The Manwife Chronicles

HIRE ME! I can sell a book.

Ok, it’s ranty time. The biggest complaint I get about my last book is that it’s just a compilation of tweets. This makes me question Darwinism.

Look, I understand that not everyone is going to like it. That’s fine. But when the summary says it’s a compilation of tweets, and you were upset it wasn’t who done it pick-a-path, clearly some of you weren’t hugged enough as a child.

The whole idea of the book was to see if I could sell a book. I mean, literally, just a single book. I know this may come to a surprise to some, but you just don’t write a book and magically it sells like Harry Potter. The hardest part isn’t writing a book, it’s marketing it. That was the whole point of As Pantless as I Want to Be.

I wasn’t going to spend all my time, not looking for a job, pinning my hopes on selling millions of copies, and getting my own theme park and statue. Instead, I took all the silly twitter shenanigans, packaged it into a book and marketed it as such. If I could get that to sell I would not only test the market, it would also serve as marketing for the next book. You starting to see how this all works?

I did sell a couple of copies. At one point, I topped 822 in Kindle sales, or something like that. That’s not too bad for a first book with no publisher behind it. Now I can work on a completely original book, which I’m doing now. I’m working on Can I Have Snack?,  a day-in-the-life of an unemployed stay-at-home dad. Better known as me.

So if you were all upset that the first book didn’t have enough original content, just unsqueeze. It’s coming. Right after I figure out how to get the straws into these juice pouches. Clearly, the makers of Capri Sun hate parents.

I always knew that one day I would lose my shit at a Target. I just always thought it would be in the parking lot, running down clueless pedestrians.

The family and I are walking through the produce aisles, because, you know, we’re all about proper nutrition, when a man starts walking towards me

“Excuse me, Sir. Can I talk to you…”

I throw both my hands up and say, “Don’t bother me and my family while we’re trying to shop.”

I’ve been approached outside stores, in parking lots, at the mall and at the house. Usually I just say, “No thank you,” and walk away. But this was the first time I’ve been approached inside a store. While I’m busy shopping. It really annoyed me, and he didn’t like my response.

“Damn man, I was just trying to talk to you.”

I walked right by him and keep on walking. He follows, keeping a distance, but keeps bothering me. I quickly realized that he wasn’t going to leave me alone. That’s when I stopped, turned around, and completely lost my shit.

“I’m in the middle of the store shopping. I don’t want you bothering me or my family.”

In Texas that alone is legal grounds to open fire.

“I said excuse me.”

“I don’t care if you’re holding a giant check from Publisher’s Clearing House. I’m not talking to a complete stranger next to the frozen peas.”

Everyone knows you talk to complete strangers in automotive, next to the all-season radials.

There was a bunch of other words exchange, but I don’t even remember half of what was said. I’m pretty sure it just degenerated into grunts at some point.

He’s still walking towards me. My wife and kids have ducked off in another aisle to get away from this guy, and I realize we’re boxed in. So I’ve drawn a mental line in my head. If he passes that linoleum square I’m going to make him eat that cucumber, and not with his mouth.

I point at him and yell, “Walk away. Just walk away.”

The boy is loving every minute of this. He’s all giddy, jumping up and down like this is a playground fight.

“Mommy, Daddy is going to kick that man’s ass.”

I’m still yelling at him and wondering, why isn’t that employee saying something? She’s just standing there, stocking the frozen entrees. Am I in some sort of sociological experiment? Is Chris Hanson about to come out, ”Have a seat. I would like to talk to you. Have a seat. Let’a talk. Have some lemonade.”

I’m in the middle of a store, yelling at a stranger to walk away, and everyone is acting like nothing is happening.

“Walk away! Walk away!”

He finally turns around and walks away. Now my testosterone is raging and I’m worried that this guy is now lurking in the parking lot. I just want to get the car packed and get out of there when a 12-year-old girl approaches me. Boy, did she pick the wrong day to sell cookies.

I’m ironing my shirt the other day, with an actual iron not the man iron – a drier, when the phone rings.

Last week I had two job interviews. Either things were starting to look up, or this was going to be the cruelest joke ever. At one of the interviews I found out that I was one of six. Out of over 300 applicants. I should have quit right there. I’d already won.

“Hello.”

“Hi David, I hate to be the bearer of bad news.”

“Ok.”

“We are going to have to cancel your interview tomorrow. We have decided to offer the position to another applicant.”

“But I just figured out how these button-down shirts work.”

Less than 24 hours before a final interview and they cancel. I’m pretty sure there is some sort of discrimination going on here. I mean, I can’t imagine any other reason not to hire me. My winning smile. My positive attitude, and ability to look good standing in your office. Clearly they just don’t want to hire me because I have pooper disease. As soon as you ask about the strength of their plumbing, they’re on to you.

It’s profiling. I’m telling you. They see us glutards and think that we’re going to steal all their toilet paper. Although, depending on what I eat, it can make me a lot less productive.

I think it’s about time we stand up against this. There needs to be some sort of walk-a-thon to put an end to this crap. No, not my crap. The discrimination crap. You should give me money for my crap. It won’t solve anything, but it sure makes me feel better when I’m sitting on the toilet, losing feeling in my legs.