I’ve never had huge aspirations for this blog. I still don’t. Here at the blog conference in Las Vegas there are a lot of speakers that talk about monetizing your readers and how to make a career out of your passion. I’ve been around long enough to know that can be a very difficult goal to attain. It’s not my goal.

I’m lucky that I have a day job, and I’m happy. I work with one of my favorite people (boss) and he allows me to bring my dog to work.

This has and will continue to be a place where I write about whatever nonsense flows into my head. Sometimes the content is decent, other times it sucks. Thankfully, most of you forgive the bad days. I try to do three things in each post – be vulnerable, honest, and funny. These are my blogging values and most of the time I achieve ’em.

At this conference there’s a similar thread woven into most every speaker’s presentation. Engagement.

I judge myself as having done only a mediocre job of this over the years. I can be selfish. There are people that write comments who are bloggers that I’ve never read. Those who tweet out posts of mine that I don’t thank. Comments that go unanswered. Emails I receive and never write back.

This is not how to build a strong community.

I’m not entirely selfish. I addressed dozens of holiday cards this year and then accidentally threw them away. I’ll do this card exchange again next year, as I know some of you get a real kick out of it. I still have the cards you sent me over the  years. Also, I’ve done well at replying to most every blog comment I’ve received over the past six months.

I realized today that you weren’t getting email notifications on replies I made to your comments. I always wondered why virtually none of you ever replied to my reply. I have replied to thousands of comments over the years. You never saw them, most likely.

So, a few things have changed.

First, you will receive email notifications if  anyone  (including me) responds to a comment you make on a post.

Second, each time you post a comment a link will show up underneath with your most recent blog post (if you’re a blogger). This way more of you will find each other’s work.

Third, I’m going to do a better job replying to tweets, Facebook comments, and emails. I have always read each one, and I can’t comment on everything, but I’ll be more active.

I’m not down on myself, but there is room for improvement. Your readership means a great deal to me.

Oh, and get this – I’m currently fighting with my dickhead app developer. The current one I have is awesome, but the old one f’d me. He lost a file which makes it impossible to update the Android app. I’ll have to delete the current app from Google Play. Then you’ll delete it from your Android phone and reinstall the new one. What a pain in the dork.

I haven’t found the words to convey how angry I am.  If I had more airlines miles I’d fly to China and put a chopstick through this jerk’s appendix. Apple users, you’re okay, and a new version of my app will be available in a few weeks.

I’ll ask that you collectively pray to your higher power that someone hurts him deeply – like a stranger who points at his shoes and laughs at them for being out of style. Some people are sensitive to that stuff.

This year I’m attending New Media Expo (NMX), BlogHer, Type A Parent (mind you, I’m not a parent), and the AimingLow Non-Con. I’m also currently on the waiting list for the Erma Bombeck Humor Writer’s Conference. If I could take more time off work I probably would attend Social Media Marketing World. Okay, enough of this nerdy list. You don’t care.

Currently sitting in an airport getting ready to board a flight to Las Vegas. I don’t even like Las Vegas. Well, not really. It’s a little too crazy for me and I’m kind of vanilla. I don’t frequent strip clubs, I’m booze-free, and I haven’t the stomach for true gambling. I’ll play a few hands of blackjack, but will stop after losing $100. And I’ll be super-pissed about even that.

I wasn’t originally going to attend NMX this year. It would have been be my third year in a row and I thought a break was in order.  Then, a month ago they did some brilliant marketing.

I received an email telling me that my podcast had been nominated for an award. They host a podcast awards ceremony and some big podcasters show up. I haven’t looked into it, but I suspect I’m nominated in the humor category. I’m not sure how the nominations work, so if one of you did it, thanks. I won’t win, but hey, bragging rights. My dog and cat will be so impressed!

As soon as I read through the nomination my ego inflated and I decided right then and there that I was going to the conference. Oh, back to their brilliance. What pushed me over the edge was that they provided a coupon for half-off admission because of the nomination. I have a lot of frequent flyer miles and the suites at the Rio are only like $40 a night. All in all, it’s not an expensive trip.

Well, I do splurge at least once per Vegas trip and do one of those $60 buffets. Sure, the food’s always disappointing, but I feel like a big shot. Last year I did the Cosmopolitan’s buffet – I felt wealthy and cool! (I’m neither)

I’m flying in a day early so I can have some fun. I don’t have anything planned, but obviously there’s plenty to do. I’d like to take in a show if I can find something interesting.

Here’s an ego-deflater. I sent out a tweet a few weeks back asking followers if they wanted to do a reader meet-up. I’ve done this before in a other cities and it’s been a good time. I figured since I have around 100k followers I’d get a decent-sized number of interested peeps.

I received exactly three responses.

Now, I’m thrilled that anyone wants to hang out with me. Three people is better than none! However, I know from organizing events like this that most people won’t end up coming. I’m looking at a realistic number of one person coming to have a drink with me. And, while that would make for a great blog post, I feel like that interaction is too personal and intimate. It’s just weird.

So, for all intents and purposes I’ll be alone during my free time in Las Vegas. I’m not saddened by this reality. I’ve learned one thing when traveling by myself – with social media you’re never really alone.

If I want responses from strangers I’ll tweet out a joke. If I’d prefer my friends to remind me that I’m loved, posting a Facebook status will generate a few likes.

So, I’ll probably be a bit needier (not sure if that’s a word) than normal over the next few days. I’ll lean on you and appreciate each reply.

Thanks in advance for your validation.

Now, I’m off to craft a joke about how I believe that foreigner pee smells worse that American pee in airport bathrooms. It really does.

All you have to do is email me at dj@thoughtsfromparis.com with your address and you’ll receive one – well, if you’re of the first fifty who reply. That’s all I bought. Addressing fifty cards is a real pain in the butt!

Next, I’ll be in Las Vegas from Jan 2nd through the 6th, and if you’d like to get together for a reader meetup, shoot me a message. I promise to keep my hands to myself. It’s one of those resolution things.

Finally, I’d like to do a reader giveaway once we cross over 100k Twitter followers, so if you know a sponsor (or are a sponsor yourself) and would like to participate with a contest or game,please contact me ASAP.

I wish everyone a fun and safe holiday season and new year!

If you don’t see the video below, click here to watch.

I realized I hadn’t taken a bath in a while, and I think I was sad about something. So I took a bath. I rocked it out pretty hard in there (meaning I laid down and sat motionless for twenty minutes) and so I repeated the next day, and the day after that. I probably got four in five days.

Then I left for the blog convention in Las Vegas.

To explain what I think happened next is to talk briefly about something that transpired  unfortunately  when I was twenty. I was working out with a trainer very intensely and I tore my urethra. Leave your jokes at the door, because I know where you just went. It turns out you’re supposed to breathe out when you exert force, not in. So I was doing the bench press and breathing in when I should have been breathing out. I’ll save the details for another dedicated post to this story, but suffice it to say, the pressure localized in my John Thomas (best expression for it ever) and somehow it tore.

Now, let’s continue the story.

I’ve always been super sensitive to pressure when flying. My ears used to burn like crazy when I was a child and it can still get to me even now. I take a decongestant (actually a whole bunch of ’em) before a flight just to loosen up the old sinuses. I’ve never had an allergy, broken bone or major health issue, but I do get pain in my sinuses if I don’t take the meds.

Well, this time I forgot to bring the pills with me.

I noticed a little pressure in my sinuses on takeoff. No big deal as it didn’t hurt but I was worried about landing. Landing is always the worst for us ear-burners. And then for some reason I needed to pee three different times in the three hour flight. I reviewed my morning intake of food and drink. I had cereal and an egg McMuffin. A small water. That was all. I don’t normally urinate five times (I did two before flying) before 1pm. I just sort of found it interesting.

As we landed the pressure was a little rough, but not painful.

Later that evening I noticed I had been peeing all day long and that, please forgive me here, there started to be a little tiny bit of discomfort the moment I started going. Only like a .5 on the pain scale of ten, kind of like a little pinch. And only lasted for a second, at the beginning. Now, this has never happened before. I didn’t think too much about it and settled in for a bath. In a hotel bath that may or may not have been scrubbed prior to me sliding in.

All throughout the conference I noticed I had to go more often than usual. I was also slamming tons of water, though, as it was available in every discussion room. Each time I noticed that slight pinch and I finally realized something was up.

Not sure whether it was the many baths on  consecutive days or the air pressure, but I think I may have a UTI.

I didn’t even know dudes could get those. It’s either that or I tore my John Thomas again. Either way, something is up. Well, not up. Kind of down and broken.

When I flew in today I started thinking that I should go to the doctor but I’m too busy until next week. Then I remembered that chicks do tons of cranberries when it happens to them. I should have Google’d it because I was wrong on two counts. First, cranberries are only for preventing UTIs, and second research has come out that suggest it does nothing to prevent the infection.

I ran to the grocery after work and picked up a bottle of the pills. Also a POM juice with cranberries in it.

I will definitely get myself to the doctor if it doesn’t heal because, well, hey, it’s the John Thomas. Plus, after this cranberry thing, I’m all out of ideas. Hopefully it’s not something un-awesome like a kidney stone. Although that would give me some decent blog material.

So, I either tore my d or gave myself a UTI. Or maybe I’ve got the gout. Who knows? Either way, here’s what my next few days are going to look like, even though there’s no evidence to suggest it will help.

Today as I was attending my last session at BlogWorld I went to check my flight that was later that evening. Well, technically next morning – 12:30am. It was around two in the afternoon and I wanted to see if American had an earlier flight. I was kind of in a weird place. I had already checked out of my hotel and there was the closing keynote going on at 4pm. I really wanted to see it as it was a full television show production with a live band and Chris Hardwick. However, I knew that after the show I’d cab it to the airport and sit around for six hours before my flight.

The blog convention also are having a closing party at 8pm at a different hotel. So, if I wanted to go I’d have to grab my bags from the bellhop, jump in a cab, head over to the party, have fun, then jump back in a cab to the airport. While doable, it’s not very practical. Also, what to do between 5-8pm? I was staying at the Rio which is totally inconvenient to do anything on the strip, since it’s not walkable.

I decided that if I could find an earlier flight that evening, sometime before 12am, then I would leave the convention a little early and catch it. Taking a 12:30am flight sucks as I would get in and go directly to work.

When I loaded up the app on my phone to see what other flights were available it kept coming back with “none.” This was strange as I knew I had flight later that evening. Checked on American’s site. No flights from Las Vegas to Chicago. Hmm…

I searched through my emails on my phone. Found the record. Yeah, there it is, my flight at 12:30am – it’s right….

GODDAMMIT

I borked the date. Instead of choosing January 9th 12:30am, I had chosen January 8th, 12:30am. This is barely a mistake. I only goofed the date by thirty minutes. So, technically, I was supposed to fly out last night (or this morning) at 12:30am. I missed my flight.

I was just bragging to my family that I have never missed a flight. I cannot say this any more.

When I called American to sheepishly admit my gaffe, they were pretty understanding. I didn’t have to pay any extra to get it rerouted and everything is rebooked. Except…

They have no more flights tonight. The earliest is at 9am tomorrow. Okay, no problem. I would just ask the Rio for another night, no big deal.

GODDAMMIT

I forgot about CES which is the largest convention Las Vegas hosts each year. 150,000 people come in just to check out the latest gadgets and software. Well, they also come for one other reason, but I’m not about to go into that here. You can google and figure it out.

I made my way to the Rio’s main lobby and the line was fifty deep to register. I remember the front desk telling me this morning that I couldn’t have a late checkout because they were completely full and needed my room.

Oh, and my battery on the phone was almost dead.

Oh, and now I’ve missed Chris Hardwick, one of my podcast and comedy heroes.

It’s like, not a first world problem at this point. Minimum second world. Consider me like Egypt.

I think Cairo’s got a whole bunch of serious problems if I remember correctly. Insurgency and what not. I could be wrong though. It’s not like I do research before blogging.

I took to my trusty phone and quickly downloaded the Expedia app. I was grateful to find a hotel that was reasonable – The Plaza. It sits right at the end of Fremont Street in old Vegas. Old, dirty Vegas. The area everyone tells you to go to when you visit, but when you do, you’re totally disappointed. It sucks. But in a fun way, actually.

I rescheduled all my work meetings tomorrow so tonight I can go out and play some three dollar blackjack. You know, because I’m big time. Totally big time.

GODDAMMIT

photo credit: wbeem via photopin cc

There’s no way that last sentence was grammatically or syntactically accurate. I wish I knew stuff!

Well, I have an opportunity to redeem myself this weekend.

This Saturday I will be flying out to chilly Las Vegas for Blog World (now called New Media Expo). There will be around four thousand bloggers in attendance all there to hang out, learn junk, and network. And I won’t know even one person there.

Last year I wrote about the most fun and the most boring persons I met at BlogWorld. Since then we have stayed in touch and I would say that there has been solid,  developed friendships. Sadly both of these bozos can’t make it this year. One is pregnant and the other one’s company won’t spring for the ticket. I offered to let her crash in my room, but her husband was unhappy with this arrangement. Lame.

Now, I’m not a famous blogger by any means, but I do a respectable amount of web traffic. I’m number one on Google for “dick stories” for chrissakes. That is something, people. It’s not hyperbolic or an ego stroke to think a few of the people in attendance might be readers of this blog. But I don’t know one of them who are coming to this event.

Now, in the last post I talked about how I’m perfectly comfortable going to parties where I don’t know anyone and making friends. No big whoop. During the weekend I’ll do just fine going up and meeting people. I did this with five thousand women at BlogHer and never felt even the least bit awkward. Of course the idea of being in a group of five thousand women is exciting, in and of itself.

But two things do scare me. First are meals. I will have nobody to with whom to eat. There are but a few options. One is to find someone in a session and offer to take them to lunch. This takes balls. The next option is to approach a group of people already eating and ask to join their table of friends. This takes even more balls. Last is to just being my laptop, jump online, and eat by myself. This takes no balls.

I suspect I will do all three.

As long as I push through the initial fear of approaching strangers and adding them to dinner, then I’ll be proud of myself.

But to be clear, eating is not the scariest part of going to a conference alone.

The nighttime parties are.

Each night there are really fun and crazy parties put on by the sponsors. Now, you might think it’s easier to make friends at a bar than just walking around a convention center, but for me it’s not. I’m not exactly cutting rugs, dancing jigs, or poppin’ and lockin’ my way to the dance floor’s heartbeat. Also, I don’t drink. I can’ even order up four Harvey Wallbangers and send ’em down to the skanky chicks in the micro-minis. Also, the music is always way too loud at these things, so it’s hard to talk.

The good news is that everyone else is there pretty much by themselves. You’d think it’s all computer nerds but there hardly any nerds in attendance. It’s all passionate people who blog about food, travel, fashion, being a mom, or themselves. So, in a sense, this is another example of going to a bar all alone. The difference is that many of these people will be by themselves or with their one buddy.

You know, I just wrote myself out of the fear. I’m totally good now.

Okay, now that everything is fixed, why don’t I leave on a weird note. On 12/31/12 my traffic doubled. Why? I went to trust Google  Analytics  to find out. Turn up that I was #1 on Google that day for the lovely key phrase “New Year P**n.” I don’t think I’ve even written the p word ever on this blog. No idea. But, I am glad to get some of those perverts over here. They need to laugh, to.

Notice how I made the assumption that whoever comes over here is guaranteed to laugh? Oh yeah! I said it!

photo credit: amanky via photopin cc

Jessica is at a fashion conference and so I have the dogs to myself.

Dirk is rotund while Meepers is fit.  That’s all that is necessary to say.

Now you understand the animal situation in my bed, let me explain what else is going on this week.  On Wednesday I head to NYC for BlogHer.  It’s a blogging convention for – wait, for it – ladies.  Four thousand bloggers and their estrogen will be filling downtown New York for three days.  Why am I going?  First of all I only know like two guy bloggers.  Plus, many of my readers are also girl-bloggers.  Lastly, the website I write for, AimingLow, is hosting one of the after-parties.

The two keynotes are Katie Couric and Martha Stewart.  I very well my start menstruating during their talks.

What I learned at BlogWorld last year was that it is very important that I find my tribe.  I can’t tell you how valuable it was to meet people with a similar passion.  There are a ton of travel bloggers, mom/dad bloggers, fashion bloggers, memoir bloggers, and even one guy who bragged about how he beat cancer.  What a showoff!

Up until last year my favorite annual activity was going up to the Renaissance Faire.  Now, before you label me as “that guy who goes to Renaissance Faires” please realize I don’t dress up in the outfits. I don’t speak the queen’s  english. I don’t play D&D, and I understand the joust is fixed.  But for some reason I dig it.  There’s a lot to do and tons of great shows.  If you’ve never thrown an axe into a wall, fired a crossbow at a target, or taken down a turkey leg, I feel sorry for you.

Also, if you’ve never seen an overweight chick in a  chain-mail bikini, you simply haven’t lived.

But now I have two things I look forward to each year.  he Renaissance Faire and blog conference.  Those are my things.  Some guys go to Las Vegas and others white water raft.

You know what I just realized – not once has anyone invited me to Las Vegas nor white water rafting.  And I know my friends do stuff like that, the jerks. I hope they capsize while rafting down the Hoover Damn. (I tried to tie those two things together as best I could)

Anyhow, I wrote a post a few weeks back about  how you need heroes.  You also need fun shit that you do every year that you’re into.  Find your tribe of losers who are into the same lame stuff that you dig.  Two of my readers met at a Harry Potter meetup group, and have been dating a year.  And they’re super cool.  They were also super ashamed of being Harry Potter nerds, and while I totally judge them as misfits for it, I also admire their dedication.

Be proud to be into your stuff.  Share your nerd below.  We’ll all judge you.  Immediately.

photo credit:  Templarion  via  photo pin  cc

When is the last time you saw your father naked? I’m going to bet, for most of you, this is not an easy question to answer. Not because of the subject matter, but because you can’t quite remember a time when this happened.

Up until about a month ago, I was right there with you. If pressed, I supposed I would have answered something like you, which is:

Hmm…  I guess I remember seeing once as a little kid.  I sort of remember taking a shower with him and noticing it, but it’s kind of fuzzy.  Why are you asking anyway?  Gross!

So, it’s not like I could draw it from memory or anything.  I can hardly draw my own from memory.  And I’m pretty familiar with it.

After the story I’m about to share where I saw my father’s dick, I was reminded of a second story involving my father and his penis.  I didn’t feel like this would be an ongoing series where I relayed constant anecdotes about dad’s privates.  I only have two.

So, let’s knock ’em out and move on.

If That Shirt Bounces Any Higher, I’m Going to See…

Shit – It Just Went Higher

Our family recently went to Las Vegas.  My mom had a conference out there for work, and she invited the whole family.  My sister and her boyfriend flew out from New York which meant we really only needed two rooms.  I would share with my mom and dad, and Dana and Al would get the other room.

Las Vegas is just not my kind of town.  Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot to do – golfing, gambling, shows, restaurants, etc.  But even the nice places seem gaudy to me.  I remember walking around our hotel, which is considered one of the nicest on the strip, and thinking, “This still looks wrong to me.  Like they’re trying too hard.”

But hey, I’m not a gambler, I don’t care about sports, and I don’t often go to nightclubs.  So, I guess it’s not the ideal place for me to visit.

I’m not complaining, however.  The pools were amazing, and they even allowed toplessness, which is never a bad thing for these eyes.

Also, I saw the Beatles’ Cirque du Soleil show, which was really the best thing I’ve ever witnessed live.

Okay, now that I’ve sufficiently bored you with context, let’s get to why you’re reading this – my dad’s dong.

Dad and I had just finished a round of golf.  It was a 102 degrees during the round, which is hot even without humidity.  Four hours in that heat even when you’re not sweating is kind of rough.  By the way, here’s a quick tip my dad taught me.  In that sort of weather, when you finish the ninth hole, do NOT go inside the clubhouse for any reason.  If you have to pee, visit a cactus.  Food or beer?  Wait for the cart-girl to come by.

Sidenote – Ever notice that, on average, a cart-girl ranks at least an eight on the hotness meter?  They’re almost always drop-dead gorgeous.  If any are reading this (they aren’t), then hit me up for a date.  I’m buying.

Back to the tip – if you don’t go inside after the ninth hole, you’ll be fine for the next nine holes.  If you go in the clubhouse even for a moment, you’re done.  Consider the rest of the round to be miserable.

Now let’s jump out of  this two leveled digression I just made you sit through.

We get back to the hotel, and it’s shower time.  Since my folks are springing for the room, it would only seem respectful to allow my father to jump in the shower before me.

I head over to the computer to check my email.  As I look up after a few minutes, I see my dad, in a state of undress that is unusual and alarming.

Unusual because I’ve never seen it before.  He’s standing adjacent from me, a profile view, about eight feet away wearing only a polo shirt.  Nothing else.

He has his phone in his hands – one hand is constantly swiping the screen from right to left.  I guess with his phone that’s how you navigate through emails.

His genitals are barely covered by the hem of the shirt, and with each swipe, the shirt raises a little with a short bounce.  This is why I mentioned alarming earlier.  But it was a controlled bounce, just high enough to cover his junk.  I’m telling you, not a  millimeter  higher or you’ve got balls.

I don’t want to sound like a weirdo, but there was no chance I was looking away.  And he must have had like thirty emails, because he was swiping every three seconds.

And then, he must have seen something that either angered him or overjoyed him.  All I know is he swiped a little harder than he had been previously, and the shirt jumped up three inches higher.  I saw it.  IT.

Now, as soon as the penis was presented, I did, in fact, look away.  I was pleased and instantly satisfied with myself that my instinctual reaction was that of flight.  Two seconds later, I did look back, and the shirt was back to it’s original position, covering his essence.

I didn’t say anything, because clearly this was not his problem.  My father apparently is not one to feel the shame of  nakedness, and has no problem standing in a hotel room with his son wearing just a polo shirt exposing his dork.

I went back to my computer, processing silently what I had just witnessed.  But here was my issue – I had a growing, gnawing thought that wasn’t going away.

I did not like what I had just seen.

“Of course not, D.J.!  You just saw your father naked!  That’s awful!”

I’m not talking about my feeling about the appropriateness of seeing a parent’s genitals.  That’s another discussion.

I’m referring to more of the objective assessment of what I had just seen.

Now, granted I only got a  millisecond’s  view.  But something was bothering me.  I had to ask my mother who was now getting dressed.

Dad had since retired to the shower, and had closed the door to the bathroom.

I whispered, “Mom – psst!  umm… This is a really odd question to ask, but umm…  ahem… Dad is  circumcised, right?”

My mother looks at me for a good five Mississippi before replying.

“Hmm…  I –  I think so.”

I felt it was important to tell her that I just saw his cock and balls, and it could have just been my  imagination, but something seemed off about them.

She looked at me, as if she were about to ask me to explain more about what I had just said.  Her eyes were scanning me trying to make sense of my question.  But instead…

“Hey Del!” my mother yells through the door, “You’re circumcised, right?”

Another five Mississippi.

“Yeah!”

That was it.  The end of this entire story.  I’d love to say my father got out of the shower, ran into the room and asked his wife why, after nearly forty years of marriage, she didn’t know he was circumcised, but that’s not what happened.

He got out of the shower, put on his trunks (thankfully in the bathroom), and we went to the pool.  Had a good time, too.

Part II Coming Soon – “You Do What To Your What?”

And yes, I’m quite aware of the irony of calling this story “Two Stories About My Dad’s Dick” and only providing you with one story.  Sorry.

UPDATE – Part II is completed!

When is the last time you saw your father naked? I’m going to bet, for most of you, this is not an easy question to answer. Not because of the subject matter, but because you can’t quite remember a time when this happened.

Up until about a month ago, I was right there with you. If pressed, I supposed I would have answered something like you, which is:

Hmm…  I guess I remember seeing once as a little kid.  I sort of remember taking a shower with him and noticing it, but it’s kind of fuzzy.  Why are you asking anyway?  Gross!

So, it’s not like I could draw it from memory or anything.  I can hardly draw my own from memory.  And I’m pretty familiar with it.

After the story I’m about to share where I saw my father’s dick, I was reminded of a second story involving my father and his penis.  I didn’t feel like this would be an ongoing series where I relayed constant anecdotes about dad’s privates.  I only have two.

So, let’s knock ’em out and move on.

If That Shirt Bounces Any Higher, I’m Going to See…

Shit – It Just Went Higher

Our family recently went to Las Vegas.  My mom had a conference out there for work, and she invited the whole family.  My sister and her boyfriend flew out from New York which meant we really only needed two rooms.  I would share with my mom and dad, and Dana and Al would get the other room.

Las Vegas is just not my kind of town.  Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot to do – golfing, gambling, shows, restaurants, etc.  But even the nice places seem gaudy to me.  I remember walking around our hotel, which is considered one of the nicest on the strip, and thinking, “This still looks wrong to me.  Like they’re trying too hard.”

But hey, I’m not a gambler, I don’t care about sports, and I don’t often go to nightclubs.  So, I guess it’s not the ideal place for me to visit.

I’m not complaining, however.  The pools were amazing, and they even allowed toplessness, which is never a bad thing for these eyes.

Also, I saw the Beatles’ Cirque du Soleil show, which was really the best thing I’ve ever witnessed live.

Okay, now that I’ve sufficiently bored you with context, let’s get to why you’re reading this – my dad’s dong.

Dad and I had just finished a round of golf.  It was a 102 degrees during the round, which is hot even without humidity.  Four hours in that heat even when you’re not sweating is kind of rough.  By the way, here’s a quick tip my dad taught me.  In that sort of weather, when you finish the ninth hole, do NOT go inside the clubhouse for any reason.  If you have to pee, visit a cactus.  Food or beer?  Wait for the cart-girl to come by.

Sidenote – Ever notice that, on average, a cart-girl ranks at least an eight on the hotness meter?  They’re almost always drop-dead gorgeous.  If any are reading this (they aren’t), then hit me up for a date.  I’m buying.

Back to the tip – if you don’t go inside after the ninth hole, you’ll be fine for the next nine holes.  If you go in the clubhouse even for a moment, you’re done.  Consider the rest of the round to be miserable.

Now let’s jump out of  this two leveled digression I just made you sit through.

We get back to the hotel, and it’s shower time.  Since my folks are springing for the room, it would only seem respectful to allow my father to jump in the shower before me.

I head over to the computer to check my email.  As I look up after a few minutes, I see my dad, in a state of undress that is unusual and alarming.

Unusual because I’ve never seen it before.  He’s standing adjacent from me, a profile view, about eight feet away wearing only a polo shirt.  Nothing else.

He has his phone in his hands – one hand is constantly swiping the screen from right to left.  I guess with his phone that’s how you navigate through emails.

His genitals are barely covered by the hem of the shirt, and with each swipe, the shirt raises a little with a short bounce.  This is why I mentioned alarming earlier.  But it was a controlled bounce, just high enough to cover his junk.  I’m telling you, not a  millimeter  higher or you’ve got balls.

I don’t want to sound like a weirdo, but there was no chance I was looking away.  And he must have had like thirty emails, because he was swiping every three seconds.

And then, he must have seen something that either angered him or overjoyed him.  All I know is he swiped a little harder than he had been previously, and the shirt jumped up three inches higher.  I saw it.  IT.

Now, as soon as the penis was presented, I did, in fact, look away.  I was pleased and instantly satisfied with myself that my instinctual reaction was that of flight.  Two seconds later, I did look back, and the shirt was back to it’s original position, covering his essence.

I didn’t say anything, because clearly this was not his problem.  My father apparently is not one to feel the shame of  nakedness, and has no problem standing in a hotel room with his son wearing just a polo shirt exposing his dork.

I went back to my computer, processing silently what I had just witnessed.  But here was my issue – I had a growing, gnawing thought that wasn’t going away.

I did not like what I had just seen.

“Of course not, D.J.!  You just saw your father naked!  That’s awful!”

I’m not talking about my feeling about the appropriateness of seeing a parent’s genitals.  That’s another discussion.

I’m referring to more of the objective assessment of what I had just seen.

Now, granted I only got a  millisecond’s  view.  But something was bothering me.  I had to ask my mother who was now getting dressed.

Dad had since retired to the shower, and had closed the door to the bathroom.

I whispered, “Mom – psst!  umm… This is a really odd question to ask, but umm…  ahem… Dad is  circumcised, right?”

My mother looks at me for a good five Mississippi before replying.

“Hmm…  I –  I think so.”

I felt it was important to tell her that I just saw his cock and balls, and it could have just been my  imagination, but something seemed off about them.

She looked at me, as if she were about to ask me to explain more about what I had just said.  Her eyes were scanning me trying to make sense of my question.  But instead…

“Hey Del!” my mother yells through the door, “You’re circumcised, right?”

Another five Mississippi.

“Yeah!”

That was it.  The end of this entire story.  I’d love to say my father got out of the shower, ran into the room and asked his wife why, after nearly forty years of marriage, she didn’t know he was circumcised, but that’s not what happened.

He got out of the shower, put on his trunks (thankfully in the bathroom), and we went to the pool.  Had a good time, too.

Part II Coming Soon – “You Do What To Your What?”

And yes, I’m quite aware of the irony of calling this story “Two Stories About My Dad’s Dick” and only providing you with one story.  Sorry.

UPDATE – Part II is completed!