Potty mouth. I know, I’m sorry. I’m triggered. I sit here in my house, children buzzing all around needing anything from a drink of water to banana peeled to a double check butt wiping, only to log onto social media to see some of YOU posting family pictures. It’s that season again. As beautiful as they are and the joy it brings to see little RandyRicky in a polo, draped over his mother’s white knit dress while his Dad stands behind them comfortably in flannel; it triggers me. I know what is depicted is not reality. I know young RandyRicky likely rolled in leaves covering a raccoon carcass just before the photo, causing his mother to lose her goddamn mind. I know Dad is missing a game he’d like to watch, yearning for five minutes of no work and no nagging. I’ll say it again for those in the back, it hurts me when the first album drops on the book of faces or instasnapper or whatever new medium we’re using now. Shame on you for knowing I’m out there, somewhere scrambling to hide YOUR pictures from my wife, before she unsheathes the red phone.

For as long as I can remember I have been sentenced to some small town variety of a shitshow picture taking, generally utilizing local carnies seeking inside work for the winter. My troubles started with Linda’s bright idea to allow a “professional” at JC Penny lay me out, ass available to the world on a bearskin rug (Pointer down perverts, booty here only), smiling like the mini chippendale I was, camera clicking like no camera had ever clicked before. Traumatizing and “80s weird” as that was, this precious moment would later be hung in my house in perpetuity, for anyone who entered casa de Linda to see. You read that right. “Come on in, have a seat. If you need to use the rest room it’s down the hall just past Jason’s balls on the wall to the left.” From starchy ass western shirts, a red dinner jacket, to my personal mutiny against child picture shaming, photoshoots have been my arch nemesis. For those interested, the mutiny failed and Linda raised her pimp hand.

So, it only makes sense that the universe would align my loins with a woman’s whose dedication to preserving our precious moments is immeasurable and beyond any comprehension of the mere mortal mind. Family fucking pictures are as important to her as the air we breathe and the air conditioner I seek. But here is the rub. It’s not so much anymore that I even hate getting photographed, it’s the way Erin Mayberry chooses to engage me in the act. ERIN-“Oh hey babe, I scheduled family pictures for us. I think we should do it in a fall theme. Just jeans a button down for you, ok?” JASON- “Yeah sure fine.” Fall theme my ass. Florida does not participate in “fall.” Here are the issues:

Issue #1- Fall pictures in Florida are akin to touching your bare ass on the sun, on the hottest day of the year in any other place on earth. There is no “fall” here, only lesser duck butter season and that’s a reach. ERIN- Walks through bedroom nude: “I scheduled us for the weekend of September 10th but it’s in Ocala so it won’t be so hot. Dad said it was cooler up there in the morning and that’s when I scheduled them.” JASON- Not initially realizing what was said and observing breasts moving about the room: “Does that interfere with the FSU game that day because if so, you’ll have to clarify that you’re not a single mother of three.” Only later do I realize when September 10th arrives that there was no regard for my safety or the sanctity of the shirt I’m wearing; conditions giving me an automatic bid to the Marion County wet t shirt contest, summer 2019.

Issue #2- The gang chooses what Jason will wear! This is worse. Considerably worse. Maybe just issue #1 on steroids because they meld together really. Many of you have followed my Greek Tragedy on this topic for some time now. It’s quite a bit of rinse repeat; a hellscape that traps me year in and year out. ERIN- “Babe, I think you should wear this waffle fabric double insulated henley under the sweater vest you got in Asheville two winters ago.” JASON- “Eh, I’m not sure that insulated vest is meant to be worn within the geographic region of Florida. Seems it’s made for more of a mountainy zone, don’t ya think?” ERIN- “No, you will wear what we have selected and you will smile.”

Fast forward to D-Day. Jason attempts to put on the waffle fabric double insulated henley in preparation for fall pictures taken on August 3rd. JASON- “Erin, what size is this shirt? Is this meant to be crop top?” ERIN- “It’s a men’s medium, it looked like it would fit you when I bought it. What’s wrong with it?” JASON- “What!?!?! This wouldn’t fit the baby, what do you mean it looked like it would fit!?!?! I was born wearing a large, this wouldn’t fit my embryo.” *Dan Henderson looking on in horror, realizing what I was about to endure, all the while laughing at my plight* ERIN- “Just make it work, you’ll have your vest over the top of it.” If you would like to donate to Erin’s gofundme page for shirts that fit Jason, please do.

Issue #3- Location, location, location. Jesus Christ, this might be the worst. If you love mosquito nests, fire ants, hornets, wild hogs, and snakes, let me recommend my wife as a tour guide through natural Florida. ERIN- “Jason, carry the girls through this five acre field in 98 degree heat, I don’t want them getting bitten by anything and this place is perfect. Look at that setting sun over the ridge! Let me know if you see anything dangerous.” PHOTOGRAPHER- “Oh I agree, maybe we should go even farther to really capture the glow of Laina’s hair. Can you help carry this trunk of photography goods as well?”

LINDA- “Honey, for the large family photo I need you to carry this 105 pound solid oak rocking chair reinforced with rebar throughout that I rocked you in as a child. The far corner of that pasture over there, just up that hill looks nice. Do that because I carried you for nine months and you love your mother.” JASON- “Can we drive this thing in Johnny’s truck? It is gas powered and four wheel drive.” ERIN- “Just do what your mother asked, she’s your mother, you’re fine!” PHOTOGRAPHER- “Oh no, we can’t drive in here, this is an ancient Navajo Indian preserve and we couldn’t possible use a motorized vehicle in here as it might upset the spirits.” Meanwhile the ghost of Chief LuggingBullshit cries as a brother in arms some 200 years ago.

Look, I love my family. They are prettier than me and ought to be photographed. I actually enjoy seeing the joyous captures of friends and family as well unless I’m made to participate in my wife’s escapades. The difference is most of the photos I see of all of you are taken in what appears to be temperate, husky friendly climates. For now, I am banished to a land where consistent conditions of a man’s pants range from duck butter to bat wings; sauce consistency depending on the exposure period. For that reason, amongst others, I remain bitter over pictures. This won’t change. The amount of pretty depicted by the other four people in my nuclear family overshadows the musty looking Dad bod in the back, and I guess that’s ok. Erin Mayberry will continue to parade this plump prince through difficult climates and topographies like an award winning hog, all to get that perfect portrait. That vital moment that shows the world, we are if but for just one second, more human family and less jackal. So sure as shit, wifedar buzzing as hot as a TSA security line investigating which munitions Anita is smuggling through this time, family pictures are scheduled for Sunday.