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Forget the triathlon. Run the triathMOM. That's where you breast-feed one kid, then the other-then fuck your husband blind.

Because that's what it's all about. The family. My mom was always home-for better or worse. When you needed her to be there, when you wished she wasn't because you had a bad report card in hand-every time all the time. My wife Ann's first and last thought every single day of her life since the moment we found out she was pregnant with our first child has been this: the kids the kids the kids the kids. We may not have been perfect parents but she certainly made sure the kids were the number one priority.

If you wanna know how to raise children, you no longer even need to consult a medical encyclopedia or a self-help tome. Just watch The Real Housewives of Orange County-or its sister Manhattan show-and do the exact opposite of what those self-centered, Botox-bidden, trout pout- pursing, fishnet and finger-skirt-wearing witches do: think about the children. What THEY want, what THEY need. One of the selfish moms on the Manhattan show has a frozen face, a brownstone on New York's Upper East Side and three teenaged kids who almost never see her. She calls herself The Countess because she's married to a Count. Remove one key letter from her husband's title and you will find a word that perfectly sums her up.

It's hard to raise kids right, to work toward being a working family unit. Let's face the facts-all families are dysfunctional. Do you know of a functional one? The Kennedys? Who may not have molested each other but somehow managed to grope their way through half of the Western Hemisphere? Not to mention enough drugs and alcohol to drown a herd of horses. Oops-didn't mean to mention drowning. What about the Bush family? Are they functional? Compared to the Kennedys they would seem to be somewhat normal-just that little matter of the one with Asperger's syndrome. You know-George Junior?

Listen-I look back on how my wonderful wife raised two terrific kids who have grown up with a wonderful sense of humor and two hearts big enough to care openly about each other, their parents and those who are worse off than they are-and I can be proud.

I look back on the way my parents raised us and I am eternally grateful that my mom and dad made us go to Catholic school where we learned to develop a sense of right and wrong and where Sr. Rosemarie Sullivan taught me how to dance and sing and act and ultimately even pointed me toward Emerson College, where I ended up-because of Sr. Rosemarie's training-getting a full scholarship to write and act. I am grateful that my parents supported my dream. I am grateful that my dad told us the truth and my mom always gave us a hug and a kiss and they both never failed to let us know how much they loved us and we all lived under the same roof and always felt like we could turn to them for help and maybe an extra dollar or two. That to me is what a functional family is all about.

And I've got the scars to prove it.

CHAPTER 12 - Your Cat Sucks Fish Heads in Hell

That's right. Your cat sucks.

Both your cats do.

Or-if you are what's known in the normal human part of the world as Cat Crazy-all fifteen of your cats are of the world as Cat Crazy-all fifteen of your cats are simpering, hairball-spewing, self-centered wastes of domesticity.

Need proof?

How many stories have you recently heard about or seen on TV or even read about that involve a cat somehow helping to save its owner?

Answer?

Not one.

Last year?

By my Internet count-exactly zero.

In your entire lifetime?

Think about it for a second.

Zilch.

Which means-not a single, solitary one.

How many stories have you heard about or seen on tv or even read about that involve a dog somehow helping to save its owner?

Countless.

There was a whole television series about a dog who-each and every week-saved its owner or members of the owner's family or even complete and absolute strangers. That dog was named Lassie.

And before you cat owners go off on a tangent about doggie propaganda and media