My kids are fucking killing me. I got a frantic text from my wife asking me to call home because my daughter had just called her ten times in a row while she was in an important meeting. So I called home and asked what was so important. “I wanted to know if mommy was on the way home.” This is not the first time that this has happened. And what’s worse, I get that shit from my mom. A frantic message left on my voice mail: “Greg, it’s mom. I need you to call me as soon as possible. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.” And I call her back and the emergency is that (swear to God, this actually happened) she needed to know my daughter fucking sock size.

So I’m dealing with that horse-shit, and my five year old son has been kicked out of his kindergarten class again for general goof-offiness, my wife is attending a play for a niece of ours, and my three year old is hitting the peak of his word-explosion phase, and a typical soundbite from him is “Daddy-I-make-noise-play-wth-Mark-at-day-care-Ooh!-I-want-that-I-want-that-I-like-fire-truck-Daddy-do-you-like-fire-truck-you-do-like-fire-truck?-Ok-I-want-snack-I-want-snack-I-WANT-SNACK-I-WANT-IT-I-WANT-IT-WAAAAAAAHHHHH!” And I’ve got to figure out dinner with no food in the house and get them all to bed.

I’m not whining because I never deal with this shit. My wife and I split it up pretty evenly. It’s just one of those days and … FUCK AM I WIPED!

So no original content for you today. You got a problem with that? Take it up with my fucking kids. I suggest you speak with my three year old.

But all is not lost, however. I give you, “How To Spot Lip-Synching” or “Philip Kirkorov Is A Big Fucking Pussy”