Sunday Potluck

Posted on June 5, 2011


My 7-year-old, The Fonz, asked his 9-year-old brother if he knew the n-word.  I think his curiosity stemmed from a family conversation we had a couple months ago about racism, and I mentioned some people said mean words to other people of a different skin color, but I hesitated to give any specific words, no matter how many times The Fonz asked.  The Fonz told his brother he thought he knew the forbidden word, but he didn’t want to say the word out loud. Still he wanted to confirm if he was right, so he wrote it on a piece of paper:

My wife pretended to be offended and went into hysterics when she saw what he had written.


Congratulations to this week’s caption contest winner Casserole Dish.  See what prizes she won and submit a caption in the new caption contest here.


The Little League baseball season finished for our 9-year-old last week.  I coached both sons’ teams the previous two seasons, but I decided to take a break from coaching this spring because I was traveling a lot for work as well as rehearsing and then appearing in a ten-show run of Twelfth Night.  I knew I would feel guilty about not coaching once I went to their games so I tried to assuage my guilt by convincing them not to play.  Congratulations to my 9-year-old who stuck with it all season, despite my constant discouragement and taunting.  My 7-year-old son agreed not to play this season in exchange for ice cream.

I also lost interest in coaching because every week I would approach one of the other dads and say, “Don’t you hate those dads who come to sporting events and yell at the kids and then get in a fight with one of the other dads?”  The other dad would always agree, and then I would try and start an argument about which one of us hated those fighting dads more in the hopes it would lead to a fight, but nobody ever took the bait.  I’m actually a very non-violent person, but I’m willing to fight for a joke, and it would be fun to hear people describe my fight as the most ironic fight they had ever witnessed.


My one-act play, A Minor Case of Murder, debuts this week.  Early reviews by me have been very positive.  But don’t just take my word for it; consider the words of my wife who raved about the play, calling it, “About 20 minutes.”


When my wife and I first started dating, she wouldn’t have described me as a funny person.  I didn’t reveal any sense of humor until after we were married because I wanted to be certain she was willing to marry me just for my looks.

(When I showed the joke above to my wife, she called me a nincompoop.  Racist.)

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