Godlike Parenthood

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name…”

My motorcycle sold the same week my daughter was born. My wife, terrified of our new role as parents, was convinced I would be road kill and she’d be alone to raise our daughter. So I reluctantly put the bike on the market and had three full price offers before the week was through. 

My daughter’s birth was also the catalyst of my personal faith crisis. Fitting that as the years rolled by, I would soon buy another bike and the time spent on the lonely road would give me the opportunity to explore my apostasy. 

I’ll back up a bit. God is allegedly our father in heaven, a name he prefers. Clearly, parenthood is an important aspect in God’s eternal plan for our existence. Of the many names God is known by, the one he asks us to use when we address him in prayer is the name that speaks to his nature as a loving and attentive father. 

I always went with those descriptions because up to that point I could only assume what parenthood was like. 

I remember vividly a moment alone with my newborn daughter late that first night in the hospital. My wife, exhausted from a grueling labor process, was sleeping soundly. I held my tiny daughter in my arms, and felt an emotion that was as new and foreign to me as it was cliché. I knew then my child was the most important responsibility I would ever have. I vowed I would do whatever I could to protect her and ensure her opportunity to pursue happiness.

The problem was, I had no idea how to be a father. Certainly I had good influences in my life. My father raised me to be a hardworking and honest man. But being the student of a great teacher does not automatically make one an equally superior teacher. 

I had to figure out how to be the best father I could. A scripture I had read (and glossed over) many times began to needle its way deep into my brain. I read it often. The scripture comes from Jesus when he preached the Sermon on the Mount:

“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.

Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?

Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?

If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him? (Matthew 7:7-11)

I like that scripture because it speaks of a love I could never comprehend. A love so perfect, that men like me can only aspire to it. The scripture is only a few short verses, but it gives a blueprint for the type of parent I want to be. One who gives my children good gifts like confidence, education, and love. 

Before I knew the love a father could feel for his children, these scriptural verses were poetic but meaningless. My wife and I have since added two more children to our small family, and the same feelings of protector, provider, and parent accompany me as soon as I meet each new child. 

I make no claim to being a perfect father. I often feel like I fall short. There are times I wish I spent more quality time with my kids. But I feel like I’ve given them a good life, and they know they are safe with me and I would never do them any harm. 

Perhaps, then, you can understand my building confusion over the years over a god who speaks of such love and compassion but who seems so willing to murder and destroy his children. 

The scriptures are filled with examples of man being commanded by god to murder others. Additionally, there are many stories of god himself committing mass murder and even genocide upon his so-called beloved children. I’ve been upset and disappointed in the actions of my kids before, but the carelessness and disregard for life displayed by our “father in heaven” is the attitude of a deranged sociopath. 

I’m not a perfect parent, but I have a hard time picturing a scenario where I would want my own children, who I love dearly, to be murdered for disobeying me. I am not god. I have better morals than that. 

Doug Reviews 'Murica!

Pretend for a moment America has an avatar that embodies all the best things about this country. A living personification of our most deeply held beliefs on duty, honesty, freedom, liberty, bravery, strength, justice, and kindness. You are probably picturing someone like Superman or Captain America. That’s good.

Now, I want you to imagine that avatar has an evil twin. This twin is certainly all things American, but instead of symbolizing all the good about America, the evil twin displays everything wrong with our nation.

Bad news, everyone. Evil twin actually exists. I sat next to him at a poker table in Las Vegas last week.

He strolled arrogantly up to the table and sat down with a smirk and an air of superiority unrivaled by…actually, you know what? I’m not being fair here. Let me start over.

He rolled up arrogantly to the table, teetering atop his overworked Rascal Scooter with a smirk and an air of superiority.

As he barked at the employee who was helping him move the actual chair out of the way so he could park up close to the table, I took a moment to lean back and get the full picture.

He was shaped like a half-melted soft-serve cone, where everything has sort of cascaded down and settled around the mouth of the cone.  His head was perfectly round, and his pink face looked as if another, bigger face was trying to squeeze its way out through the jowls and forehead.

His beady eyes looked out from behind enormous wire-rimmed glasses and caught me staring. He smiled the smile of the third-grader who thinks nobody noticed his fart. He reached out a Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man hand and in a voice that sounded like bacon hitting a frying pan in the Deep South, said “Hah! I’m Ran-deee.”

I did my best to shake hands without touching him, and immediately brushed the sticky crumbs off my palms that he had somehow passed to me.

He had not been dealt two hands before he called a waitress over and ordered (I kid you not) chicken fried steak and a strawberry milkshake. This was sometime around midnight on a Tuesday.

While he waited for his food, Ran-deee lost a fairly big hand. He flopped a set of three’s, and called the guy with Ace-King of diamonds a “suck out” when the third diamond hit the board on the river (Quick translation for my non poker-playing friends: this was Randeee’s way of letting the table know he feels he is the only one who should be allowed to play poker, because everyone else disrespects the game by beating him with what he views as inferior cards).

Randee’s food came, and I began to notice he made a disturbing little “HERP” sound every time he shoveled a new pile of chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes into his mouth. I swear, it was as if his own mouth was screaming “Halt!” in an effort to prevent the onslaught of incoming calories.   

The Australian gentleman sitting across from me and Randee was drinking a Red Bull energy drink. Upon discovering this, Randee felt obligated to inform the Australian that studies have confirmed major health risks associated with energy drinks. We all stared blankly at Randee the way Mormon missionaries would look at Lindsey Lohan as she gave them tips to staying sober.

An hour went by. Randee, sweaty and breathless from either an unnoticed heart attack or the task of moving the milkshake from his tray to his lips, pushed his chips all in with a straight. I called, feeling my full house was probably good. It was.

Randee went from pink to red to purple. He had what appeared to be a stroke, then slammed his cards to the table, accused me of being a “flippin donkey!” and stormed off. To his credit, it is not an easy task to storm off when you have to first back your scooter up and perform a five-point turn.

As he whirred away, I couldn’t help but hear the words to that sacred Lee Greenwood anthem, “…Cause there ain’t no doubt that I love this laaaand, God bless the U.S.A!”

Thanks Randee!

Doug Reviews a Crappy Situation

Louis CK does a comedy bit about the absurdity of people complaining about their flights. He goes on to remind us that no one is interested in the minor difficulties we experience while partaking of the miracle of flight. Having said that, I think even the best stand up comedian around would cut me some slack and let me tell about the flight I took yesterday.   

Let me explain.

The flight from Salt Lake City, Utah to Pocatello, Idaho is only a short 50-minute hop. To make the journey, passengers are carefully stuffed into what I call “Delta Minis.”  Tiny planes that often force me to paraphrase a quote from Zoolander, “What is this, a jet for ants!?!?! It needs to be at least…three times bigger!”

I was the last one to board. I know you are supposed to get on the plane when they announce your specific boarding zone, but in situations where it is assigned seating, I like to get on last and survey the plane for the best available seat, not necessarily the one I’ve been assigned. 

This flight was no exception. As soon as I hunched over, bent my knees, and duck walked onto the plane, I noticed the front solo seat was empty, which I quickly remedied (front solo seat means each row is three seats: two on one side of the aisle, and then a line of single seats).

I was the last on board, so it wasn’t long before we were air born.

Salt Lake was windy that day, with gusts up to 25 mph. But Pocatello was even windier, and somewhere between the two we hit some major turbulence. And so did my stomach.

It was the kind of stomach trouble that brings on that brief, sweaty panic that you may not be able to hold it, but then subsides in a moment of instant relief. I figured I could hold it until we touched down, and went back to reading my book. The last thing I want to do is take a 2 on this itty-bitty plane that I wasn’t entirely sure even had a restroom.

A few minutes went by, and another wave of discomfort washed over me. But this wasn’t your typical wave. My body was telling my brain very clearly, “I know you didn’t want this, but you will definitely be pooping on this plane. I’ll give you 37 seconds to decide the best place to proceed.”

Brushing aside a stern warning glare from the stewardessman, I unbuckled and dashed to the back of the plane (Due to the high turbulence factor, we had been asked to remain in our seats). I wedged myself into the bathroom and tried unsuccessfully to close the door. Yeah, unsuccessfully.

This might be a good time to remind my readers that I am 6’4” and 230 pounds when barefoot and naked.  The bathrooms in this little Willy Wonka aircraft are made for someone who is no taller than 4’11” and weighs no more than 72 pounds. 

Clock ticking, I had to make an embarrassing decision. I stepped out of the bathroom, turned my back to it, bent over and sort of backed up over the toilet like I was backing a truck under a trailer hitch. A Mexican guy looked over at me and we made brief eye contact before the front of the plane quickly caught his attention.

I was able to get my body hovering over the toilet, pull the accordion doors shut and drop trough just in time to unleash hell. I’ll spare you the details, but rest assured it was about as bad as it can get. Add to that the knowledge that my fellow passengers could hear me banging around in there as I smashed against the walls or hit my head on the door with every bump in the sky.

(Try to imagine yourself sitting in an outhouse in the sky. Then, imagine God strolling up to that outhouse and deciding, just for the fun of it, to grab the outhouse and shake it like a pop can)

Despair began to sink in. There is no feeling more hopeless than sitting on a toilet in the sky during rough turbulence, knowing that no matter how strong your will, you are not going anywhere until your body says so.

In the depth of my despair, however, I found a gritty resolve.  It was the grim acceptance that in the event of a crash, that spot was where they would find my remains. I didn’t care if they landed the plane and deboarded, I was there until I was done. It was a new state of enlightenment for me.

Things got better.  Things weren’t that bad. I made my way back to the front of the plane, fellow passengers averting their gaze, stewardessman looking past me, red with rage and disgust. I didn’t care, I had learned an important lesson.

Sure, I hope I never see any of my fellow passengers again. And yeah, Skywest probably won’t let me fly their airline again. But I learned that life can get pretty crappy sometimes (of course I used that pun), but with time it goes away. And over time, you forget about the bad times and simply end up with nothing more than a funny story to tell.

Doug Reviews School Prayer

Unfortunately for you, I am a lazy and occasional libertarian. Every once in a while, I feel inspired to offer my two cents regarding the political operations of this wacky planet Earth. 

The topic on a local news radio talk show this morning was prayer in schools. In case you’ve been in a Turkish coma for the past few decades, let me sum up: One group wants to make sure prayers to God in the name of Jesus Christ are being said in schools. Another group would like to prevent the saying of those prayers in state institutions, like schools and General Motors.

Since I belong to the group who supports prayer, I feel like it is my responsibility to stand up for the group that does not. I count at least two atheists among my group of very best friends in the world. Since I know they are amazing people who live with a sense of morality I strive to emulate, I’d like to use the next few paragraphs to defend their right to “worship how, what, or where they may.”

The radio host had written an Op-Ed piece about the importance of prayer in school, and spent his time this morning really emphasizing the soundness of his points. I’ll try to sum up his defense of schools prayer through bullet points:

1.     This country was built on the common belief in a higher power- And if we’ve learned anything, it’s that the Founding Fathers were infallible geniuses, could make no mistakes, and were all secretly Mormon.

(Oh, and just a reminder, the country was established on the ideal that people should have freedom from religion. Remember how in England they were being forced to accept the church they didn’t believe, so they fled to find a place where they could believe how they choose? It’s a similar story to the one of the Mormons crossing the plains in search of a place where the government did not dictate their religion to them.)

Anyway, the Founding Fathers debate has a lot of going back and forth about their true, actual religious beliefs. So I’m gonna skip it. I will take a minute to list a few things they might have got wrong: women’s right to vote, black people counting as an actual whole human being, and fashion sense.

2.    People who don’t like/believe in prayer should just get over it and sit quietly until it’s over- To be honest, I feel this way too. Because currently, the prayer being offered lines up closely with my religion and therefore seems no big deal to me. The problem is, I have no right to represent those who believe differently than me.

I do wonder, however, how I would feel if I went to watch my daughter sing in a school assembly and they began by laying out each child’s prayer mat, turned them toward Mecca and chanted Islamic prayers while prostrating on the ground to kiss the floor.  Would I still sit quietly and “get over it”?

Probably not. I’d be nervous about what creating and living under an Islamic state could mean to my Mormon family and me. And that’s only because a few thousand Muslims give the other 1.4 Billion a bad name.

I mean, it could be worse, I could be a non-Christian in 1412 and been subjected to state sponsored disemboweling.  Or I could have been an attractive young woman in 1692 accused of refusing to have sex with a married man witchcraft (After all, Exodus 22:18 does say “thou shalt not permit a witch to live”).

I guess these thoughts gives me at least enough insight to try some empathy.  

3.    “Atheists are simply jealous of the happiness religious people get from their beliefs” (this was actually said by the radio guy today)- Unfortunately, this is the kind of thinking that gives us religious types a bad name. Atheists are no more or less happy than Christians, just like guys named Paul or no more or less handsome than guys named Steve.

And if I could take it a step further, I would guess that a person who makes this type of comment is reaching. Perhaps in an effort to mask their own struggles with their faith, they would find something easy to which they can attribute to religion. This morning’s version was “the happiness that comes knowing we can see our families again after death.”

Yes, the one common denominator I’ve noticed in my atheist pals is that they really hate their families and are always talking about how exciting it will be at death to finally get rid of the bozos and cease to exist.

Look, I don’t care what you believe. But this world is filled with a lot of people, and if we each believe the world should conform to the standards of our particular chosen religion, we will continue to see the fruits of that battle. They lead to a world filled with hate, terrorism, torture, war, rape, death and murder, all done in the name of my god being better at being god than your god.

Perhaps we should all take the radio host’s advice and relax a little bit, and if we are doing something in a setting paid for by the tax dollars of the collective, we should try to show as little preferential treatment to certain groups as possible.

Doug Reviews Jason Collins

I’m not going to try to format and edit this tonight. I’m a blogger. Bloggers gotta blog.

Jason Collins came out this week, declaring he is both black and gay. I already knew he was black, mostly because I spent years watching his twin brother Jarron be not as good as I wished he would be playing for the Utah Jazz. So figuring out the black part was easy for me, as it usually is easy to tell when you see someone who chose to be black.

It’s not as easy to tell with someone who chose to be gay. I mean, now that Jason Collins has been in enough men’s locker rooms to decide he is a gay man, will he start running up and down the court with his palms out? Will he be sassy with snappy one-liners in post-game interviews? Will he waive a huge Puerto Rican flag when his team wins?

My guess is he probably won’t do those things, because he didn’t decide to suddenly be gay. In fact, he probably never decided to be gay. You know how I know? Because I never decided to be straight. Sex with men never even crossed my teenage mind as a potential option. To paraphrase a friend of mine, “If you think being gay is a choice because at some point in life you had to make that choice…you’re probably gay.” --JM

Someone I consider a great friend shared this image with me:

Now, this was not actually tweeted by Tim Tebow. It is a phony Twitter account that has been picked up by the anti-gay movement as a way to complain about the totally unfair way Christians are persecuted in this country while “the gays” meanwhile, are throwing their gayness in our face everywhere we look.

I have a problem with this tweet. Tim Tebow is about 3 billion times more famous than Jason Collins, and EVERYONE knows Tim Tebow is super Christian. You know how we know? Because he puts his Christianity on display every chance he gets. He puts bible verses on his eye patch. He quotes the bible in press conference interviews. He gets endorsement gigs based on his faith.

Most importantly, let’s not forget his public prayers. The image of Tebow kneeling in prayer has become so common, “Tebowing’ became a thing.

There was once a guy who was almost as righteous as Tim Tebow. One day, he was giving a talk to some of his followers while they sat on a hillside. Speaking on the subject of prayer, he said:

“And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.

 But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.

 It’s no Shakespeare, but I think it’s pretty good stuff (just make sure that when you finish praying in your closet, you don’t accidentally come out of the closet).

Anyway, the tweet above is probably true. If Jason Collins plans to prance to center court before every game to make out with his boyfriend, and thanks his gay friends every time he scores a basket, and tells the media that being gay is what helped him win each game, yeah, we’re all going to get a little fed up hearing about his being gay.

Secondly, Jason Collins IS a hero. Just like Jackie Robinson was the first black man in baseball, Jason Collins is the first openly gay athlete in a major sport. Hopefully, his actions will inspire other closeted athletes to come out without fear of what it might do to their careers.

No, Collins is not the superstar Jackie Robinson was. No, there is no rule prohibiting gays in major sports. But let’s face it; this is a big story because of the step forward in society it could represent. It could lead to more tolerant adults, and tolerant adults trickle down to tolerant children.

My father taught me an important lesson growing up. My dad and I share a passion for the music of Elton John. I knew growing up that Elton John was gay. I didn’t really know what that meant, but I knew it didn’t matter. As long as the stereo in my dad’s old Datsun pickup kept cranking out Tiny Dancer, Candle in the Wind, I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues, Rocketman, Daniel, Levon, The One, Don’t Go Breaking My Heart, and Pinball Wizard, we didn’t care about the gay thing.

And that’s how it’s got to be in sports. Sports can lead the way. I have a dream that one day, my three children will be judged not for their sexual orientation, but by the measure of their vertical leap.  And on that day, we will all join hands and sing together in that homosexual spiritual, “Someday we’ll find it, the Rainbow Connection. The lovers, the dreamers, and me!”      

The Pitfalls of a Perfect Life

I overheard someone use the term “A case of the Mondays.” Another person, when I asked them how they were doing, responded, “It’s Monday,” and expected me to think that was an actual answer to my question. I notice more and more how unhappy people are in their jobs and in their lives.

Sometimes I wonder if there are other people who experience life the same way I do. I highly recommend anyone looking for a way to be happy and content to adopt my style of living. I feel an almost constant flow of satisfaction with my place in creation. It is highly fulfilling. If you’d like more information on how to feel enlightened, send me a personal email. It’s pretty amazing. I’m not going to give you the whole entire “how to” on awesome living here on the blog. What I will do, is tell you the things to avoid that will throw you off of Doug’s path to Nirvana.  

Unlike most religions, there are only three major challenges or pitfalls you will face when you take on Doug-like living. In the spirit of full disclosure, here are those challenges you’ll face:

1.       Give a Penny; Take a Penny- Perfect concept. Helps me make exact change when I’m short, and gives me a place to unload small coins so I don’t have a bunch a pennies jingling around in my pockets all day.

If that was all there was to the system, it would be near perfect. But until we have robot cashiers, there will always be a glitch in the give a penny, take a penny system.

 

a.       Give a Penny- When the cashier hands me my change, I immediately sift through it to separate any pennies. I then locate the tray and discard the copper.

That’s when things get awkward. Inevitably, in our customer service world, the cashier’s instinct is to thank me. While that is nice of them, it is improper context for gratitude. I cannot, in good conscience, accept their thanks. I mean, it’s not like I’m giving the loose change to them as some sort of tip or something. So now, not only do I not know how to respond, I also feel unnecessarily guilty for not leaving them a tip, which, admittedly, would be out of place for a $1.89 transaction at a convenience store, but the thought is still there, giving me anxiety.

Really, I should be thanking them for providing a receptacle for my unwanted loose change. Upon receiving the thanks, I turn red and go into one of those responses meant to deflect the thanks, but these responses for me are never very smooth. They seem to contain just a few too many words to make any sense, and then I feel obligated to stay and explain myself. The explanation never fails to confuse and slightly annoy the cashier. And if there is a line behind me, it’s worse because I talk faster, make less sense, and feel even more awkward.

Finally, every now and then I’ll accidentally slip a dime into the tray. Well, now the dilemma. I don’t want to be giving up my dimes, but everyone looks at me like I’m a total scumbag when I try to “steal” my dime back from the tray. I usually just end up leaving the dime for fear of the judging eyes all around me. The only problem with leaving the dime is then the cycle begins again, and the cashier feels obligated to take the “thank you’s” up a notch because now mister big shot is leaving dimes. I can see it in their eyes, “Just like the rich, treating dimes the way the rest of us treat pennies. You disgust me!”

 

For me, at the point that I accidentally throw a dime in the tray, I look up at the cashier when they say thanks, I say sorry, and we both break eye contact, confused.

b.      Take a Penny- This side of the transaction is a little less stressful, but can be equally challenging. First of all, occasionally you get the cashier who looks disgusted at you for abusing the system, as if you are actually holding a gun and yelling “stick ‘em up!” then taking money from their secret stash set aside for their children’s college fund.

More importantly, there needs to be some sort of unwritten rule that we all know about how many pennies you can take from the tray. I’ll admit it; I have totally taken advantage of the system. If my total is $2.09, I will hand over a five dollar bill and then search through the penny tray in hopes of nine pennies (or better yet, four pennies and a nickel some rich a-hole left in there).

I realize by doing this, though, I am exploiting the system. If I clean out the tray, the poor sucker behind me is left helpless and will have to end up breaking a bill and the whole cycle begins again.

I propose a three-coin max on the take a penny side of the aisle. If you can reach your total with any combination of three coins, more power to you. If it takes more than three coins you’ll just have to break the bill. 

 

2.       Tip Lines- Have you ever looked down at your debit card pay slip at a self-serve frozen yogurt shop and been surprised to find a line for adding a tip? This is always the most confusing moment of my day. The appeal of these frozen yogurt shops is that I get to do all the work. I get to load my jug with as much cake batter frozen yogurt as physics will allow. I get to pile gummy bears and cookie dough chunks like I’m playing Jenga. I get to drench the whole concoction in chocolate sauce.

So when I bring my creation to the scale and delicately hand my card over to the overly bubbly teenager whose eyes get bigger as the scale reaches weights reserved for small dogs and newborns, what exactly am I tipping her for? She’s done nothing.

Here’s the kicker: I can’t not tip. I have a buddy that will draw one of those angry zeros with a line through them in the tip space, and I admire him for it. But I can’t do it. Nor can I tip something like a dollar for fear that the teenager will think I’m a cheap, patronizing douche. So now, I’m tipping something like 25% just so I don’t worry about the tip thing for the rest of the night.

Small business owners of America. Please, get rid of those unnecessary tip lines on the credit card receipt!

 

3.       “Just Pick them Off”- This occurs more frequently than you would imagine, and it is infuriating. Let’s say you love olives. You and I want to order a pizza, and you suggest olives. I then tell you I don’t like olives. When you respond, “Oh, you can just pick them off” it is very dickish. You are saying that because you like olives, picking through one’s food to remove olives doesn’t sound like a big deal, because for you, you don’t mind the taste residue that olives leave behind.

Let me explain something to you. YOU ARE AN INCONSIDERATE BUTTHOLE. Just because you like something, doesn’t mean the whole world is stupid if they don’t like it, too. And the other thing, trying to talk me into liking something is equally infuriating. Look, I don’t want to not like certain foods, my tongue just tells me which ones are good and which ones are no good. Why are you trying to diminish my good times by trying to force me to eat food you think I should like?

I’ve never understood that level of narcissism. “I like a thing and if the people I’m with don’t like it, tough. They can either get over it or starve.” Just so you know, I choose starve in every one of those scenarios, and it just makes me feel like I am completely unimportant and worthless in your eyes.

 

Furthermore, when I do choose starve as my option because you refuse to compromise, I don’t even make a big deal of it. So it is always unsettling when you omnivores then decide to make a big deal out of it and make me feel like I’m the rude one for not eating what you prepared. Stop being personally offended that I don’t like olives on my pizza, as if it is a personal affront to you.

That’s it. Those are the three challenges that can throw an obstacle in your path to enlightenment. Avoid these three social situations, and you, too, can enjoy Doug-style living. A life of carefree wonder and excitement. Gone will be the days of Sunday Night Blues or “Having a Case of the Mondays.” You’ll love your job, you’ll love your friends and family, and most importantly, you’ll love life.