I don’t know where or how or under what circumstances this phrase came to be, but my mother used to throw it around left and right / or maybe that should be left OR right since it’s just half.  

Jeffrey, go pick up the apples, and don’t do your usual half-assed job.   

On this one I gotta concede that she was right.  I was known for doing a shitty job, but they were rotten and full of ants.  If they were doing a half-assed job as an apple, it warranted me doing a half-assed job in getting rid of them.  So instead of picking them up, I kicked them into the neighbor’s yard which worked out great until a new family that could actually hear and see bought the house.  Game over.

Jeffrey, fold the clothes in the dryer, and don’t do your usual half-assed job.   

This one I took offense to.  My mother’s folding requirements were half-passed insane.  The day I folded a towel with the tag on the outside was a dark one.  

Jeffrey, make your bed, and don’t do your usual half-assed job.   

Here she had me.  It was impossible for a six year old to make a bed.  Especially since my father served in the Army during the Korean War.  Now he was stationed in Munich, so it’s unlikely he defended much more than a beer stein.  But he did learn the Army code of conduct regarding the assembling of a bed.  Yup, if you couldn’t bounce a quarter off it you did a half-assed job.  Now tell me how a six year old is gonna have the strength to stretch sheets, a blanket and bedspread to the point something could bounce off of it.  An unrealistic standard to achieve.  Now with a tennis ball you’d stand a chance.

Jeffrey, shovel the driveway, and don’t do your usual half-assed job.   

My parent’s driveway qualified as an offramp of I-95.  Enormous.  Snow was heavier back in the day, and all we had was a plastic blue shovel. My mother thought the blue was more aesthetically appropriate than steel.  So this flimsy plastic aesthetically correct Fairfield County approved piece of crap was all I had to work with.  Of course it constantly collapsed under pressure, much as I collapsed underneath the weight of the snow.  That’s when I got smart.  I had a small paper route that was morphing (even at six years old) so I paid the kid across the street to do it.  I’d fake like I was shoveling with the useless little boy blue model in the event Janet glanced to see my progress. The chance of that happening wasn’t a chance.  Ever since I got nabbed with the apple footballs, my attention to detail stock took a plunge.  

Back to the origin of the phrase.  First of all, who makes pants for half-assed people?  Whoever they are they’re doing a half-assed job, right?  If you’re half-assed do you still pay full airfare? How does a half-assed person squeeze out a number two?  Well they just can’t.  

The dictionary indicates that the first known usage of the phrase was circa 1932, yet even the dictionary doesn’t indicate what it actually means.  I’d ask Janet but she’s still in a Fedex box probably screaming for me to take her out.  Yet another one of my half-assed efforts!