Hitting Below the Belch

Before you read further I ask that you first, take a few moments to look at the pictures of these two little girls one more time.

Ok, now what words would you use to describe them? Precious Adorable Cute... I'm sure you came up with those descriptions and many more along the same lines, all of which would be equally appropriate. Allie and Avery are as darling as two little girls can be; however, they share a disturbing dark power putting them in the ranks of such horror classics as Chucky, Damian, and Children of the Corn. You laugh, but this evil that they wield is quite serious I assure you. And what is this darkness wrought forth by such delicate little angels? I will tell you.

These little cherubs can let rip burps measurable on the Richtor Scale!

I am not joking, people. Allow me to tell of my the first experience in being subjected to this most unholy evil. It was the first dinner Ashley ever cooked and it was delicious. I inhaled large forkfuls, completely unaware of the impending doom yet to be revealed by Allie, age 5 and 4-year-old Avery. Without warning they opened their mouths uttering an apocalyptic noise described only the book of Revelations. Once the ringing stopped in my ears, and I cleaned the blood from my punctured eardrum, my first thought was to politely suggest to Ashley that she should have these little dears tested or something. To me, it just didn’t seem normal for such frail creatures to bellow sounds at a decibel levels that would drown out a KISS concert or with such ferocity that they reduce the mighty King of the Jungle to live the life of a gay vegetarian.

Being that it was very early in our dating relationship, I felt it inappropriate to curb the girls charming behavior, but I couldn’t condone it either. Picking another piece of broccoli from my hair and placing it back onto my plate, I looked at Ashley to see how she would deal with the matter. To my relief she acted as I would’ve expected a parent to, furrowing her brow as she looked at the eerily silent (and exhausted) girls. "Here we go," I thought as her mouth opened to deliver a stern rebuke or better yet, a gentle rebuff given that company was present. I couldn't have been more wrong as Ashley, instead, unleashed the sound of Hell itself, launching a fresh round of broccoli and mashed potatoes into my hair. High fives all around. It was like Animal House on Bizzaro World and they looked at me as if I were this year's newest pledge.

"So this condition, is it genetic?" I asked, untangling my hair from rapidly drying gravy. However, after repeated episodes, I realized there was nothing medical about this dark art. Scraping the remnants of another evening's meal off the usual spots on the wall, I pictured Ashley making her Faustian agreement with a belching demon. I wondered which of the two parties made out better in the deal. At the very least I know what Ashley received, but that she shared it with the girls blew me away (no pun intended). It's one thing to watch Ashley conjure forth the stench of burning sulfur mixed with chili cheese fries in the face of a three-hundred pound beer-guzzling biker forcing him to fall on his knees, pleading for heaven's deliverance. It's quite another to watch Allie and Avery follow up this savagery by repeating it in each of his ears thus vaporizing his body into ash as he spontaneously combusts.

Many times, you’ve seen kids get away with a burp here and there, giggling with pride at their achievement, but these "normal" child-like burps are comparable to say, the mere clicking a pen or the snapping of a clothespin. Often these little scamps will attempt to repeat their mischievousness but find they are unable to duplicate its authenticity forcing them to grunt, instead, hope the hoax won’t bring their fun to an end. At worst, they may try too hard, triggering their gag reflux which results in the projecting of chocolate milk from their nostrils as I once witnessed a third-grade classmate do during lunch. He however, was more dork than evil sorcerer. Allie and Avery on the other hand would probably laugh in disgust at their peers' pathetic and foolish attempts to harness such force. A force, I will add, measurable, not only in volume but in length as well. In one instance, Allie belted one out lasting long enough for her to shift from first to fifth without missing or grinding a gear.

I have gained some ground in this unholy war of good and evil. The first step was to recognize the signs preceding, what I call, "the unleashing." Most telling is the rapid gulping of vast quantities of carbonated beverages, followed by a glazed-over look resembling that of the scary twins in The Shining. Upon recognition I’ve learned to cover my ears and duck. I've also learned to remain in that position for several minutes as there are almost always aftershocks. The best defense thus far has been to insist on the use of straws, while outlawing all liquids containing carbon in any form, and then to, of course duck and cover since the use of straws and choice of beverage are immaterial.

In an attempt to at least establish some form of Christian decency, I've been requiring the girls (all of them) to piously chant, "Excuse me, I'm a princess" following each demonic eruption. It's my hope that these poltergeists will repent in the realization that "real" princesses are much too proper to engage in such devilish acts. At first, I believed that my little exorcism might be working until it dawned on me that they had turned my offering for salvation into a mocking taunt. It's almost wasn’t worth continuing on any more. In the instance where Allie displayed her adeptness in driving a stick, I quietly reminded her by asking, "What do you say, Sweetie?" She looked up at me, breaking into a huge grin. "That was a big one!" High fives and uncontrollable laughter all around. Forgive them Lord, they know not what they do.

I never considered myself a saint but I will take that mantle over being a martyr any time. What am I referring to? I'm beginning to fear for my life. It’s the littlest one that scares me the most. She's developed an additional hideousness felt only by those civilizations, that upon contact with this evil, were instantly wiped from the memory of the earth. One evening Avery and I sat on the couch watching cartoons in a bonding moment worthy of Hallmark. I looked down at her and smiled, while in the distance, I heard gentle thunder build. However, the ensuing horror was not thunder, dwarfing it tenfold. A stench appeared, making the maggot-filled, butt hole on a dead donkey’s carcass, half-decayed in its own fesses, smell as fragrant as spring flowers sprayed with Chanel. This dark stench lifted me into the air and hurled me into the wall behind us. Dazed, I got to my feet and slowly approached Avery, making signs of the cross with each step. Avery never budged through the whole thing. I called her name. Lightning flashed, and her head spun a full 360 degrees stopping when it locked onto my presence. "Ron, I like you." she said with an unholy smile. Then she patted the seat next to her, "You're funny."

All that have ears hear me now. For those that see this all as another opportunity to cry, "Girl Power!" with a thrust of your fist into the air; for those feminists out there that seen this as the destruction of yet another male-stronghold; and for those that believe this to be final sign confirming the prophesy of the country’s first woman president, I implore you to open your eyes and see the truth. Those sweet girls are made of anything but “sugar and spice and everything nice.” Pray for me. Pray for deliverance.


Question of the Day


In his new job/role/identity/fantasy (you pick), how do you starve Ron to death?

Answer: Hide his food stamps underneath his keyboard.

Apathy in Action


I Was Sweatin' This One

Ok, if I could spell worth a hoot I'd probably done better. On the bright side, I'm quite sure I beat Hilary Clinton by a wide margin. "IN YOUR FACE, HILLARY!"




Hey All,

For those of you wondering (or not) what happened to Ashley and Ron, we’re finally ready to reveal what we’ve been working on. After several weeks of planning, strategizing and cursing, aided by gallons of Diet Coke, stacks of cigarettes and buckets of Tylenol, we are happy to announce the beginning of our venture into the freelance world.

Mattocks & Evans is a freelance writing and design company offering solutions for related business needs. A complete profile of the company is located on our website: www.MattocksAndEvans.com . Here you will see our bios, services and other related information. (Just a note, we are in the process of updating our portfolio samples, so those items will in place by the end of this week.)

As friends and family, we wanted to give you a “sneak peak” of what we do – and, yes, we consider this a real job regardless of what time of day we shower. We have a real business plan, we have real working hours, and we have a real dry-erase board (not intended for Pictionary either). Oh, and we’ve actually had a couple real projects (which equates to paying real taxes at some point too).

Other than just keeping everyone up to date, we are also looking to get a little help in getting the word out to anyone you may know that would benefit from our company’s services. Forwarding the link to our site, putting in the good word, or just giving us the contact info for a possible lead is greatly appreciated (we promise not to make you look bad either). If nothing else, you at least you know we are living normal lives – sort of.

Thanks for your help and support, and we hope to hear from you. More updates to follow (and not about us getting real jobs either).

- Ron & Ashley


Party Like A Soccer Mom

The other day while driving the girls to school, this song was playing and I was struck with a moment of creativity. It could be the dumbest thing in the world - things that I think are funny don't quite have the same effect on everyone else, but whatever.

I re-adapted the lyrics for "Party Like A Rock Star" to fit my new persona. Knowing that many of you are not big rap fans I included the actually song so you could hear it as you attempt to read the re-mix version. I swear if I had the equipment I would so make my own music video...

Party Like A Soccer Mom
(to the styling of the Shop Boys “Party Like A Rock Star”)

Y-y-y-yeah, y-y-y-yeah, y-y-y-yeah, y-y-y-yeah

T-t-t-totally dude!!!!

Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom

T-t-t-totally dude!!!!

I'm on a kiddie haulin’ mission
But I party like a real man
Flyin' down 20 lookin' good in a mini-van
You know them guys all want to know
Watchin’ bout how fast I go
They uh talkin’ lots a trash
But those punks can’t join my gang, yo

I drive like I drive
Cuz you know the kids will fight n’ fuss
But, they don’t know I drank a few stiff ones
They kick like Jack-E-Chan
I ignore their tant’rum
When, I’m in my mini-van…

[Chorus x2]
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom

T-t-t-totally dude!!!!

Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom

T-t-t-totally dude!!!!

Party like a soccer-mom
Drivin’ past da black and da white
Caught on ray-dar
Whoop, whoop, whoop, wha, whoop
Not in a mini-van.
Can’t get caught on, trips to Branson
Fam’ly plan, man

(Cool) you know me
Wit my GAP shirt and hair so vain
Metro-man, Soccer-mom
Yeah, I’m drivin’ up the lane.
What’s my name? uh huh
Hoes see dat I’m no boor
I make dem cry when I open my auto-door!

[Chorus x2]
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom

T-t-t-totally dude!!!!

Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom

T-t-t-totally dude!!!!

As soon as I drove off the lot
I saw I’d save some mon-ee
Get 30 on highway
20 in the city!
I watch da kids while crankin’ tunes
Honda Fly-Odyssey.
Push the petal down
Just to see if you can catch me!

Ballers wanna run with me
They see me, they might curse, “Damn-it!”
My ride make ‘em go down sick
From a bad-sand’ich!
Yeah, I drive a mini-van
You knowin’ that I do
I'm kickin’ screamin' “Ask yo Mutha!”

Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom

T-t-t-totally dude!!!!

Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom
Party like a soccer-mom

T-t-t-totally dude!!!!


My New Identity

Ashley apparently felt that I had reached my limits in terms of coming to grips with the mini-van thing. Ever the encourager, she put a new spin on it and created a new, "cool-guy" identity for me...

Yes, the Adventures of Metro Man and his Mini-Van, coming soon to a theatre near you! I have to admit, I kinda like it. Very "George Clooney meets Daddy Day-Care."

Additional thanks goes to Ashley for her PR work in prompting her friends and fans to comment on my blogs as she is tired of watching me mope around the place mumbling about how untalented I am.

Is there any doubt as to why I love this woman?


Pope Adds to 7 Deadly Sins... The Lunchbox Makes Additions Too

Apparently, the Catholic Church has decided that the 7 deadly sins established in The Inferno inadequately covered the worst actions of our depraved humanity. So, in an attempt to rectify this gap, the Holy Church has added 7 more transgressions to the list. Ironically, the move was also a strategic move to push Catholic dogma closer to that of the Baptist Church as a means to steal converts who take faith a bit more seriously and attend church more than just on religious holidays. The news also means that the total number of mortal transgressions is now, an even number, which is more acceptable than accepting anything or anyone that could be termed as odd (which also makes them more "Baptist-y").

Actually, I think this is pretty cool if you look at it the right way. When you realize that The Pope is just a good ol' human being like the rest of us, and yet, a third of the world will tremble at his sudden edict announcing 7 "new" sins that will put all who are guilty at the front of the line to "the bad place." Granted, the guy has a pointy hat, but even still, he also has bouts of ungodly smelling diarrhea, and is forced to change his skid-marked underwear with the same regularity as trailer trash and royalty alike. All the same, I see this action by the Pope as an endorsement for anyone to share our own religious judgments.

For reference, the original 7 transgressions are: lust, gluttony, avarice, sloth, anger, envy and pride. New inductees into the Iniquity Hall of Fame are:

- polluting (the Church declared Jesus' miracle of turning water to whine was an endorsement of recycling)

- genetic engineering (this was added after the current Pope discovered a secret attempt by a splinter cell of the Church to clone his predecessor, the more popular Pope John Paul the II)

- being obscenely rich (the Church denied any claims that the Vatican would be holding a charity garage sale anytime soon)

- drug dealing (upon the announcement, 97% of South & Central America converted to Scientology naming Tom Cruise their new Pope)

- abortion (the all-encompassing sin of murder once again, failed to make the list but did finished ahead of Pete Rose and Al Gore in the voting)

- pedophilia (in an "unrelated" announcement, the Church expressed their extreme concern over the sudden disappearance of 83% of their all-male clergy world-wide)

- social injustice (the Church's legal team has filed a motion to have the Crusades and Spanish Inquisition blamed on temporary insanity)

Since just anybody can start naming sins, I'd like to add 7 of my own. The following will now give the wicked a one-way ticket to "down there."

1) anyone who attaches a "Jesus Fish" to their vehicle and drives around like an A-hole

2) WalMart checkout clerks that refuse to acknowledge your existence as they ring you up

3) any politician that introduces legislation or publicly rails against any sexually deviant behaviour that they themselves are appendage deep in.

4) anyone that attempts to place a custom order meal from a fast-food, drive-thru at the peak of the lunch hour (this includes anyone asking for an option that's bigger than "Super-size")

5) along the sames lines, those filled with wickedness that inflict hate-crimes against any fast-food mascot (except that weird Burger King dude as he is a false prophet of the devil)

6) those worshipping the golden calf, known as "Oprah"

7) any person who initiates and/or engages in acts of road rage against drivers of mini-vans

For such a big-time organization, the Catholic Clergy are a silly bunch. The truth of the matter is that there is no real scale to rate sin by because, that would mean God's love would only carry a correlating degree of forgiveness in relation to the sins committed. Thus, those of us that feel we aren't guilty of the "big ones" wouldn't feel the significance of God's mercy. It just wouldn't mean much to us and eventually it would become easy to drift away from Him. That being the case, it's ridiculous to make up lists of sins because they all carry equal consequences. If there is a list, it's only comprised of two items: love and, it's opposite, fear. The only classifications to God are those people that demonstrate His love by showing love to others, and those that chose to hate and hurt because of the fear they hold on to.

Sorry to sound so "preachy," but some idiot in an Escalade adorned with a prominently placed "Jesus Fish" just cut me off and then gave me the finger on my way back from WalMart.

Note: For the full story on the Popes announcement follow the link below.


Things Not Recommended for a Mini-Van

After a week's worth of flight time in the new vehicle, I've compiled a comprehensive list of recommendations for driving a mini-van. I do this because, one, I care. And two, I have lost my sense of dignity. As such, I recommend you heed this advice in earnest.


1. Take a trip to a remote Mexican village and drive around real slow with the doors open while shouting, "Who wants a ride to opportunity?!" in a bullhorn. The mini-van may have 17 cup-holders but it will not fit the corresponding number of eager, sun-hardened immigrants anxious to mow your lawn. Seriously, though, I felt somewhat bad for driving through the boarder gate at 87 mph while my passengers' limbs were hanging out. I can only imagine the difficulty in pushing a lawnmower around without the use of one or more of your limbs.

2. Pretend to re-enact the German's blitzkrieg tank assault on Poland, but while in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Although professional welfare recipients, plump from years of Snicker-Bar consumption and redneck families dressed in coordinated hunting gear, together, make for a convincing group of terrified civilians running from the terror of the merciless Hun invader, those golf carts driven by the parking lot rent-a-cops are faster than you think. Once 30 or so swarm you, the war's over.

3. While shirt-less, hang out of the sun roof in the middle of the day and rub your nipples in a suggestive fashion as you motor on down the road. Aside from the obvious, it's very hard to drive with your feet, not to mention there's literally no explanation that will persuade cops they shouldn't give you a ticket. (I've got 3 court dates from this stunt alone).

4. Mini-vans make poor substitutes for the Batmobile. You get some really funny looks from fellow commuters as you throw Bat-a-rangs at their windows while you wait for the light to change. At first I thought it was the hooded cowl, cape and tights, but no, it was the mini-van. Even with those cool, automatic sliding doors, the van eventually made me feel self-conscious and I went home.

5. Just because it's a Japanese manufactured vehicle; thus, superior in every way, you shouldn't drive to every Ford, Chevy and Dodge dealership, wait for the salesman to approach so you can scream, "YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF FOR WHAT YOU'RE DOING TO AMERICA!" then drive off to the next car lot to repeat the whole scene all over again. I could only do this about 10 or 12 times as I started to get embarrassed watching from my rear-view mirror as they crumple onto their knees, weeping into their hands. I mean, have a heart already.

6. Wearing your most authentic cowboy outfit complete with hat and fully operational lasso, attend some large public event like a Texans football game or the Houston Livestock and Rodeo Show. As all 6 bazillion vehicles attempt to exit the parking lot simultaneously, pop up from the sunroof and start swinging that lasso around in the air while busting out with phrases like, "Yee haw! Yippie Tie Yay!" and "Get along there lil' doggies!" Try to have a long repertoire of cowboy-inspired phrases or the other drivers won't respect you as believable. If you can, get a friend to drive and while you give directions so as to herd the other vehicles in any direction you see fit... oh, and hope that lighting doesn't spook them to stampede.

7. Drive as fast as you can down the freeway until you get pulled over by the police. When they ask you just what in the hell did you think that you were doing, respond indignantly with, "What?! This is the Millennium Falcon, the fastest ship in the galaxy - it did the Kessel Run in 9 parsecs!" When the cop opens his mouth to speak, cue your friend (who should be wearing a wookie costume) in the back seat to appear behind you with a long bellowing roar. Then say, "Your right, Chewy, he does look like a scruffy, nerf herder." If the cop doesn't just walk away, then tell him you're going to file a motion in the Galactic Senate requesting that Jedis be immediately dispatched to police headquarters for "aggressive negotiations."

8. Stand next to your mini-van while at Toy-R-Us. When kids and parents walk by, dramatically flop onto the hood, extending your arms, embarrassing the van in a hug. Using your best, tear-filled voice cry, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for rescuing me from the Decepticons! I love you, Optimus Prime! I want to have your mini-mini-van children!" If in the off-chance anyone joins you in extending their affections to your vehicle, get up in their face and challenge them with, "Hey, freak! This one's mine. Go find love somewhere else, you sicko!"

9. Go to a pubic high school, and drive around the parking lot slowly. When you see a groups of girls hanging out, drive over and in your best "cool-guy" voice ask them if they like ice cream. JEEZ! Kids these days are soooooo immature - haven't they ever heard of a "joke?" Apparently, the SWAT Team hasn't either. Tazers tickle.

And my final and biggest warning of what not to do in a mini-van...

10. Find the nearest public recreational park - one with lots of soccer fields. On game day when every field is packed full of kids and spectators, drive recklessly through the crowd, horn blaring, and dirt flying, until you reach center field at which point, wrench the steering wheel hard right so as to execute the perfect "cookie" with your van. Then, jump out and accusingly yell to the stunned on-lookers, "YOU HYPOCRITES!!! THE TERM 'SOCCER MOM' ISN'T EXCLUSIVE TO WOMEN! GENDER STEREOTYPING IS A HATE CRIME!" Then jump back in the van and drive like hell to the closest Hooters Family Restaurant.

Are these all fun? Yes. Recommended? No.


It's a bird! It's a plane! It's a.... Mini-Van?

That's right. Nothing says commitment like "mini-van." A 2006, Honda Odyssey, with leather seats and a "mommy mirror." Yes, the carefree skirt-chasing days of my swinging bachelorhood are officially over. My beloved Dodge Charger with it's dual exhaust, and hemi engine, sits cold and alone in some strange parking lot, waiting to be auctioned off to some second-rate car dealer, or worse... a chop-shop! I've never been a "car person" per say (my 4 year old Sawyer knows more about changing the oil than I do), but my Charger was the first car I purchased because I liked it - not because it was the only one I could afford. It was the one vehicle that really meshed with my "bad-boy" image.

Unlike the Charger, The mini-van won't quite have the same effect when we roll up to the club and rev the engine at the valet station, ensuring everyone in line notices who gets out and walks straight to the front, slapping shoulder with our bouncer friends and walking straight on into the party. Usually, such dramatic, but warranted displays would later result in somebody offering to buy me a drink along with the comment, "You're the guy with the Charger! Nice car... that thing gotta Hemi?"

Although my buddies would appreciate the spacious, leg room and 17 cup holders, which equates to holding almost a case and a half of beer, we all would still be aware it's still not a fire-red, Dodge Charger. Besides, I'm sure they will be less than thrilled that I will now be parking a minimum of 6 blocks away from any clubs so as not to be recognized as the owner, nor will they relish the fact that they now have to conduct a quick inspection of each other's backsides to pick off the kids' "seat droppings" (stray gummy bears and snack crumbs) in the same fashion as monkeys when searching for hidden lice in the hair of their mates.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not bitter. The idea of trying to jam 5 kids (Ashley's 2 girls and my 3 boys) into the back seat of the Charger is pretty much on par with the Israelis and Palestinians simultaneously occupying the Gaza strip, irregardless of it's spacious trunk capacity and leather interior. Short of UN intervention and the presence of the Red Cross, a mini-van makes practical sense for long trips and smuggling illegal aliens.

No. My issue is merely that I am hoping I don't lose my manhood and "cool-guy" image as I transition into this next phase of my life. I'm trying hard to guard against it. The first day after purchasing it, I intentionally wore my black, Triumph Motorcycle jacket - the one with the skull on the back - to drive Ashley's girls to school; however, it just didn't feel the same clicking the remote to activate the automatic, sliding doors and discussing the joys of Hanna Montana as we walked into the building.


A Father-Son Presidential Debate

Every evening I call and talk with the boys before they go to bed. Most nights the conversation is pretty much the same: Noah talks about Star Wars or The Justice League, making up complex stories complete with sub-plots and surprise twists. Harrison tells wild jokes and gives serious consideration to which girl he's going to marry this week. He seems to gravitate towards “cougars” as all of his prospects are first and second-graders. Sawyer condenses the events of the last three hours into a breathless, 15 second monologue. Adjectives and articles (such as a, an, and the) get in the way of his frenetic report and are dropped completely, leaving room for only “Sawyergotruckfunwithbrothersouchfelldownloveyoubye!” It is rare that I get a word in before he shuts off the phone.

Noah decided to change the subject on me the other night. I anticipated a continuation of our ongoing musings about what happened to Lex Luthor as a child that shaped him into the evil villain he is today. Instead, he surprised me with “Dad, who are you going to vote for in the presidential election?” The question sounds even better when spoken by a 9-year-old who actually knows what he's asking and expects a sincere answer.

“Well, I'm not sure, son.” Which was the truth. I hadn’t even registered to vote yet and I was rather indifferent on the matter. He seemed to sense the apathy in my voice and was apparently not pleased.

“You are going to vote? Right, Dad? You know voting is important.” He sounded exactly like those volunteers that work the phones as pollsters for various political campaigns. Except that he still had the unmarred, child-like faith that I couldn’t bear to crush. Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, each vote counts. I knew I must handle this discussion gracefully and leave my hard-earned political cynicism aside.

“You’re right Noah, it is very important.”

“Who do you like the best? Who do you think will win?” His questions were becoming rapid and unrelenting like a trial lawyer aggressively cross-examining a nervous witness. He was trying to trip me up and I knew I needed step it up a notch. Fight fire with a little fire, as they say.

“Well, to be honest, son, I don't know. In my estimation, given the stage of the election it's too far out to make a prediction. However, after the primary elections are complete we will have a clearer picture of the likely outcome. There is plenty of time yet for public perception to be swayed.” Now who's smarter than a 5th-grader?

“I can see that. You make excellent points.” He didn't miss a beat. “You know who I think will win, Dad?”

“No, I don't, Noah. Who do you think will win?”

“Barack Obama.” His answer was simple yet confident and spoken with that same unnerving and confident faith. And for whatever reason I recalled the time when I found Noah at age three sitting alone on the floor and staring at the wall. As I watched him sit there motionless for several minutes I started to fear that maybe he was manifesting early signs of autism. I eventually got his attention and asked him what he was doing. In a voice much older than his three years, he explained quite succinctly, “I’m thinking about stuff.” With that memory in mind I finally admitted to myself that I was over-matched in the discussion. But I was still curious to hear his reasoning. “Really? Obama? Why is that, son?”

“I have a good feeling about him.”

“A good feeling? A good feeling?” I shot back. I finally saw my opportunity to pounce and gain the upper hand. I've noticed that when interviewers want to passive aggressively challenge the credibility of a guest's statement they respond by asking a question twice in row making sure that the repeat is phrased dramatically slower as if they were trying to understand directions by Japanese tourists. I congratulated myself for having ability to skillfully imitate this advanced tactic.

“Yeah, Dad. A good feeling.”

“That's all you got? Feelings?!” Good, Ron. Keep repeating yourself.

“Well, I gotta go Dad. Mom says it's my turn for bedtime stories. Bye! Love you! Give you to Harrison. Bye! Love you!”

Hey! No fair. I was just beginning to feel smart again. I bet George Stephanopoulos didn't use his mom as an excuse to duck out when the questions got a little too tough to answer. Fine. Go on and finish your Time Magazine articles before bed. Despite my disappointment that a victory in political debate with 3rd grader had eluded me I felt very proud to have a son so aware of the world around him.

Thirty seconds later, 6 year-old Harrison was on the line demonstrating that he too was aware of the world around him. The only difference being that Harrison's world consisted mainly of the female sex as he explained how today he kissed this older broad in Noah's class. I at least took comfort in the fact that explaining the “birds and the bees” to Harrison was a subject that didn't exceed the grasp of my understanding. However, that relief was short-lived with the realization that my sons quite possibly were headed down a road that would make them the future reincarnation of the Kennedys - Robbert, Bobbie and Ted! And with that, the vision of my youngest son, Sawyer crashing his Big Wheel off the sidewalk and skinning the knee of some “unknown, female passenger” played out before my eyes.

“This could be trouble,” I thought. However, it also occurred to me the role that the Kennedy's father Joe played in shaping his son's awareness of the world, making for a poignant reminder of what my sons will learn from me.

As an epilogue to this little story I've included a picture that I found of Barack OBama posing with Superman. I don't know if Noah saw this picture and that's what prompted his so called, “good feeling,” but I do know that if I reinforce in my boys the beliefs in truth, justice and the American way (and treating women respectfully) while being responsible for their actions then they can't go wrong regardless if they run for President or they run a dry-cleaning store.

As an epilogue to this little story I've included a picture that I found of Barack OBama posing with Superman. I don't know if Noah saw this picture and that's what prompted his so called, "good feeling," but I do know that if I reinforce in my boys the beliefs in truth, justice and the American way (and treating women respectfully) while being responsible for their actions then they can't go wrong regardless if they run for President or they run a dry-cleaning store.

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