On The 9th Day of Christmas The Lunchbox Shared With Me

...Dove Chocolate.

Is anyone here a Dove Chocolate fan? I love the dumb things and what's even better is that dark chocolate is a good source of anti-oxidants when taken in moderation. Dove is one of those brands that's recommended among the list containing these healthy elements. The only thing that kind of bugs me are those little sayings printed on the wrappers that are supposed to give you warm and fuzzies. Not that I'm a cynic, but... okay sometimes I am. With tomorrow being New Year's and the traditional time to make resolutions for new patterns and habits for our lives, maybe this will help in coming up with a few ideas.

Can't You Just Feel The Dove?

As part of my healthy eating regiment I was encouraged to incorporate dark chocolate (some regiment huh?) into my diet because of their natural anti-oxidants, and because sweets can signal the brain that a meal is over. This made perfect sense to me and I was eager to make the inclusion into my dietary rotation. Further research indicated that Dove, brand dark chocolate was the best choice given it's natural ingredients and high anti-oxidants levels. Ever obedient, on my next visit to the grocery store I tossed a bag into my cart, and following my evening meal, I downed a couple pieces (actually, it was closer to seven or eight before my brain actually caught on). As I threw the wrappers in the trash, I noticed that there were words written on the inside of the foil which, like fortune cookies, formed little phrases called "Promise Messages." However, unlike the stoic incites and vague innuendo of happy outcomes found in the fortune cookie, these Promise Messages sounded closer to the scripted advice of a self-help guru using local, cable access to reach audiences with his late-night guarantee of personal fulfilment for the low, low price of only $19.95 plus tax.

It's obvious that some evil marketing genius concocted this scheme, whereby consumers are drugged with a double dose of endorphins as the brain is injected with the sweet, high of personal validation in conjunction with the sugary rush contained in a rich, dark chocolaty treat. But not everyone can feel the "Dove." Apparently, years of exposure to Baptist legalism in my childhood has rendered me virtually immune to anything allowing me to feel good about myself (this includes candy, which is why Trick-or-Treating is a sin).

This resistance to marketing-induced, self-esteem, I've been told, can also result in a noticeable rash, spontaneous twitching and an uncontrollable urge to laugh your head off, which I do often when reading these wrappers. Upon seeing this reaction for the first time, my fiancee figured I had finally cracked up over the strain of being so... so... well, the stain of some extremely positive trait I possess, but that's not the point here. Recognizing her bewilderment, I showed her my "Dove-ly" little message, to which she started laughing hysterically as well. Since then, we've started saving our wrappers, and now with the bag of chocolates gone I've gathered our collection to share these bits of joy with you here.

- Follow your instincts.
- If they can do it, you know you can.
- It's definitely a bubble-bath day. (my personal favorite)
- There's a time for compromise... it's called "later."
- Count the stars.
- Sometimes one smile means more than a dozen roses.
- Live your dreams.
- Send a love letter this week.
- Flirting is mandatory.
- Don't think about it so much.
- Age is nothing but a number.
- When two hearts race, both win.
- Keep the promises you make to yourself.
- Watch reruns, they replay your memories.
- Temptation is fun... giving in is even better.
- Hey, why not?
- Be mischievous. It feels good.

If you are one of those who laughed until your sides ached because the concept of grace eludes you, or you didn't laugh at all because this really isn't funny, then take a moment and re-read the list. Note how enabling these Promise Messages can be. I noticed this a while back, and it actually disturbed me enough that I wrote the Mars Corporation (makers of Dove) a letter recommending they include a disclaimer on their packages. This warning would advise buyers that Dove chocolate and the suggestions found in the Promise Messages are not intended for the following people: Anyone convicted of murder or serious crime; those accused or guilty of sexual harassment; individuals with the repressed memories of a traumatic past; anyone diagnosed with mental illness, multiple personalty disorder or psychotic tendencies; anyone having a restraining order filled against in the past five years; those recovering from an alcohol, drug or gambling addiction; cannibals; and those with an allergic reaction to bubble bath products.

As part of my recommendation I also suggested an alternative possibility of changing from their broad-base theme in Promises Messages to one with a more selective reach. With this approach, I reasoned, they could use criteria to establish individual groups to whom they could communicate a targeted messages of Dove that would make consumers feel even more special about themselves. For instance, practical-minded individuals would find Promise Messages saying things like, "Change your oil at 40,000 miles, not the dealer-recommended 30 because listening to yourself saves money," or, "Buying extra canned goods will make you feel smart when unexpected disaster strikes." Choco-holics in the "Active Adult" category could enjoy such golden nuggets as, "Go ahead and fart. No one will say anything because it's cute at your age," and, "They don't visit because they realized you were right in saying they'd never amount to anything." Not wanting to alienate the "Pre-Adult" demographic, the company could include messages of consolation such as, "Wear more black because they'll never understand you," and, "Grab it, Mom shouldn't have left that 20 laying there."

Although I really liked this targeted concept, my experience on the big-time corporate playground halted my hair-brained notion with the realization that such an idea was simply not "cost-effective." Recognizing the impracticality of such a strategy, and not wanting to damage the credibility of my message with the executives at Mars, I re-drafted a list of suggested Promise Messages that, I believed, would resonate with an even broader base of consumers than does the current one now (a disclaimer would still apply, however.) And so, I submitted this final list of "warm and fuzzies"

- Don't you think you've really had enough.
- Dodge, deny and deflect. It doesn't have to be your fault.
- I know what you did. Don't make me tell.
- Drink from the jug, nobody's around.
- It's ok, everyone takes office supplies.
- Fake a disability! You get free money and a parking tag.
- There's no such thing as "too much information."
- Switching price tags is just being thrifty.
- You're not fooling anyone.
- Try harder, no one's going to recognize the effort.
- Don't feel bad. It was her turn to pick up the kids.
- Ignore it and someone else will take care of it.
- It's always the right thing to do if you can get away with it.
- It's ok. You can quit anytime.
- They've already had a full life, now it's your turn.
- If they loved their cat so much they would've kept it inside.
- Depression is an excuse. Just take the pills!
- Recreational drugs aren't a big deal.
- Go ahead, he's a jerk anyway.

I sent this proposal off several weeks ago and I have to admit I'm anxious to receive the company's response, which I am sure to get. In the mean time, I will continue to eat Dove chocolate and laugh hysterically at their Promise Messages while I sit here watching television at 1am in an attempt to put my life back together for a reasonable price if I act now.

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On The 8th Day of Christmas The Lunchbox Shared With Me

... Superman!

Go figure right? Well this is a repost of an article for another blog, and I wanted to share it again specifically on the Lunchbox. It's about how Superman made me a better dad, and one of my all-time favorites. Right now as I am spending a rare length of time with my boys in conjuction with my two step-daughters it seems fitting.

How Superman Made Me A Better Father.

To many, it might seem odd for a guy in his mid-thirties to be such a huge fan of Superman. If I worked in the comic book industry, or were if I was a serious collector it would make more sense - but I am neither. In fact, I wasn’t even interested in The Man of Steel until a few years ago when I first moved to Chicago. I bought Season 1 of the CW television show Smallville as something to watch until my cable was hooked up. If you’ve never heard or seen it before, Smallville is an exploration into the life of Clark Kent as a late teen and early adult as he learns to use his developing powers in his many adventures prior to donning the now iconic cape and tights as Superman.

Granted, the show is more of a teen drama with a fair share of campiness, but I was struck with the overwhelming number of themes related to fatherhood throughout the entire arc of the story. Central to the plot is Clark’s relationship with his adoptive father Jonathan Kent who raises him, but also his biological (and spiritual) father Jor-El who guides Clark towards his ultimate destiny. These images are contrasted with the father-son relationship between Lex Luthor and his father Lionel, culminating in the transformation of Lex, from Clark’s best friend to Superman’s archenemy. Being that I came to Chicago specifically because I wanted to be an involved father and not just a child support check to my three boys after their mother moved away, the images of fatherhood depicted on Smallville hit home.

I was tearing through the remaining seasons on DVD in a race to catch up to the currently aired episodes when I was struck with the concept of what it would it take to parent a child that can lift a truck, or run the speed of light. Not only do you have to deal with all the normal things like getting him to stay in bed after tuck in, and sharing toys with other kids at play groups, but now you have to worry he won’t run through his bedroom wall when you try to catch him or shove you into the next county when you take back the toy he just grabbed away from a playmate. As he gets older these lessons would become exponentially more complex, and as a parent, if you back away because of fear, it’s more likely the end result would be a super brat and not a super man. Had that rocket ship from Krypton landed in the backyard of the Spears’, Hilton’s or Lohan’s rather than a dirt field near the Kent farm I shudder to think of the possible outcomes. The Man of Bling maybe?

From that perspective, I realized how integral good parenting was in the development of Clark Kent from small town boy to “The Big Blue Boy Scout” (as he is sometimes cynically called as a reference to his uncompromising moral code). I also reasoned that there must be lessons within the story I could find for myself as a father. My interest expanded beyond just Smallville as I starting studying all things pertaining to the Superman Myth, making special note of any items I could incorporate into my own parenting skill set. I did not have to dig too far to find some essential lessons that I have tried to incorporate.

1. Use your abilities to help others: Superman has all manner of mad skills - mega-strength, x-ray vision, super hearing, heat vision, freeze breath, super speed, invulnerability, oh yeah, and he can fly. I imagine it would be tempting for both the parents and for Clark to use those powers for their own personal gain, but Jonathan Kent ingrained in his son a sense of selflessness and purpose. In the first Superman movie (staring Christopher Reeves), there is a scene where a young Clark uses his super speed to out-race his high school classmates who are in a car. As Clark comes up the driveway, his father (played by Glenn Ford) who has just witnessed what has happened, gently admonishes Clark by reminding him “his powers were meant for more than just scoring touchdowns.” This is a point I often think about when I see some of the child celebrities with their parents as managers. I wonder whose benefit those parents are really looking out for and what that says to their own children about putting others first.

2. There are consequences for our actions: I remember reading an article that claimed one of the most important lessons a father can teach his children is there are always consequences for our actions. The point being, eventually we have to let our children go and either we’ve taught them to live within rigid boundaries or we have taught them to make good decisions based on their own judgment of the potential outcomes. This point echoes repeatedly in the Smallville TV series, starting with Clark’s desire to join the high school football team. His father (this time played by John Schneider) is adamantly opposed; arguing that Clark is unaware of the consequences should he inadvertently hurt other players when using his super skills. Clark backs down, but several seasons later, he joins the team again, this time after careful consideration. The ensuing discussion between Clark and his dad over the renewed desire to join the team leads to another parental issue - learning to trust your children’s decisions. This summer one of my sons, who is a huge animal lover, learned the absolute consequences in shooting a frog with a BB gun. He has been repeatedly told guns are not toys, and after targeting something other than a soda can, he found out why. I know he learned a life lesson that day which he will remember every time he sees a gun.

3. Invulnerability and infallibility are not the same: As the strongest being in the universe, Superman could punch your head clear to China if he thought you were challenging his decisions. He could easily take over the planet if he desired, but that is not his nature. This is the very concept Superman’s enemy, Lex Luthor, tries to capitalize on in his attempts to turn the populace’s trust against the Man of Steel. Lex cannot conceive of someone having ultimate power and not using it to gain unchallenged control over others. Superman however, recognizes his infallibility, endowing him with a healthy respect for the damage he could inflict if left unchecked. It is the same type of respect I have for the damage I can cause my children by lording over them with “the-boss-is-always-right” type of parenting. Instead, I try to include them in decisions and make sure they hear me say sorry when I make a mistake.

4. Even Superman has a weakness: Superman might be the baddest mo-fracky around, but he still has a weakness in the form of kryptonite, meteor rocks from his home world. This isn’t exactly something he advertises, otherwise he would become vulnerable to anybody able to get their hands on it and use it against him. However, he doesn’t shy away from it when it comes between him and his duty. In the movie Superman Returns, kryptonite renders him a useless sack o' taters that Lex Luthor’s henchmen kick the stuffing out of and chuck over a cliff, where Lois Lane (along with Superman’s potential son) find him floating and pull him to safety. Superman then flies up to the sun to charges his batteries (solar energy fuels his powers), and then goes on to defeat the forces of evil once again. What I’m reminded of is that I, as a man, have weaknesses too, but admitting to their affects vs. parading them around as an excuse are two different things. My weaknesses should not prevent me from my responsibilities as a father. Sometimes though, I need help from others, just like Lois coming to Superman’s aid and I try to pass along that it is not weakness to accept that help.

There have been quite a few times when my kids will ask me why I like Superman so much, and I always reply, “Because he makes me a better dad.” The idea of a cartoon superhero somehow interacting with their father is intriguing to them and they want to know how that is even possible. “Well,” I say, “You remember when Superman was fighting Lex Luthor …” Soon we are having a big discussion about what happens when you make the wrong choice, or why you should look to help others. If I were talk to them directly about such stuff, they would think I’d fallen off my rocker, but somehow, because it’s Superman it doesn’t seem so far fetched.

Thankfully, my kids may not be able to fly at supersonic speeds or use heat vision to weld the toaster shut, but they do possess the potential to have an impact on their world one day. I guess if these lessons are good enough for a superhero known for his stance on truth, justice and, “all that other stuff” then it can’t hurt to use them on my own super crew.

Epilogue: After noticing the images and lessons of fatherhood in Superman, it seemed to me like there were quite a few others in pop culture, most recently with Indiana Jones having a son in the latest movie. Star Wars is another example. What are some you can think of? How do you use pop culture in parenting?

All artwork by Alex Ross

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On The 7th Day of Christmas The Lunchbox Shared With Me

... Pancakes!

Since there are so many kids and family from out of town, my sisters and I decided to split up cooking and cleaning duties to alleviate our poor mother from having to do it all herself. My primary job? Breakfast. And why? Because I make the best pancakes out of the bunch. In fact some may say they are too good. This is an old post from the spring. It's been re adapted for the book which means the writing's tighter and cleaner, so forgive the rougher grade quality of this re post titled,

Make Us Some Pancakes Funnyman!

I’ve started a new habit of getting up early on Saturday mornings. Why would any sensible person do such a thing unless they had a weekend job like delivering newspapers or selling new homes? The truth of the matter is I do have a job… sort of. I’m the On-Call Pancake Production Specialist covering the weekend shifts from 6am to 9am. Basically, my job duties boil down to simply whipping up gourmet pancakes at the whim of Allie and Avery. Thank goodness, it’s only a three-hour window outside of which, I can tell them to go chew on leather belts as a means to quell their tiny growling stomachs (it’s a technique used by the French Foreign Legion as a means of survival when getting lost in the desert. My boys think it’s cool.).

Typically, I roll out of bed, get dressed and head upstairs to the kitchen praying the girls will be satisfied with today’s offering to the gods of their bottomless pits. It’s my own fault. I created these little monsters back when I started dating Ashley in an attempt to impress her by winning over the solid gold hearts of her darling little girls. So, when she mentioned to me her girls loooooooove pancakes, I saw my opportunity. I am a master pancake maker, a talent handed down from father to son for generations in my family, so mixing a batch of golden brown, cinnamon flapjacks would be, well, child’s play. I had no idea my well-intentioned act would turn these little dears into mini-me, meth addicts.

Based on height, weight, and gender, I estimated about twelve to fifteen pancakes as the appropriate amount for the girls, their mom and myself – two each for mom and the girls and six for myself. It filled my heart with joy watching the excitement in Allie and Avery’s eyes as I poured, stirred and flipped their breakfast treats, and then resulting joy as they swallowed the first bites. “Mmmmmmm! You’re a good pancake-maker, Ron,” they said in unison as their mom looked at me with love in her eyes. I was in, which is to say, in way over my head.

“Can we have some more?” I turned from the stove to see these little cherubs holding their plates in the air like those starving kids in Africa. How could I refuse? I’d just subtract 2 from my portion and make up for it later with a snack, but 30 seconds later the girls returned hoping to receive pancakes 5 and 6. “Wow!” I thought, “Either I’m even better than I think I am or these little urchins have been living a deprived existence outside the realm of the pancake world .” The final count for that first morning ended up running something to the effect of twelve a piece for the girls, eight for Ashley, and the lone pancake dropped on the floor going to myself.

I actually had to make more in order escape the kitchen with my own life. After pancake number 8, Allie handed me her plate with the expectation of another hit of “the good stuff.” I tried to explain to her that there was no more batter (I held off on the part about generously giving up my portion as a matter of good Christian living. I figured I’d get a “Golden Pancake” from God as my reward in heaven.). Allie said nothing as her face slumped in disappointment, and she walk off only to return a minute later with a folded up piece of paper she handed to me. At first, I thought this to be a charming thank you, but I believe the actual text scrawled in black crayon was closer to, “MAYK MOR PANKAKZ OR YU WEEL DI.”

There was a red scribble at the bottom. Sensing the confusion mixed with the horror in my expression, Allie motioned for me to bend down close so she could whisper in my ear. Cupping her hand she whispered, “The red is supposed to be blood.”

“Holy, Smurfing Care Bears! Who are these kids?!” I thought as I slowly straightened up and looked over at the mother on the couch. She looked up and smiled adoringly at me for feeding her hungry offspring, completely oblivious to the murderous extortion taking place at that very instant and not five feet away from where she sat.


Fast forward to the present where I slowly drag out mixing bowls, pancake mix, an egg, milk (not to be confused with “sugar milk”), cinnamon, vanilla, brown sugar, flax seed, and…. “Oh, dear Lord, let there be frozen blueberries in the freezer,” I pray as I rifle through the freezer. “No, no, no… Yes!” There is a God and He pities me. It’s much better for me to get up early and prepare everything in advance so as to avoid such pitfalls as not having blueberries on hand. It makes for a harmonious morning with less tension in the air.

I used to sleep in, letting Ashley get up with the girls to feed them cereal and turn on cartoons so she could fall back to sleep on the couch. However, as soon as she would start snoring loud enough to drown out the TV, Allie and Avery would push away from the table and proceed downstairs to express their displeasure with me.

I would open my eyes, to the blurry sight of the girls standing next to bed. Their faces would be eerily expressionless. “It’s time.” Avery would say simply in a flat monotone voice, and Allie would raise her arm to show me a red crayon as if to say, “You know what this means, don’t you?” Taking the none-too-subtle hint, I would roll out of bed and head up to the kitchen to perform my duty.

On my way, I’d pass a practically unconscious Ashley slumbering unaware on the couch prompting a reminder by one the girls. “Don’t wake mother,” they would say in that same monotone voice, but with the notable hint of a creepy English accept.

Nervously, I’d whip up a heaping batch of blueberry pancakes hoping to meet with their approval, but the pressure to perform in front of such a demanding and cutthroat audience increased my chances of making a potentially fatal mistake. There have been some close calls, eventually prompting me to my current routine of waking up ahead of time. On one occasion, I forgot to add flaxseed.

“Hey!” Avery said throwing her fork on the table. “Where’s the flaxseed?”

I tried to smooth it over; amazed she could even tell it was missing. “I’m sorry, Sweetie, I forgot…” But she cut me off.

“Forgot?! You forgot?!” her tone more accusing than questioning.

“Forgot? What did Ron forget, my little angel?” It was Ashley standing at the top of the stairs. Somehow she miraculously manages to wake each Saturday morning without fail just at the moment I start serving the first round of my “griddle manna.” “What do they think you forgot, dear?” she then asked me. But as I opened my mouth to speak, it wasn’t my voice that I heard.

“Mommy! Ron put sugar milk in the pancakes!” Allie said while starting to rub her eyes as if she were crying. “He said he ‘forgot’ that you said he couldn’t use it anymore.” It took me a day and a half to convince Ashley otherwise, and at no small price.

On another occasion, I used frozen mixed berries instead of the outrageously more expensive blueberries. The mixed berries had of blueberries, but it also consisted of blackberries, raspberries, and strawberries (which Allie detests). I clung to a single hope that I could make the substitution and the girls would be none the wiser, and maybe, with any luck, they might even like this new version better. Things were going along better than I anticipated with Allie and Avery each having gulped down four “modified” pancakes before Ashley casually mentioned how she really like the way I mixed in the raspberries and especially the strawberries.

“Aren’t these good pancakes, girls?” Ashley said to the girls. “Tell Ron what a good pancake maker he is.”

I slowly turned to face the girls who were nodding in agreement and wearing large fake grins that accentuated their over sized cheeks stuffed full of pancake and mixed berries. I nervously smiled back as a sign of my gratitude, hoping to gain some small amount of mercy from Allie and Avery. It was not to be.

As soon as Ashley got up to give me a peck on the cheek and put her plate in the sink, the forced smiling ceased. Allie put her thumb to her throat and slowly drug it under her chin in a simulated slashing motion and then pointed at me. When their mom turned back around the girls’ smile immediately re-appeared, and then faded slowly as Ashley walked away, clueless that my life was now hanging in the balance. Once she had disappeared down the stairs Allie and Avery turned back towards me and spit the contents of their mouth out onto the floor for me to pick up. I can’t remember quite what happened next, but for the record, as part of the terms of the confidentiality agreement, I am not allowed to disclose the detailed concessions made in order to remain among the living. I will say it was steep and involved marbles and possibly a voodoo doll bearing my likeness.


That incident was the final straw convincing me I needed to be awake and ready before everyone else. Now I have the batter made, the griddle perfectly heated and the blueberries thawed, making me as ready as I can be for Allie and Avery’s demand for stacks of golden pancakes. As I mentioned earlier, this routine makes for a more pleasant morning with the girls not behaving with that Children-of-the-Corn demeanor. In fact, they usually smile at me as they enter the kitchen, knowing I have accepted my role as the On Call Pancake Production Specialist and thus recognize my place within the household.

At 6:45AM, they appear right on schedule all bright and cheery upon seeing I have prepared for today’s session.

“Fix us some pancakes, clown!” Allie demands while climbing up to the table.

“Ya,” Avery echoes as she joins her sister. “I want blueberry pancakes, Funnyman!”

I’ll admit, it’s a bit demeaning to take such abuse from a six and four year old, but it’s better than dying a horrible death for refusing.

PS. Watch the video (from Wedding Crashers) and insert “pancake” for the word “bicycle.” It’s like that.

Wedding Crashers

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On The 6th Day of Christmas The Lunchbox Shared With Me

...Belching

I hope everyone had a nice Christmas and got all that you hoped for. I'm assuming most of you had nice dinners either at home or with family. If that's the case, be glad you didn't have these little girls in attendance. Many of you have read about these little demons but for the new readers I thought it would be nice to run it just one more time.

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 combusted.

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.

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