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The Moral Compass Issue

Skinema - Vicarious (So Close You Can Taste It)

I've been wrestling pit bull terriers and calling up my dominatrix friend because being a stay-at-home dad is driving me insane.

Dir: Bobbi Starr
Rating: 9 My life has taken a very strange turn. I have found myself domesticated, with very little contact with the outside world. My two daily companions, whom I do most of my conversing with, are ages two years and four months; neither is doing much to hold up their end of the dialogue. Suddenly I am living vicariously through others, via texts and emails, in hopes of retaining any sense of adventure. I think playing the role of Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom is giving me cabin fever. The madness is setting in. To stay sane I have a number of skaters across the country forward me the nudes that girls text them on their travels, the ATL Twins call a few times a week to fill me in on their sexual conquests with strippers and their surreal life of sharing the same bed (even when one of them has the flu) and sometimes my dominatrix friend with 72 MMM boobs puts me on speakerphone so I can hear her administer punishment. I’m so starved for the chaos of life that I got into a high-speed chase with a man who rear-ended me and took off just for the fun of it, I tried to wrestle a foaming stray pit bull terrier into submission in my neighbourhood last week (in the end I had to climb on top of a parked boat and wait for the police and K-9 Unit to arrive) and I’ve stopped looking to see if the bag I’m using to pick up dog shit each morning on my walk has holes in it (I call it Suburban Roulette.) A friend of mine was robbed at gunpoint and I told him, “That’s fantastic! Tell me all about it. Wait. Let me grab a beer first. OK. Go!” The photo above was taken after Halloween. Me and the kids are now wearing costumes every day to keep things interesting. I think my Top Gun “need for speed” (or was that Days of Thunder?) is putting everyone in the house on edge. My wife, one and a half kids, dog and picket fence are all looking at me like I’m an insane fugitive packing suitcases, muttering, “Let’s just go to the airport and get on a plane to somewhere. Maine? Madagascar? Who cares? Let’s go. You! The little one, grab your jacket, the Batman costume, and the rubber chicken! We have no idea what kind of trouble we might run into!” The older one is my rock. He grounds me with comedy. He shows me the best way to drown out the crying is to laugh even louder. Last week he stood naked in the bathtub; seeing the frustration on my face, he said, “Daddy. Come.” So I leaned into him; he opened his arms and wrapped them around me and squoze me tight. Then he pissed all over my chest. He’s quite masterful in his comedic timing. Just yesterday he smiled the biggest smile America has ever seen; he walked over to me and shook my hand. And laughed. “What’s so funny, boy?” He looked down at his hand in mine. My eyes followed. I saw they were both covered in shit from him sticking his hand into his poopy diaper. I told him, “That’s not funny,” but we both know that it is, in fact, very, very funny. He is my saviour. His antics keep me out of the loony bin. For more stupid, go to or