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So a couple months ago, we held my daughter, Phaedra’s first birthday party at our house.

phaedra is my name

Phaedra and I.

I’ve mentioned and posted a lot about my 2 year old daughter, Kaiya. I wrote about her and posted pictures of her in recent entries and even wrote a lot about her while my wife was pregnant with her. However, I haven’t posted much about Phaedra so far. I was kind of taking a break from this site when my wife was pregnant with her.  I also wasn’t writing much the first few months following her birth.  It ended up being a pretty lengthy break. Heck, some of you may not even know that I have a second daughter. Anyways, in a nutshell, this little gal has brought a lot of happiness to my life.  She is beautiful, goofy, loving and is always smiling.  She smiles and laughs almost every time I look at her. She’s a doll.

Phaedra’s 1st birthday party was set to begin at noon on a Sunday around the end of May (her birthday is May 23rd). Krystal and I had a lot of preparing to do for the party. Some of these tasks included; picking up the cake, setting up tables, cooking food, buying a gift, cleaning the house, etc.  Unfortunately, this made for a hectic morning on the day of her birthday party due to the fact that Krystal and I are both notorious procrastinators. In fact, the night before the day of the party, we didn’t have ANYTHING done in terms of preparation. We had originally planned on having everything done and prepared a couple days in advance.  YEAH….RIGHT. I don’t know who we thought we were trying to fool. Well, ourselves, I guess, but that’s not difficult. It seemed like every time we had some spare time to prepare for the party in the days leading to it, something ultra important and therefore distracting would come up, like new Investigative Discovery shows/episodes being added to Netflix.

On the night prior to Phaedra’s party, our house was an utter disaster and we had done ZILCH in terms of preparation. We hadn’t picked up the cake. The tables were still in my kitchen. Hell, we hadn’t even purchased a gift yet.  Krystal and I discussed the possibility of getting some late night cleaning and preparation done before going to bed that night, but ultimately we decided that it would be best for us to wake up at 8:00 AM and attempt to cram everything in prior to when the party was scheduled to start, which was at noon.  We figured this would be enough time. However, this led to another problem that we failed to properly prepare for, which is the fact that Krystal and I are NOT morning people. We are unable to refuse to abuse the alarm clock snooze.  We didn’t drag our asses out of bed until 10:30 AM, a mere hour and a half before guests were scheduled and confirmed to arrive.

So we had an hour and a half to somehow find away to pick up the cake (which was located in a city that is a 30 minute drive from where we live), prepare the food, clear out the garage, move the tables to the garage, buy a gift, clean the house, etc. When Krystal and I finally dragged ourselves out of bed, she informed me that she was going to drive to pick up the food, cake and gift and that it was my responsibility to ensure that the tables were set up and the house was clean.  She followed this statement by designing a “honey-do” list.  This “honey-do” list was quite extensive.  In an hour and a half, I was expected to clear off the counters, do the dishes, vacuum the floors, pick up toys and put them away, sweep the kitchen floor, mop the kitchen floor, dust various surfaces in our living room, pick up clutter, fold the blankets on counters, clean and organize the bathroom and organize our DVDs. Along with this, I had to care for our 2 and 1 year old daughters, which meant changing diapers, feeding them, watching them, etc. In terms of my personal agenda, I also needed to take a shower and get ready for I didn’t want people arriving at my messy house, in which I, the host, looked and smelled as if I had bathed myself in chicken noodle soup.

This was a lot of shit to tackle in an hour and a half. To make things worse, Krystal gave me the vibe that if I didn’t get everything done, I would be in the doghouse for the day.

I started with clearing off the counter.  Finished in a jiffy, no problem.  I followed this by vacuuming, sweeping and mopping the floors in our house.  I had the girls help me out with picking up their toys and putting them in their toy box. I was rushing through these tasks so frantically and erratically, I probably resembled the Tasmanian Devil on Walter White’s blue (Breaking Bad if you don’t get the reference). Which is ironic, for our house was so cluttered and messy at the time, that it appeared as if it were the home to a bunch of ruthless Tasmanian Devils.

I began chipping away at the mound of dishes that needed to be done, when I felt the urge to take a piss. After this urge slowly crept up on me, it increased vigorously and at a rapid pace. At this point, I had only been doing the dishes for a couple minutes, and the gigantic stack of dishes that had piled up, appeared to be at least a 15-20 minute job.

My need to take a piss seemed to increase every minute, but I refused to stop working on my “honey-do” list to relieve myself. Ya see, I’m the type of person who is very goal-oriented and when I have a particular goal set (which in this case, it was finishing the honey-do list before Krystal came home), I become very tunnel-visioned in my approach to successfully accomplishing/completing my goal. In other words, I had to take a piss pretty badly, but wasn’t going to give in to the pressure of taking one until I had thoroughly accomplished my mission of cleaning my house to the point where Krystal would be satisfied with me or at least able to justify that my efforts were efficient enough that I did not deserve to be placed in her metaphorical “bad Joshua” doghouse.  I’ve been in that house a few times before…it’s not my preferred habitat to reside in, to say the least.

I had no idea at the time, but my stubborn attitude/tunnel vision in terms of completing tasks would ultimately lead to a sequence of 4 catastrophic events.

Now, before I go any further, I need to note one vital piece of information about me, which is HOW I piss.  I piss sitting down and I’m not ashamed of it.  I prefer to do it this way. My wife, mother, grandmother, mother in law, any female who spends extensive time with me LOVE this about me for they never have to worry about me pissing all over the toilet seat if it is left down nor do they ever have to worry about me leaving the toilet seat up because I never have a reason to prop it up to begin with. I’ve pissed sitting down for years and it has gotten to the point where I truly share the stereotypical female frustrations with men who piss standing up. I hate it when I accidentally sit on the cold, grimy, piss and pube-covered rim of a toilet because I sat down to take a piss without looking at the toilet first.  Not to mention, there’s nothing worse than noticing that some lazy-aimer, dude pissed all over the toilet seat and failed to wipe their urine off the seat after doing so. This is especially appalling if you don’t notice it until AFTER you have pissed.  No one that I know of LIKES to have some dude’s piss on their ass cheeks.  It’s gross. So I literally can relate to the stereotypical female complaints of men doing these sorts of things and I can’t really explain why I prefer to piss sitting down, other than the fact that it’s more comfortable and relaxing. Also, my pisses seem to carry on forever, so it provides me with a few minutes to sit down and reflect on whatever is going on in my life.  It’s just way better, but there are exceptions in which I do pee standing up, the main one being in public restrooms. I’m somewhat of a germaphobe. Enough said.

So back to doing the dishes. I had been doing the dishes at a rapid pace for roughly 10 minutes when the urge to piss became borderline intolerable. While doing the dishes, I was simultaneously dancing around, grunting, whining, etc. I had to piss so badly that I came to the realization that if I didn’t eventually give in and relieve myself, I was going to piss my pants.  I began bargaining with myself.  I thought to myself, “ok Swaff, you have GOT to get these tasks done, but it’s not worth pissing your pants over. Just finish these dishes and then you can take a piss, but IMMEDIATELY move on to the next task when you are done. YOU CAN DO THIS! Gotta make Krystal happy!!!!”

I danced around, while simultaneously doing the dishes for another 5-10 minutes when I finally finished them.  The urge to piss led to discomfort that was just absolutely excruciating. I was straight up suffering those final few minutes. A microsecond after drying and putting away the last dish, I dashed in a dead sprint towards the bathroom. Usain Bolt would have been blown away by my speed. When I burst into the bathroom, I didn’t proceed to calmly and gently sit down to piss. I basically jumped, Michael Jordan style in the direction of the toilet. In mid-air, I gracefully pulled my pants down to my knees and maneuvered my body and legs horizontally in an attempt to land on the toilet with finesse and efficiency. I did a good job at doing this. Shawn Johnson has nothing on me in terms of my mid-air finesse in that particular moment. However, this wasn’t a good thing. In fact, it was horrible. It was cata-freaking-strophic. It was catastrophe #1. Ya see, prior to jumping on the toilet, I failed to actually look at the thing. For God knows what reason, Krystal decided to put the toilet lid down after she had last used the toilet. Because of that, when all 215 pounds of me (plus gravity from the jump) landed on the toilet seat, the first anatomical structures of mine to make contact with the toilet seat were my testicles and penis, which had somehow become tucked directly beneath my ass. In other words, with assistance from the toilet seat being left down, I had literally stomped on my own twig and berries (branch and grapefruits, but whatever), due to them being sandwiched between the solid, immobile toilet seat and my plump ass which supported a 215 man landing from jumping into mid-air.  Catastrophic.

For the first couple seconds, I didn’t feel anything. I think I may have been in shock, for I knew what had just happened and I was scared shitless that my balls resembled a couple of smashed Cadbury eggs.  However, after about 5 seconds, the pain began to set in and it began in my stomach. I had stomped on my entire unit so hard, and the pain was so indescribably excruciating, that I literally thought for a split second that my unit had been jammed into my stomach.  The pain expanded from my stomach, to my balls, and to go along with it, the tip of my penis stung and was beginning to bruise.

From a distance, in pain-induced psychosis, I swear I heard Scorpion from the Mortal Kombat games yell in his notoriously gruff voice,

devil mortal kombat

And “assuming of the fetal position” is exactly what I did. Right then, right in the middle of my bathroom (which still needed to be cleaned before Krystal got home), I laid down on the ground in the fetal position and whimpered.  Oh fuck it, I admit, I CRIED. It HURT, dammit!

dude hurt bathroom

How is this for a pathetic? Well, this is an accurate depiction of what I looked like at that moment.


So things couldn’t possibly get any worse than THIS, right?  WRONG.  This was only #1 of 4 subsequent tragedies.

Remember my explanation of how badly I had to take a piss, to the point where I was fearful of pissing my pants?  Well that urge/feeling doesn’t go away when your balls and wiener are stomped on. In fact, your ability to control it becomes distracted, due to your attention being shifted towards the pain you are enduring. With that said, catastrophe #2 occurred. Shortly after assuming the fetal position on my bathroom floor, I uncontrollably began pissing. By the time I was physically able to recover and regain enough physical strength to put the toilet seat up, crawl, pull and hoist myself on to the toilet seat to finish my piss, I had drenched my entire mid region of my body along with a large section of the floor in my own piss. It was the first time I had ever pissed all over myself while in a sober state since I had been potty-trained. “Great, another mess to clean up before Krystal gets home,” I thought to myself while sitting on the toilet and finishing my piss, still in a physical state of excruciating pain.

This was a long piss. I sat on the toilet and pissed for what seemed like 4 minutes, which if you add that to the time I spent pissing all over myself on the bathroom floor, it would approximately be a 5 minute piss.

So I’m in a state of horrible pain, but with an exception of still having a lot of tasks on my “honey do” list with an addition of the task of cleaning an unplanned piss mess, things couldn’t possibly get any worse….right? WRONG!!!

Catastrophe #3 occurred after I had finished pissing and lifted my buns off the toilet seat. Immediately after my buns departed from the toilet seat, I heard a faint, “slapping” noise followed by more pain. This was burning pain located on my right ass cheek.  I thought to myself, what in the wide world of fuck was that?!?! Did something just freaking bite me?!?! Was there a freaking spider or bat underneath that toilet seat and if so, did it just bite my ass?!?!?!?” I momentarily thought I was losing my mind. My stomach ached, my frank and beans (brat and walnuts, but whatever) were throbbing and now my right ass cheek felt like it was on fire. I looked at my ass in the mirror and there was a very noticeable red line that extended roughly 2 inches throughout the middle of my right ass cheek.  In the middle of the line, blood was drawn.  “What in the hell just happened?” I thought.

I proceeded to examine the toilet to see what had caused this slapping noise and butt-burning and immediately discovered the cause.

toilet of death

Unbelievable. When I landed on the toilet lid, I had cracked the toilet seat beneath it. When I inadvertently sat on this crack in the toilet seat, some flesh and skin from my right ass cheek had become caught in this crack so tightly, that when I lifted myself up, it cut a nice, 2 inch, bloody, line-shaped welt on my right ass cheek.


I would display a picture of the physical damage this caused to my ass cheek, but I am afraid my female readers might become a wee-bit turned on by the sight of my plump, battle-scarred ass.

housework husband

I mean, seriously. My sexy ass has been on the cover of a romance novel…that my wife wrote…that she really didn’t write…in which the cover photo was fictional and created by me. No way in hell the ladies can handle seeing this sexy piece of ass’s injured ass.


After standing for a couple minutes to regain my composure from what I assumed would be an infinite physical state of intolerable pain, I proceeded to take my piss-drenched clothes off, scrub the floor and take a shower. Immediately after exiting the shower, catastrophe #4 occurred…my wife called.

I answered the phone, unsure how to explain to her the unfortunate, physically painful events that I had endured. It didn’t matter anyways that, for I didn’t get a chance to get a word in edge-wise. Immediately after answering the phone, she informed me of how stressed out and rushed she felt. She quickly followed this explanation, by asking me about each individual task from her “honey do” list that she had created for me and whether or not I had finished them. I replied honestly, which in turn meant, I broke the news to her that I hadn’t finished 3 or 4 tasks yet.

Catastrophe # 4: After informing Krystal of the tasks I hadn’t completed yet, I was officially in the doghouse, which was not where I wanted to be with a burning ass, sore stomach, throbbing, pulsating and bruised penis, crushed testicles and wounded pride due to pissing myself while in a sober state for the first time since being potty trained.

Our guests did end up arriving when I was in the middle of completing my last couple tasks. Therefore, I didn’t accomplish my goal. However, it still ended up being a wonderful day with wonderful people celebrating the first birthday of my wonderful daughter, Phaedra. So proud of my cute little pipsqueak.  Here is a recent picture of Phaedra and Kaiya:

baby phaedra

2-CUTE. 1 year old, Phaedra is in front, 2 year old, Kaiya is in back. Random facts: I came up with the name, “Phaedra.” I heard it in a relatively obscure and awesome song called “Some Velvet Morning” by Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra. Check the song out, there’s nothing else like it. Phaedra is a Greek name meaning “bright,” I think. Kaiya shares a name with Willow’s wife from the movie, “Willow,” but we didn’t notice that until after we named her. Krystal came up with “Kaiya” and I loved it. It’s Indian for “oceans.” I love Indian names. If I had another girl, I’d love to name her “Priya,” pronounced, “pree-uhh.”

dumb mullet guy

After telling Rick this story, he insisted, “I don’t ever wanna hear any more shit about why I CHOOSE to piss my pants instead of use a toilet. Those things are painful.” He probably feels this way because whenever he has used something toilet-ish, it has been in a bat-infested outhouse…and he wiped with poison ivy. SPEAKING OF RICK: I think I’m gonna give him a name change. Instead of Rick “The Mullet Man” Suave, he will be Rick “The Mullet Man” Swat-turd. More fitting. I should have done that from the start, but I always HATED it when people called me “Swat-turd” as a kid (jokingly) because it sounds similar to my last name (Swafford). I have thick skin, but that was the only name that got to me. I’m over it now though and might as well apply it to Rick. Man, it’s going to be a pain in the ass going back and changing/editing everything to suit his new name…not to mention, I have to create a new header image with that name.




stratosphere wedding photo

Atta boy, Donkey Kong!!

Donkey Kong is WAY cooler than King Kong. And it isn’t even close.

Ya know why? Because he was able to seal the deal with the girl without falling off of a huge building like some dumbass. Sadly, King Kong wasn’t able to accomplish this.

And the pic above proves Donkey Kong’s God-given ability to work his swerve and get the girl.  Just look at that girl in Donkey Kong’s arms…verrrryy nice.

Some of you may be thinking, “well, the reason Donkey Kong didn’t fall off of a building before sealing the deal with the chick, is because he wasn’t ever actually on a huge building trying to seal the deal with the chick to begin with!!!” Well, if you thought this, I would like to cordially inform you that you are WRONG. Way to be wrong, LOSERS!!! Ya see, Donkey Kong actually married his girl on TOP of the tallest building West of the Mississippi and the tallest free-standing building IN THE WORLD. (The Stratosphere in Las Vegas in case you are wondering. Yes, I know the two posts before this one mentioned that, but for those of you who didn’t read those….)

So eat it, King Kong! Donkey Kong runs the giant gorilla show around here, big boy!!!!!!

papa suave

When my dad read this entry, he was like, "Rico is publicly pointing out his physical resemblance to Donkey Kong?!? HA! HA! HAAAAA!!! It's about freaking time he uses himself as the butt of his joke(s) instead of me!!!. And to make it clear, he didn't get his Donkey Kong similarities from MY side of the family. He's still a handsome kid though. Not to brag or anything, but all my boys are handsome kids."

Gee Dad, why you always taking your shirt off?  You didn’t HAVE to take your shirt off to make that point. Why you always gotta be actin’ all tough, homie?!?! SHEESH!!!


And then there’s Rick:

white trash nintendo

And Rick was like, "Yayyyyyy!!!!! DONKEY KONG RULEZ!!!! Wait a second, why is he THROWING the bananas?!? I want him to EAT the bananas!!! WTF, there's something wrong with this game! I can't get Donkey Kong to quit wasting bananas!!! What I wouldn't give to be able to afford a bundle of bananas right now. This is making me so hungry, I may have to go out for a late night dumpster dive!!!" Rick must have an extremely wild imagination, for Mario Kart doesn't appear to be in the game console to begin with.



X-Scream Las Vegas


So… what’s going on in this photo?  Oh not much, just a fun-lovin’ group of porn stars hangin’ out in Las Vegas and thrilled as hell to be riding on a roller coaster called the X-Scream on top of the tallest building West of the Mississippi River and the tallest free-standing building IN THE WORLD called the Stratosphere! Fun times, brah!


Porn stars in photo include:


Front Row, Left to Right: Porn star, Donkey Dong Kong on the left and  porn star, Marvin the Mouth-breather Peter on the right.


Middle Row, Left to Right: A Las Vegas lady of the night and porn star named “Amante de Bigote” on the left, throwing herself on the shoulder of a porn star who is keeping the mustache alive and kicking named “Mustachio Grande.”


Back Row: An aging porn star named “Marky Markin’ Marks.” As you can see in the photo, when it comes to his porn star persona, he rarely breaks character. Amazingly, he somehow managed to not break character while riding this ride. Makes sense…”riding” is his expertise.



OK,OK, JUST KIDDING, JUST KIDDING! The people in this picture ARE excited to be ridin’ the X-Scream, a roller coaster located on top of the Stratosphere in Las Vegas, which happens to be the tallest building West of the Mississippi River and the tallest free-standing building IN THE WORLD. However, I made the porn star names up and exaggerated a bit in terms of how many of us in the photo actually are porn stars in real life. Not ALL of us are porn stars.  Just one of us is for sure and there are a couple I have my suspicions of, but the majority of us in this photo are not porn stars.


In reality, the names of the individuals in the photo, are actually:

Front Row, Left to Right: Me and Pete (a groomsmen in my wedding).


Middle Row, Left to Right: Krystal Swafford (my wife who I married in Las Vegas 2 days after this photo was taken) and Justin Swafford (my brother who was best man in my wedding).


Back Row: Mark Swafford (my dad…most of you are probably familiar with him by now)


Since I stooped to the low level of falsifying everyone’s name combined with the fact that I falsely labeled a few of us as “porn stars,” I feel compelled to apologize to everyone of the individuals in the photo personally, beginning and ending in the order in which they were mentioned.




Me: I am sorry, Rico.  Although in terms of your physical appearance, you DO show a striking resemblance to Donkey Kong. Also, the first and middle names I gave you ARE fitting (not to toot my own horn or anything). But your name isn’t really “Donkey Dong Kong” and most importantly, you are not a porn star.  In fact, you hate porn. No joke….I really am not into porn. I am so sorry, Rico.  (Umm, did I just talk to myself?)


Pete: I am sorry.  You may be a porn star. To be honest, I guess I don’t know for 100% certainty that you aren’t one. I can imagine your ass being a porn star and not telling anyone about it. I am about 99.9% sure you aren’t one.  I kid. However, I have to apologize, for your name isn’t “Marvin” and I am fully aware of that.  And you aren’t a “mouth-breather,” even though the expression on your face in the photo may give someone the impression that you accidentally forgot your helmet before leaving your house. To be honest, you couldn’t be any more hilarious in this photo. It’s a toss-up between you and my dad as to who is the funniest in this photo. Hilarious.


Krystal Swafford: I am sorry. My sweet, beautiful, wonderful wife who I am madly in love with.  Haha, not that you read my blog anyways, but nevertheless, I am sorry.  You aren’t a porn star OR a lady of the night in Las Vegas. And thank God for that.  And if you love mustaches as the fake Spanish porn name I applied to you suggests, I am sorry that I haven’t grown a mustache of my own, yet. Please understand though baby, I grow a really thin, shitty, scroungy and disgusting mustache.  One of those mustaches in which the hair grows in extremely thin fashion. Not to mention, I am unable to grow ANY hair straight down the middle of my upper lip…which results in one of those weird mustaches that are split in the middle.  I am sorry I can’t be better for you in terms of my mustache and will try to make it up to you in other ways.


Justin Swafford:  I am sorry.  We’ve all heard the term, “porn-stache” and due to this, a legitimate argument can be made that you have the stereotypical “look” of a porn star because of your wickedly bodacious mustache (I could only wish to be able to grow one like that). However, the fact remains that you are not a porn star.  I am about 75% sure of this, which means I am pretty damn certain that you aren’t a porn star (I kid, I kid, we all know your not).  And I also apologize for falsifying your name in such lazy, sloppy fashion. It was disrespectful to mustaches. Since the Spanish porn name that I applied to you was intended to imply “big mustache,” then I did a cruddy job of naming you, for we both know that the word, “mustache,” in Spanish is actually “bigote,” not “mustachio.” In fact, I don’t think “mustachio” is even a word.  I shouldn’t disrespect mustaches like that and since I did so, I am truly sorry.  Love ya, bro.


Mark Swafford (Dad): I am sorry.  You aren’t an “aging” porn star.  In fact, you look pretty damn good for being 52 years old.  I am sorry if I made you feel self-conscious. Much love and I wish the best for you and your future continued work in the porn industry. I believe your career in the pornographic arts industry STILL has a lot of life left despite being 52 years old. You are just THAT gifted at your profession. You da man!


* Maybe I am biased, but I seriously can’t imagine a group of people having a better photo taken of them on this ride.  Funny, funny stuff.



I’ll tell you what prompted me to make the connection.  It was my dad’s expression/body position in the photo.  My first thoughts when we received the picture was, “omg, bahahahahaha, that is hilarious!!  Look at Pete!  Look at my dad!!!! Bahahahahaha!!!”  When I was able to compose myself from the multiple minutes of uncontrollable laughter and was actually able to look a little closer at the picture, I thought, “holy shit, my dad looks like a short-haired version of famous porn star, Ron Jeremy on the job in this pic.  BAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”  That led me to making the obvious connection between Justin’s mustache and “porn-staches.”  From that point on, as we made our way downstairs and walked around and fiddled with various penny slots at the casino, I was simultaneously trying to think of fitting and/or funny porn star names for all of us.


The way everyone behaved while on the ride was pretty funny as well.


Justin and I kept pretty cool and weren’t really that vocal.


Krystal screamed and yelled and carried on as if she thought the roller coaster was going to fly off of the tracks. She was trippin.’ It was funny.


Pete was pretty similar.  There were a lot of high-pitched, “oh my God’s!!!!” coming from him.  And when he wasn’t doing that, he was screaming in a manner which resembled Kevin (Macauley Culkin) in the movie, “Home Alone.” Ya know, the scene where he puts on the after-shave and starts screaming?  So mix Kevin screaming in “Home Alone” with a bunch of high pitched, “oh my God’s!!!!” and the result is the sound of Pete riding the X-Stream on top of the Stratosphere.


The way my dad reacted was probably the funniest (imagine that).  He wasn’t very gung-ho about getting on the ride to begin with…we had to work a little bit to get him on.  Heights aren’t  Dad’s thing. Every time the car took nose-dives, twists, turns, etc. my dad would respond with, “UGGGHHHH!!! AHHHHHH!!!!! FUCK YOU!!!!! FUCK THIS!!!!! HOW’D YOU FUCKERS GET ME TO DO THIS?!?!  AHHHHHH!!!!!!! OH NOOOOOO!!!! AHHHH, FUCK THIS SHIT!!!!” Just to make it clear, my dad doesn’t have the cleanest mouth ever, but it’s not always dirty and littered with “F-bombs” like that.  As chronicled a few posts ago in the story, “Blinded by the Light, Wake Up Like a Douche, I’m Rolling Over in the Night,” he usually has to be somewhat provoked to use that sort of language.  The fact that we were riding a roller coaster on top of the tallest building West of the Mississippi (tallest free-standing building in the world), at 11:00PM, at such great heights that we could literally view the entire city of Las Vegas from our seats, and were being jerked and flipped around at an extremely fast rate of speed… I think that was enough provocation for him and almost anyone to carry on like that.


FUN times.


What’s Rick up to? Meh, I didn’t feel like coming up with a “Rick pic” for this one.  Honestly, I couldn’t really think of anything.


QUESTION: What the hell does “free standing” mean?  The employees at the Stratosphere utilized every opportunity that they possibly could, to inform us that we were chillin’ in the tallest “free-standing” building in the world. Every time they said this, I thought to myself, “I don’t know what that means, but it’s freaking awesome.”  Anyone know?)

So, my wife, Krystal, wrote a romance novel. It was just published this week. I was on the cover. Check it out:

lawnmower romance novel

So touching. Just try getting through this book with dry eyes. I triple-dog dare ya.


Ok, so obviously the reason I am posting this entry is to promote my wife’s new book.


Just kidding. She took the pic, but I created the sloppy romance novel stuff on my own.


I actually posted this entry to give everyone a glimpse of my massive man-boobs pectoral muscles and triceps.


Just kidding. That’s not the reason either. And they are pecs, dammit!  Those bad boys are NOT man-boobs.


To be honest, I am posting this for 2 reasons:

1.) To acknowledge a funny joke that one of my funniest friends, Mary Thompson, posted as a comment pertaining to this picture when my wife posted and tagged me with it on facebook.

2.) Fill you all in on some news regarding Krystal and I.


OK, so:

1.) My wife, Krystal snapped this photo of me  through our window when I was mowing the yard.  This is not uncommon.  I don’t know if I’ve ever mowed the lawn in which the paparazzi and my fan club didn’t show up.  The paparazzi consists of Krystal and my fan club consists of Krystal, Kaiya and Phaedra (my two baby girls). Seriously, if they aren’t gaping out the window to the front yard, they are all gathered on the back yard deck. I must be a pretty important guy. 🙂  Feels good.  Makes me feel…loved.


So Krystal posted this picture on facebook and naturally, some funny comments were posted.  Some of my favorites include the following:


Swaff! You’re losing tone! Lmfao!” – Adam Johnson (10 years ago, I was chiseled as hell….no joke. Crazy ripped. That was 10 years ago though…I’ve been bulky since. Adam is behind the times).

Man he’s hot ! Lmao!” – Denzil Strickland (This dude is funny…have always liked this guy and his entire family for that matter).

Damn fitness!” – Chris Rohr (Another funny dude).

Our baby girls are looking out at you thinking about you being a super hero and I’m sitting there thinking about how I’m going to get in those pants later ;)” – Krystal Swafford (Ahhhh yeahhhhh).

Lmao, you know I’ve gotta mess with ya bro, I’ve been rocking the body style of the blob the last 30 years man…lmao.” – Adam Johnson (Haha, this Chippendales dancer didn’t need to explain himself).

HOWEVER.  My ABSOLUTE FAVORITESTESTEST comment on this picture and quite possibly one of the funniest comments I’ve ever had posted on my facebook page ever, was by Mary Thompson.  And I don’t know if anyone else thought it was as funny as I did, for Krystal and I were the only ones who clicked “like” on it. That’s CRIMINAL.  I dunno, maybe it’s just my silly sense of humor, that Mary has as well, but I thought it was funny as hell.  Her comment was:


Its like the cover to a romance novel. ‘Yardwork Husband, Yearning Wife‘.” – Mary Thompson


Imo, that is freaking hilarious and it inspired me to try to transform the pic into a romance novel cover with Krystal as the author. The pic is very amateur-ish, but there’s only so much you can do with Irfanview.  Anyways, funny, funny stuff. Kudos, Mary!


2.) You may have noticed in this entry that I referred to Krystal as my “wife,” and as “Krystal Swafford” opposed to Krystal McNeil.  Ya know why?  Derp, it’s because we got married last week!!!  In Las Vegas.  Some funny stuff went down in Vegas, one story in which I will write about in the future and hopefully post a video to it. Krystal was a contestant on comedy hypnotist, Marc Savard’s show and it was one of the funniest things any of us (the crew I rolled in with) had ever seen.  To make a long story short, I came to the show skeptical of hypnotism, but after witnessing Krystal and how she responded to the hypnotist, I am convinced….hypnotism is very, very real and a strange/hilarious phenomenon.

It’s been a long time coming for her and I.  She was a wrestling cheerleader at a rival school of my high school. I was captain of our wrestling team.  We always noticed each other at wrestling events and at social gatherings, but were both always too scared to talk to each other.  We finally “met” at Perkins when we were 19 years old. She had to introduce herself to me, for I was too shy to introduce myself…pretty much everyone I know introduced themselves to me when we met due to me being so painfully shy.  She knew all about my wrestling stuff. I was impressed as to how much she paid attention to it and of her overall knowledge of the sport.  We started dating that night and for the next month, but broke up for 6 and a half years.  We remained friends throughout that time and finally got back together 4 and a half years ago and have been together since. We also have 2 amazing children together.

Those of you who have followed my blog will surely remember Krystal from past entries. I’ve posted pictures of her and I, usually in relation to whatever topic I wrote about.  You may also recall her playing the role of “Roxy” aka Rick “The Mullet Man” Suave’s wife in past entries. She is hilarious in that role and I always thought it was hilarious that she would insert and wear “hillbilly” teeth and make a genuine attempt at making herself look trashy, yet she still looked cute.  She literally can’t make herself look ugly. But her expressions are funny as hell.  Here are some flashbacks with Krystal in past entries:


In the entry, Merry Christmas from Rick and Roxy Suave, I scanned and posted a Christmas card that we sent to hundreds of our friends and relatives for Christmas.  People generally really liked it.  To make things funnier, we had roughly 15 spare cards after we had sent them to all of our friends/family, so we ended up sending the remaining cards to random names we found in the phone book.  The return address read, “The Trailer Court.”  Haha, to this day I wonder what those random people thought when they received that card. Here it is:

white trash christmas


We did the SAME thing the following year.  This includes sending the spares to randomly selected names from the phone book. Only difference was, we had an addition to our family. The addition was our daughter, Kaiya, who sported a “buck tooth” binky in the card. I scanned and posted this card in the entry, “Rick, Roxy and Baby Ruby Sending You Hugs, Kisses and Charlie Horses” Check it:



Speaking of our first daughter, Kaiya, I wrote a lot about some of our experiences when she was pregnant with her.  Here is a pic that was taken on our way to an appointment that I wrote about in the story, “Male Gynecologists Make Me Feel Awkward.”

hot pregnant wife

She was relatively far along in the pregnancy when this was taken. So cute. Further proof that it is impossible for her to not look stunningly beautiful.


Speaking of the entry, “Male Gynecologists Make Me Feel Awkward,” her Roxy cameo was hilarious in that one:

dr mullet

Can't remember exactly what the caption was on this one, but I think it had something to do with Rick performing all gynecology procedures for Roxy and of course he has an idiotic grasp on it. You'll have to click on the link to read it.


Roxy even had the nerve to “get friendly” with Rick’s brother, Rootbeer in the entry, “Rick ‘The Mullet Man’ Suave’s Brother, Rootbeer.” Note: Rootbeer was played by my actual brother, Justin…who was a notoriously good area athlete. Multiple state qualifier in track/cross country. D1 wrestler who’s wrestling status is legendary in our geographical region in Iowa. Was a 3 time state finalist, state champ, is in the top 20 in THE ENTIRE STATE OF IOWA for career wins. No joke/exaggeration. Unbelievably talented guy. He is also a talented and dedicated musician. He is in two bands and can pretty much do it all in terms of instruments. That has been his primary emphasis these past few years. Not very many people know how freaking hilarious he can be. He donated some of his humor to this post and I was thrilled:

white trash rootbeer

Roxy, what a 2-timin' hoochie-mama. Rootbeer, what a dirtball...stealing his own brother, Rick's shirt AND trying to steal his woman. That is just "Rickdickulous."


Krystal even took her share of abuse, getting smacked in the buns in the entry, “Image is Everything to Rick The Mullet Man Suave.”

mullet wife beatin

Roxy I mean Krystal has been such a good sport. Poor girl.



But don’t feel TOO sorry for her.  She did her share of beatin’ on Rick as well as she did in the entry, “Null Sehks….uff eeenie Kind” She’d fly off the handle over stupid things, like giving a stuffed Gizmo toy too much love:

gizmo humping

Seriously, can't a mullet man hump Gizmo in peace without his wife going all "nutso-bonkers" on him? For realzies, yo!


Ahhhh….the memories. 🙂


And this beautiful, hilarious, genuinely kind-hearted woman married my silly ass last week:

stratosphere wedding

Who is the lucky boy? And how did he get so lucky? I can't answer that, but I'm definitely happy about it. Really, I couldn't be any happier right now. When we first got back together 4 and a half years ago, many people said we wouldn't last and/or we were incapable of maintaining a successful relationship. Many people scratched us off as being doomed from the start in terms of what our relationship would ultimately end up becoming. This was due to both of us re-entering each other's lives at a time where both of us were experiencing personal low points in our lives. We were both lost and people knew it and doubted us. How wrong they were. Not only have we lasted this long, had kids and married each other, but we have been co-productive and influential to each other through the thick and thin and we currently have some positive momentum going in terms of our personal lives and that positive momentum doesn't appear to show any signs of decreasing. Looking forward to spending the rest of my life with this woman. Couldn't be any happier and if you would have run this by me 5 years ago, I'd be skeptical, for I didn't think I was capable of being this happy. We are the "yings" to each other's "yangs." Rock on, baby.




I labeled this, “part 1,” because I expect these stories to be recurring, since I experience them so frequently. I’m pretty certain we’ve all had these moments. Even people who claim to have seen, done and heard everything experience this. The moments I am referring to are when you either say something yourself or hear someone else say something that momentarily makes you scratch your head and think to yourself, “holy cow, that phrase was so absurd that I can’t believe I just heard those combination of words in that order, come out of someone’s mouth.” Then you start wondering if in the history of mankind, if those exact words in the exact order they were presented, had ever left the lips of anyone else, ever.

I have always experienced this, but it seems to happen more frequently now that I am a father. Maybe it is because I am sober now and have the mental capacity to momentarily think about some of the absurd things I say or hear the moment after the phrase is uttered.

This happened to me just yesterday. Here is how it went down.


Kaiya (my 2 year old daughter): DADDY!!!!! DADDY!!!!!!! MY SLINKY!!!! I NEED MY SLINKY RIGHT NOW DADDY!!! MY SLINKY!!!! HURRY DADDY!!!! PLEASE, MY SLINKY!!!!

She yelled this at me while I was cuddling on the couch with Krystal. When Kaiya wants something NOW, I’m the “go to guy” that she barks orders at. She usually takes a different, less volatile approach with Krystal, but that’s an entirely different story.

And there’s nothing THAT abnormal about a toddler having that much passion about wanting her “slinky” IMMEDIATELY. Many kids like slinkies. Even adults do. I know I do. Ace Ventura loves slinkies as well as seen on “Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls.” However, the circumstances pertaining to what Kaiya was trying to do at the same time that she was demanding her slinky was what made things seem abnormal and my response reflects that. Without thinking, I replied back:

kaiya dad

Me: Hold on, Kaiya!!! SHEESH!! I will bring your slinky to you here in a couple seconds. And come to think of it, this is the 3rd time today that you have demanded a slinky while sitting on the potty. I may be wrong, but I'm pretty sure most little girls don't REQUIRE a slinky to be in their hands when they are trying to go poopie in the pottie!"

Immediately after I blurted these words, I thought to myself, “man that’s weird…a toddler girl who is being potty trained who is going through a phase where she insists she has a slinky in her hands in order to successfully take a dump. I’ve never heard of anything like that before.” And I wondered if anyone else has ever experienced the same thing with their children, and despite the fact that there have been a million-zillion people who have inhabited the Earth, past and present, I honestly have my doubts…

I wonder if Rick has ever been sitting on the toilet and uttered something that is so far “out there” that you wouldn’t ever expect it to be said by anyone, ever…?

mullet man pooping

Rick: "ROXY!!! ROXY!!! COME IN HERE NOW!!! I NEED THE BUTT-WIPES, NOW!!! There's none in here! I can't get it because I'm on the can, shittin' and tryin' to calculate how old I am by looking at this here birth certificate my mom gave me for Christmas!! If you don't hurry, I'm gonna use the birth certificate, so hurry your ass up, Roxy! And after ya give me the butt-wipes, do a lapdance for me...this poop is a rough one and a lapdance may get me through it!! HURRY UP, ROXY!!!!!"

Yup, he has. Not surprising.

If you read my previous entry, you probably noticed that I have been dinking around with Photoshop or a program similar to it.  This should have been obvious due to the the pictures of me as a lobster and Terminator and by the pictures of Rick being eaten by a shark.

Truth is, I haven’t been using Photoshop.  Photoshop is too expensive.  I have been using the “poor man’s” version of Photoshop.  It’s called “Gimp.”  I refer to it as the “poor man’s version of Photoshop,” because Gimp is free, while Photoshop, to my understanding is expensive, like hundreds of dollars.  I don’t think Gimp is quite as good as Photoshop in terms of the quality of the product, but it’s good enough for me considering I have no future intentions of becoming an artist or photographer, which are a couple titles in which I think Photoshop would be suitable for.  I’ve heard that you can do quite a few of the same things with Gimp as you can with Photoshop.

I am still, by all means, a total amateur when it comes to using Gimp.  Everything I have done so far has been in pretty simplistic, baby-step fashion.  I’ll get better though.  I installed and started messing around with Gimp around the time I posted the entry, “Blinded By the Light, Wake Up Like a Douche, I’m Rolling Over in the Night.”  This was the entry previous to my last one.  The date it was posted was, March 24, 2013.  So just a little over 2 weeks ago is when I began my adventurous journey with Gimp.

One of the first few pics I made with Gimp and posted on facebook is what prompted me to write this entry.  I showed facebook world, how “bad” my dad looked when he was in the peak of his pop singing career. Here’s how and why it happened.

After posting “Blinded By the Light, Wake Up Like a Douche, I’m Rolling Over in the Night,” I looked over the entry myself to quadruple-check for spelling errors and/or typos.  I reached the part of the story where I chronicled my memories of my dad singing the song, “bad to the bone” by George Thorogood in his truck when I was younger. I posted this picture of my dad that was taken around the time he began listening to that song, when he was roughly 26-27 years old:

You may recall that directly below that pic, was a pic of Michael Jackson and his “Bad” album cover:
jackson bad album
As I sat there in my regular household attire (a t-shirt and boxer-briefs), viewing that post, I had one of these moments:
rico idea

Uh-oh....Rico has an idea. Look at that enthusiasm!!!


By seeing these two photos next to each other, an outstanding idea was sparked.  Instead of describing it, I will attempt to display my thinking process regarding this idea, visually.  It went something like this:



dad michael jackson
dad face cropped michael jackson

This was my dad in the peak of his pop singing career (as so I wrote on the caption when I posted this pic and tagged him with it on facebook). I know it's Michael Jackson's "Bad" album, but for some reason, I keep expecting him to start wailing out tunes that sound like Hall and Oates.





dad hall oates

And if your not a fan of the "Jay Leno chin" version, maybe you'll like the, "my forehead is either huge or my jerry curl is receding quite a bit or both" version better. This was the original...the one I posted to facebook. I didn't try changing the pic until tonight...and the result? One where he has a Jay Leno chin and one where he has a huge forehead. Take your pick.


Haha, how about that?! I feel proud to say that I have the most pimp-nasty dad in the world. Obviously, I love ruffling the feathers of my dad, for he has been a pretty good source of material in quite a few of these entries by now. As I mentioned a few weeks ago, it’s all in good fun and I think he knows it. Here is a list of the Papa Swaff entries.
“Blinded by the Light. Wake Up Like a Douche, I’m Rolling Over in the Night.”
“My Dad Charged Me $1100 to Shovel His Sidewalk”
“Swaff-Style Halloween”
“Feed the Horses”
“These Jerk-Offs Who Constantly Drive by Swimming Pools”
“Papa Suave’s Reaction to 2 Girls 1 Cup”
“Princess Mark Swafford and Little Red Riding Jacinta”
“Rico Swaff’s Super Wildlife Adventures”
“My Biggest Fear”

Haha, even some of the titles of the entries can make you cringe…especially if you imagine yourself being my dad while reading them.

Oh, and remember that picture I posted a little earlier with the light-bulb going off in my head? The one where I look super-enthusiastic. Turns out, I was actually trying to look like I had no enthusiasm.  I was trying to look like a dude from a famous painting. I used that photo when I posted Krystal and I’s faces in the famous painting of an old, unenthusiastic farmer holding a pitchfork and standing in front of his house. Standing next to him in the painting is his equally unenthusiastic wife who appears like she may be pissed off or trippin’ about something. As many of you know, the painting is called, “American Gothic.”  I’m sure you all know what painting I am talking about.  Here is what I came up with for that:


american gothic remake

American Swaffic


So what’s Rick up to?????


mullet man bad

Don't even think about it Rick. You and Michael Jackson are not a good match. You are an insult to Michael Jackson.

If Rick’s head is going to be cropped to replace a celebrity’s face, the celebrity has to be a sack of shit flying out of a truck.

It has to be someone pretty sleazy…
Someone much trashier…
Someone he could bond with due to their similarities…
Someone he could hang out with in a trailer and watch WWE wrasslin’ with….
Someone phony as hell…..
Someone who probably has a chlamydia-infected penis…..
Someone who is a douchebag and appeals to douchebags among the likes of Rick…..
Someone greasy as hell…like if you were to grab this person’s face in squeeze, you’d probably get a hand full of grease….
Someone like……

I KNOW!!!!

kid rock mug shot
Kid Rock and Rick….that has to be a match made in heaven.
mullet man kid rock

Kid Rock and Rick The Mullet Man are basically the same person. The names even match well... The guy in the pick is, "Kid Rick." And he's "cocky." I don't know why Rick thinks he has the right to be"cocky" though. Maybe he thinks he has the world's best booger collection and he thinks he is better than everyone because of it. Or maybe "Cocky" is in reference to all the roosters he has stolen from farmers, eaten and wrassled around with. I can imagine Kid Rock puling Rick-like shenanigans. I can see Kid Rock and Kid Rick touring together, becoming friends, attending WWE shows together and even sharing their used toilet paper with one another in a porta-potty at the races..



* NOTE: To all you Kid Rock ball-washers (I know there is an Army of you out there): Don’t become too butt-hurt over me slamming Kid Rock.  For the most part, I’m clowning around.  Don’t get me wrong, I am by no means, a Kid Rock fan… I personally think he’s corny and gimmicky. However, I don’t hate him….the hate above is exaggerated.  In my area, we have a regional carnival type deal with a different band that plays every night.  It’s called Steamboat Days and it lasts about 6 days and the headlining bands generally consists of; a couple country music “artists,” a post-grunge band, an 80’s hair-metal band or two, etc.  I generally hate the lineup on an annual basis and this year is no different. They did land Kid Rock this year though. I have access to VIP tickets for every night of the week this week and I think the only night I plan on going will be the night Kid Rock plays. To be honest, the only songs by him that I like are “Bawitaba” and “Only God Knows Why.” The rest of his songs make me want to forcibly rip my upper and lower jaws off so I can clench and maneuver them with my hands and manually move my hands up and down to chew my ears so I don’t have to hear his shit. I don’t mind some of his “Devil Without a Cause” stuff, though. It’s aight.


So a few days ago, I stopped at Dairy Queen and purchased my usual choice, a caramel Moolatte (there is nothing on Earth that tastes better than these) and when I sat in my car, I decided to drive to a different parking lot that wasn’t as crowded.  The place was pretty busy and I didn’t want to be using a parking spot that someone else may have needed to use.

So I parked in an adjacent parking lot. When I looked up and in front of me, my view was of an advertisement sign that struck me as extremely silly.  I immediately started laughing.  Here is a picture of the sign:

steak lobster buffet


Does it strike you as funny when you first glance at it?  Evidently, this place, who’s parking lot I was parked at, has a steak and lobster buffet.  “What’s so freaking funny about that?” Those were the words Krystal asked me the following day when I had her drive me to that spot and I took a picture of it with my camera.  She was confused as to why I brought my camera to begin with and was even more confused as to why I had her drive out of her way (off the freeway) just to take that picture.

I explained to her what I thought was funny about it.  That advertisement is funny to me, not because of what was written on it, but because the lobster on the poster.  They are having a steak and lobster buffet on Saturdays and here is this picture of a lobster on the sign who appears as if he couldn’t be any more thrilled that people will be coming to stuff their faces with steak and….lobster…the animal that he just happens to be.  My guess is that this lobster is either safe from being eaten OR he is going to be eaten and is a total dumbass who doesn’t give a shit.

And what makes things even more funny about this lobster, is that he seems to be welcoming, not only for people to eat him, but for them to begin eating him in his crotch region.  As you can see, his claws are out-stretched and his face/head seem to be angled to where it appears as if he is looking at or near his crotch.  Therefore, when I look at that sign, I imagine a dumbass lobster saying, “howdy ya’ll!!!! There is a steak and lobster buffet on Saturdays from 5 PM to 9 PM!!!  Come on over and eat me, if you want!!! In fact, when you eat me, feel free to start at my crotch!!! I don’t care, it’s all good!”

If I were a lobster, and I was informed that I was to be eaten at a lobster buffet, I definitely wouldn’t have the same outlook and attitude as this lobster.  I would be scared shitless. I’d probably resemble the character, Quint from Jaws when he came to the realization that the chances of him being eaten by a shark, were pretty high.

quint jaws attack

Poor Quint...he thinks he's going to be eaten by a shark.

quint killed jaws

Things did not go well for Quint.


If I heard that there was a steak and Rico Swaff buffet this Saturday, my immediate facial expression would be a frightened one. Something like this:


rico scared

It seriously took me like 15 tries to snap the perfect "frightened face" for this pic. Man there were some stupid looking pics taken of me trying to look scared.

Nice cavity fillings.

Moving along, if I were a lobster, I wouldn’t be a very good model for the poster.  If I were the lobster-model for that advertisement, the sign would look like this:

rico lobster


I can see that poster being detrimental to business.  People may think to themselves, “well that lobster looks scared as shit, I don’t wanna eat the poor guy.”  I guess it’s probably easier to eat a happy lobster like the one in their ad, then it would be a scared lobster, like me.

If you look at the original lobster, maybe he is able to appear happy because he was guaranteed being safe from being eaten as long as he modeled well for the advertisement pic.  If I were a lobster and this was the case, I still wouldn’t be happy.  Sure, I may be safe, but my family and friends’ well-being may be in jeopardy. In that scenario, I wouldn’t be scared.  In fact, I’d be more confrontational. I am crazy-over-protective of my loved ones. If my loved ones were in danger of being eaten, “buffet style”, I would probably resemble Quint from Jaws, when he was going crazy trying to kill the shark:

quint machete

quint eaten by shark

But then again, things didn't end up going so well for Quint. Let me think of another example because I wouldn't want to be eaten while trying to protect my loved ones.

Ok, I got it.  If my loved ones were in danger of being eaten, “buffet style,” a remake of the movie, “Terminator” would be made, and I would play the role of the T-800 Terminator.  My mission would be to protect my loved ones from being eaten at the buffet.

rico terminator

I don't have any acting experience, but I think I would be an awesome Terminator. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I would be one tough looking Terminator.

But yeah, it’s just a silly sign, I know.  But if that poster accurately depicts lobsters and their feelings towards steak and lobster buffets, then lobsters are total dumbasses.

Speaking of steak and lobster buffet, it sounds pretty freaking good.  I may have to try it out.

rico and wife

I may try to be romantic on one of these Saturday evenings and take my fiancee out on a date to check it out. Krystal and I will be married in a month!


mad mullet man

One day, I took Rick out fishing on a boat in the ocean. After a couple hours, I discovered we were being stalked by gigantic sharks so I told Rick that there was a pretty high chance that he was going to be eaten by one due to his natural body odor resembling Sonny's fishing stinkbait, which may potentially attract the sharks. Rick wasn't scared. In fact, he was annoyed with me and told me to "shut the fuck up" because he was busy trying to pick up a signal for WWE Monday Night Raw on our TV.


mullet lobster

If Rick were a lobster that was trying to pick up a TV signal for WWE Raw and was told that he was to be eaten at a buffet, he would look like one pissed off lobster...nothing comes between Rick and his WWE wrassling.


Emullet man scared

In an attempt to catch Rick's attention and emphasize to him the severity of the situation, I told Rick that if he were eaten by sharks, they'd also rip his cut-off jean shorts to shreds. This is when Rick became frightened. Evidently the thought of being eaten by sharks does nothing to Rick, but once he hears that his cut-off jean shorts are in danger, he enters full-fledged panic mode. Rick has his priorities mixed up. When cut-off jean shorts seem more important to you than life itself, that's a real problem.


scared lobster mullet

If Rick were a lobster who found out his jean shorts may be ripped to shreds by whoever is trying to eat him, he would be one scared lobster.

mullet shark attack

Rick's fears became a reality when an enormous great white shark attacked their boat. By the looks of things, Rick's jean shorts appear to be in danger. In fact, things aren't looking good for Rick in general. Will he survive?


mullet eaten by shark

I think it's fair to say that Rick's jean shorts are straight up screwed at this point and it appears that Rick is about to be ripped to shreds and eaten by this shark as well. Could this be it? Could this be the death of Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave?

So what do you think?  With a way things are looking for Rick right now, does he have a remote chance of surviving?  Is Rick seriously going to go out by being eaten alive by a shark?  Is this the death of Rick and the end of The Chronicles of Rico???!!?!?

mullet man survival

Relax Hamm's, you won't be going out of business quite yet because somehow, Rick managed to survive. His survival story is unbelievable, for not only did he lose 5 out of the 6 quarts of blood in his body, but he also lingered without oxygen in the shark's stomach for 5 days. Rick was eventually pooped out by the shark in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and he had to swim 700 miles to reach the California shore. So how the fuck did Rick survive without oxygen for such a long period of time? Noone knows, but my guess is that Rick is unevolved to the point where he still has gills. Probably somewhere beneath his jean shorts and/or Dawg-Pounds cut-off T-shirt, he has gills. I don't know where else these gills would be located...the only body parts of Rick that haven't been exposed on this site would be his schlong, testes and butt-cheeks. Maybe he has a set of gills...one pair for each pimply butt-cheek. I guess being unevolved has it's benefits in certain situations. Whenever Rick is asked about this horrifying encounter with the shark, Rick replies, "I really don't want to talk about it because it was one of the most traumatic things that ever happened to me. I mean, I missed WWE Raw on Monday AND Smackdown on Friday all because some stupid shark wanted to eat me. I don't ever want to endure missing my wrassling shows again. It was awful."


I may kill off Rick some day and create a new character to be the “mascot” of my blog, but that’s not going to happen for a while.  I have plenty more zany stories and many ideas involving Rick that will surely be posted in the future. 😉


“Like” The Chronicles of Rico facebook page, for I am thinking about not posting these stories on my personal facebook account anymore.  Haven’t made up my mind. So if you have any desire to keep up with these, join the Chronicles of Rico facebook page that can be located at the bottom of this page or the sidebar, for that’s where these stories may be exclusively posted in the future.

Although I’m CONSIDERING a more private route with future entries, you should still feel free to hit the “F-share” button if you like the post. Much appreciated if you do.  When people do that, it makes my traffic sky-rocket.


“Blinded By the Light, Wake Up Like a Douche, I’m Rolling Over in the Night”

Has there ever been a song that you had heard from a very young age, and a couple decades later, you discover that the song had totally different lyrics than what you thought they were? During those couple decades where you had the lyrics mixed up, did you repeatedly sing along to that song whenever it came on the radio, blissfully unaware that you were doing so using incorrect lyrics? I’ve experienced this with a couple songs, but the one that sticks out the most for me, is “Blinded by the Light” by Manfred Mann’s Earth Band.

I’m sure you know this song. The chorus of the song goes, “blinded by the light, revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night.”  Well, for approximately 20 years, I thought the lyrics to the song were, “blinded by the light, wake up like a douche, I’m rolling over in the night.”

Not only was I incorrect about the lyrics of that song for roughly 20 years, but I was also incorrect about the band who sang the song. For some reason, I always thought the band, Supertramp, sang that song. In fact, I was under the impression that Supertramp was a one-hit wonder band, and “Blinded by the Light” was their one hit. Boy did I ever have that discombobulated.

Manfred man douche

Ya know, I hadn't ever seen a picture of Manfred Mann until just now. Since I thought I heard the lyrics, "wake up like a douche" for so many years, I figured that he (and the lead singer of Supertramp for that matter) would look like douches and because of that, I have a difficult time looking at this pic without thinking of a douche. However, I didn't expect him to appear....Amish. If the Amish had a poster boy to represent their douches (face it, there are douches in every cultural group), then I'm sure Manfred Mann would probably be in the running for it. He looks like an Amish man who is pouting...because he woke up....like a douche....because he was blinded by the light. Makes sense.


I was floored one night when my fiancée, Krystal and I were watching that show, “Don’t Forget the Lyrics,” hosted by the World’s most mouth-breathingest mouth-breather of all time, Sugar Ray… or Mark McGrath as he seems to prefer to be called.

mark McGrath don't forget the lyrics

Speaking of douches, here is a picture of the douchiest douchebag of all time, Vanilla Ice I mean Zach Morris I mean Sugar Ray I mean Mark Mcgrath. God I hate this guy. And I have absolutely no reason to hate him.... the dude has always annoyed the piss out of me for some reason.


So one night, we were watching that show and Sugar Ray announced that one of the contestants would be singing, “Blinded by the Light” by Manfred Mann’s Earth Band. I immediately began arguing with ol’Sugar Ray, who couldn’t hear me because he was on the television prancing around like a jackass. I was like, “yo, what! You’re a window-licker, Sugar Ray!!! That song is by Supertramp!” The fact that I was wrong about this was rare for I am normally a reliable, walking, eating, sleeping, breathing, operating cesspool of accurate useless information processing.

Krystal was turned on by my outburst. I think I may have gotten laid that night.  If it’s something that turns Krystal on about me, it’s my passion for trivia questions and knowledge of useless information.  Just kidding… to be honest, I think it annoys her…

Anyways, I spent a couple minutes wigging out to a very disinterested Krystal who despite not caring about what I was wigging out about was nice enough to listen to my rant anyways. I thought for sure Sugar Ray had biffed who sang that song. I stewed about this for a few more seconds when suddenly, I was sidetracked when the contestant began singing the song. This was the moment where I discovered I had been wrong about the lyrics to that song for 20 years. On that show, the screen will show the viewers the correct lyrics on the bottom of the screen while the contestants attempt to sing them correctly. The lyrics I read on the screen were not at all consistent with what I thought they were.

I was in shock.  What I thought the lyrics to that song were had basically been permanently etched in my brain by that point…I knew instantly that it was going to be extremely difficult to get used to the real lyrics.

So I thought the lyrics were, “blinded by the light, wake up like a douche, I’m rolling over in the night” for approximately 2 decades. For the first 10 or so years that I was familiar with this song and used the incorrect lyrics while singing along to it, I didn’t know what a douche was. To me, a douche was a complete idiot, which in the context that it is usually used, that’s not inaccurate.

With that said, for many years, I thought this guy wrote a song about waking up in the morning like some idiot douche (which didn’t make much sense to me because I never really associated idiot douches with people who simply wake up) and the sun comes through the window and is so bright that it blinds him. And before this all took place, this person was tossing and turning and rolling over while sleeping in the night.

I didn’t think the lyrics to the song made much sense, but there are many songs that don’t make sense, so I just sung along to it anyways and assumed whoever the lyricist was for Supertramp, was not the shiniest corn kernel in the turd when it came to writing lyrics.

The song, as stupid as I thought the lyrics were, was inspiring to me at times.  This was especially true when I was supposed to wake up in the morning, but didn’t want to.  I remember a few times, waking up with light shining in my eyes, blinding me.  That song would pop in my head and I would ultimately decide that I wasn’t waking up.  I’d justify my decision to not wake up because according to Supertramp, only douches wake up and since I was tired and didn’t want to drag my ass out of bed, I agreed with them.  I’d think to myself, “yeah…only DOUCHES wake up. I’m not going to wake up like a DOUCHE.” So I would roll over and pretend it was still night to fulfill the “I’m rolling over in the night” lyric.

The word, “douche.”

It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I learned what a douche and its vulgar partner in crime, the douchebag actually are. This made things even more confusing. To my understanding (correct me if I’m wrong), a douche is primarily affiliated with a woman cleansing her vagina in order to feel fresher, to rid the vagina of foul odors and to rid the vagina of menstrual blood. The douchebag is evidently a piece of equipment used in douching. To be more specific, it is a bag that holds the fluid used in douching.  When I found this out, it was a total mind-blow.  As a young teenager, I wasn’t exactly the most sexually educated kid.  I was pretty clueless about everything and being the oldest of 4 brothers, I never had an older brother to fill me in. Prior to learning about douching and the function of douchebags, I had no clue that vaginas bled or had tendencies to develop foul odors. I wasn’t thrilled when I learned this. It kind of put a damper on my perception of vaginas at the time… My perception at that time of what a vagina was, was that it was just a ball of hair between a woman’s legs with no penis…which I thought was great because I always hated every penis that wasn’t my own. I saw some of these vaginas (bushes) when I’d rack up the courage to sneak out of my room and watch Skinemax in the living room at 3 in the morning. That was my intro to vaginas….. I had no inclination whatsoever that they bled, could smell and sometimes needed to be douched.

Not to mention, after learning this, I couldn’t believe that a song with that word became so popular and continued to be popular for decades like that song. I was officially confused and continued to be confused every time this song came on the radio for another 14-15 years until I finally learned the actual lyrics.

And to be honest, after I learned the actual lyrics to that song, my confusion wasn’t alleviated at all.  The lyrics still don’t make a bit of sense to me.  And it’s mostly because of the word, “deuce.” “Blinded by the light, revv’d up like a deuce, another runner in the night.” Ok…I’m only aware of a couple uses of the word, “deuce.”  I am not a big card player, but I have been around people playing cards enough to where I know a deuce is a 2 card.  Or at least I think it is. I know people play this game where they say, “deuces wild,” and I believe that means that the 2’s are the wild cards…whatever that means.  But deuce cards don’t get revv’d up.  Revv’d up means like, a gas pedal or throttle is pushed on an automobile, right?

The only other meaning of “deuce” that I’m aware of makes a tad more sense than the deuce card. One of my roommates in college referred to every shit that he took as a “deuce.”  Every time he had to take a shit, he’d announce to everyone, “I’ll be right back. I have to take a deuce!”  To this day, he is the only person I know of who refers to “taking a shit” as “dropping a deuce.”  I’m not sure if this was just one of his personal sayings or if it is a saying that is common with certain people. However, if this is what “deuce” means to Manfred Mann, then I’m assuming that when he takes a shit, it sounds like an engine is being revv’d up.

So when, where and how did I get all of this mixed up? How did I know of the word, “douche” at such a young age in the first place? I thought about it quite a bit, and everything seems to trace back to my dad.  Those of you who have been regular readers of my blog for a long time are very familiar with my dad by now.

Now, I had probably heard “Blinded by the Light,” several times, beginning the day I was born, but the first time I actually remember hearing the song was when I was seven or eight years old.  I was with my dad and we were on our way home from wrestling practice.  That song came on and my dad was digging it.  He cranked up the volume and began singing along to it.  When my dad sang this song, with extreme enthusiasm (he was into it), it sounded to me like he was singing loudly, “BLINDED BY THE LIGHT!!! WAKE UP LIKE A DOUCHE, I’M ROLLING OVER IN THE NIGHT!” Heck, he may have actually been singing it that way. He may have been confused as to what the lyrics were also.  It’s doubtful though, I probably misunderstood him.

Hearing the word, “douche” spill out of my dad’s mouth was not an uncommon occurrence and since I had no idea what a douche was until I was a teenager, I never thought too much of it. As a youngster, I had absolutely no idea that “douche” was considered a bad word and basically thought it was synonymous with “idiot” or “moron.” I used the word, “douche” freely as I pleased for it was not on my parents’ list of “bad words.”  In my family, the words that you absolutely could not use unless you wanted your ass to be struck and stung by a fly swatter were:  The Lord’s name in vain, shit, fuck, ass, damn, hell, the “N” word, piss and bitch. I am sure, there are others they would have not approved of, but when I asked them to tell me what all the bad words were, those were the ones that were consistently mentioned. And I took precise note of it. Those words were never to be used by my brother and I. My mom (very rarely) and dad could use them, especially if they were pissed off, ranting or drunk, but my brother and I were not allowed to use those words, regardless of the context or circumstances.

My family never, ever used the N-word. My family despises that word. However, Dad can spew flames out of his mouth with the other bad words if he is on a big enough roll.

So growing up, I probably said the word, “douche” in front of anyone, including my friends, family, teachers,  Sunday school teachers, acquaintances, literally thousands of times because I didn’t know there was anything wrong with it.  I never even thought twice about saying it. If I were in class and one of my friends playfully called me a harmless name like dork, nerd, etc., I would playfully snap right back at them by saying, “up yours, douchebag” (I had no idea what “up yours” implied either), in front of my teachers. If I felt like it, I would call anyone a douchebag.

young forest gump

Hey look! It's young Forrest Gump!!! Nahh, nevermind, it's just young Rico Swaff. I recommend not talking to him...he'll probably hurt your feelings by calling you a douchebag.


I used to play basketball with my grandpa all the way until he had his first heart attack when I was 13 years old. If the basketball bounced away from us and I ran to retrieve it, it wouldn’t be uncommon for my grandpa to jokingly say to me, “hurry up, slow-poke.”  It is very possible that on many occasions, I playfully snapped back with, “oh, be quiet, douchebag!”  Can you believe that?!?! I’ll reiterate: From the ages of 6-13 or so, it is very likely that I called my beloved grandpa a douchebag on several occasions due to being totally unaware of how inappropriate it was.  Makes me wonder if my grandpa even knew what a douche was.

What gets me is that I know I used that word thousands of times in front of people, and presumably unknowingly created many painfully awkward situations by doing so, but no one ever confronted me about it and/or told me it wasn’t cool. It makes me think of how many times I said that when I was younger, and the teacher or whoever heard it sat there speechless, thinking to themselves, “did that 7 year old Swafford boy really just call me a douchebag? Did that really just happen?”

Yes, I’m afraid it did.

And I SHOULD have caught on to the fact that it wasn’t necessarily an overly pleasant word, for my dad usually whipped that word out of his personal word-bank in situations that weren’t so pleasant for him. I should have been able to connect the dots.

When my dad was pissed off at someone, or was talking about someone who he had a low opinion of at the time, the word, “douche” or “douchebag” were common labels my dad used for them. In fact, a large percentage of the terms Dad generally whipped out from his name-calling arsenal began with the letter, “d.” He frequently referred to people as; dumbass, dunce, dip-stick, dip-shit, dirt-bag, dirt-ball, dickhead, dick, doofus, doofus-brains, dork, dill-weed, dingleberry, dingle-wad, etc. Sometimes he would even combine these “d” words. For example, if dad thought my brother, Justin and I were being silly, he’d refer to us as “dingleberries.”  If he thought we were being extra, extra silly, he’d combine a couple “dingle” words and refer to us as dingleberry dingle-wads. Or if someone had him really, really pissed off, it wouldn’t be uncommon for him to get really creative and combine a bunch of them to accurately depict his disgust with them.  For example, my dad always used to become real butt-hurt if someone failed to wave at him while driving on the road.  He’d sometimes take it personal and say, “that douchebag, dick-headed, doofus, dirtball, dumbass dick-wad didn’t wave back at me when I waved at him on the road.”


"Dumbass! Dunce! Douche! Douchebag! Dip-stick! Dick-head! Dirt-bag! Ditz! Dip-shit! Doofus! Doofus-brains! Dork! Dill-weed! Dingleberry! Dingle-wad! Dingleberry dingle-wad! Dip-shit dumbass!" (Man this Papa Swaff guy is one mean bully).


Dingleberry… I didn’t know what that word meant until I was a teenager, either. Not sure what a dingleberry-dingle-wad is.  I assume it’s a group of dingleberries clustered together.

As mentioned, “douche” and “douchebag” were on the more serious side of his arsenal.  When a St. Louis Cardinal player would make an error or mess up in a game, Dad, being a Cardinals fanatic would get pissed and be like, “AHHHHHHH, WHAT A DOUCHEBAG!!!!!!”  Heck, if there were evenings where I didn’t know the outcome of the Cardinals game, I would ask Dad how it went and if he replied with, “the Cardinals are a bunch of douchebags,” this would basically be his way of telling me that they lost.

There was a time when my dad, angrily called a burly looking semi driver a douchebag to his face.  I’ll never forget it. I was 7 years old and I was riding with him in his dinky little red Ford truck to watch him play in a softball tournament in Stockport, IA. Some big, burly looking, overgrown “Burt Reynolds-esque” mustache guy driving a green semi, pulled in front of us on an interchange and almost ran us completely off the road. We almost got in a wreck, I think.

forest gump on bench

Now, when this happened, I was SCARED. But my dad, he was MAD.


Dad was instantly pissed.  He pounded his fists on the steering wheel like a rabid, crazed chimpanzee that just got his dick shocked by an electric fence while reaching for a banana on a tree located on the other side of the fence. I think Dad was trying to swear, but he was so pissed that all that could come out of his mouth were grunts, growls and rasps which were cunningly similar to those of the Tazmanian Devil from Looney Tunes.


tazmanian devil dad

Dad having a "Taz" attack.


Many people are intimidated by truck drivers, especially big, burly looking ones who appear fierce enough that the only thing capable of stopping them is the Syphilis they picked up from a lot-lizard. This particular truck driver fit that description. However, Dad isn’t intimidated by these guys at all.  In fact, he isn’t scared of anyone or anything, especially when his blood is boiling.

Dad didn’t hesitate to catch up to this truck driver and drive right next to him in his tiny red truck for a few seconds. Dad was staring at the driver and when the driver looked back at him, Dad didn’t say anything.  Dad gave him the Papa Swaff stare-down, which can be pretty freaking intimidating.  With these stare-downs, Dad has the ability to relay the message with his facial expressions that he considers them to be the epitome of scum.  With the stare-down he bestowed upon this semi-driver, it appeared that with his eyes, he was telling this guy, “you greasy douchebag. You are nothing to me, but a dirty, shit-stained tampon that has sunk to the bottom of a rural Kentucky carnival porta-potty.” After staring him down for a few seconds, Dad passed him.

A minute or so had passed and things were silent in the truck. Dad was boiling with rage still, but he was momentarily keeping it inside. I think we both thought this encounter with the truck driver had concluded with the Papa Swaff stare-down.

We were wrong.

This truck driver evidently took offense to Dad’s stare-down, facial expression-assault, for he drove his truck right next to us, looked at Dad and gave him the finger, plain as day.  This sent Dad over the edge. He totally flipped his lid at this point and began lashing at this guy with an array of “F-words” and “douchebags.” He rolled the window down and with steam flooding out of his ears, screamed at this guy at a record-setting octave, “fuck you douchebag! Don’t you DARE mess with me after you almost forced my truck off the road when I have my son with me, douche! I’m gonna cut you and your douchebag semi off the road, you greasy douchebag low-life douche!!!!”

And he did cut him off….with his tiny little red Ford truck.  He stepped on the gas pedal and made a sharp cut in front of the guy, all while screaming, “how you like that, douchebag!?!?!” I caught a glimpse of this driver’s face while this went down. As he was giving Dad the finger, underneath his slightly over-grown mustache, I could detect a smirk.  However, when he saw Dad’s reaction, his expression changed from a smirk to surprised and a bit scared.

Dad sped about 100-200 yards in front of this semi-driver before promptly pulling his truck over to the side of the road. I sat there wondering what he was doing, for it was clear that if that truck driver walked anywhere near us, Dad was going to kick his ass. Nothing seemed wrong with our truck to where we should have been pulled over.

The thought, “am I going to see my dad scrap?” crossed my mind.  I had heard stories of how tough he was when he actually did get into physical altercations when he was younger. He evidently had lightning speed and deceptive strength and was too bull-headed and stubborn to give up after the fight had begun.

However, a fight did not take place, for there happened to be a weathered down, unmaintained road conveniently located between us and the truck driver who was roughly 100 yards behind us.  The driver turned onto this road. This was a road that a semi had no business being on. I assume this guy turned on the road to avoid the crazy man in the little red truck with a matching red face. Dad had punked him out…and although I’ve never really talked to him about this (which makes me wonder if he even remembers it), I think he knew he won this road-rage induced exchange.

When the truck driver turned on the unmaintained road, Dad sat there and stared into his rear-view mirror with a Clint Eastwood-esque expression on his face and said calmly, “that’s what I thought, douchebag.”

When Dad becomes extremely pissed off, sometimes he is only capable of blurting out words of a very small selection and one of them ends up being used profusely. It’s like he has so many thoughts going through his head that there is an over-load, and only one word can make it’s way out of his mouth. In this case, “douchebag” was the main word that he was able to verbalize.

pissed off dad

This situation took place around this time. 1990-ish. Honestly, my dad was a dude you really didn't want to cross. Falling prey to the Papa Swaff stare-down is bad enough.


It was this encounter with the truck driver that made me think to myself, “hmm…douchebag.  I like that word. It’s got a nice ring to it.  I think I’m going to start calling people douchebags as one of my comebacks.”  So I did…a lot.  Evidently, I was too dumb to make the connection between Dad being pissed off to the point where his veins were popping out of his head  and the word, “douchebag” being screamed roughly 25 times in a matter of a few minutes. This should have been a huge indicator to me that douchebag = bad word.  Douche = bad word.

Sometimes Dad would refer to my brother and I as douches or douchebags, but we had to have done something really douche-tastic for him to call us that. When it comes to name-calling, Dad seems to have a basic hierarchy of “d” words that he will refer to you as, with each one being a pre-requisite for the next one.  The higher on the pyramid/hierarchy the “D word,” the more anger or disgust is associated with it. Here is a visual:

name calling hierarchy


The “d word” at the bottom of the pyramid is the least serious one. This word is “dingleberry.” If Dad calls you a dingleberry, chances are, he is joking and/or being playful with you. For example: If I told my dad a story about how I did something at school that he actually thought was funny, he would respond by saying, “you are such a dingleberry.”  Being called a “dingleberry” by my dad was usually always a good thing. It was his way of saying, “haha, you are silly, son.”

This is hilarious to me now because as a youngster, I had no clue what a dingleberry was.  For those of you who don’t know, a dingleberry is a piece of poop stuck to a butt hair.   The thought that being referred to by my dad as a piece of poop stuck to a butt hair was a GOOD thing is hilarious to me.

The step on the pyramid located directly above “dingleberry,” would be “dipstick.” Dad would refer to my brother and I as “dipsticks” if we did something that mildly annoyed him.  For example, back in the day, say I was in the car with Dad and he told me to find his George Thorogood cassette tape and put it in his tape-player.  If I were to accidentally insert the cassette tape on the side that didn’t have the song, “Bad to the Bone,” my dad would say, “hey dipstick! You put it in on the wrong side! I want to hear ‘Bad to the Bone!!!” Then he would proceed to sing, “Buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-baaaaad.  Buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-baaaad.” If Dad was proud of himself about one thing, it was his cunning ability to successfully recite the part from that song where George Thorogood stutters while singing the word, “bad.”  Buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-baaaaad!!!!!  To be honest, Dad WAS and probably still IS really good at nailing that part.  In fact, I think he’s better than George Thorogood…no joke.

George thorogood dad

Buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-baaaaaaaddddd!!!!! Those words are what was going through Papa Swaff's head while posing for this picture. Seriously, ol' Pappy Swaffy could nail that entire song perfectly.

Michael Jackson bad to the bone

Here is the cover photo of that George Thorogood, "Bad to the".......oh wait, nevermind....that's not it.

George thorogood bad to the bone

Ok, here it is! THIS is the cover of the cover of the George Thorogood "Bad to the Bone" album we used to listen to. In his day, Papa Swaff could out-Thorogood George Thorogood himself. No joke. Ya know, George Thorogood looks like a douchebag, but a different type of douchebag than Manfred Mann....more of a George Thorogoody-ish douchebag. His lyrics should have gone, "I'm a bag to the douche! Buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-bag. Buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-bag. Bag to the douche!"

My brother Justin pretty much exclusively stayed in dingleberry and dipstick territory. However, I always seemed to loiter in the step above “dipstick” which was the territory of “dumbass.”

bucket head

Well look who it is. It's Tweedle-Dingleberry-Dipstick (Justin) in the front and Tweedle-Dumbass-Douchebag (me) with a bucket on his head in the back.

It got to the point where whenever I’d hear the word, “dumbass,” my ears would perk up and I’d look around, thinking to myself, “did someone just say my name?” I did a lot of dumb shit in my day and was reminded of my dumbassery whenever I did something dumb, by being called a dumbass by my dad. When Dad uses that word, it usually means that his feelings towards the person in question at the moment are moderately negative.  It basically meant that your stupidity was making him irritable.

Dumbass territory was my territory. I owned it. I had it marked.  I had my share of dingleberry and dipstick moments, but I was a “regular” in “Dumbass-ville. “

Every once in a while I’d find myself straying away from “Dumbass-ville” and climbing to the top of the pyramid, which was the home of the most serious of Dad’s “D words.” This was the “douchebag” step. Sometimes…I was douche-tastic enough for Dad to call me a douche and/or douchebag. Whenever I was called a douchebag, I usually always deserved it, no doubt about it. It usually occurred when my stupidity reached Lloyd Christmas levels.

Lloyd Christmas dumb and dumber

Lloyd Christmas


For example, I received my driver’s license the day I turned 16 years old. I kept my license for a whopping 30 days before I lost it. You know why? Because I was pulled over and ticketed by a cop, who also happened to be my neighbor, for driving 101 miles per hour in a 55 zone. This was on the straight away leading to the turnoff to my house in the country.  This straight away also led to my neighbor-cop’s house and he clocked me at 101 MPH immediately after pulling out of his his driveway when his supper break was over.

To make things worse and even more stupid, this was in January and the road had a moderate amount of ice on it, which made driving 101 MPH in a 55 MPH zone even more dangerous than it already was.

My neighbor-cop escorted me home and explained to my dad what had happened.  He spoke to him for 5 minutes, while I stood there shaking silently on the verge of tears as I watched my dad struggle to maintain his composure during the conversation due to being so furious with me.

When the cop left, I received an epic ass-chewing.  In this ass-chewing, I was called a dumbass and a douchebag and probably a dumbass-douchebag as well. And considering the irresponsibility and stupidity of it all, I most definitely deserved it. It was stuff like this that led me to “Douchebag-ville” on occasion.

On the flippity-flip, my brother aka the family hero aka the great and powerful golden boy aka the almighty aka the sweet and innocent Justin once got pulled over and I believe ticketed because he passed a cop.  I think Dad only called him a dip-stick for that.

crock of shit

WUT?! How's that for unfair?! What kind of shiznit is that?! Whatev...I guess I'll just have to accept the fact that I am the ordaigned dumbass-douchebag and Justin, at his worst is the dingleberry-dipstick.

If Dad ever personally calls you a douchebag or describes someone else as being a douchebag, chances are, you or the person he described pissed him off to the point where he is in a state of utter disgust with you. If St. Louis Cardinal, Matt Holliday, grounds into a double play with 1 out and the bases loaded in the bottom of the 9th inning to end the game when the Cardinals were only trailing by one run, he is officially douchebag-eligible and the chances that my dad will actually call him that is close to 99.9%.

Ironically, every once in a while he uses the term, “douchebag” in light-hearted fashion.  For example: If you tell him a story about how you did something admittedly stupid that didn’t result in extreme negative repercussions, he may look at you, shake his head, smile and say one of two things: 1.) You are such a dumbass or 2.) You are such a douchebag.

My dad, although he has a difficult time admitting this, is one of my blog’s most loyal readers.  I have posted entries that allegedly made him laugh so hard and strenuously that he had a difficult time breathing for 5 minutes.  It’s a guilty pleasure for him.  I think this blog is a guilty pleasure for many people…for people are much more likely to tell me in person that they regularly read and laugh their asses off to my blog, then they are to hit the public “like” button when the entries are posted on facebook. I’m not lying when I say that I can’t go out for a night without having at least 7-15 people throughout the night approach me and talk to me about my blog…always new people who I had no idea had ever visited the site.

Dad reads every entry that I post and usually, he likes them. However, I never know that he has read the entry until a few days, sometimes a few weeks after it being posted.  With this entry, my dad may talk to me in a few days and randomly say, “so Joshua… I’m a pretty tough guy and can be pretty intimidating, eh?”  I’ll reply, “I don’t know….umm…. yeah??”  He will reply playfully with, “you are such a douchebag.”  That is how it has gone with past entries.

So if my dad calls you a douchebag, it doesn’t ALWAYS mean he is momentarily disgusted with your existence.

But it’s pretty likely that he is in fact, disgusted with you.

rico suave dad

And don't take this entry/story the wrong way...Dad isn't a jerk. He is a fantastic, wonderful person. I clown on him on this blog sometimes, sure, but we love the hell out of each other. He has his quirks, just like anyone and he is hilarious and interesting to me and if he wasn't, I wouldn't see a reason to write about him or clown on him from time to time. My dad is the type of guy that if he likes you, he will do literally anything for you. He is one of the most valuable and loyal family members/friends to have. He will spend lengthy amount of time helping you to achieve your goals, he would eagerly put his life on the line to help you if you are in danger, he is loyal and not only will he not talk poorly about you behind your back, but he will stick up for you if someone else is doing it. And he works his ass off because he wants to support his family and contribute positively to society He is a great guy.


So for those of you still reading, have you ever found out you were wrong about lyrics to a song you had heard many times for years?  If so, share your story in the comments!!!

mullet man ready to fight

When I told Rick the story about Dad and his road-rage induced encounter with the truck driver, Rick became pissed when I said that the truck driver appeared as if the only thing that could stop him, would be the syphilis he picked up from a lot lizard. Rick was like, "WHAT?! I got syphilis from a lot lizard once! Papa Swaff must have been disrespecting ME. I'm going to beat Papa Swaff's ass, RIGHT NOW!!!" Rick's listening skills need some work.


mullet man running

Rick immediately jumped off the couch, put on his handy fishin'boot shit-kickers, busted out the door and began running to Papa Swaff's house so he could beat Papa Swaff's ass.

mullet man attacks dad

When Rick arrived at Papa Swaff's house, he broke in and when he saw Papa Swaff sitting in his chair, he immediately began throwing punches at him.


unconscious mullet man

But things didn't work out the way Rick had planned. Papa Swaff, despite being aged and fatigued by carrying around an abnormal amount of dingleberries in his ass, knocked Rick out cold in one punch. Rick was knocked unconscious for several hours and hanging out of his pocket, was a dollar bill he had stolen from a kid that he beat up earlier in the day. That is still how Rick makes a living.


I got a dollar hey hey hey hey

To make things even worse for Rick, the kid Rick had beaten up and stolen from earlier was Papa Swaff's grand-daughter and my daughter. She noticed Rick, knocked unconscious on the ground with her stolen dollar hanging out of his pocket and she immediately reclaimed what belonged to her. "I got a dollar, I got a dollar, I got a dollar, hey, hey, hey hey!" Kaiya said. I think Rick has officially reached his low point in life. Earning a living by beating up kids and stealing their lunch money is bad enough, but beating up a 2 year old girl for a dollar?!?! Come on...that's low.

beat up mullet man

After a few hours passed by, Rick slowly began opening his eyes and seemingly regained his consciousness.


mullet man knocked out

But when he regained his consciousness, I knocked him back out for beating up and stealing money from my 2 year old daughter. Pretty bad day for ol' dirtball Rick, but he had it coming. That's what you get when you mess with Papa Swaff or his spawn. (Haha, look at my legs...they look like frog legs).


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When I was last actively and consistently updating this blog, my daughter Kaiya was less than a year old, I think.  So it’s been a while since y’all have heard about her or how she is doing.  Kaiya is my daughter and she is 2 years old and she is doing very well. I can honestly say that I have never and will never meet another Kaiya in my lifetime.  She is a unique little character, to me anyways.  Here is a recent photo of Kaiya and my 28 year old brother Justin:

Kaiya and Uncle Justin. I love this pic. Kai loves Uncle Justin and she should…he’s a wonderful uncle.


It is amazing how quickly time flies. Since I was last consistently updating this blog, I’ve actually become the father of another daughter, Phaedra. She is 8 months old now. I don’t know if I ever got the chance to write about her, even when we were just expecting her.  I have an entry that will be posted in the near future that is about her. Well, I should say it is about an event that took place when Krystal was pregnant with her. She is a smiley little thang.  Every time I merely glance at her, she smiles.  It’s heart-warming.

My 8 month old daughter, Phaedra and I. This was taken around Christmas time. She was 7 months old when this picture was taken.

Sometimes the girls really crack me up. The other evening, I switched a load of laundry over. Our washer and dryer is located in our basement and prior to switching the laundry, the girls and I were chilling upstairs in our living room.  They were playing with their toys on the floor in diligent fashion, so I figured it would be ok if I left them upstairs by themselves for a couple minutes while I ran downstairs to switch over the laundry.  I have various spots in the room barricaded with fences, gates, car seats, bouncers, laundry baskets, walkers, etc. with intentions of preventing Phaedra from escaping the living room or reaching the laptop which is always located on the ground, hooked up to the TV so we can watch Netflix or put CELL PHONE CHARGERS in her mouth. I don’t know if it’s just a thing with my daughters, but they can’t resist putting the ends of cell phone chargers in their mouths. They usually manage to ruin them in the process. We’ve probably gone through 10 cell phone chargers in the past year. Kaiya is finally snapping out of that phase, but right when she snapped out of it, Phaedra began doing it, so I’m starting to think our cell phone chargers are in permanent danger as long as we have babies reproduced by Krystal and I living in our house.

So I switch the laundry over and walk back up the stairs and open the gate that we have latched at the top of the stairs. I casually glanced to see what Kaiya and Phaedra were up to. They were sitting next to each other, seemingly being good and playing with their toys. I couldn’t get over how cute they looked, sitting there playing next to each other. Not fighting with each other.

It was at that moment where Kaiya noticed that I was back upstairs and she stopped what she was doing and burst up to her feet and ran at me with her arms outstretched and an ornery, shit eating grin on her face and she asked in a Daddy-crippling innocent tone:

“Daddy? Huggies? Can I have Huggies? Please Daddy?”

This melted ol’ Daddy Rico’s heart. Contrary to what some of you who have read my blog may think of me, I am actually a huge softy.  In fact, I really don’t know if I know any dudes who are bigger mooshball-softies than I am. I mean, I can be a huge, huge hot-head if pissed off. I’m not a wimp by any means, just very sentimental. To give you an idea of the extent as to how much of a sentimental softy I really am, I’ll give you one of countless examples: I can’t make it through the movie, “Dumbo,” without sobbing like a baby. How’s that for pathetic?

So I gave Kaiya a “huggy” without even thinking twice about it.  However, while I was giving her a hug, the image of the ornery expression on her face crossed my mind.  Not to mention, Kaiya is getting to the age where she is beginning to learn some tricks of manipulation.  The, “Daddy? Huggies? Can I have huggies, please?” is a trick I am quite familiar with. She uses it frequently…and I can catch on to it fairly easily.  She probably uses this tactic so frequently because she has caught on to the fact that it works so well due to me being such a huge softy.

I knew this for sure: Within the five or so minutes I was downstairs switching over laundry, Kaiya had been up to something.  She had either gotten in to something she knew she wasn’t supposed to get into or she had done something she knew she wasn’t supposed to do. It was just a matter if finding out what it was.  I may be a softy, but I’m not going to be a naïve father. I know how things roll. I am always going to know when something is up.

I scoured the area on the living room floor in which they were playing on.  I couldn’t for the life of me, figure out what she did.  Was it possible that she really just was excited to see me after I was downstairs for 5 minutes and she simply wanted to give me a hug?  That’d be nice if it were the case.

Since I couldn’t find anything fishy in the perimeter, I gradually forgot about it. I turned Netflix on. The girls and I all watched DJ Lance do his thing on a few episodes of “Yo Gabba Gabba.”  I became hungry and grabbed a can of mandarin oranges to munch on.  I brought them into the living room to eat while watching TV.  I sat down in our love seat, which is located right next to where the girls were playing when I had come upstairs to and was welcomed by Kaiya’s suspiciously overly pleasant greeting.  I rested my arm on the arm of the love seat and suddenly, something white caught the corner of my eye. I glanced over to see what it was. I saw this:

There in the corner BEHIND the love seat, on the floor in the open area between the back of the love seat, a rocking chair and the wall were wet-wipes. Tons of them, within millimeters of the package they came in. Kaiya had dug them all out of the package and reached her arm through opening to that space and placed tons of them there. She made a mess. And she knew it.


I became a bit upset and thought to myself, “yep, this is why she used the ‘Daddy, can I have huggies’ trick.” I began to throw a “Daddy” tantrum.  I looked at Kaiya and blurted, in a loud, gruff tone of voice, “Kaiya!!! Why did you get into those wet-wipes?!?!”  You know better than that!!! Am I going to have to send you to time-out?!?”  Kaiya, who made eye contact with me the entire duration of my stern lecture did not answer my question.  Instead, her mouth formed an ornery grin and she ran up to me with her arms ever-so-gradually outstretching as she inquired with such innocence:

“Huggies? Can I have huggies, Daddy? Please Daddy, can I have huggies?”

So…..I gave her a hug. She has me wrapped around her finger, no doubt about it. But I did make her clean up the mess, which she liked doing for some reason.


Oh well, at least I’ve never encountered something like this:

While my daughter politely asking me for hugs with outstretched arms melts my heart, I must say, I would hate to encounter this: Rick “The Mullet Man” Suave innocently asking, “Huggies? Can I have huggies, Rico?” The testes that flop around freely at the side of his jean shorts would be in definite danger, for I’d probably be looking to kick him there. Not to mention, I would wonder why he wanted “huggies?” I’d assume it was because he snuck into our house and ate our dog food. Rat bastard.


So this entry was inspired about some cinnamon rolls that I prepared and ruined a couple days ago. Until that point, I had never made the slightest mistake in terms of making cinnamon rolls, or anything with frosting for that matter. There are a few things in life that I am extremely passionate about and preparation of food is one of them for I am a dude who loves to eat. I am a very unpicky eater with an exception of celery and those gross fennel seeds that you will sometimes find in Italian sausage. However, although being unpicky, I prefer to eat foods that have been prepared correctly to soothe my taste buds, for Lord knows, I’ve had a lot of practice tasting foods.

Two days ago, I was at home with my baby girls while mama (Krystal) was at work. I became hungry, but to my dismay, there was nothing in our house that I could fix in a process that would consist of grabbing some food out of the refrigerator, putting it on a plate and brewing it up in a microwave for a couple minutes. All we had was baby/toddler food and canned green beans, canned carrots, canned corn, etc. To say the least, we need to go grocery shopping. The girls were set, but I am not the type of dude to eat canned vegetables. And if I did, I could eat 10-15 cans of whatever vegetable and my stomach will still feel unsatisfied…as if I hadn’t eaten anything at all. The only other food item we had in our household was cinnamon rolls, which involves a minimal amount of cooking. Cooking is something I am relatively decent at if I am paying enough attention. I’m usually real good at cooking cinnamon rolls. It’s just a matter of setting the oven to a specific temperature, spraying a pan with cooking spray, placing the cinnamon rolls on the pan, watching them closely until they are done and finishing with topping the rolls AFTER they come out of the oven with the frosting that is included within the package. Pretty easy stuff, right? Well yeah, but…

So I screwed up some cinnamon rolls. How so? Well, I did everything correctly with an exception of one thing… I put the fucking frosting on the cinnamon rolls before I put them in the oven instead of spreading the frosting on the rolls after they were done cooking. Therefore, as the rolls were cooking, so was the fucking frosting. I have no idea why I did this. I have been making foods with frosting since I can remember and have never made that particular mistake. And to make things about as bad as they can be, I didn’t realize that I had made this mistake until the actual rolls looked good and it was time to take them out of the oven. After taking them out of the oven, I noticed my mistake immediately. I thought to myself, “for fuck’s sake, you have got to be shitting me… I can’t believe I just did that. Well, the only other thing in our house that I can eat is canned vegetables….screw that, I’m going to have to make these cinnamon rolls work somehow. I’d rather eat biffed up cinnamon rolls than canned vegetables.”

So how did eating those biffed up cinnamon rolls turn out? Not good. The rolls were fine…I pulled them out of the oven in perfect timing as I usually do. But the frosting. The texture of the frosting was like plastic. When I would take a bite, I would finish eating the roll portion in a matter of seconds, but would be chewing on the frosting for minutes. It seriously felt like I was eating frosting-flavored plastic. The flavor was good, but the texture was a reminder why I chose not to chew on my action figures as a tyke. If I had a cavity, I probably would have been in such pain that I would have felt like going to the emergency room. And this is coming from a guy who never goes to a doctor unless he has something seriously wrong with him, like spasms brought on by hip dysplacia. On the bright side, I guess I learned that I probably don’t have any cavities at the moment…which is awesome.

I tried eating as much of these as I could, but got to the point where I couldn’t handle anymore. Eating these cinnamon rolls was too much work. It was making my jaw feel fatiqued. I went from attempting to eating a whole roll to eating just the middle of the cinnamon rolls to simply throwing most of them away. I hid them real well in the waste basket when I threw them away because I didn’t want my soon to be wife (getting married May 15th!), notice that I had attempted to make cinnamon rolls and failed admirably. She would give me shit if she knew about it for I am always bragging about how good of a cook I am…informing her that I am a master at preparing exquisite foods. She doesn’t believe in my cooking abilities because well, I don’t really cook much these days. Therefore when I talk about how awesome of a cook I am, she just laughs at me. She would laugh if she knew how badly I screwed up on these cinnamon rolls. Many of you may be thinking, “well, if she didn’t know before, she will know now, right?” I don’t know about that. I don’t really know if she reads the blog too much…she thinks the Rick “The Mullet Man” Suave stuff is pretty funny, but I honestly don’t know if she reads the stories. I guess I will find out… I’m surprised that she hasn’t noticed that the cinnamon rolls are missing, yet…

So this incident with the cinnamon rolls encouraged me to reflect on some of the moments I’ve had in my life where I have SUCCESSFULLY prepared foods that are equipped with frosting. I immediately became stuck swimming around in an array of thoughts regarding a food item that my mom used to purchase consistently when I was 10-13 years old. I have no idea if they even exist anymore, for I haven’t seen them in my parents’ or my personal fridge in years and I never see any commercials about them. They were called toaster strudles. There used to be a hellafied amount of advertising about toaster freaking strudles for a while there, and their commercials were freaking stupid…I will get to that in a bit.

If toaster strudles do indeed, exist still, then I have an array of excuses as to why I don’t know they do exist. 1.) I am never awake early enough for their commercials, which I remember generally being aired on Saturday mornings when I was younger. Generally on Saturdays I am asleep until noon. And 2.), if they have them at the store, I have probably walked right past them without even looking at them. Ya see, I hate grocery shopping. Whenever I am grocery shopping, I am with my lovely, beautiful fiancee, Krystal who pretty much runs the show, but takes forever, just like my mom does when she shops for groceries. If you ever see me at Wal-Mart and I come off as stand-offish to you, don’t take it personally. Chances are, my staring straight ahead with a glazed expression and having zombie demeanor is a result of me seriously wishing I was in my car, slamming on my gas pedal, speeding away from Wal-Mart. I think the only time I move my eyes to the side to check out the food options is when we are in the Oreo section. Can’t miss out on those peanut butter Oreos, yo.

I used to love it when my mom brought home toaster strudels. And my love didn’t at all derive from the strudles. It was the frosting. Speaking of toaster strudel commercials earlier, I remember how pissed off I used to get when I would watch this toaster strudel commercial with this dumbass kid standing by his toaster, patiently awaiting his toaster strudel to finish toasting. When the strudel finished toasting, the damn thing popped up about 5 feet in the air (unrealistic) and the kid caught the strudel and immediately took a huge bite of it. I remember thinking to myself as a 10 year old kid who didn’t verbally swear, but always definitely swore while thinking to myself, “what the fuck is wrong with this douchebag. He is standing by a toaster like some dog waiting for you to drop food on the floor so it can snatch it for table scraps, and this freaking butt-munch in this commercial doesn’t even THINK about putting frosting on it this toaster strudel he was waiting on. In fact, this shit-wad doesn’t even have frosting near him when he catches the strudel. Maybe he already ate the frosting, in which, I can’t blame him.”

Anyways, within 20 minutes of my mom bringing home groceries, I was already secretly digging into the toaster strudel frosting. For the 3 or so years that my mom brought home toaster strudels, we had an ongoing problem of the frosting packets that they came with, missing. And it was because of me To my memory, toaster strudels came in boxes of 6 and each strudel was paired with an individual frosting packet. A frosting packet for every strudel included. My family consistently bitched and moaned about how the Pillsbury company didn’t supply you with enough frosting for our toaster strudels. To them, it appeared as if for every 6 strudels, there would be 2 frosting packets. I expressed my disgust along with them. Little did they know that the reason for there being such a short supply of frosting for the toaster strudels was because I (one of the most vocal parties who expressed their disgust in terms of there not being enough frosting), would eat at least 4 out of the 6 frosting packets within a half hour of them being brought home. Suckers. 😉

I remember when I initially began eating the frosting from the toaster strudel packages. Dad thought there was something up, immediately. I remember him saying something along the lines of, “what the helllllll!!!! There’s 6 God damned toaster strudels, but only 2 frosting packets. What the FUCK…is going on???” And he would stare at my brother, Justin and I as if we had something to do with it. By the time I was 10-13 years old, I definitely fit into the role of the loud-mouthed dumbass of the family. I always took this as an opportunity to try to show my dad that I had actually been learning some things in school. This was around the age where I was learning fractions. I would say, “oh, I think it comes with two packets because you have to use 1/3 of a packet to cover each strudel…that’s just how they make them.” I remember gazing at my dad after saying this and he would crinkle his forehead a bit and look up to the sky to indicate that he was thinking. Then he would calmly respond, “that’s right, very good Joshua. That does equal 1/3 of a packet per strudel.” Then he would forget about the missing frosting. Although I was spitting a line of shit, I must admit that it felt good that for a moment I was able to prove to my dad that beneath it all, I actually was relatively book smart and wasn’t some dumbass mouth-breather.

Then there was the time my mom brought the toaster strudels home and literally right when she brought the groceries inside, my dad was hungry for them. He dug them out of the sack, found the package, opened it and discoverered that there were, in fact, 6 packets of frosting per box. One per strudel. Dad immediately had questions and I, being the guilty frosting stealer for years at this point, had to come up with another explanation. I resorted to blaming it on my younger brother. My freaking perfect younger brother. My brother was so perfect (literally, he was a mini-celeb in Southeast Iowa when he was in high school due to his athletic achievements) in his interactions with my parents, although I swear to this day, he was a bit more sneaky than I was in terms of ruffling my parents’ feathers. If he were to be disobedient or defiant, he was very passive aggressive about things opposed to me who ran my mouth loudly and quickly like some jackass trying to deny cheating on the Maury Povich Show when there are paternity tests right in front of him which indicate that he is the recent father of 4 other children from 4 other women. For some reason, blaming the decline of the toaster strudel frosting packets on Justin seemed believable to my mother and father, presumably because he always loved sweet foods. I consistently blamed this on him, while he denied it and wasn’t believed by them and would ultimately be in trouble for 5-10 minutes or whenever the butt-hurt decreased.

Although I stated that Justin was more sneaky with his disobedience while I was more vocal, he was still a more obedient kid than me, even if you do take his sneakiness into consideration. Me blaming him for eating the toaster strudel frosting packets and my parents actually giving my claim a hint of legitimacy was a perfect example of how half of the instances in which my brother got in trouble (which wasn’t much) was actually due to something that I did, but blamed him for. Isn’t that awful?

The frustrating thing is that he was in trouble so little of the time that I don’t remember how the chew-out sessions from Dad unraveled for him. I know mine were something along the lines of:

"Joshua, all I have to say to you is that you are a dipshit dumbass who has always been a dipshit dumbass and probably always will be a dipshit dumbass.... JUSTIN!!! (as he thinks of anything that Justin is doing wrong)....Go......Go feed the horses!!!"

Man, it probably sucked being Justin sometimes. Half of the time where he actually got into trouble was because of something I did. Not to mention, whenever I got into trouble, he had to feed the horses. Ouch.

Awww....such a sweet kid on the left. Really...he was a great kid. Such a shame that half the times he got in trouble growing up was because he was blamed for something he didn't do by the punk ass kid on the right.