I’d love to hear your thoughts on the paleo diet except that I stopped listening the moment you said “paleo diet”.
Why yes ladies, those are peanut butter fingerprints all over the lenses of my sunglasses. That’s just how I roll. Thug life.
When shepherding seven kids (your four plus two nieces and a nephew) trough the zoo, it is important to familiarize yourself with the behavioral traits of silverback gorillas . . . so that you can emulate them.
That wine I had for lunch goes really well with this wine I’m having for not lunch.
If I tell you that I’m going to do something, then you can rest assured that I will have a nice apology ready for when I don’t do it.
Whatever, west coast people who don’t have to go to bed yet.
I’m not dressed yet because I haven’t showered. I haven’t showered yet because I’m not done working out. Jesus, it’s a dinner reservation, not an evacuation of Alderaan.
If only the lifespan of a guinea pig was even vaguely proportional to the lifespan of your kid’s interest in said guinea pig.
My favorite thing is when a sales guy on a conference call pretends to talk to a customer in a lengthy mock negotiation over specific terms in a proposed contract. And by “favorite thing” I mean “reason to commit arson.”
After millions of years of evolution, my adaptive survival trait is to stay in bed until someone else makes the kids breakfast.
Look kids, I’ll reimburse you, but Daddy needs these Hulk Hands for work.
Next time you dorks want to wear your flippers to the neighborhood pool, put them on *after* we get there.
Sometimes I think you don’t *want* these kids to grow up with a working knowledge of the Urban Cowboy soundtrack.
Over drinks, one of your best friends from elementary school says “if Texas Jesus were a meat, he’d be brisket.” And you reflect again how fifth grade Mike had exceptional taste in buddies.
Defendant admits Plaintiff’s assertion that she “made [him] look.” However, Defendant denies Plaintiff’s contention that he is now ipso facto “in the baby book.”
Happiness is a full belly, a playground, and a paper copy of the Sunday Times.
How is it that we have no gin but three 1.75 liters of Kahlua? What am I, The Big Lebowski?
“Daddy, I hope Santa has three lists: naughty, nice and . . . medium”
Step out back door, witness son riding a Razor scooter *while* wearing roller blades, step back inside, pour self a drink.
Dear neighbors, it was just someone’s giant black German Shepherd that surprised me at my back door. So disregard my screams of “werewolf!”
My sister-in-law’s beer exploded when she left it in my freezer so now I’ve got to give one of her kids a birthday drum set.
Heard a noise in the middle of the night. Sent my wife to check it out because if it had been a bad guy, I’d be a better hostage negotiator.
If there were such a thing as floor magnets, my kids would scatter them all over the refrigerator.
Trying to play Balderdash. Can’t decide what’s more absurd – that my son keeps writing “a cat whose life is a fart” as the definition for every word, or that the other kids keep voting for it.