Atticus sets them up and Zane knocks them down. Whether it is Atticus pulling his best Chevy Chase and throwing a perfectly timed pratfall in the middle of the aisle at Target, or Zane spitting a weeks worth of mushed peas into my hair, they are always on. I get covered in more fruit than the front row at a Gallagher show. I get drenched in more spit than the Pittsburgh Steelers down at half-time (WTF?)
I am no longer the funny one. I used to be the star of my own home, now I’m the third fiddle. My humor is too dirty, too highbrow, too slice of life to be appreciated by the only audience I can captivate, that being the comedy competition and a couple of dogs.
Even the dogs are funny, although a bit annoying, with their ability to open the front door from outside by the force of their thick heads, bullrushing into the house like a fur-covered Lenny and Squiggy.
I’ve become Carmine in the sitcom of our life. The “Big Ragu”. I am upstaged under my own roof. I resort to tickles and raspberries. They get the job done, but the edge is softer than the material I used to traffic in.
My dreams of being the next Bill Murray aside, I have stumbled into a new gig. Celebrity dad. I have studied the masterful techniques of the Culkin and Olsen families, respectively. As you may have guessed, I’m known for big pimpin’, so whoring out my kids for juice commercials is a no-brainer and a financial windfall.
Little Rascals 2006. The Road to Disneyland. Thing 1 & Thing 2 Meet the Talent Agent. All possibilities. When Atticus Met Zane. The Blue’s Clues Brothers. It could happen.