For anyone that was asking how to find paperback copies of my short stories, they are now available on Amazon.

Please stop by and order a copy.  They’re available digitally, as well as in print form.  If you enjoy the works, please share them with friends, co-workers, and on any social media outlet you may be a part of.  A social media share is almost as good as currency in 2015 and I am truly nothing without the support of my readers, friends, and family.

If you don’t like the books, please: give them to your enemies and tell them to “read up.”

Listed below are the links to all of my content that’s currently available for purchase.



Kindle Version:

Paperback Version:

A Dad’s Take: Anecdotes, Joy, and Poop Jokes from 14 Months of Fatherhood


Kindle Version:

Paperback Version:



Kindle Edition:

Paperback Edition:

Again, thank you for caring or reading or sharing or not just cussing me out for constantly assaulting your timelines with self-promotion.  It means a lot.


Over the last few days we’ve all become certifiable experts on PSI, ball inflation, and have found ourselves inundated with #deflategate and all the insanity the comes with an extra long week of NFL Super Bowl hype.  Yesterday, Tom Brady addressed the media and went into excruciating detail about the minutiae of how he picks out his footballs for use in the games.

He denied any and all allegations of tampering with the pigskin.  Tom Brady, according to Tom Brady, always has and always will play fair.  But you can bet that as soon as Tom stepped off that podium and headed back to his supermodel wife his phone was exploding with text messages.

Fortunately for you, we’ve partnered up with everyone’s favorite perv-hackers – you know, the ones who have made every celebrity cower in fear as they feverishly attempted to delete their sext messages from “The Cloud”— and managed to get just a snippet of some of the texts that were sent to Tom Brady last night.

A confused former Tour de France champion weighed in with his opinion on the matter.


Tom’s favorite Red-Zone Target wanted to extend his heartfelt support.


New England Running back, and most ironically named human on earth, LeGarrette Blount reached out to offer his thoughts.


Tom’s long-time adversary fired off a quick, parody-song-laden text.


Tom was even getting accidental texts last night!


Tom received nothing but support from his long-time coach.


A mystery texter weighed in with thoughts on a possible replacement, should Brady get suspended.


Even the Dallas Cowboys had players reaching out to Brady.


Even the defensive players from the Patriots were showing their support for their QB.


None other than the ‘Ole Gunslinger made a textual appearance on Brady’s phone.



I don’t know if I’ve blown out my voice booing before.

Sure, I’ve booed and hooted and hollered and generally carried on like a caged ape that’s been infected with the rage virus in a zombie movie.  But last night may have been the first time I’ve driven my vocal cords directly off a cliff into a steaming pile of puberty-style voice-cracking on the sheer power of my auditory hatred for referees.

Granted, I’ve never been to see the Loch Hess Monster live and in person or I’m sure I would have probably crossed this threshold before, but last night – for lack of a better term — the referees at the Nebraska Basketball game against Minnesota were on some next level shit.

There were 43 total fouls called.  Nebraska only attempted 42 shots.

There were technical fouls, questionable calls, and a group of refs whistling more than a scaffolding full of horny construction workers cat-calling at a hot woman on the sidewalk.  I booed.  And shouted.  And checked over my shoulder to make sure the little girls behind us weren’t listening so I could quietly whisper swear words to my wife.  Then we ended up shouting them anyway, reflexively, and shrugging in a hasty apology to anyone who was appalled.

I’m not sure whether these refs just enjoyed the spotlight a little too much, whether they were all graduates from the Tim Donaghy School of Officiating, or if they had all sworn a blood oath with Karl Hess that was co-signed by Lucifer himself to try to torpedo a once-beautiful game.  Whatever the case, they seemed to almost relish playing the villains on Tuesday night, shouting out absurd sound effects with their technical fouls and crotch-thrusting like an air-humping Justin Bieber onstage at a concert while they were giving out blocking fouls.

Shouting out “Boom” when you’re giving a player a “T” as a ref is the auditory version of putting those plastic nutsacks on the back of your pick-up truck.  You want to know who shouts out “Boom!” when they’re handing out a tech?  Leslie Nielsen in Naked Gun.

(*Author’s note: someone please send me a link to the crotch-thrust block call by the ref tonight.  I’m begging you.)

To say that this was an ugly game would be a like calling WWII a “skirmish.”  This might have been the ugly game.  Here’s the box score:

Yes.  I had to blur that out for content like it was the Spice Channel in 1999.  Maybe if you’re a consenting adult you can contact someone and order the special version so you can look at it under the cover of darkness.

Nebraska shot a paltry 40% from the field, somehow gritting their way to a 52-49 victory, while digging in on defense and turning the game into trench warfare for the eyes.  They held the Golden Gophers to just 30% from the field, an incredible number from a team that is rapidly establishing itself as an elite defense.  You have to give props to Jim Molinari, Nebraska’s defensive guru.

As it turns out, he isn’t just on the sidelines to look like an Italian Deepak Chopra, he’s brought an already good defending team to an entirely new level.

It was such an ugly game that the highlight of Minnesota’s offensive game was the level of excitement by the 9-year-old girls behind me that they had a dude named “Gaston” on their team (*Author’s note: big ups to Beauty and the Beast for still being relevant in 2015, ya’ll!)

However, I’ve written at length about riding this wave of ugliness and embracing the horror that is Nebraska’s offensive game this year.  When you find yourself mired in the muck you can either have a meltdown and howl in horror at how soiled your laundry has become.  Or you can mud wrestle.  The Huskers are wrestling.  And so far, we’ve gotten a few pins.

There’s nothing new to say here, really.  At this point, there isn’t an offensive Renaissance coming to pull us out the Dark Ages.  We’re going to have to win ugly.  We’re going to have to pull out all the stops, scrap, claw, cling with our fingernails.  We’re going to need Terran to keep firing, even when they don’t drop, and we’re going to need clutch free throw shooting from guys like Benny Parker — who made 6 big FTs down the stretch to help ice the win.

I’d say “something needs to change” but I’m not sure what we can do, really.  Basketball life has given us some lemons but the Nebraska Cornhuskers appear ready to squeeze the hell out of those sour fruits and I, for one, plan on adding that juice into a very strong drink and booing until my throat gives out.


This will be the last of my social-media blitzkrieg-ing for a while, I swear.

When my son Emmett was born on June 27, 2012 everything changed for me.  I immediately began taking notes on all the milestones, mayhem, and unadulterated love that occurred from the first month of his life until 14 months in.

Featured on the blog for a time, now you have an opportunity to get all of the insane parental-head-shaking stories and thoughts that run through the mind of a sleep-deprived writer during his warm-up laps of fatherhood.

If you’re a parent, a soon-to-be parent, or just someone who likes to laugh about how smelly a diaper from a 10 pound baby can be: this is a book for you.

Here’s the link to A Dad’s Take: Anecdotes, Joy, and Poop Jokes from 14 Months of Fatherhood



Thanks again for reading, everyone.


I know, I know.  You all probably have already been annoyed by my blatant self-promotion on social media in one form or another on multiple occasions in the past few days.  But, hear me out: I’ve finally gotten around to self-publishing a few of my short stories on Amazon.

They’re short and cheap (*Author’s note: which is how I’ve often been described myself, Hiiiii-ooooh) so you should stop in and check them out.  Both Ache and Dash are now available.  If you like them or the site, please do me a solid and spread the word.  You can now purchase both titles for $0.99 online and read them on multiple online devices.

Here’s the link to Dash, a short horror story that occurs in the near-future, in which a group of elite runners is tasked with becoming human bait for evil that lurks deep within the shadows of the once-great cities of America:


Here’s the link to Ache, another short horror story that revolves around another boring day at the office for a protaganist as he suffers through a ruptured ear drum.  Believing his death-from-boredom to be imminent, our one-eared hero quickly finds himself battling doom of another kind:


Thanks for all your support as I try to continue to grow as an author,


Long ago, when I was still a wet-behind-the-ears blogger just learning how to share files on the internet I came up with a recurring segment called “The Friday F.U.s”  These absurd, ranting, hater-of-the-year mix tape sessions were a hit with my 11 faithful followers. It’s 2015, now.  I’m a grizzled veteran of the blogosphere.  I over-tweet and under-think.  In short, shit has gotten real.  But that rage?  That palpable need to give a 7 and 1/2 minute long F.U. to someone?  That’s still there.

Today I address the annoyance of the office Gym Guy.  We all know him.  We all despise him.  So I let off a little steam and pointed that middle finger directly in his direction.


Last night Mo Williams scored 52 points against the Indiana Pacers.  This was, in part, because Indiana has reversed the course of human evolution and now has an entire roster full of single-cell organisms and primordial goo.  But it was also, in part, because Mo Williams can apparently do something other than pretend to be John Legend and rich-people functions.

Image Courtesy of:

Mo Williams was straight ballin’ last night, son.  But how did he do it?  How did the 32-year-old journeyman get over the half century mark?  I’ve got some theories that are just as plausible as any explanations I’ve heard thus far.

(*Author’s note: be forewarned: the photoshopping is horrendous!!!!!)

Theory #1: His dead brother Came back from the grave and magically helped him


Theory #2: He found a magical pair of Jordans hanging from a powerline in the hood, strapped them on, and hilarity (*Author’s note: and terrible original rap music) ensued


Theory #3: He is actually an alien sent from a theme park on Mars to steal the talents of other NBA players.


Theory #4: After missing a halfcourt jumper he makes a life-altering wish to have the skills of Kevin Durant.  When Durant hands him a ball a jolt of magically electrodes fly through both of them and he becomes endowed with KD’s game.


Theory #5: While vacationing in the moors of Scotland, Mo Williams was bitten by a large, ferocious beast that ran off into the night before he was able to fully identify it.  After returning to the US he realized that he was faster, stronger, and hairer than before.  He finds himself routinely running nude throughout the parking stalls of the Target Center on full moons in search for blood.  Yes, Mo Williams is now a werewolf.  A werewolf with a jumper, that is!



I know what you may be saying to yourself.  “These are stupid.”  Or “You’re a moron.” Maybe even, “You’re right. . .he does look kind of like John Legend.  And you’d be right on all counts.  However, if you have a better explanation, I’d love to hear it.  Because let me reiterate: last night Mo-mother-f-ing Williams went for 52.