(Repost- originally posted on HotDads on 4-7-09)

Partly due to an extremely busy life the past couple of months, I have been dragging my ass about posting on HotDads. Then on Friday, I was called on to the Daddy carpet (good-naturedly), and encouraged to post by some Hot Dad loyalists before my lazy ass was shown the door.
All that being said, here I am with my tale…and for those of you who know me, this is my Tuesday Tribute to a couple of snooty bitches I met yesterday who ultimately I discovered could not be counted on for a shred of humanity.

You see, my beautiful wife and I are in month 6 of looking for acceptable bedding to adorn our chamber of love, or as I am proud to call it, “The Speed Zone”. We have exhausted thousands of stores in search of appropriate comforters/sheets/etc to set the stage, and have not found anything that would stand up to our lifestyles. Make all the assumptions you want.

So in an effort to maximize some daylight hours while the kids napped, I ran out to Costco to grab a couple of deckchairs, and then headed to a store we had not explored yet, at the request of my wife, called Hemispheres.

In my hurry to leave the house, I had quickly thrown on a pair of shorts, a tshirt my wife had just purchased for me, and thrown a fleece on top. Grab my flipflops, and run. With all the hauling of deckchairs around Costco, I was rather warm once I got back out to the car, so I removed my fleece. Drove to Hemispheres. Hop out of the car, head into what turned out to be the Nirvana of Duvets.

So, in I go. Tshirt, shorts, flipflops, and a fat wallet, ready to spend whatever necessary to euthanize Sheetsearch 2008-9. This being a high end furniture store in a bad economic climate, I am instantly assaulted by two salesbeauties ready to service my every retail need. And I mean, I’m excited. Not only because I am already seeing bedding that looks like it is gonna be a winner with the real decision maker, but also because the staff and customers in this place seem to rival the Hollywood elite. As crappy as I look in my torn cargo shorts and brand spankin’ new rocker tshirt, I know there’s a good chance that now I am around the pretty people, my look may be interpreted as trendy instead. Lookin’ good, sir.

The plastic people ask if I need help, give me a coupon flier, and quickly retreat from me. Hmm…odd, thought they’d be pushier. Check my pits for offending aroma, and continue with my search.

Got a question…call over Barbie. She doesn’t look too taken with me, must be the wedding ring. Because I look SWEET, and I’ve got cash dollas to spend, yo.

Another question…kinda feel like I have to drag the gal over this time. What the hell? Honey, I may not be 185 anymore, but I am LOVED in Belgium, AND I’m a Hot Dad. Might be overestimating my chub-ass in these cargo shorts.

Final question…can’t even get the gals to leave the counter for this one…and my self confidence is now circling the toilet bowl. But I have great news for the wife, so I’m headed home.

When I emerge from the car and begin unloading chairs, my wife walks up. She takes one look at me, and with a grimacing smile, she says “Oh honey, you’re gonna be so embarrassed.”

She points at my shirt.

You see, I’m a Hot Dad. And I’m bringin’ sexy back to retail.

And to you snooty bitches, this Tuesday Tribute is for you. Next time, how ’bout fucking saying something? Pretend that even though you’re 75% plastic, that you still have a heart under all that glitter lotion and silicone. In this emaciated economic climate, you just lost a customer. I will never again set foot in your store.

I mean, after we buy your fucking comforter.

Today’s “Snooty B*tch” post will be found at another blog I am writing for known as Hot Dads.

Yes, as it turns out, I am a “Hot Dad”.

And yes, their entry requirements are pretty loose.

Will you go there to read and comment on my post today? Pretty Please? They have been giving me crap about not posting over there, and bragging about the number of comments each of them got on their posts. So will you go over there, comment, and help me blow their numbers out of the water? Show ‘em how we roll at Halftime. And make sure you add them to your reader, as I will be writing for them from time to time.

See you over there?

Yet Another Jay and Deb Production.

First off, I have to commend the lovely Maegan for being such a good sport yesterday, she loved the video. I knew there was something I liked about that gal, and if I offended her, she sure didnt let on! Go check her out soon, she has an insane (awesome) sense of style, and she and her husband are living the LA life while the rest of us watch it on TV…well, not me, but everyone else. I swear. Really.

Next, MamaKat’s Workshop had a writing prompt that I wanted to answer today:

Prompt: Are you always right?

Answer: Yes. See below.

Other than that, I only have a short message for a guy I almost met this morning.

The guy in the pickup.

Who had previously eaten his Chick-Fila, gathered up his trash, and placed it in the refuse-disposal device…the back of his truck.

You see, my friend, you think it’s funny. Or, you believe that there is some benevolent mystical force that along with removing toenail-perforated socks from your dryer, also removes and disposes of your trash from the bed of your truck in an appropriate container for you.

But in fact, when you are hurrying to Walmart to get the latest box set of “Dirty Jobs” and an eighteener of Olympia, that trash catches the gust of wind (that I can only assume was intended to carry the last 20 points of your IQ off into the breeze) and ends up on the street where our kids play.

You, my friend, as well as the lady I saw roll down he window recently to dispose of TWO full fast food bags and TWO half full Big Gulps at the stoplight she was bored at, can share the same feces-filled room in hell.

Throw your damn trash in a trash can. It was all I could do not to chase you down, follow you home, and spend a beautiful afternoon kanoodling with your neighbors to inform them what an ass you are.

If the problem is simply that you dont have enough room in the cab for that last bag of trash, it might be time for a minivan. Whatever the cause of your deficiencies, it’s time to wake up and become a valid citizen. Look it up.

And while you’re at it, mow your lawn. Never mind how I know.

(Yo MamaKat…See how right I am…AGAIN??!!)