.

I just though that I would clear that up for you.

You’re welcome.

Fun Fact: The reason for my neglect of this blog (although this week I’ve been pretty good) is that I’m editing my latest short film, The Social Club. Well, I’m not (physically) editing it, the editor is, but I get to stand over his shoulder and aggravate him. It’s good to be the director.

So the next time you go to your local video store, ask for The Social Club.

Sure, it won’t be there. But it would be totally cool if you asked.

It would make me feel like a big man.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005


I finally saw the film Capote last night.

Now, among other things, I’m an actor. I’ve been one for over 14 years now. I’ve studied and studied. I’ve rehearsed and evaluated. I’ve opened myself up. I’ve closed myself down. I’ve emoted. I’ve been good. I’ve supremely sucked. But all things considered, I believe myself to be a decent one. I’m not spectacular, but I’m not one of those clueless, pipe-dreamers that think they’re going to make it just because someone told them that they were “mad sexy and should be on TV” once.

No one has ever told me I was “mad sexy.” In fact, I don’t want to hear anyone say the words “mad sexy.” I’ll settle for sexy. Or mad.

But with the work that I’ve put in on my acting in the past, I think that I’ve trained myself into a very capable actor. In fact, I’m going to go out on a self-aggrandizing limb here and call myself just above average. At least I thought I was.

But then I see a film like Capote. I see our favorite seedy ball of man, Philip Seymour Hoffman, stretch his acting muscles.

And I think, “man, I’m in the wrong business.”

Seriously, how am I supposed to live up to that kind of performance? Philip is throwing off the curve, man! Normally I don’t care for actors “putting on” the mannerisms of the actual person that they’re portraying. It makes me cringe. It generally points up the fact that the actor is more interested in trying to “be” whoever-it-is than actually doing any real acting.

This isn’t the case with Philip. He took a character that is so very easily caricatured and played him with accuracy, subtlety and – most importantly – honesty.

I heard a lot about this performance before I saw the film. But I’ve heard hype like this before (Halle Berry in Monster’s Ball?). It usually comes from a need for critics to find the next great performance rather than actual fact. But I have to tell you, the film and Philip’s performance (I like to call him Philip because if he reads this then maybe I can trick him into thinking that we’re actually friends) was everything that the critics said it was.

And the rest of the cast is just right also. How do you go wrong with Chris Cooper and Catherine Keener (especially when she’s playing Harper Lee, author of one of the greatest books ever written)?

So, even though it makes me wish that I’d gotten a law degree, if you get a chance to see Capote, take it. You won’t be disappointed. Well, maybe you will, how the hell am I supposed to know what your expectations are?

I’m not a mind reader!

And after seeing Philip Seymour Hoffman in Capote, evidently, I’m not an actor either.

Damn you, Phil.

Fun Fact: Today isn’t just that day that I write a love letter to Philip Seymour Hoffman. It’s also a “date that will live in infamy.”

Yes, it’s Pearl Harbor Day. And I will always remember “a date that will live in infamy.”

Oh, no, not the actual date. I mean the phrase. “A date that will live in infamy.” The “lives in infamy” part is the only thing that “lives in infamy” in my brain. I can never actually remember the date. I know that the quote from FDR comes with a date attached to it at the beginning… “December…something…nineteen-forty…something…a date that will live in infamy!”

How am I supposed to remember that date? Couldn’t somebody come up with a better way to remember it? I know that in fourteen hundred and ninety two Columbus sailed the ocean blue. I know that in 1814 we took a little trip along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip.

But all I get for the beginning of US involvement in the greatest war ever fought is “December…something…nineteen-forty…something…a date that will live in infamy!?”

Is that fair to the brave men and women who fought against tyranny?! No. So here, let’s solve this problem once and for all.

On December 7 we took a little trip
Along with FDR as planes attacked some ships
‘Twas nineteen-hundred and forty-one
Columbus sailed the ocean blue

Problem solved.

Thanks, WWII vets.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Please Keep Your Child on a Leash

It’s the cry of disenfranchised non-parents everywhere. At least it’s mine. Especially lately.

I was inspired by my recent experience at a restaurant and the TAM Cartoon that I drew yesterday (yes, I was actually inspired by myself, how’s that for narcissism?!). So I came up with these.

I even made a special TAM themed one (and, of course, they’re all available in shirt form at the various TAM online stores).

Sure they may seem a bit “insensitive.” But so is allowing your out-of-control children to run free like they’re on some kind of brat preserve.

And hey, if you’re a parent with well-behaved kids, give yourself a well-deserved pat on the back.

Not so fast, mom (sorry, you were just unlucky).

Fun Fact: As you can see, the latest TAM Cartoon is up! Gnomertastic!

And the capital of Yugoslavia was Belgrade. Now Belgrade is the capital of Serbia. Yugoslavia’s other half is now Montenegro. And Montenegro’s capital is now Podgorica. Confused? Me too.

That’s what I get for trying to pull a fun fact out of thin air. I was just going to post the capital of Yugoslavia. I completely forgot that Yugoslavia doesn’t exist anymore. I’m so ignorant.

I guess that why they stopped making those crappy little cars?

Monday, December 05, 2005

How Dull is My Life


I don’t even have anything interesting to post about.

Wait, because of events that took place last night in a public restaurant (I don’t want to get specific because Tanya called “dibs” on the subject), I just want to say that there are fundamental differences between rights and privileges.

You have the right to want children. You don’t necessarily have the right to have children. Because, sometimes, it’s out of your hands for medical reasons or whatnot. But if you’re 65, still have a uterus and still feel that biological clock ticking away, go for it, you have the right to try at least. Hell, even if you don’t have a uterus…science is remarkable.

As a parent, you also have the right to take your children out to a “family” restaurant. But if those kids become a nuisance, you don’t have the right to inflict them on the rest of diners.

You have the right to an evening out without the kiddies too. But you don’t have the right to take the kiddies with you and just pretend that they’re not there.

As a smoker, I’ve learned to live with that fine line of rights and privileges. I have the right to destroy my own health. But I don’t have the right to subject others to it.

But parents these days don’t see it as the same thing – even though an ill-behaved child gives me the brain fever. Most modern parents (I say most because that’s my perception; perhaps it’s just the fact that I’m forced to pay attention to the selfish parents that causes my cynicism?) don’t see children as a privilege. There are stories all over the place about “parent’s groups” fighting restaurants because they feel persecuted somehow. Evidently, asking a parent to control their child is just too much.

And I understand. I really do. I was a kid too. I was one of those kids in fact that people would change booths to avoid. And it wasn’t because my mother was neglectful. I remember many an instance when I was being unruly and my mother would grab my arm and squeeze as she seethed through clenched teeth “if you don’t behave yourself right now, the manager is going to throw you out of here!” Which translated, means “if I get thrown out of here and embarrassed, your ass is going to be grass, pally”

And a lot of the time it was. I had a grassy ass. Whatever that means.

But I don’t see much of that anymore (from other people, my mom hasn’t squeezed my arm in frustration for at least two years). Parents with poorly behaved kids seem hesitant to discipline them in public (or at all). Kids aren’t viewed in the same light these days. Kids, no matter what they act like, are considered “precious little gems mined from the magical wombs of the women in God’s army.” And heaven forbid you should ever say otherwise.

But it’s not the kids’ fault. Kids will get away with whatever they can. And if their parents don’t teach them appropriate behavior, what are they supposed to do? Society can’t raise your children for you with just some disgusted looks and the occasional frustrated outburst. Kids don’t pick up on that.

But I’m not here to preach about how to raise a child. I have no idea. I’m ignorant on that subject (among many others). I just wanted to say that having children is a privilege, not a right.

And, no matter how much hard work it is, raising kids is not a public service!

When your snot-nosed little brat throws a temper tantrum at my feet, no matter how much you may want me to, I’m not going to thank you for bearing the burden of proliferating the human race.

Humanity will do just fine without your contribution.

I guess if I had children, my life would be a lot less dull. But if that’s the case then I guess I should be glad my life is so uneventful. I haven’t ever been so bored that I would have kids for recreational purposes. Every Mariah Carey album ever made couldn’t bore me enough for that.

Fun Fact: If you’ve ever said to yourself, “hey, you know what, I’d really like to have a picture of Kevin Sage to wear around on my chest,” then you’re in luck.

Kevin has opened his own Café Press store. Go here and live the dream.

And don’t forget, there is still plenty of great TAM merchandise at the holiday store. And it’s not too late to get it before Christmas either! Order now!