Daddy Love Week Announcement: I Will Soon Be Co-Blogging With Corinne Maier

30 Jan

Corinne and I.

Being that it’s Love Week here, and that things are kind of slow on the advice column side of things right now (as all my fellow advice columnists out there will attest, weekends are slow for us, as on the weekends people are usually out doing the things that actually propel them towards advice columns) I’ve decided to announce that I have succeeded in drawing Corinne Maier back into the blogosphere.

She will now be occasionally contributing to this blog, lending her formidable expertise in being fucking awesome. If you’ll look to my blogroll over there, you’ll see the lovely Ms. Maier’s site, which, she tells me, she will be updating rather infrequently and minimally, because she, first of all, is busy working on her next book, and second of all, does not believe in constantly banging out vacuous updates about things such as what she ate for lunch and or what her kid said about the family dog this morning. She will mostly just be saying awesome things, sometimes in context with breaking news.

Welcome aboard, Ms. Maier.

-John Leonard Ferris

UPDATE: After discussing the specifics of this new arrangement with Corinne, much to my consternation and surprise, she proved somewhat stubborn. She has thus far agreed only to question and answer sessions, with myself asking her the questions. Being that I am quite experienced in dealing with questions (all of them ever, in fact) I must grudgingly admit that this is, indeed, a sensible arrangement. For now.


Advice Column Break: Daddy’s Book Review, And Tragic Obsession With Corinne Maier

29 Jan

In order to beat the Valentine’s Day Love Rush, I’ve decided to start Love Week early. You may now rejoice, readers. So let’s kick this off with something special and unique for this Absentee Daddy: a book review.

Now, I told myself I’d never do a book review on my blog, because reading is annoying, and the only thing worse than reading books is reading other people writing about what they’ve read. So for all you children out there who have luckily chanced upon this blog, don’t listen to what your parents say about reading: all you really need is The Daily Show, The History Channel, a documentary film here and there, and a few “Dawkins/Hitchens Vs. Some Circularly-Reasoning Thelogian Guy” debates on YouTube to keep up the appearance of learnedness these days, really.

I suppose I have accidentally had a few books flop open at my feet in the past due to someone else having dropped them, and out of all those instances, Henry Miller really caught my eye. So basically, I’ve only ever read Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer— and just a few paragraphs at that– so take from that what you will. It seemed to be quite a piece of literature, from what I could gather before I had to hand it back to the guy on the train, one which truly left an indelible impression on me. Being the skilled and thorough researcher that I am, I gave a quick look into the history of the critical reception of Tropic of Cancer by going to its Wikipedia page,  and would like to point out that in 1964 one critic described Tropic of Cancer as a “cesspool, an open sewer, a pit of putrefaction, a slimy gathering of all that is rotten in the debris of human depravity” (sounds good to me).  The one doing the judging there was one of the highest in the land at the time, being that it was Pennsylvania Supreme Court Justice Michael Musmanno. This proves my point: critics are mostly idiots.  Except for me. Because I would like to announce that I am going to pursue the following author of the following book until I make her Mrs. Ferris (number 2).

Now, I’ve been mulling over how to approach this post for some time now, and have finally decided that it simply must be done in installments, at the very least. Now while it’s true that Daddy falls in love pretty easy, and that I’m sure there will be many more Daddy Crushes as this blog goes forward, most likely starting Monday or so, in my heart of hearts, I’ve been madly in love with one woman and one woman only for a few years now, ever since I first discovered her while searching for porn. Rechelle was my first bloglove, and I’ll never forget the times we shared, but another woman came along and swept me off my feet…and yes, she’s French.

(I’m sorry Rechelle. Oh that she were, perhaps, Cajun instead, thus weakening the cruel blow to your heart. But alas, that is not the case).

So without further ado, here she is, Daddy’s all time, soon-to-be serialized object of lust, dream girl crush, the Übercruschen, the captivating and lovely…Corinne Maier.

Ok, so she’s not the most alluring flower in the garden; I do acknowledge that. And in fact, this picture of her was actually one of the more flattering ones I could find online, to boot. So it’s clearly not the looks that I’m lusting over here, it’s the contents of that magnificent Gallic brain of hers. The one that turned out this masterpiece:

Now, I really don’t know what to say.  Really, there is nothing for me to do besides lay prostrate before her, find her contact information, and try to get an interview/date with her. All of which I will begin doing as soon as I click “publish” on this post. While many of you are certainly familiar with the lovely Ms. Maier, some of you may not be, so for the uninitiated: she is a stoutly anti-child bearing, French psychologist/author, and mother of two children. The title up there translates as “No Kids: 40 Reasons Not To Have Children.” And again, she is also a mother of two. Children. Who can presumably read books…their mother’s included.

Now, concerning this book review, I didn’t actuallyread” the book, at all, per se, but allow me to assure you, it is absolutely brilliant and groundbreaking. (Note: supposedly, Maier claims the book to be satirical, but psht, that’s Frenchspeak for “I am so serious about this.” And even if it is satirical, it makes no difference; the majority of people don’t really get satire anyway, as has been scientifically proven by my inbox).

I sometimes find myself  daydreaming about Maier…the two of us gliding blissfully hand-in-hand down the Boulevard Saint-Germain like hazily-conjoined, dark-lined rain clouds, both of us free, so child-free–

–Maier, light of my life, Watered-down de Beauvoir to my Absentee Sartre–

–her having finally just walked out on the two kids she’s repeatedly said she regrets giving birth to in both print and on national television, because, well, really, at that point, you may as well just walk away from them. They’re going to have some serious issues with you after that.

Trust me, I know.

Look, there is simply too much to get into when it comes to Corinne Maier and that masterpiece tome of hers. I don’t want to blow my load early on this one. So we’ll just leave it at that for now. I’m off to hunt down her contact info now.

And you know, it’s funny.

I never believed in soul mates…until now…

P.S. Another Ab Dad Love Week Coming Soon

27 Jan

I guess I have to do some shit in honor of the next cocksucking holiday coming up. So I figure it’s time for another Ab Dad Love Week.  Due to the long-awaited arrival of some unfriendly comments on this blog (I don’t get it, did I do something wrong? I’m just a poor little absentee father trying to help the world) I feel it’s especially imperative that I do another commenter roundup and choose 1 special commenter, most likely a sexy lady thing, to whom I shall devote a beautiful stick figure ode.

Question #25: “Is My Child Too Young To Have A Cell Phone?”

26 Jan

Tess from Tulsa sent me this one, and I swear to God, I am going to try to stay cool, calm, and rational as I work my way through the answer to this one. As a matter of fact, I’m going to go grab the first beer of the night before I even set in on this one. Be right back.

OK, back. So, to sum up Tess’ email: her daughter is 10 years old, and she’s considering getting the girl a cell phone. Something about wanting to be able to keep tabs on the kid, GPS tracking capability, Amber Alert applications and there being a lot of bad people in the world, or some shit.

First of all, being the father of a 10 year old girl myself, I can completely identify with your concerns, Tess. I have no real idea where Darla is right now, she has no idea where I am, and it’s true, if she had a cell phone (and I have no doubt that my crap-brained wife bought her one by now) and if I had a cell phone, and if we both had each other’s numbers, we’d possibly be in contact right now. My first problem with that is this: I’m really just not all that interested with staying in contact with the kid, to tell you the truth. I mean, she’s OK, she had her moments, but it’s fair to say we’ve both moved on at this point. Bringing text messaging, GPS tracking technology, and holographic chat conferencing or whatever the fuck it is that the cell phones are doing these days would be counterproductive to the glorious “no kids worries” thing I have going on right now, and believe you me, Darla probably feels the same. (I don’t know if you read the hate mail that my son Connor sent me a couple weeks back, but Darla’s exactly like her mother, so just take that letter, multiply the animosity by about 6, and you’ll get an idea as to how Darla feels about me). So actually, on second thought, I can’t at all identify with you on wanting to stay in constant contact with your daughter, Tess. I lied, and I do apologize for that.

Now for the actual answer to your question: yes, you moron, your kid is too young for a cell phone. You know, more and more, just walking around, I see shit like this:

Every time I see something like this, it’s a mind fuck for me. Along the lines of this:

Is it really spinning? Is this shit real? Does that kid really have a phone? Oh my fucking God I have no idea what's going on anymore.

I’m almost 50 now. When I was growing up our mobile phone technology involved a pocketful of change and a system of pay phones that didn’t work half the fucking time. In fact, half the fucking time some idiot kid had somehow fucked the pay phone up with bubble gum, Tess. These are basically the same kids you’re trying to give mini-supercomputers to. Look Tess– if that is your real name– I can’t believe you actually sent me this question. I’m going to grab another beer, I can’t deal with this.

You know what? Now I’m really getting pissed. I won’t even get into all that “cell phones and cancer” shit, because I know more than science does, and I say you  really can’t trust it. But let’s just say there’s something to it all.  That means you’re considering putting your kid at risk for cancer, Tess. Fucking despicable.

The answer is yes, Tess, your child is too young for a cell phone, or to put it another way: no, Tess, don’t give that 10 year old a goddamned cell phone, you horrible mother.

Children are fucking idiots, and children are fucking brilliant. At the same time.  It’s a lethal fucking combination. They’re just smart enough to be significant threats to the free world, and just idiotic enough to take a pocket-sized supercomputer and wreak all sorts of havoc on the entire universe. Either way, children are critically dangerous, we mustn’t forget this, and I can’t believe you’re thinking about putting a cell phone into the hands of a 10 year old. Tess, you magnificent troglodyte, I’m reminded of a John Updike story where one of the characters pondered whether or not there was a goldfish swimming around in a particular girl’s head, instead of a brain. You’re actually advocating  that we continue this march towards a world where children are running amok, all wielding cell phone-like things.

OK, new fucking rule, “Tess”: children aren’t allowed to wield anything. Nothing at all.


tr.v. wield·ed, wield·ing, wields

1. To handle (a weapon or tool, for example) with skill and ease.

2. To exercise (authority or influence, for example)

Cell phones are weapons at this point. Some kid in China is probably reconfiguring the State Department right now using one of those fucking things. I hate to keep bringing China into this–I feel like Thomas L. Friedman or some shit– but a 16 year old girl did just slaughter like half the world and a New York Times columnist, to boot, in a few rounds of chess the other day. Imagine what she could do with a pocket supercomputer.

Cell phones can financially ruin you. I don’t feel like linking to examples of accidental child-generated multi-thousand dollar phone bills right now, but they’re very well fucking out there. Abundantly. Hey Tess, you know what would be a good idea? Putting one of those things in the hands of a person who can still display her age by giving the universal sign for “I surrender.”

They say there’s no such thing as a stupid question…well you managed to shatter that maxim to fucking pieces, Tess, because that was a stupid fucking question, and the fact that it even formed itself in that cranial cavity thing that I dare assume you have going on up there is proof that you don’t even deserve to walk amongst us. You know what?

You just ruined my entire fucking week, “Tess,” my hemorrhoids are flaring up again now, and even Dipsy Doodle, my pet Yorkie,  is barking uncontrollably at the screen right this minute, due to her having sensed a moronic question in the room. You’re actually the first advice-seeker to get Dipsy all riled up like this. Dipsy ain’t happy, Tess. And if Dipsy ain’t happy…nobody happy. You better pray I don’t see you in the fucking street.

OK, you know what? Second new rule: Tess never emails me again, and Tess gets thrown in fucking prison for being such a miserable detritus-brained mother. 5 years minimum, and or Tess just disappears entirely off the face of the fucking planet all together, I’m done with this shit, goodbye, fuck off, and no, Dipsy doesn’t even want to hear your pathetic fucking apology– as of now she’s low-growling at the screen, I think you managed to make my puppy-wuppy sick, this is all your fucking fault, and I hate your shitty guts.

Hope that helped, Tess.

Concerned about technology and the effects it may have on your children? Have a question? Well don’t be afraid to ask, Silly Billies! I’m a former computer engineer and all-around nice guy.  Email me at, and together, we’ll have you and your family zzzzzzzzzippping right along into the 21st century!

Advice Column Break: Daddy’s Week In Review

24 Jan

Good evening all you readers out there, we’re a little over a month old now at and I have to say, I’ve had an unexpected number of people drop by to catch the show. I hope my advice has made the world a better place, because that’s what I’m here for. If just one person out there takes just one little pearl of wisdom away from this blog and does something with that pearl that doesn’t involve a prostate, well then, it’s mission accomplished for this absentee daddy.

I’ve been a little slow the past couple weeks with updates and what not, and I do apologize; I had my court date Friday for the Santa statue pissing incident that took place over the holidays  ($500 fucking fine, total. Seriously, if any of you can spare even a few dollars, let’s talk PayPal, please),  the emotional tempest that sort of ensued the other week when I received that letter from one of those ex-kids of mine (the goddamned kid can’t spell for shit– it’s really enough to tear a parent up inside), Cindy’s harassing me via email now, which we’ll get into next week I guess, the goddamned automatic-flushing toilets at the local Walmart where I do my shopping are still inexplicably flushing and ambushing my ass for no good reason (and I still haven’t gotten around to writing the manufacturers of those things–I feel like I’m really failing as an absentee daddy here), Gina from Question #23, with her cheating, aftershave-scented husband, still hasn’t called me, Betty or whatever from Question #24 completely wasted my time with that incredibly stupid question about her husband sexting other women (leave him, Olga, is that what you wanted me to say? He’s cheating on you. There. Jesus Gerbil-Loving Christ if I had known that this advice columnist thing would involve having to deal with neurotic, paranoid unattractive women, I may have never gotten into it. This is harder than it looks, people)…look. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I feel as though I’ve been letting everyone down lately. All 7 of you. This is how I feel:

Absentee Daddy right now.

Emaciated and Picasso-blue, just strummin’ away at an old guitar with a hole in my frock,  just a sad old Absentee Daddy with no where to go (“back home to your wife and children” is not an option, so please, just save it?)…sigh…and to top it all off, I feel as though now, because this blog has asserted that Mom Blogs generally suck, owing mostly to my instincts,  it’s time for me to delve into the world of some Mom Blogs and comment on them.  Holy finger-twirling Christ on a cracker, this is going to be God awful. But it had to happen some day. So tonight, right now, I begin my actual foray…into the world of Mom blogs. Because, though I know that Mom Blogs suck, as an a priori truth, I’m going to have to start providing empirical evidence to support my claim. I guess. So this is going to be fucking painful. But let us begin…

Now I’d like to start my hellish journey into the world of Mom Blogs as painlessly and easily as possible, so I’ll just start off with the Big Two, to make it easy on myself. Now, I’m a reasonable man. Those of you have been reading this blog know that. All Mom Blogs can’t possibly suck, and I do acknowledge that. My assertion is simply that a vast majority of them suck. That being said, imagine everything I say from this point on in the voice of Steven Wright.

"*Sigh* So I bought some instant water one time. Didn't know what to add to think when George Washington was asked for ID, he just whipped out a quarter? *Sigh* I can levitate birds. But no one gives a shit. *Sigh* Allllright. Let's talk about Mom Blogs now..."

Poll time.  Guess who recently posted this brilliant piece of literature.

Jesus. That “Fertile Myrtle” line at the end there made me lactate. I have no idea why or how I just lactated, but it either means that I’ve been a woman all along, or that The Pioneer Woman’s Haiku poetry just turned me into one. Either way, it’s pretty disturbing.  And by the way, two of the choices in that poll were actually correct. Trick question. Gotcha.

So that was Exhibit A. I feel that’s proof enough that The Pioneer Woman sucks horrible, egregious ass. So I’ll just stay the hell away from that site for a while now.  Or to put it in Haiku form:

Cherry blossom bloomed

Pink and pouty near my screen

Drummond’s poem killed it.

So that’s my verdict on one of the Big Two for now (well, actually, there was one previous Pioneer Woman incident on this blog, but that’s the official verdict).

Now for the other One.

Sigh. End Steven Wright voice.

OK, so I Googled Dooce up and down a few times, and on a side note,  I actually registered for her site recently and taunted her in a completely unrelated incident (yes, it’s actually somehow possible for me to go to a Mom Blogger’s site and be obnoxious for reasons other than the Anti-ish Mom/Dad Blog that I happen to be running. Long story). I assume I’m banned from her site, but it doesn’t really matter; I don’t intend to comment on shit there ever again.

So my verdict on Dooce after a couple days of research/consideration?

Well, it seems that there is a lot of contempt towards Dooce from Mom Bloggers. One reason being that she’s probably not even a “mom blogger” to begin with, or whatever, look, I don’t give a shit, really. True “Mommy Blogger” or not, she’s still popularly known as the “Biggest Mom blogger in the world” it seems.  To have that popular reputation, and to not even be a mom blogger, means that she’s considered an impostor of sorts, I suppose. Which would explain a lot of the Mommy Blogger contempt. I read a lot of Mom Bloggers complaining about how she closes off her comments and how she’s self righteous and some shit about her being a skinny little bitch, yaddah yaddah yaddah, who cares.

So the Absentee Daddy’s verdict on Ms. Armstrong? Drum Roll. Surprise ahead…

She’s slightly awesome.


1. Probably not even  a” mommy blog,” by strict definition, but still manages to hold the queen Mom Blogger crown nonetheless, so:

Not A Mom Blog + Yet Beats All The Other Mom Blogs+ While Still Somehow Being Popularly Labeled A Mom Blog = Awesome.

2. Hate mail ingenuity. Hate mail ingenuity is admirable, and Dooce figured out how to make it work for her, so that’s fairly awesome.

3. Impostors are awesome. Impostors are often spies, and spies are obviously fucking awesome, so Dooce is like some kind of skinny little maddeningly-popular depression-battling hate mail deflecting Jiu-Jitsu blog master who pisses thousands of Mom Bloggers off. This is, of course, awesome. Now Pioneer Woman has a lot of haters as well, but it seems to me that Pioneer Woman hatred is fully justified. Dooce hatred, not quite as much.

So there we have it. My first timid foray into actually examining Mom Blogs. Fairly painful. I have not a doubt that as I make the occasional venture into the Mom Blog world that I will, in fact, find my original assumption to be correct: most Mom Blogs suck, ergo, fuck Mommy Blogs. It’ll be a learning experience. We’ll explore the world of Mommy Blogs together, you guys! Isn’t that fucking swell. This sucks. What the fuck have I gotten myself into. At any rate, I don’t intend to spend too much time actually Mom Blog hating, because I have much more important matters to attend to, as I’ve been called upon by some higher being, or beings, of some sort (I suspect they’re actually sodomite extraterrestrials, to tell you the truth) to answer all questions ever. (Let’s not forget I did basically set humanity on-course to universal utopia with Question #22.)

And with that, I bid you adieu for now. Until we meet again, world.

#Now it’s time to say goodbye, to all our company. A-B-S…E..N…T..E#…oh just fuck this shit.


-John Leonard Ferris

Question #24: “My Husband Has Been Sexting With Another Woman. What Should I Do?”

22 Jan

Now this one came from some chick somewhere, I forgot the name, I think it was Helga, but it did send me a picture;  that’s it up there.

Oh God. What is it with you women? Look, Dorothy, I’ll just tell you exactly what I’d tell anyone: so he’s “sexting” with another woman. Big fucking deal. I hear that’s what you young folks call it when people send each other sexual text messages or something. “Sexting.” It doesn’t mean shit. Where I come from it’s not a marital slip until his dick is in her slit.

Watching porn obsessively? Getting other girl’s phone numbers? Strange unaccountable absences? Leave the poor man alone. Chatting with other women online? Grabbing lunch with other women? The occasional non-you related dinner date? Leave the poor man alone. Innocent little love letters to other women? His suddenly having to stay late at his job and catch up on some work coinciding with the arrival of a new, young attractive co-worker?  The undeniable scent of another woman’s vagina on his lips? Leave the man alone.  Look, Gertrude, you’re just being paranoid about this.

Let the fucking man have a little fun with his cell phone, for Christ’s sake. It’s just text message fun; that doesn’t count as cheating or anything. He’s already been kind enough to commit to you for the rest of his life, so cut him a little fucking slack. OK, this question is fucking boring me and you’re starting to piss me off,  Clementine or whatever your name was, so please just fuck off and stop fretting about what your husband is doing. Please don’t ever email me again. You’re imagining shit.

Have a bad feeling about your marriage? Are you not a male AND do you in no way look like that annoying, paranoid insufferable woman whose idiotic question I just answered? Would you say you maybe look more like Gina from Question #23? Then feel free to email me at And Gina, why haven’t you called me yet?

I answer all questions ever.

Question #23: “My Husband Smelled A Little Different Yesterday. What Should I Do?”

22 Jan

Gina from Lancaster sent me this one a few weeks ago, and, after I requested a photo, she finally obliged yesterday. Just in case there’s any confusion, the one on the left in the picture is Gina, and the one to the right is her (deservedly) cut-off husband.

First of all, just allow me to say that’s quite a pretty smile you have there, Gina, and that Daddy’s pretty sure that whoever took that photo probably missed the best parts of Gina, too. Daddy’s sure as hell missing the rest of Gina, tell you that much.

Now on to your question. Well, this is, indeed, quite the olfactory-related dilemma we have here, isn’t it? First of all, what kind of smell are we talking about here?  Was it kind of a piney thing he had going on? Because that, I’m sorry to say, Gina, means he’s fucking another woman.

Now, being that I am a certified advice columnist, I’ve been both trained and had plenty of real life experience with odd husband scents in marriages. So if, by any chance, it’s an odor slightly similar to boiled eggs that you noticed emanating from your husband, well, then Gina, I’m sorry to inform you… he’s fucking another woman.

Rhubarb? Lemon Fresh Pine Sol? Gasoline? Cigarette smoke? Fucking another woman. Kind of an odorless scent you can’t quite put your finger on but still gives you a bad gut feeling? Pancake syrup? Motor oil? Family dog? Freshly-cut roses? Shampoo? Asparagus fern? Fucking another woman. Sweaty socks? Juicy Fruit? Lint?  Chapstick? Mentholated Chapstick? Perspiration?  Armani Code? Aftershave? Now that you think about it, it all makes sense, doesn’t it?

I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Gina, but…you are no longer the only woman in Mr. Cut Off’s  life.

As to the next course of action. There will, of course, be a divorce as a direct result of this revelatory advice column exchange. And it will be hard on your two children… at first. But time heals all, Gina, and it’s better that you find out now the truth behind what I imagine to be Mr. Cut Off’s deceptively charming, serpentine smile and that despicable veneer of a wholesome, hard-working, good-natured, sweet husband. You have no other choice but to do to your husband precisely what that prescient photographer did in that sexy picture of you up there. He brought this on himself, Gina, so let there be no regrets, no remorse.

Now, about us…wait, are you crying? Gina, oh, honey, I know, I know. Listen. I’m free all weekend. I did have this advice columnist award ceremony to go to tomorrow but…no, no. It’s no big deal.  Right now all that matters to Daddy is that you get through this OK. And that maybe you think about contact lenses because I think you’d be even hotter without the glasses. But really, look. I’m just going to email you my phone number, and we can set this up.

Hope that helped, Gina.

Have a bad feeling about your marriage? Are you not a male? Then feel free to email me at I’m kind of in between jobs right now so I’m usually free to be here for you most any night.

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