Your Kid Ain't That Damn Special

I'm probably gonna piss off a whole bunch of parents with this one.

Oh well.

Somebody ought to say it.

Your kid ain't that damn special.

There. I said it.

Now before some pissed-off mama comes charging up my driveway with a Stanley cup in one hand and a restraining order in the other, hear me out.

I'm not saying your kid ain't special to you.

He ought to be.

I'm saying the rest of the world ain't obligated to think he's the greatest goddamn thing that ever happened to humanity just because you managed to reproduce.

And while we're on the subject, can we quit pretending everybody was just tickled shitless when they found out they were gonna be parents?

Jesus Christ.

You get on Facebook and you'd think every pregnancy announcement was the second coming of Christ.

"We're so blessed!"

"Our little miracle!"

"Our hearts are so full!"

Well, ain't that fucking wonderful.

And maybe some of y'all really did feel that way.

Good for you.

But some of us didn't.

Some of us were scared shitless.

Some of us were pissed off.

Some of us were wondering how in the hell we were gonna afford another mouth to feed.

And some of us didn't want the kid in the first place.

There.

Let's talk about that for a minute.

I DIDN'T WANT TO BE A DAD

I've never made much of a secret about this, although I don't go around announcing it at the grocery store either.

I didn't want to be a father.

Not at first.

Matter of fact, when I found out Tucker was coming, I wanted his mother to have an abortion.

Yep.

That's what I wanted.

Ain't proud of it.

But I'm not gonna sit here and rewrite history because somebody on the internet might think less of me.

That's what happened.

And when Tucker was born, I wish I could tell you I looked down at that little boy and immediately fell head over heels in love.

You know, like they do in the movies.

The father holds the baby. Tears start rolling down his face. Some beautiful music starts playing. Suddenly he understands the meaning of life.

Bullshit.

That ain't how it happened for me.

I looked at him.

He was a baby.

A little red-faced thing that cried, shit, slept, and occasionally threw up on somebody.

Everybody else seemed pretty damn impressed.

I wasn't.

And I know how awful that sounds.

Believe me, I do.

But that's the truth.

I didn't suddenly become a different man because somebody handed me a newborn.

I was still the same stubborn son of a bitch I'd been the day before.

Only now I had a baby.

And I didn't have the slightest goddamn idea what I was supposed to do with him.

NOBODY WANTS TO ADMIT THIS SHIT

Here's what gets me.

We live in a world where everybody's supposed to have the perfect reaction to everything.

Find out you're pregnant?

Better cry happy tears.

Baby gets born?

Better post seventeen pictures and tell everybody you've never experienced a love like this before.

Kid takes his first shit in the toilet?

Apparently we need a goddamn parade.

And God forbid you admit you weren't particularly excited about becoming a parent.

People look at you like you just confessed to drowning puppies.

Well, I'm gonna tell you something.

Not everybody becomes a parent because they planned it.

Not everybody is ready.

Not everybody is happy about it.

And not everybody falls in love with their kid the second they lay eyes on him.

Some people have to grow into it.

I did.

And I don't think pretending otherwise does anybody a damn bit of good.

Now, don't misunderstand me.

There's a difference between not wanting to become a parent and refusing to take responsibility once you are one.

A pretty big fucking difference.

You can be scared.

You can be angry.

You can wish things had turned out differently.

But once you've got a child depending on you, you've got some decisions to make about the kind of person you're gonna be.

And those decisions matter a hell of a lot more than whatever pretty bullshit you posted on Facebook when the baby was born.

I HAD TO LEARN TO LOVE THAT BOY

I didn't wake up one morning and suddenly become Father of the Year.

Hell, I'm still waiting on that award.

I learned.

Little by little.

And sometimes I learned because I screwed something up.

I learned that being a father wasn't about having some magical feeling every time I looked at Tucker.

It was about showing up.

It was about taking care of him when I was tired.

Doing things I didn't particularly feel like doing.

Putting somebody else's needs ahead of my own.

And discovering, somewhere in the middle of all that everyday bullshit, that this little person was becoming the most important part of my life.

I couldn't tell you the exact day it happened.

There wasn't some big dramatic moment.

No music playing.

No fucking angels coming down from heaven.

It just happened.

And eventually I realized something.

That boy I hadn't wanted?

I couldn't imagine my life without him.

Funny how that works.

And before somebody decides to turn this into one of those inspirational stories about how everything happens for a reason, don't.

I ain't trying to sell you some beautiful lesson about destiny.

I'm telling you what happened to me.

I was a man who didn't want to be a father.

Then I became one.

And I had to learn how to be a decent one.

I'm still learning.

NOW LET'S TALK ABOUT YOUR LITTLE ANGEL

Because here's where I think some parents have completely lost their goddamn minds.

Just because you love your kid doesn't mean everybody else has to put up with his bullshit.

Your kid can be an asshole.

Mine can too.

Tucker's a good boy.

But there have been days I've looked at him and wondered how somebody so smart could do something so incredibly fucking stupid.

That's kids.

They do stupid shit.

They lie.

They test you.

They break things.

They make decisions that defy every known law of common sense.

And sometimes they need somebody to tell them they're acting like a little shit.

But nowadays?

Teacher says your kid was disrupting class.

"Well, maybe the teacher doesn't understand his personality."

Coach says your kid isn't putting in the effort.

"Well, maybe the coach isn't recognizing his potential."

Neighbor says your kid threw a rock through his window.

"Well, what did the neighbor do to upset him?"

For fuck's sake.

Maybe your kid's just being a little asshole.

It happens.

You don't have to stop loving him.

You just have to tell him to knock it the fuck off.

YOUR KID DOESN'T NEED A GODDAMN TROPHY FOR EVERYTHING

I don't know when we decided children needed to be congratulated for every single thing they do.

I'm all for encouraging kids.

I really am.

But encouragement and blowing smoke up somebody's ass are two different things.

Your kid played baseball?

Good.

Did he win?

No?

Well, somebody had to lose.

That's generally how a baseball game works.

You don't have to convince him he was the greatest player on the field when he spent half the game picking his nose and watching airplanes.

Maybe he wasn't very good.

That's alright.

Not everybody's good at everything.

Hell, I'm a grown man and there are plenty of things I suck at.

You don't see anybody throwing me a party because I managed to get the fitted sheet back on the bed without having a nervous breakdown.

And let me tell you, that accomplishment deserves some recognition.

Those things are designed by Satan.

But seriously.

Sometimes your kid's gonna lose.

Sometimes somebody else is gonna be better.

Sometimes he's gonna work his ass off and still come up short.

That's life.

And the sooner he learns how to deal with it, the better off he's gonna be.

THE WORLD AIN'T GONNA THINK YOUR KID'S AS WONDERFUL AS YOU DO

Here's something every parent ought to understand.

Your kid is special to you.

To his future boss, he's an employee.

To his landlord, he's a tenant.

To the cop who pulls him over, he's another driver who apparently couldn't read the speed limit sign.

Nobody's gonna care that you think he's brilliant.

Nobody's gonna care that he was student of the month in fourth grade.

And nobody's gonna give him a free pass through life because his mama says he's got a good heart.

He's gonna have to learn how to get along with people.

How to work.

How to take criticism.

How to hear the word no without having a goddamn emotional collapse.

And how to admit when he's wrong.

That last one's a big one.

Because I've met grown men who still haven't figured it out.

Everything's somebody else's fault.

Lost their job? Boss was an asshole.

Got divorced? Wife was crazy.

Got arrested? Cop had it out for him.

At some point, you gotta look in the mirror and consider the possibility that maybe you're the problem.

And if you never teach your kid to do that, you're not doing him any favors.

You're just raising an asshole the rest of us are gonna have to deal with.

Thanks a lot.

I AIN'T BEEN A PERFECT FATHER EITHER

Now, before anybody thinks I'm sitting here handing out parenting advice from some great position of authority, let me clear something up.

I've screwed up plenty.

I've lost my temper.

I've said things I shouldn't have.

I've been too hard on Tucker about some things and probably too easy about others.

I've made decisions I wish I could go back and change.

And I've apologized to him.

Imagine that.

A grown-ass father admitting he was wrong to his own kid.

Some people act like doing that undermines your authority.

I think that's bullshit.

How the hell are you gonna teach your kid to take responsibility for his mistakes if you won't take responsibility for yours?

You can't spend eighteen years telling a child to be honest, own his mistakes, and treat people right while you're walking around acting like your own shit doesn't stink.

Kids notice that stuff.

Believe me.

They notice a hell of a lot more than we give them credit for.

And I figure Tucker's learned just as much from watching me screw something up and try to make it right as he has from listening to one of my lectures.

Probably more.

Because if there's one thing I've discovered about raising a teenager, it's that they have an amazing ability to hear absolutely nothing you're saying while remembering every stupid thing you've ever done.

YOUR JOB AIN'T TO KEEP YOUR KID HAPPY

Somewhere along the way, people got the idea that being a good parent means making sure your kid is happy every minute of the day.

Bullshit.

Sometimes being a good parent means your kid's gonna be pissed off at you.

Sometimes it means telling him no.

Sometimes it means letting him be disappointed.

And sometimes it means standing there while he informs you that you're the meanest son of a bitch who ever walked the face of the earth.

Fine.

I've been called worse.

My job isn't to make Tucker happy every waking minute.

My job is to help him become somebody who can take care of himself.

Somebody who keeps his word.

Somebody who treats people with respect.

Somebody who understands that the world doesn't revolve around his ass.

And somebody who can make a mistake without spending the next six months blaming everybody else for it.

I want him to have a good life.

But I also want him to know how to handle a bad day.

Because he's gonna have plenty of those too.

We all do.

AND FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, LET THEM BE KIDS

Now here's where some of y'all are gonna think I'm contradicting myself.

Because while I think kids need discipline and responsibility, I also think some parents need to back the hell off.

Your kid doesn't need every minute of his life scheduled.

He doesn't need twelve activities, three tutors, a personal trainer, and a five-year career plan before he's old enough to shave.

Let the little bastard get bored once in a while.

Let him ride his bike.

Let him build something stupid in the backyard.

Let him make a mess.

Let him figure something out without you standing over his shoulder telling him how to do it.

And let him fail at something without turning it into a family emergency.

Not every kid's gonna be a doctor.

Not every kid's gonna be a professional athlete.

Not every kid's gonna be the smartest person in the room.

And that's perfectly fucking fine.

We need decent people a hell of a lot more than we need extraordinary ones.

HERE'S WHAT I'VE FIGURED OUT

I started this whole thing by telling you your kid ain't that damn special.

And I meant it.

But maybe I ought to explain something.

Tucker's special to me.

More than I ever imagined he would be.

And that's coming from a man who didn't even want him in the first place.

I ain't proud of that part of my life.

But I'm not ashamed to tell the truth about it either.

Because pretending I was some wonderful, excited father from the very beginning wouldn't make me a better man.

It would just make me a liar.

And I think there's enough of that bullshit on the internet already.

I didn't fall in love with fatherhood overnight.

I had to learn it.

I had to grow up in ways I didn't particularly want to.

I had to figure out that loving somebody isn't always about how you feel.

Sometimes it's about what you do.

And I think that's where some parents get it wrong.

They spend so much time telling everybody how much they love their children that they forget the most important part.

Raising them.

Teaching them.

Correcting them when they're wrong.

Letting them become their own people.

And preparing them for a world that ain't always gonna be kind.

I don't need the world to think Tucker's special.

I need Tucker to grow up knowing how to be a decent man.

And if I manage to help him do that, I'll figure I've accomplished something worth a damn.

Not bad for a guy who never wanted to be a father.

A LITTLE MORE TO THE STORY

I WROTE A WHOLE DAMN BOOK ABOUT THIS.

There's a lot more to the story of me becoming Tucker's dad than I could fit into one article.

I wrote about it in my book, Live Like a Man: I Never Said I Was a Good Example.

And I didn't clean it up to make myself look good.

I wrote about not wanting to be a father. About wanting his mother to have an abortion. About looking at my own newborn son and not feeling what everybody seemed to think I was supposed to feel.

And about how all that changed.

How I learned to love that boy.

How becoming his dad changed the way I looked at myself, responsibility, and what it actually means to be a man.

Some of it ain't pretty.

Some of it probably won't make you like me very much.

That's alright.

I didn't write it to win a popularity contest.

I wrote it because it's the truth.

And maybe there's another father out there who needs to know he ain't the only one who didn't get this shit figured out on the first day.

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Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

www.joedurst.com

A Grown-Ass Man Ought to Know How to Fix a Few Things Around His Own Damn House

I got a question for some of you fellas.

What the hell happened to people knowing how to fix shit around their own houses?

I'm serious.

I'm not talking about building a house from the ground up. I'm not expecting everybody to know how to wire a breaker panel, install a furnace, or rebuild a transmission.

Hell, I've been doing construction a long damn time, and there's plenty of shit I still don't know.

But Jesus Christ.

Some of the things people call a contractor for anymore make me wonder how the hell they've managed to survive this long.

A toilet that won't stop running.

A door that won't latch.

A cabinet hinge that's come loose.

A little hole in the drywall.

And my personal favorite, a sink that's clogged because somebody's been dumping enough grease down it to open a damn McDonald's.

Now, before somebody gets their panties in a wad, let me say something.

There ain't a damn thing wrong with calling somebody who knows what they're doing.

That's how I make my living.

And there are plenty of jobs you absolutely ought to leave to somebody qualified.

But there's a difference between knowing your limitations and being completely helpless.

And somewhere along the way, I think we've started confusing the two.

YOUR GRANDFATHER DIDN'T HAVE YOUTUBE

Think about the men who came before us.

Your grandfather probably had a toolbox full of mismatched wrenches, three screwdrivers, a hammer with a cracked handle, and a coffee can full of screws he'd been saving since Eisenhower was president.

And somehow that old bastard kept an entire house standing.

Was everything done perfectly?

Hell no.

Half the time, if you took something apart, you'd discover he'd fixed it with a piece of wire, two roofing nails, and something that looked suspiciously like a part off a lawn mower.

But he figured shit out.

He'd look at something, scratch his head, cuss a little, and get to work.

Sometimes he'd make it worse.

Sometimes he'd have to call somebody.

But at least he tried to understand what the hell was wrong.

Nowadays, a grown man will stand in front of a running toilet holding a thousand-dollar smartphone and announce that he doesn't know what to do.

Well, for Christ's sake, look it up.

You've got more information in your pocket than your grandfather had access to in his entire lifetime.

Use some of it.

YOU DON'T NEED A GARAGE FULL OF TOOLS

Here's another thing that drives me nuts.

Some fellas think they can't fix anything because they don't have $5,000 worth of tools.

Bullshit.

You'd be amazed what you can accomplish around a house with a decent hammer, a few screwdrivers, an adjustable wrench, some pliers, a tape measure, and a little common sense.

And before you go buying every damn tool in the hardware store, learn what the ones you've already got are for.

I've seen men spend hundreds of dollars on equipment they don't know how to use.

They'll buy a cordless drill with more settings than a commercial airplane, then strip the head off the first screw they touch.

Now they've got a $200 drill and a $3 problem that's turned into a $75 problem.

Congratulations.

You own tools.

That doesn't mean you know how to use the sons of bitches.

SOMETIMES THE FIX IS STUPIDLY SIMPLE

You know how many household problems start with something small?

A screw works loose.

A washer wears out.

A drain starts collecting hair.

A door shifts a little with the seasons.

Something that could've been handled in twenty minutes gets ignored for six months.

Then one day, the cabinet door falls off, the sink backs up, or somebody has to lift the toilet tank lid every time they take a shit.

And suddenly it's an emergency.

Here's a little advice from somebody who's spent years fixing things.

Pay attention when something starts acting up.

A house will usually tell you when something's wrong.

That little drip under the sink?

It ain't gonna get better because you stopped looking at it.

That soft spot in the bathroom floor?

Putting a rug over it doesn't make the wood any less rotten.

And that toilet that's been running for three weeks?

You're not saving yourself any trouble by pretending you can't hear it.

You're just paying the water company to listen to it with you.

KNOW WHEN TO LEAVE SHIT ALONE

Now, I need to make something clear before somebody reads this and decides he's gonna rewire his entire house Saturday afternoon.

Being handy doesn't mean being stupid.

There are things I won't touch without the right training, equipment, or help.

Electrical work can kill you.

Gas work can kill you.

Structural mistakes can put a roof in your lap.

And water has a remarkable ability to turn a small mistake into several thousand dollars' worth of damage.

A smart man knows when he's out of his depth.

There's no shame in calling a professional.

The shame is in being too damn proud to admit you don't know what you're doing.

I've seen plenty of expensive disasters caused by men who were absolutely certain they knew what they were doing.

Right up until they didn't.

THAT'S WHY I WROTE THE DAMN BOOK

I've been in construction long enough to see the same basic problems over and over.

And I've met plenty of people who'd like to handle some of this stuff themselves but don't know where to start.

So I sat down and wrote a book.

Shit Every Grown-Ass Man Ought to Know How to Fix.

And despite the title, I didn't write it to make anybody feel stupid for not knowing something.

Hell, nobody comes out of the womb knowing how to replace a toilet flapper or patch drywall.

Somebody's gotta show you.

That's what the book is for.

It's about understanding some of the everyday problems that come with owning or taking care of a house.

Because the more you understand, the less likely you are to panic every time something breaks.

And the less likely you are to spend a couple hundred bucks on something you might've been able to handle yourself.

Not everything, mind you.

Sometimes paying somebody who knows what the hell they're doing is the smartest money you'll ever spend.

But other times?

You might just need a screwdriver, a ten-dollar part, and enough patience not to throw the whole goddamn thing across the room.

That's the kind of stuff I want people to learn.

How to recognize a problem.

How to figure out whether it's something you can safely tackle yourself.

And how to know when it's time to put the tools down and call somebody.

I don't care if you're 25 or 65.

I don't care if you've never picked up a hammer in your life.

Everybody starts somewhere.

And there's something pretty satisfying about fixing something in your own house and knowing you didn't have to pay somebody else to do it.

Even if you did cuss at it for forty-five minutes first.

I'LL KNOCK HALF OFF THE PRICE

Since we're talking about it, I'm gonna run a little special for folks reading this article.

50% off my book.

Regular price is $9.99. With the discount, you're paying about five bucks.

Hell, you can barely get a decent sandwich for that anymore.

If the book helps you fix one little thing around your house instead of calling somebody, you've probably gotten your money's worth.

And if you read it and decide you'd rather hire somebody anyway?

That's fine too.

At least you'll have a better idea of what the hell you're paying somebody to do.

And maybe next time something breaks, you'll feel a little more confident about figuring it out.

That's worth something.

— Joe Durst
Joe Durst Construction

A LITTLE SOMETHING FROM JOE DURST CONSTRUCTION

LEARN TO FIX YOUR OWN DAMN SHIT.

Shit Every Grown-Ass Man Ought to Know How to Fix

A little know-how can save you a hell of a lot of money. I wrote this book to help folks understand common household problems, tackle the ones they can safely handle, and know when it's time to call somebody who knows what they're doing.

$9.99 ABOUT $5

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JOE DURST CONSTRUCTION

Good work. Common sense. No bullshit.

JoeDurst.com

The Older I Get, the More I Understand Why Old Men Sit Outside and Stare at Shit

When I was a kid, I used to think old men were some strange motherfuckers.

You'd drive down some back road and there'd be some old bastard sitting in a lawn chair in front of his house. Just sitting there. Not doing a goddamn thing.

Sometimes he'd have a cup of coffee. Sometimes a cigarette. Sometimes he'd just be sitting there in his underwear, looking like he hadn't given a shit about anybody's opinion since 1973.

And he'd be staring at absolutely nothing.

I'd wonder what the hell he was looking at.

There wasn't a damn thing going on. No cars coming. No people walking by. Nothing but a couple trees and maybe a bird picking around in the dirt.

I'd think, Jesus Christ, somebody get that man a hobby.

Well, I'm getting older now.

And I owe every one of those old bastards an apology.

Because I'm starting to understand exactly what the fuck they were doing.

They were enjoying not having to deal with anybody's bullshit.

And I'm beginning to think they had life figured out better than the rest of us.

I AIN'T GOTTA BE DOING SHIT

See, when you're young, you think you've gotta be doing something every damn minute.

Gotta work. Gotta make money. Gotta go somewhere. Gotta accomplish something.

Even on your day off, some asshole wants to know what you've got planned.

"Got any big plans for the weekend, Joe?"

Yeah. I'm planning on not doing a goddamn thing.

"Well, you ought to get out and do something!"

Why?

I just spent five days dealing with people who couldn't find their own assholes with both hands and a flashlight. Why the fuck would I want to go out looking for more of them?

I'm perfectly happy right here.

And that's something I never understood when I was younger.

There's a certain kind of peace that comes from sitting outside and knowing you don't owe anybody a damn thing for the next twenty minutes.

THEN THERE'S THIS GODDAMN SQUIRREL

I was sitting on my back porch the other morning drinking coffee.

No phone. No television. No music.

Just me and a chair.

And I was having a pretty damn good time.

Then this squirrel comes running across the yard carrying something in his mouth.

I don't know what the hell it was. Looked like a nut, but it might've been a piece of somebody's garbage.

Anyway, this little son of a bitch runs up a tree, comes halfway back down, changes his mind, runs across the yard, climbs another tree, then disappears behind the shed.

I sat there watching the whole damn thing.

Probably five minutes.

And when he disappeared, I actually caught myself wondering where the fuck he went.

That's when it hit me.

Jesus Christ.

I've become one of those old men.

I'm sitting outside drinking coffee and keeping tabs on a goddamn squirrel.

Twenty years ago, I would've been out chasing women, drinking beer, or doing something stupid that was probably gonna cost me money.

Now I'm sitting here wondering if that squirrel's coming back.

And the fucked-up part?

I was perfectly happy.

I'VE STARTED INSPECTING SHIT TOO

I've also noticed I'm starting to do something else old men do.

I inspect shit that ain't none of my business.

I'll be sitting outside and notice the neighbor's fence leaning a little.

Now, I ain't getting up to fix it.

Fuck that. It's his fence.

But I'll study that son of a bitch for a good ten minutes.

"That ain't gonna last."

Then I'll take another drink of coffee.

Might even shake my head a little.

And that's it.

I've done my part.

I've identified the problem. I've assessed the situation. I've issued my professional opinion to absolutely nobody.

My work here is finished.

That's another thing about old men. They'll predict the failure of damn near anything.

"That tree's gonna fall."

"That roof ain't got another winter in it."

"That boy's gonna tear the transmission out of that truck."

And they'll say it with the confidence of a man who's personally spoken to God about the matter.

No explanation. No further discussion.

Just a statement.

Then right back to staring at shit.

And you know what? Half the time they're right.

MOST BULLSHIT AIN'T WORTH GETTING UP FOR

I think the reason old men get so good at sitting around doing nothing is because they've spent their whole lives doing everything.

They've worked their asses off. Paid bills. Raised kids. Fixed things that broke. Fixed the same goddamn things again because somebody didn't listen the first time.

They've dealt with bosses, customers, neighbors, relatives, and every other pain in the ass God saw fit to put on this earth.

And eventually they reach a point where they realize something.

Most of the bullshit ain't worth getting out of the chair for.

Somebody's mad about something on Facebook?

Fuck 'em.

Somebody thinks you ought to be doing something productive?

Fuck 'em too.

Somebody wants to tell you what they think about the economy, the president, or how you're supposed to live your life?

Jesus Christ. Go find somebody else.

I'm watching a bird.

And that bird hasn't asked me for a goddamn thing all morning.

That's another thing I've come to appreciate about animals.

A squirrel doesn't give a shit what you do for a living.

A bird doesn't want to tell you about his divorce.

And a deer walking through the yard isn't gonna ask if you can come over Saturday and help him move a refrigerator.

They just mind their own damn business.

People ought to try it sometime.

THERE'S A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN DOING NOTHING AND ENJOYING YOURSELF

Now, I ain't saying I'm ready to spend the rest of my life sitting on the porch scratching my balls and yelling at passing cars.

I've still got plenty of work to do.

But I'm starting to understand why some old fellas get downright pissed off when somebody interrupts them doing absolutely nothing.

Because they ain't doing nothing.

They're enjoying themselves.

There's a difference.

And after enough years of getting up before daylight, working until you're worn the fuck out, coming home to another pile of shit that needs your attention, and waking up the next morning to do it all over again, you start appreciating the little things.

A decent cup of coffee.

A comfortable chair.

A little sunshine.

Nobody hollering your name from inside the house.

And maybe a squirrel acting like he's got a warrant out for his arrest.

That's a pretty damn good morning as far as I'm concerned.

So if you ever drive past my place and see me sitting out there staring across the yard, don't stop and ask if everything's alright.

Everything's fine.

I ain't lonely. I ain't depressed. I ain't having some kind of midlife crisis.

I'm just sitting here minding my own goddamn business.

You ought to try it.

And while you're at it, take a look at that gutter on the house across the road.

That son of a bitch is about to fall off.

I've been watching it for three weeks.

— Joe Durst

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BUY ME A DAMN BEER.

I like writing this shit for y'all, but it takes time. If you got a laugh out of it and feel like throwing a couple bucks in my beer fund, I'd appreciate it.

If not, hell, that's alright too. Glad you stopped by.

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

JoeDurst.com

Some of My Favorite People Are Folks I Barely Know

You know what's funny?

There's people I've known for twenty damn years that I wouldn't particularly care if I ever saw again.

And then there's people I see for about three minutes a week that I'd actually miss if they disappeared.

Explain that shit to me.

I got to thinking about it earlier when I stopped at a convenience store.

Now, I don't know what it is about convenience stores, but they seem to employ some of the funniest people God ever put on this earth.

Especially the women who've been working there long enough that they don't give a shit whether you like their attitude or not.

You walk in looking half dead, and one of them will take one look at you and say, "Well, you look like hell."

Good morning to you too, sweetheart.

Then she'll ask if you want your usual, tell you your hat looks stupid, and somehow you've walked out of there in a better mood than when you came in.

I don't know her last name.

Don't know where she lives.

For all I know, she goes home every night and raises fighting chickens in her bathtub.

But I like her.

EVERY HARDWARE STORE HAS ONE OF THESE BASTARDS

Then there's the old men at the hardware store.

Jesus Christ.

Every hardware store in America has at least one old bastard who doesn't actually work there but knows more than everybody who does.

He's usually standing somewhere around the plumbing fittings, wearing a hat from a tractor dealership that went out of business in 1987.

Ask him where the half-inch couplings are and you're about to receive a complete history of indoor plumbing.

He'll tell you what you're doing wrong before you've even told him what you're doing.

Then he'll explain how he fixed the same problem in 1974 using a coat hanger, two hose clamps, and something his brother-in-law stole from the railroad.

And the aggravating part?

Half the time the son of a bitch is right.

I like those guys.

THE PEOPLE YOU DON'T REALLY KNOW

I like the old woman who waves at every vehicle that goes past her house, whether she knows who's driving or not.

I like the waitress who calls everybody honey but will absolutely tell you to move your ass if you're blocking her way.

I like the fellow who sees you struggling to back a trailer into a tight spot and gets out of his truck to help instead of sitting there recording your humiliation for Facebook.

Although, to be fair, depending on how bad you're doing, I can understand the temptation.

What gets me is that some of these people probably don't even realize they're making somebody's day better.

They're just being themselves.

Not trying to impress anybody.

Not trying to build a personal brand.

Not posting a seventeen-paragraph announcement about how they're entering a new chapter of their journey.

They're just out there living their lives, running their mouths, doing their jobs, and occasionally helping some dumbass who bought the wrong toilet fitting.

And I appreciate the hell out of them.

SOMETIMES FIVE MINUTES IS PLENTY

I suppose the older I get, the more I realize you don't have to be somebody's best friend to matter in their life.

Sometimes you're just the guy they enjoy bullshitting with for five minutes.

Sometimes you're the woman who remembers how they take their coffee.

Sometimes you're the old man who gives somebody advice they didn't ask for but probably needed.

And sometimes you're the poor bastard who gets stuck listening to a Tennessee contractor explain why his bathroom ought to be investigated by the federal government.

We all have our part to play.

Anyway, if you're one of those people who makes somebody laugh during an otherwise shitty day, keep doing what you're doing.

You probably have no idea how much people appreciate it.

And to the old fellas at the hardware store, I appreciate y'all too.

But for the love of God, sometimes a man just needs a damn washer.

He doesn't need to hear about the winter of 1962.

Joe Durst

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

VISIT JOEDURST.COM →

ENJOY READING MY SHIT?

BUY ME A DAMN BEER.

If something I wrote made you laugh, think, or just killed a few minutes of your day, you can buy me a beer. If not, that's all right too. I'm glad you're here.

BUY JOE A BEER →

FIND ME SOMEWHERE ELSE

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

I Took a Shit So Bad My Toilet Tried to Resign

 

Well, I reckon I ought to finish telling y'all what happened last night.

Some of you saw my Facebook post about the shit I took. For those who didn't, congratulations. You were probably having a much better evening than I was.

Now, I've taken some impressive shits in my lifetime. I'm a grown-ass man. I've eaten gas station food, questionable barbecue, and things that probably should've been condemned by the health department.

But last night was something different.

I'm talking about the kind of shit where you stand up afterward and feel like you ought to weigh yourself.

Like you just lost ten pounds and possibly an internal organ.

And the smell.

Jesus Christ Almighty.

I've been around construction sites, septic tanks, and dumpsters sitting in the Tennessee heat. I've smelled things that would make a buzzard turn around and fly the other direction.

But whatever came out of me last night deserved its own damn zip code.

I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and figured that was the end of it.

It was not.

An hour later, the bathroom still smelled like somebody had killed a fucking animal in there.

Not a little lingering odor, either.

This smell had settled in, unpacked its belongings, forwarded its mail, and apparently signed a twelve-month lease.

I opened the window.

Turned on the exhaust fan.

Sprayed Lysol.

Walked away for a while.

Came back.

Still there.

At one point I even tried lighting a match, which, looking back, wasn't exactly the smartest thing to do after spraying stuff around.

Didn't help worth a damn, either.

Now, normally, Tucker has enough Scentsy products scattered around this house to make the place smell like a Christmas tree married a cinnamon roll.

I've given that boy plenty of grief over all his good-smelling shit.

But naturally, the one night I actually needed him and his little fragrance empire, he was nowhere to be found.

So there I was.

A grown man.

Standing in his own hallway.

Wondering whether his bathroom had become a permanent environmental hazard.

And that's when the toilet started making noise.

Not flushing.

Just running.

That little hissing sound coming from the tank.

I stood there listening to it, thinking that poor bastard had finally had enough of my shit.

Hell, I couldn't blame it.

I went back into the bathroom, lifted the tank lid, and started checking things out.

Turned out the flapper wasn't sealing right.

For anybody who doesn't know, that's the little rubber piece down inside the toilet tank that lifts when you flush and drops back down to keep the water where it belongs.

When it wears out, water can keep leaking into the bowl, and the tank keeps trying to fill itself back up.

A simple repair.

I replaced the damn thing.

Problem solved.

Well, one problem.

The toilet was working again, but the bathroom still smelled like a crime scene.

And I was starting to wonder whether the smell had gotten into the drywall.

I've fixed plenty of things in my life, but I've never had to replace sheetrock because of something that came out of my own ass.

Eventually, Tucker got home.

And let me tell you something about raising a teenager.

You spend years feeding them, clothing them, keeping a roof over their head, teaching them right from wrong, and trying to raise somebody who'll turn out halfway decent.

Then one day you have a household emergency involving your digestive system, and all that boy can do is find the entire situation absolutely hilarious.

Not one ounce of sympathy.

Here's his daddy, a hardworking contractor who just spent the evening fighting a plumbing problem and a possible environmental catastrophe.

And Tucker's carrying on like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.

But I'll give him credit.

Once we'd cleaned everything up and gotten some fresh air through the house, he got some of his Scentsy stuff going.

And eventually, the place started smelling like somewhere human beings ought to live again.

So I reckon the boy saved the day.

Which means I'm probably never going to hear the end of this.

I've spent years telling him he doesn't need all that fragrance shit, and now he's got actual evidence that his little operation serves a purpose.

Wonderful.

The toilet's fixed.

The house smells decent again.

Tucker's still laughing.

And I've lost whatever dignity I had left.

Now, here's the part where things got even more ridiculous.

I got to thinking this morning that the whole damn situation ought to be documented.

After all, we had a plumbing malfunction, an air quality emergency, a teenage emergency responder, and a homeowner who was very nearly forced to evacuate his own property.

So I did what any reasonable grown-ass man would do.

I filed an official household incident report.

Complete with findings, recommended emergency equipment, and photographic evidence.

Yes, photographic evidence.

And no, before anybody asks, it ain't a picture of what was in the toilet.

I'm not that far gone.

Yet.

I even included a few things worth keeping around the house, because if there's one useful lesson to come out of this entire ordeal, it's that every grown-ass man ought to know how to handle a basic toilet problem.

Matter of fact, I wrote a whole book about fixing everyday shit around the house.

Apparently I should've included a chapter on surviving your own bowel movements.

Anyway, the official report has been filed, and the case is closed.

If you want to read the findings, see what Tucker contributed to the emergency response, and examine the photographic evidence, you can find the whole ridiculous thing here:

READ THE OFFICIAL DURST BATHROOM INCIDENT REPORT

I'm just glad we survived the night.

And apparently Tucker thinks I ought to start using the bathroom at the gas station down the road.

Hell, I'm starting to think I should've named him Lysol.

At least then he'd have been useful when I needed him.

I PUT MY NAME ON A SHIRT. APPARENTLY THAT MAKES ME A COCK TEASE

Well, I'll be goddamned.

I've been called a lot of things in my life.

Asshole. Smartass. Arrogant prick. Bad influence. Son of a bitch.

Hell, I've been called a few things I had to look up just to figure out whether I ought to be offended.

But somebody handed me a brand-new one the other day.

Cock tease.

Apparently, I'm a cock tease.

Now, I know what you're thinking. What the hell did Joe do this time?

Did I take my clothes off in the middle of Walmart? Did I promise somebody a night of wild passion and then leave them standing in the driveway holding a bottle of Astroglide?

Nope.

I put my name on a goddamn T-shirt.

That's it.

I was wearing a shirt that says BAD INFLUENCE with my name underneath it. Took a picture. Posted it on Facebook.

Some fella came along and informed me that I wasn't a bad influence. I was just a cock tease.

Well, shit.

I didn't realize putting your name on clothing was considered foreplay.

But apparently, I've been walking around this earth completely ignorant of one of the greatest sexual epidemics of our time.

And the more I thought about it, the worse it got.

WE'RE LIVING IN A LAND OF COCK TEASES

Let's start with Calvin Klein.

That son of a bitch has had his name wrapped around people's asses for decades.

Underwear. Jeans. Shirts. Cologne.

CALVIN KLEIN plastered across every damn thing.

And somehow I'm the cock tease?

Hell, Calvin's been teasing cocks on an international scale since before some of you were born.

He's got billboards.

I've got a Facebook page.

We're not even operating in the same league.

And what about Ralph Lauren?

That bastard puts a little man riding a horse on your chest. What's that supposed to mean? You gonna ride me, Ralph? Is that the message?

Tommy Hilfiger?

Another cock tease.

Michael Kors?

Cock tease with a handbag.

We're surrounded by these people, and nobody's doing a damn thing about it.

But it gets worse.

Nabisco.

Think about that for a minute.

Every time that company puts its name on a box of crackers, it's apparently teasing somebody's cock.

You can't even walk down the snack aisle anymore without being sexually propositioned by a sleeve of Ritz.

OREO?

Don't even get me started.

Two chocolate cookies with a creamy filling?

Jesus Christ, Nabisco. Have a little decency.

And Little Debbie?

That hussy's been flashing her name all over snack cakes for generations.

I don't know what kind of establishment she's running over there, but apparently I've been participating since I was about six years old.

We've got an entire grocery store full of cock teases.

The cereal aisle alone ought to require identification.

NOBODY IS SAFE

Football players have their names on the backs of their jerseys.

Cock teases.

Every last one of them.

You've got 300-pound linemen running around with their names stretched across their shoulders, just shamelessly advertising themselves in front of millions of people.

And nobody bats an eye.

Doctors put their names on their white coats.

Well, hell, Doc. I thought I was here to get my blood pressure checked. Didn't realize we were getting acquainted.

Lawyers put their names on billboards.

CALL JOHNSON & JOHNSON.

For what, exactly? A consultation or a three-way?

I've got my name on my mailbox.

Can't imagine what the mailman must think of me.

Poor bastard's been delivering my mail for years, and here I am standing at the end of the driveway with my name proudly displayed like some kind of roadside invitation.

Probably goes home every evening and tells his wife, "That Durst fella's at it again."

I've signed my name on checks.

I've signed my name on contracts.

Hell, I've signed birthday cards.

Apparently, I've been leading people on since I learned cursive.

And what about tombstones?

A man works his whole life, finally drops dead, and his family puts his name on a big rock.

COCK TEASE.

The poor son of a bitch can't even rest in peace without somebody accusing him of sending mixed signals.

I'm starting to think we ought to remove everybody's name from everything.

No more name tags.

No more business cards.

No more personalized license plates.

And for God's sake, somebody get those names off the back of bowling shirts before things get completely out of hand.

ALL THIS OVER A DAMN SHIRT

Now, here's the part that makes this whole thing especially funny to me.

I wasn't even trying to be sexy.

I was selling a shirt.

A goddamn T-shirt.

You know, the kind of thing people put on so they don't have to walk around with their nipples hanging out.

I put my name on it because it's my merchandise.

That's generally how branding works.

Ford puts its name on trucks.

Chevrolet puts its name on trucks.

John Deere puts its name on tractors.

Although now that I think about it, John Deere might be the biggest cock tease of them all.

That bastard's been promising people a good ride for generations.

And have you seen what those tractors cost?

At those prices, there damn well better be some romance involved.

But seriously, I have to wonder what goes through somebody's head when they see a grown man wearing a shirt with his own name on it and somehow conclude they're being sexually deprived.

Did I miss a meeting?

Was there some kind of announcement that men who sell clothing are now required to provide additional services?

Because if that's the case, I need to update my return policy.

And possibly hire an attorney.

APPARENTLY I NEED A DISCLAIMER

I'm starting to think I ought to include a warning label with every shirt.

Something like:

WARNING: THIS GARMENT CONTAINS THE NAME JOE DURST.

Wearing or viewing this product does not constitute a promise of sexual activity, romantic involvement, personal attention, or access to the individual whose name appears on the fabric.

Side effects may include disappointment, confusion, inappropriate expectations, and the sudden urge to leave stupid comments on Facebook.

If symptoms persist, please consult a grown-ass adult.

There.

That ought to cover it.

Although knowing my luck, somebody would read the warning label and accuse me of teasing them with the fine print.

Can't win for losing.

I WROTE A WHOLE DAMN CHAPTER ABOUT PEOPLE LIKE THIS

The funny thing is, this whole business reminded me of something I wrote in my book LIVE LIKE A MAN.

There's a chapter called "You Asked Me a Damn Question."

It's about people who ask questions, hear answers they don't like, and then get all bent out of shape because somebody didn't tell them what they wanted to hear.

I've encountered plenty of those people over the years.

Somebody asks my opinion.

I give it to them.

Then they act like I've personally ruined their afternoon.

Well, hell, you asked.

I didn't come knocking on your door at seven in the morning with a clipboard and a list of unsolicited opinions.

Same thing with this shirt business.

I put a picture on Facebook.

Somebody decided it meant something entirely different.

And somehow I'm supposed to explain myself.

I can't even imagine what would happen if I posted a picture wearing a pair of Calvin Klein underwear.

The internet would probably have to shut down for maintenance.

Anyway, if you enjoy this kind of foolishness, you'll probably enjoy LIVE LIKE A MAN. There's plenty more where this came from, along with some things I take a little more seriously.

You can find it over at www.joedurst.com.

And no, buying the book doesn't mean we're dating either.

Figured I'd better clear that up.

BUY THE DAMN SHIRT. JUST DON'T GET ANY IDEAS.

Now, about that BAD INFLUENCE shirt.

It's still for sale.

I'm not pulling it off the market just because somebody apparently mistook a clothing advertisement for a personal invitation.

You can find it in my General Store at www.joedurst.com.

Buy one for yourself.

Buy one for your husband.

Buy one for that loudmouth friend who can't go to the grocery store without embarrassing everybody.

Hell, buy one for your mailman.

Lord knows mine's probably been wondering what the hell I'm trying to tell him all these years.

But understand something before you order.

You're buying a shirt.

Not a date.

Not a relationship.

Not a private audience with my pecker.

A shirt.

Cotton. Sleeves. A hole for your head.

That's the whole damn deal.

And if you happen to look good wearing it, congratulations.

Just don't go around telling people I led you on.

GOD HELP US ALL

I don't know what the world is coming to.

Used to be a man could put his name on something without causing a sexual incident.

Now we've got Calvin Klein running around teasing the entire country, Nabisco seducing people in the snack aisle, John Deere making promises it can't possibly keep, and poor Little Debbie out there peddling her cakes to anybody with three dollars and a sweet tooth.

And somewhere in the middle of all this moral collapse is me.

Joe Durst.

A grown-ass man trying to sell a goddamn T-shirt.

I suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself.

But I ain't.

In fact, I'm thinking about putting my name on a hat next.

Maybe even a coffee mug.

Hell, I might really push the envelope and order some personalized stationery.

At this rate, I'll have half the country pregnant by Christmas.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go get the mail.

And I think I'll wear a plain shirt today.

That poor mailman has suffered enough.

Joe Durst

FROM THE DURST GENERAL STORE

THE SHIRT THAT STARTED ALL THIS BULLSHIT.

The BAD INFLUENCE shirt. Got my name on it and everything. Apparently that makes it dangerous.

Buy the damn shirt if you like it. Just don't expect me to put out.

SHOP THE GENERAL STORE →

FROM DURST PUBLISHING

I WROTE A WHOLE DAMN CHAPTER ABOUT IT.

In LIVE LIKE A MAN, I've got a chapter called "You Asked Me a Damn Question." It's about what happens when people ask for an answer and don't like the one they get.

There's a lot more in the book about life, responsibility, raising my boy, and trying not to be a complete asshole. No promises on that last one.

GET LIVE LIKE A MAN →

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

VISIT JOEDURST.COM →

ENJOY READING MY SHIT?

BUY ME A DAMN BEER.

If something I wrote made you laugh, think, or just killed a few minutes of your day, you can buy me a beer. If not, that's all right too. I'm glad you're here.

BUY JOE A BEER →

FIND ME SOMEWHERE ELSE

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

Nobody Gives a Shit if You Call Yourself a Man

You ever notice how many grown ass men run around telling everybody what a real man is supposed to be?

Jesus Christ.

Everywhere you look, there's some son of a bitch explaining masculinity.

A real man does this.

A real man don't do that.

A real man drives a truck, grows a beard, eats his steak bloody, and wouldn't be caught dead drinking something with a little umbrella sticking out of it.

Well, hell.

I've got a truck. I've got a beard. And I like my steak.

Guess I'm qualified.

Where do I pick up my goddamn certificate?

I've been around men my whole life. Worked with em. Worked for em. Had em work for me. Drank with em. Fought with a few. Wanted to knock the shit out of considerably more.

And I'll tell you something.

Some of the biggest loudmouths I've ever met couldn't handle the responsibilities of a grown man if you handed em a set of instructions and a flashlight.

But they'll damn sure tell you how to live your life.

Funny how that works.

DO WHAT THE FUCK YOU SAID YOU'D DO

Let's start here.

You tell somebody you're gonna do something?

Do it.

I don't give a shit if it's showing up for work, paying somebody back twenty dollars, or helping your buddy move a refrigerator.

You said you'd do it.

So do it.

And if something happens and you can't, pick up the goddamn phone.

I've been in construction long enough to know shit goes sideways.

Rain comes.

Materials don't show up.

Some asshole delivers the wrong lumber.

Your truck decides today's a good day to shit the bed.

I get it.

What I don't get is a grown man who disappears because he doesn't wanna explain himself.

Won't answer his phone.

Won't return a message.

Then shows up three days later with some bullshit story that sounds like he spent the weekend making it up.

Just tell me what happened.

I'm a grown man. I can handle bad news.

What I don't have much patience for is somebody who thinks I'm stupid enough to believe whatever horseshit he came up with on the drive over.

Your word oughta mean something.

And if it don't, I don't care how big your truck is.

SOMETIMES YOU'RE THE ASSHOLE

This one's gonna hurt a few feelings.

Mine included.

Sometimes the problem ain't your boss.

Ain't your ex-wife.

Ain't the government.

Ain't the neighbor.

Sometimes it's you.

Sometimes you're just being a complete asshole.

I've been that asshole.

More than once.

I've opened my mouth when I should've kept it shut. Gotten pissed off over something that wasn't worth getting pissed off about. Dug my heels in on an argument I knew damn well I wasn't winning.

And sometimes I kept arguing anyway.

Cause apparently being wrong wasn't enough. I had to make a whole fucking production out of it.

But sooner or later you gotta be able to look at yourself and say, "Well, Joe, you fucked that one up."

It ain't gonna kill you.

You might even learn something.

And if you owe somebody an apology, give em one.

Not one of those half-assed apologies where you explain for twenty minutes why it was actually their fault.

Just say you were wrong.

Then shut up.

That's the part I still gotta work on.

QUIT WAITING FOR SOMEBODY TO SAVE YOUR ASS

I hear a lot of men complaining about how unfair life is.

And you know what?

Sometimes it is.

Sometimes you do everything right and still get kicked square in the nuts.

Lose a job.

Lose a marriage.

Lose your house.

Get sick.

Have somebody you trusted screw you over.

I've had some shit go wrong in my life too.

And there've been times I sat there wondering what the hell I was gonna do next.

But here's what I've learned.

Nobody's coming to your house with a goddamn marching band to announce that everything's gonna be alright.

Nobody's gonna knock on your door and hand you a fresh start wrapped up with a pretty little bow.

Sometimes you gotta get your ass out of bed and go figure it out.

Even when you're tired.

Even when you're pissed off.

Even when the last thing you wanna do is deal with one more goddamn problem.

Now, that don't mean you can't ask for help.

Hell, ask for help if you need it.

There's no prize for drowning because you were too proud to grab somebody's hand.

But there's a difference between needing a hand and expecting somebody else to carry your ass through life.

And I think a grown man oughta know the difference.

YOUR KID DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOUR SPEECHES

I've got a teenage son.

Tucker.

And that boy has heard enough of my lectures to last him three lifetimes.

I can tell when he's had enough, too.

Gets that look on his face.

The one that says, "Jesus Christ, Dad. Are you done yet?"

No, Tucker.

I'm not.

Sit your ass down.

But here's the thing.

I can run my mouth all day long about responsibility.

Don't mean a damn thing if he watches me do the opposite.

If I tell him to work hard and then sit on my ass all day complaining about how nobody appreciates me, what's he supposed to learn from that?

If I tell him to keep his word and then break every promise I make, why the hell should he listen?

And if I spend his whole childhood blaming everybody else for my problems, I shouldn't be surprised when he grows up doing the same thing.

Kids watch.

Even when you think they ain't paying attention.

Especially when you wish they weren't.

And I'm not raising Tucker to be some helpless fifty-year-old son of a bitch who can't make a decision without somebody holding his hand.

I want him to know how to work.

How to handle his money.

How to fix something when it breaks.

How to treat people.

And how to get himself out of a mess when he inevitably gets into one.

Cause he will.

He's my son.

God help us both.

BEING A BADASS AIN'T A FULL-TIME JOB

There's a certain kind of man I can't stand being around.

You know the one.

Walks into a room like everybody oughta stop what they're doing and admire the size of his balls.

Always gotta be the toughest bastard there.

Always looking for an argument.

Somebody looks at him wrong and suddenly we're all supposed to stand around while he explains how he ain't somebody to fuck with.

Alright, tough guy.

Congratulations.

Can we finish eating now?

I don't know when being a man became a competition to see who could act like the biggest prick.

You can be strong without being cruel.

You can stand up for yourself without threatening everybody.

And you can disagree with somebody without turning it into a goddamn fistfight.

Now don't misunderstand me.

I'm not saying a man oughta let people walk all over him.

I'm saying there's a difference between standing your ground and being too stupid to know when something ain't worth fighting about.

And sometimes the strongest thing you can do is walk away.

Although I'll admit there are days when I'd rather tell somebody to kiss my ass.

I'm still working on that one too.

AND QUIT WORRYING ABOUT WHAT OTHER MEN DO WITH THEIR DICKS

Since everybody's so damn concerned about what makes a real man, let's talk about something else.

Why the hell are some men so obsessed with how other men live?

Who they're dating.

Who they're sleeping with.

What they wear.

Whether they're married.

Whether they want kids.

Whether they like men, women, or would rather just go home and be left the hell alone.

What business is it of yours?

You paying their mortgage?

You buying their groceries?

You climbing into bed with em?

No?

Then why the fuck do you care so much?

I've got enough shit to worry about without keeping an inventory of what every other grown man does with his dick.

If a man's taking care of his responsibilities, treating people decent, and not hurting anybody, I don't particularly give a shit what he does behind his own front door.

And I'll tell you something else.

Some of the fellas who spend the most time hollering about everybody else's private lives oughta spend a little more time minding their own.

Might discover a few things at home that need fixing.

YOU AIN'T GOTTA HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS

Here's something I wish I'd figured out sooner.

You can be a grown man and still not know what the fuck you're doing sometimes.

There.

I said it.

There've been plenty of mornings I got out of bed with a list of problems and absolutely no idea how I was gonna solve half of em.

Bills.

Work.

Something broke.

Something else needs paid for.

Tucker needs something.

Somebody's pissed off.

And there's always some other son of a bitch wanting to know when I'm gonna get around to whatever he needs.

Sometimes I know exactly what I'm doing.

Sometimes I'm making it up as I go.

But the work still needs done.

And I think that's what a lot of this comes down to.

You don't have to be fearless.

You don't have to know everything.

You don't have to be the smartest, richest, strongest bastard in the county.

You just gotta be willing to deal with your shit.

And when you don't know something, admit it.

Find somebody who does.

Learn.

Hell, that's how most of us figured out half the things we know anyway.

By screwing something up the first time.

Sometimes the second time.

I've got a few projects around here I'd rather not discuss.

SO WHAT THE HELL IS A REAL MAN?

Beats the shit outta me.

I'm not sitting here pretending I've got some special authority to tell every man on earth how he oughta live.

I've got my own faults.

Plenty of em.

Ask somebody who knows me.

Actually, don't.

We ain't got all goddamn day.

But I'll tell you what I respect.

A man who shows up.

A man who keeps his word.

A man who takes care of the people depending on him.

A man who can admit when he's wrong without acting like somebody just cut his balls off.

A man who works for what he wants instead of sitting around bitching about what everybody else has.

And a man who can mind his own damn business.

You do those things and I don't particularly care if you drive a pickup truck or a little electric car.

Don't care if you wear boots or loafers.

Don't care if you drink whiskey or some fruity-looking shit with a pineapple hanging off the side.

Hell, order two.

I'll probably make fun of you.

But I'll respect you.

Cause being a man ain't about convincing everybody else you're one.

It's about what you do when nobody's watching.

And if you gotta spend half your day telling people how much of a man you are...

Well.

Maybe you're the one who ain't convinced yet.

Anyway.

That's my two cents.

I'm gonna go get some work done before somebody accuses me of sitting around writing heartfelt bullshit about masculinity.

And if anybody asks, I was talking about construction.

Joe Durst

FROM DURST PUBLISHING

I WROTE A WHOLE DAMN BOOK ABOUT IT.

Apparently I had more to say about this shit than I could fit into one article.

So I wrote LIVE LIKE A MAN.

It's about responsibility, raising a son, relationships, screwing things up, and trying to figure out how to be a decent man without turning into a complete asshole.

I ain't promising you'll agree with everything I wrote. Hell, I'd be disappointed if you did.

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A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

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If something I wrote made you laugh, think, or just killed a few minutes of your day, you can buy me a beer. If not, that's all right too. I'm glad you're here.

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.