Little Moby Homemaker: Domestic God

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Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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The earliest days of my tenure as a Domestic God were clearly the bleakest and lowest emotionally.  Over a single phone call I had gone from a prosperous captain of industry managing a territory, bearing great responsibility, enjoying the perks of corporate travel and making really good money directly to Loserville.  I was in the dumps--big time.  It was the kind of dumps that beer, porn and unlimited golf couldn't cure.  But one day, while picking up my 8-year-old son, who we'll call "Colton", it all changed for me. By pure accident, I learned how the most minute effort in choosing my apparel for the day had opened me up to a freedom I had never known before.

Before I explain this ground breaking revelation to you, let me share a couple of things.  First off, I am a prick.  I admit it.  I mean, I'm not outwardly rude, mean or insensitive to people--but deep down I really hate just about everyone.  And no, it's not the hatred of the KKK or the Nazis' -it's more of a general annoyance of everyone who isn't me.  Obviously, the ones I love are the ones that I am most annoyed by--because of proximity.  That doesn't mean that a normal passer-by or the random asshole driver can't make me fucking nuts, though.  Don't worry, years of drinking and mild amateur therapy have aided in the tempering of my prickness.

Secondly, I could not write this piece without professing my undying allegiance to the vintage concert t-shirt.  Those who know me well are aware of my sick and obsessive fascination with rock concerts and more importantly, rock concert t-shirts.  I have hundreds of them...seriously hundreds.  After college  my mother determined that I could have paid for two semesters at the grossly overpriced Jesuit institution I "attended" college at with all the money I spent on concert tickets and t-shirts.  Although I rarely wear them these days, I simply could not exist without my t-shirts from every Ted Nugent, Alice Cooper, Rolling Stones, Van Halen, The Who, Rush and Cheap Trick tours since the mid 1980's.  I love you each of you, concert tees--you complete me...and the pit stains prove it.

With that being said, I will now reveal to you a wonderful little nugget that has set me free mentally and really spiritually, as well.  On a warm afternoon I went to pick up my son Colton from school.  It was a beautifully warm late spring day.  So, of course I had the car windows down blaring some classic rock.  With spring fever in full bloom, Colton ran to my car that was positioned in front of his school.  He opened the door and buckled himself in the backseat.  Little did I know, in a matter of moments my life would forever change.

As I pulled my car out to proceed into traffic, I missed a red truck in my vehicle's blind spot.  I had nearly been hit by an oncoming junkyard truck.  It was all my fault.  I knew it--and take 100% responsiblity for the driving error.  I pulled my car back and the red truck pulled right up next to mine.  Please note that I had my windows all open--and my 8-year-old in tow.  The red junkyard truck got next to me and an unshaven hillrod with a mesh trucker hat, cigarette hanging from his dirty moustached mouth and a worn slightly ripped red t-shirt leaned over and yelled, "You're a Goddamned Stupid Mother Fucker.  You almost hit me, Asshole!"

Remember what I told you before--I am a prick.  Normally, I would've engaged in verbal sparring with this dickhead and/or asked if he would like to get physical (by this I do not mean the Olivia Newton-John kind..that song's gay --right??).  But not this time.  No way.  I just took it.  I smiled and even offered a conciliatory apology and then politely asked that this man better control his language in a school zone.  All this, to a douchebag, hillbilly assclown who didn't deserve it.

Why did I do this?  What happened to Moby "The Prick"?  I know, you probably think it was because I felt that I needed to set an example to my young son.  Well you are wrong, my kids have routinely seen my flash the only gang sign I know (aka "The Bird") to bad drivers and they are fully aware of what Daddy's "bad words" are.  No, I relented from this jerk off and turned the proverbial "other cheek" because I was wearing a COLLARED SHIRT.

In my mind, I feared that I was no better than this buttplug.  Hell, he had a real paying job--even it if it were at a junkyard.  We were both losers with piss poor attitudes.  But it occurred to me that I was different from this dreg of society.  I had the self-worth and decency to choose to wear a Polo shirt that had a collar on it.  It was the one thing (aside from my zip code) that separated me from society's lowest of the low-lifes.

Little did this grizzled hillrod know that his insults could not affect me.  His filthy sentiments bounced off me as if I were wearing a "Insult Proof Vest".  I had discovered "Hillbilly Teflon"!  And the best part of all, the collared shirt allowed me to unreasonably judge this fuck and make ridiculous (or maybe not so ridiculous) assumptions about this guy's life.  For example, my supposition is that this taint stick left the scene of our "altercation", picked up a twelver of Meister Brau, then kicked his old dog, went to the dirt track, spent his whole $40/week paycheck on nachos and funnel cakes and topped the evening off by fucking his cousin...again.  My Lord, I felt WONDERFUL!!!  My collared shirt had lifted me from the dumps and set me free!!

From that day forward this Domestic God has chosen to always wear a collared shirt in public.  I love my concert t- shirts--but they don't give me the extra prickness I need to keep my mouth shut and unfairly judge these detestable wastes of human existence.  

So if you cut someone off in traffic, hit into somebody on the golf course, act rude at a fast food joint or just are a general piece of shit to your fellow-man--and you're not wearing a collared shirt--you may have thought that you won that battle.  But, just know that the guy that you wronged--the one who was wearing the collared shirt and  politely waves you off as he quietly goes on his way-- it is he who has ultimately won the war...you Meister Brau drinking cousin fucker.

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1 Comment

Daisy said:

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"Grizzled hillrod" and "hillbilly teflon," I want to remember those so I can use them someday! HAHAHA! You're cracking me up here, Moby. Thanks for the laugh. Have a great weekend!

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