Behold Diaper Genie and his trusty manservant Dapper Gene—stalwart defenders of daytime dryness—then stay tuned for Diaper Genie (After Dark)… where tears are only the tip of the moistberg.

Kid slipped on a banana speell.

There are, I imagine, worse things that can happen when your kid finds the back massager.

Next time, on the continuing adventures of Dad Bod & Bad Tod: Tod gets up to no good, and Dad pulls a hammie trying to stop him.

I’m not saying it definitely happened… but it would explain why “we are a way for the universe to know itself” sounds *exactly* like smart-guy speak for “whoever smelt it dealt it.” #Perspective

Just thinking about how funny it would’ve been if, right after saying “The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff,” Carl Sagan had ripped a massive fart.

Me channeling Shaggy, him a scuba snack.

Ain’t I a chopstinker?

I bet a fun nostalgic game with old New Year’s photos is: “Did my baby know I’m drunk—and when did he definitely figure it out?”

Like this holiday season, I made sure to snap a few of these suckers just in case things get weird for Jews here and he has to start a new life at the North Pole as an elf. I’m assuming if it happens, it’ll be before he hits his growth spurt.

As a parent, you’re always thinking about how to improve your kid’s future chances—even in little, subtle ways they won’t notice.

I need one for actual jump scares—like when I’m driving and a song drops a police siren, or when some jerk in an Instagram video casually says “Alexa” and my house goes full Winter Soldier.

Trigger Warning: this video may activate your domestic sleeper cell (sorry).

A lot of people hate trigger warnings—not me. I think they’re a helpful tool; I just think we’re using them wrong.

I don’t need a heads-up that a movie’s ending is a real bummer.

In which my son demonstrates an early aptitude for our people’s most ancient tradition: complaining, even when everything is going great.

🎶 Spider-mom, spider-mom
Makes him think he’s the spider-bomb 🎶
Does he know she’s doing the work?
Nope! Thinks it’s all him, what a jerk 🎶
Look out! It’s male privilege spider-boy 🎶

(In the case of the flame-retarder, it’s less “shine” and more a smoldering, OSHA-compliant glow.)

Raising a child in Southern California is basically the same as anywhere else—just with a bit more emphasis on earthquake and fire prep.

That’s where the Skymall neck massager and the Skymall flame-retardant neck massager really shine.

OK look—I’m gonna be honest, my sweet, darling child… when I said ‘let he without sin cast the first stone,’ this is not what I had in mind.

Gonna get Toddles a starter job as one of those night elves that fixes shoes. I figure since it’s magic it kind of sits outside the whole “child labor law” system, and his bedtime already lives in the land of myth, so 🤷‍♂️🧝

My kid may or may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but you can certainly tell he wants it.

“Why do we fall, Bruce?”
So we can learn to bump our heads.
Also, my name’s not Bruce.
Sorry—I’ve fallen down a lot.

Having a kid opens your life up to all sorts of magical, eye-opening experiences. For instance, it’s one of the few times you actually get to sleep *under* the wet spot.

Slo-mo is great because before it you had to just imagine what it was like to be a cheerleader for a jeering team of whale demons on the moon.

Teaching my kid method acting by lying about when he’s on tape.

He’s either gonna be a phenomenal actor or a guy who spends the next 40 years having flop-sweat nightmares he can’t quite explain.

Haven’t checked the parenting books, but teaching my kid spoons are instruments first and utensils second feels like a recipe for an eating disorder. On the bright side, at least it’ll be on tempo.

Neuroscientifically speaking, every time you remember something you’re rewriting the memory—like a photocopy of a photocopy—which means, technically, this is applied neuroscience, not gaslighting my toddler.

The fact remains: my son has never been seen in the same room as the Cutie Bomber.

Also Spider-Man. Also Superman.

So by the transitive property, Spider-Man is Superman—which explains why neither has done anything about the Cutie Bomber.