Tag: funny

Posted on

I used to be a Rapper.

No really.

I wrote a rap (well, all but the first line or two, which I totally stole from my friend Steve) in high school.  I added a second verse in college for a poetry class (and got an A).  Finally, I added a 3rd verse a few years after I came on staff.  And it’s pretty entertaining to watch my theology develop through the verses.

I’d rap it on video for you, but I don’t want to be that guy.  You know the guy.  He becomes an internet sensation for doing something that he thinks he’s good at, and nobody loves him enough to tell him not to upload it to YouTube.  I’m not gonna be that guy.

But I will type it out for you. And I don’t think it has a name.

Verse 1, no I’m not doing this for fun
Because I have no fun without the Holy One
Who has risen, He’s quizin’ the heart of every man
To see if there is room inside for Him to stand
Alone we cannot make it, we try with all our might
To spite the fright despite no sight without His holy light
I’m beggin’, no pleadin’, before it is too late
And you’re standing with St. Peter outside of the pearly gates
Without Him, or You doubt Him, don’t know that much about Him.
Only Jesus can please us, don’t leave the world without Him.

Verse 2, don’t think that I’m not talking to you,
Because it’s your turn, to U-turn, to see what JC can do.
Moses had the rod of God, I got the Bible.
It’s God’s word to me, indicated by the title,
It’s holy, and solely for the purpose of good.
I read it to see if I should do the things I think I should.
I’m right, I’m light, so don’t put me under baskets;
I’m on a mission to save souls from rottin’ in the casket
Just ask it, and Jesus will come
Into your heart right through your heart into your bloodstream,
He’s so keen, by no means continue in sin:
’cause like the Bulls with MJ, the Spirit always wins.

Verse 3, let me tell you how it happened to me,
Because by verse 4 he’ll be knocking at your door.
I said before about the rod of God
and if you’re feelin’ this, come on everybody nod.
Age 12, couldn’t nod, steady shakin’ my head,
Both eyes shut, hoping God would leave me for dead.
I was His enemy. But He got into me.
Now, both eyes open, got me begging for bread.
But in my head still runnin’, try’na earn what he gave.
Because I know me, I’m too dirty to save.
I throw in filthy rags, to cover filthy mags
At the bottom of my gold-plated filthy bag.

And that’s as far as I’ve gotten.  I do think it’s fairly neat that the more I’ve gotten into Christianity, the more clearly I see how revolting my sin is.  I’d like to someday add that 4th verse, or at least close out the 3rd verse on something about how even that sin of thinking my sinfulness is beyond Christ’s reach has been paid for.

Watch out, Eminem.  There’s a new white, 30-something rapper on the scene.  And he’s bringin’ the HEAT.  I just need backup dancers and a “Uhh” guy, and we are ready for the world tour.  Who’s with me?

Posted on

Potty Training in a Public Restroom.

When I first saw that positive pregnancy test roughly 2 years and 9 months ago, a lot of thoughts filled my head.  Throwing ball in a park with my son.  Teaching him how to ride a bike.  Tender moments before bed praying to Elmo.

Here’s a bit that didn’t make the mental brochure: Trying to get your toddler to simultaneously urinate into a public toilet without touching every portion of the bathroom.

We’re in the midst of what I’ve begun calling “our first attempt at potty training.”  We watched all the videos and read some books about training your child to use the potty in 45 minutes, or 2 days, or before they are 15.  The plan was to start last Monday (exactly a week ago) and be done by the weekend.  That’s now become the plan for boy #2.  Because LB decided he’d rather unload the bladder indiscriminately every now and then just to keep us on our toes.

Don’t get me wrong, we are learning his clues, and are able to keep him relatively dry during the day, nap time excluded.  It’s just been nowhere near the cake-walk the promo materials would have you believe.

But that brings us to the public restroom.  Jacq asked LB last night at the end of dinner (out with my parents) if he needed to potty.  He gave the semi-pout that means yes, and that meant I was up.  We trooped down the hall to the men’s room.

A quaint one-seater, we’ll call it.  LB walked in first, and I closed the door, turning to lock it behind us.  I turned back to see him curiously meandering toward the toilet.  I got there just in time to keep him from sticking his head into the bowl to get a closer look.

Next goal: get the pants and shoes and pull-up off.  Sub-goals:

  1. Don’t get peed on.
  2. Keep LB from lifting the lid on the toilet and letting it slam down (for the third time).
  3. Don’t lose balance and face-plant in the damp area behind the toilet i’ll call “every-man’s land.”

Having successfully removed the clothing (including correctly executing sub-goals 1 and 3), it was time to expect a miracle.  I wanted my son, known for strong-willed tantrums and excessive use of noise, to sit calmly on a toilet seat unlike any he’d ever seen (and easily large enough for him to fall through) without so much as rubbing his hands underneath the toilet seat.  And I wanted him to do all of this confidently, despite my facial expression of near-exasperation from holding him steady with one hand while keeping him from putting “toilet hand” in his mouth with the other.

But then came the moment.  He was working up from moderately-uncomfortable grumbling heading toward full-body screaming when he noticed something.  He needed to potty.  He leaned forward to see his junk over his belly, and slowly peed into the potty.

Waves of relief rushed over me (from not having any other types of waves rushing over me), until I realized that I wasn’t out of the woods just yet.  We had to sanitize the situation, get the pants/shoes/pull-up back on, and get out to the car.

To make a long story short, let’s just say the folks sitting near the door to the restroom were mildly shocked to see the child walk past the table wearing just his pull-up and a shirt.  But he didn’t notice.  He’d just peed like a big boy.

Posted on

The Adventure of the Swimmie Diapers. (scatological humor involved)

I have a long, awkward, complicated relationship with swimmie diapers.  When I was in college, I was a security guard at a Holiday Inn in Florida for one summer.  One of my primary jobs was to ensure that children of diapered age were properly adorned.  I’d carry around a pink/purple stack of swimmies and approach parents and ask if they needed any diapers.  The primary problem with this assignment is that a 20-year-old single guy with no younger siblings has quite literally no idea how old kids are when they stop wearing diapers.  I probably offended three sets of parents per week, all summer.

Yesterday I developed a brand new reason to detest swimmies. We are at my wife’s parents’ house, and the pool out in the yard is, to put it mildly, a hit with the grandkids.  LB has developed a pretty good tan, despite the fact that we have slathered him with SPF 3500 baby sunscreen.

Given that we are between attempt #1 and attempt #2 of potty training, LB is rocking the swimmie diaper.  And, though I don’t think he tried, he could not have timed his first poop in the diaper any better, if his goal was to get a funny blog post about it.

After a morning of MPD, I came back to the house and changed into my swimsuit.  I had planned on playing with the whole family, but it ended up being just me and LB splashing around the pool, and having a blast.  He had a routine of climbing up the ladder into the pool, being carried screaming and splashing around it, then running across the yard to the porch, then running to the kiddie pool, and then starting the routine over.  I was in the “big pool.”  On one of his trips, I noted a new and distinct odor.  Having just dipped him into the water, I immediately scrambled to carry him out of the pool.

By the time I got him to the edge of the porch, he was screaming at the thought of no longer playing in the pool.  I, on the other hand, was doing some mental gymnastics to figure out how I was going to get his diaper off, clean the trail of sludge now running down his leg, get a new diaper, and properly sanitize the situation, all without touching him.  The dog was curiously sniffing LB’s backside, and (I’d like to think) laughing at me.

After a futile attempt at yelling for help, I decided to take the diaper off to more properly assess the situation.  It was far worse than I could have imagined, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I gagged a little bit.  I wadded the squishy mess into a ball and looked around for a suitable place to stash it.  None was apparent, so I put it on the ground beside the porch, and prayed (out loud) that the dog wouldn’t eat it.

Bad decision #1 so far was carrying LB to the porch to do all of this.  Now I had poop on the front porch, poop on both of my hands, poop on absolutely every article of clothing on LB’s body, and nothing to wipe any of it down with, whatsoever.  And did I mention I was by myself?  As I surveyed my next round of decisions, I had the sinking suspicion that there was no such thing as a good one.

I’m not sure, but I don’t think James Dobson has written a chapter on preventing the dog from eating a soggy poop-filled diaper while you hose your squealing, naked child off in the in-laws front yard.  If he has, I’ve yet to read it, and it’s too late now.

Let’s put it this way:  I am SO looking forward to the day the scrawny, clueless college kid asks me if my six-year-old needs a diaper in the hotel pool.

Proudly powered by WordPress