This morning I took the kids to the zoo for one last time before school starts tomorrow. One of their favorite places is the Cat Complex.

Much to my mother's chagrin, I owe much of my sense of humor to the usual gang of idiots at Mad Magazine. Imagine my reaction when I read this weekend that Al Jaffee, mastermind of back page fold-in, received a long overdue Reuben for Outstanding Cartoonist of the Year from his peers at the National Cartoonist Society.

Vin-di-CAAA-tion!

Where would I have been without Al Jaffee, Mort Drucker's movie and TV satires, Sergio Aragones' "Spy vs. Spy" tales, Don Martin's "Adventures of Captain Klutz" and the rest? Probably on my yacht in the Caribbean, counting the millions I made in a real profession.

But I'd be counting very, very dourly.

So, in tribute to one of Mr. Jaffe's most influential works in my life, here are some "Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions" about being an at-home dad:

"What's that say?" asked my 8-year-old girl, dressed in her latest Hannah Montana ensemble, as she pointed at the checkout counter magazine rack.

I had spotted it about 10 seconds earlier. I nearly flipped the issue over, but the former bag boy in me held back out of courtesy for my former union brothers and sisters.

"What's what say?"

"That … the one with Miley's picture on it."

Her index finger nearly touched the blaring yellow words.

You're sitting all alone in your house watching your newborn baby. You haven't had an intelligent coversation in months. Your only stimulant has been a cup of coffee and the smell of Pledge. You find you keep speed-dialing your wife at work even though you still have nothing to say to her.

The boy turned 6 over the weekend. This is a pretty amazing feat for you, little dude, because, in all seriousness, Mom and I gave much thought on Day 4 of your existence to trading you in for a quieter model.

I walked three miles around the creaky second floor of our old house that first-night-into-morning you were home, son, bouncing you in my arms, swaying you back and forth, swaddling and re-swaddling, singing you my up-to-that-time-never-miss (at least for your big sister) bedtime medley of "Sunny Afternoon" and "(Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay." All for naught, boy, all for naught.

My little cul de sac street is populated with a network of families with kids who have all lived here for generations. The parents gather by committee to choose the best school for their children and to make collective decisions for the street.

They also decide who is a danger to the kids. Recently, much to my surprise, I was put on the banishment list...

from the archives over at Hopeless Cases
(www.thechestapins.blogspot.com):

Oh, My Achin' Gonads!

Okay, so shortly after 3pm yesterday I underwent a vasectomy procedure. It was very odd: walking into a clinic by myself, sitting
in a room sans pants and waiting for the good doctor to come in.
First up was the shaving of the balls, then an injection of lidocane into the scrotum.

Several minutes later, with the family jewels nice and numb, the good doctor proceeding to make a tiny incision, snip my tubes, cauterized the endings and put me back together.

All in all I'd say it was comparable to any major dental work, like getting a crown or filling. You could feel pressure and there was the ocassional whiff of smoke. Although at one point I felt like my whole groin was cut open and that the good doctor hand both his hands inside noodlin' around with my wiring.

Last night there was a casualty in the kitchen. I managed to shatter a tall highball glass by attempting to clean down to the bottom. The shard sliced up my hand, and I instantly knew that it meant a trip to the E.R. So, my pregnant wife and our 2yr old girl (both still starving for dinner) got in the car to drive me to the hospital.

We were leaving playgroup the other day when I noticed a rather large grasshopper on the sidewalk. I picked it up and showed it to the 5 or 6 kids all standing around waiting for their dads. Most of them thought it was cool; one thought it was "ick!"

With only a few weeks left in 2006 I took some time to reflect on the past 11 months and have decided to name it the best year ever to be a stay-at-home-dad.

My son started sleeping through the night only a couple of months ago. Or so we suspected. My wife and I have determined that Andrew doesn't actually spend a restful evening in his crib. In fact it is our suspicion at sometime after we are all quietly asleep he escapes from the house to take night classes.