My kids eat crap. Well, not literally. But as a divorced full custody father with two teenaged boys still at home and one daughter on her own – trying to do her best in a world where she strides assertively through the frozen foods section of her local Safeway and is instantly seized by paroxyms of PTTPSD (Post Traumatic Tony’s Pizza Stress Disorder) – well, I lack a few (ok nearly every single one) of the healthy food acquisition and preparation skills. It’s not just a stupid guy kind of deal because I can iron knife-edged creases on my Dockers and I can call at least three carpet cleaners and argue over stairway cleaning rates, no, it’s more accurately described as a general attitude of sloth that hits me the moment I get home from a long day at work as though I had a Big Beautiful Woman (BBW) girlfriend or wife grabbing me in a warm embrace the second I cross the threshold into my domicile and hugging me so hard I almost lose consciousness while she pours White Russians down my throat to pretty much ensure I do. Well, not exactly. But you see my point -- TUBOB/The Unbearable Bobness of Being.

Full online column here (You can also read remainder of column in the extended entry below.

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