Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Why Our Country Is Failing

I have a client. He's being audited for the second year in a row. The items he's being audited for are Medical Expenses, Charitable Donations and Miscellaneous Business Expenses. He doesn't deduct medical expenses because his income is too high, we attach copies of all his charitable donation receipts when the return is filed and his miscellaneous business expenses are negated by the alternative minimum tax. In other words, this type of audit is like jerking off without release. A pointless exercise that only results in someone being chaffed.

So, the first year of the audit, I try to contact the IRS but their systems are such that nobody takes calls in the last hour of their shift, nobody takes calls early in the morning and when you wait for an hour, the system eventually boots you. So, I sent a letter. The leter provided copies of the charity, AGAIN, pointed out that there are no medical expenses to audit and we requested that we not go through the process of compiling expenses that won't do anything to the return but will cost my client money in accounting fees. They respond with a no change letter and my client signs and returns it. Little did he know, the no change was in dollar amount, not in the expense audit. They disallowed all the expenses, other than the charity. Net result, IRS gets nothing but the state he lives in gets a couple grand. Thanks IRS, for nothing. You lose, he loses, the state wins. Good work. Taxpayer money wasted.

So, he gets the same letter for 2006. I spend countless hours trying to get someone on the phone and I finally got thru this morning. To a woman who, unfortunately, said her ID number too fast for me to write down. She sounded like she might have been from the south and she was angry that I was asking questions. I asked her why the IRS would audit a return for medical expenses when not one expense is even listed on the return. I asked why they would ask that we attach documentation of charity with the filing and then ask for the same fucking thing a year later, when they should have it in their system and, lastly, I asked why we had to go through the motions with this pointless exercise of digging up receipts when the IRS wasn't going to make a nickle on the audit. She got pissed off. I was very cordial, very polite, even as she was raising her voice and threatening to hang up on me.

That's right, she said she was going to terminate the call.

She told me to talk to congress about the audit as this is their fault.

So, congress is having the IRS audit tax returns that will not result in tax increases. What's the fucking point? Are they trying to increase revenues for tax preparers? Trying to help the individual states out by using pointless IRS audits?

That's right, pointless IRS audits. I have all the charity for this guy. I will have him get his expenses and we will fight this thing and we will probably lose and the IRS will get nothing out of him.

When I asked the agent if, going forward, I should not attach donation receipts over $250, as requested, as they are, apparently, ignored, she hung up on me.

The IRS hung up on me. That's fucking wrong. They are supposed to talk nice to us, make us feel more comfortable as they stick their giant, tax dollar sucking cocks in our collective asses.

Odd Job Selection

I went to the dentist for a cleaning yesterday. I did this after a 3 vodka lunch and after I ran into a college friend who, upon hearing I was headed to the dentist, handed me a percocet which I promptly ate.

So, as I sat in the chair, drool on my chin, fingers in my mouth, metal scraping and poking my teeth and gums, I realized, if I ever met someone and they said they were a dental hygienist, I'd punch them in the mouth. I mean it. Who the fuck wants a job that entails sticking their hands in people's mouths? Do they get off on administering pain? Are they some twisted Steve Martin in Little Shop of Horrors? Do they get off poking your gums, making you bleed? Is this their outlet to avoid slicing up neighborhood pets or people? Are dental hygienists, and denstist while we're at it, actually serial killers who "have it under control?"

I never understood how people wound up with their professions. Sure, you're desperate, you need the cash, you take a job that isn't glamorous. That is understandable and that is noble but dental hygienst? Dentists? That requires schooling. That requires thought and planning. That isn't a simple "I need the money, I guess I'll take that job as a dental hygiensist." No, you need to work for that job. Training. To administer pain. Odd.

Odder still, who the fuck grows up thinking "I want to stick my finger in people's asses for a living." At what point does a child, or college student stop and think "EUREKA!!! I want to be a proctologist?"

Who the hell wants to be surrounded by that much stink eye? Who the hell wants to spend their life staring into the starfish abyss? The only people I know who like to be around assholes are other assholes.

Ever meet a proctologist? Ever meet a dental hygienist or a dentist? I'm not talking about as a patient or in an office of doctors, I'm talking about a dinner party or at the market. No. You haven't. Know why? They're fucking embarrassed to admit that they like to cause pain for a living of stick their fingers in your ass for a living.

Think about it. You're in the market, you ask the nice guy next to you to hand you a can of peas. He does. You get to talking, he says he's an ass doctor and what do you do? You put the peas he touched back on the shelf and you make a beeline for the hand sanitizer section.

Imagine being married to a proctologist. Sitting at the table, having dinner, thinking "fuck, I need to get up, walk over there and get the salt because there's no way I'm letting asshands over there touch my food."

Can you have sex with a proctologist without losing the mood every time you think of all the asses his or her fingers have been in? And when he or she goes down on you and starts dancing the double knuckle shuffle, do you think "oh man, this is great" or "my cock is in her mouth and she's checking my prostate." Seriously, think about it. If they normally stick their finger in assholes, feeling around for issues, when they slip old excalibur in there for some added pleasure, isn't one part of them thinking "hey, that doesn't feel right" or "wow, I should tell them their prostate feels very healthy but I'll wait until I swallow this load."

Gross, I know but is it any different than being with a psychiatrist? You know they are analyzing ever word you say. You know it and they know it. Ever been around shrinks? Their families are, usually, the most fucked up. Imagine growing up with a psychiatrist for a parent. Always talking about things like there's some underlying oedipal issue or some jeungian concept that needs to be addressed when, in reality, the issue is that you are a teenager, you smoked too much dope and tried to deal with dad when you should have been in your room, listening to the dead.

Monday, April 27, 2009

The Boy Emulates Dad? Thank A Cop? This one's a long one.

An anonymous comment made about my last entry was unanswerable until Saturday. Anonymous asked "what would you eat while you shit?"

Well, I wouldn't eat anything but young Floogin Junior has brought new pride in the McNoogin bathroom activity division of life.

Saturday evening I walk into the bathroom and fine my mini-me sitting, naked, on the throne, swinging his feet back and forth, apparently, in mid-shit. And what, pray tell, is that dangling from his mouth? Cheese stick. Polly-O string cheese stick. So, anonymous, cheese sticks are something you can eat whilst taking a shit.

Now, that, in and of itself, is impressive (and disgusting) but not worthy of the pride. No, to fully garner the props and bragging of dear ole disgusting dad, young Floogin Jr had to do something even I never attempted, and for good reason.

Sunday morning, getting the boy ready for the schlep out to Rockaway Beach to pick up his sister, he tries peeing while playing Mario Kart on her DS. All I hear is the jingle jangle sounds of the game and my wife screaming "what the fuck are you doing?"

Seems little man peed everywhere but the toilet. Came in second so it might have been worth it.

The boy was the focus of the weekend as my daughter slept out Saturday night. After dropping her off we came back to the city and little man said he wanted lobster. Not an easy task at 9 PM on a Saturday but there's this Puerto Rican restaurant down the street that serves paella with lobster so we parked the car and headed over. I've never smelled cigarette smoke as thick as this outdoors so I was a bit worried about what we might be getting ourselves into but still, we walked up to the place. The women outside the restaurant were all decked out in what can only be described as the latest trends in whorewear. Skirts so short that you could see short ass cheeks and, on one occasion, I think I saw a lip. To say that cleavage was exposed would be like saying Mexico had one person with the sniffles. Tits out, nipples nearly exposed. Lots and lots of boobage. The bouncer (what kind of restaurant needs a rope and a bouncer?) comes bounding over "you guys live in the neighborhood?" he asks. We explain that we do. "Head straight back, ask for T.J. and tell him you're local." We walk in. We're the only white people in the joint, other than a table of the grossest, sleaziest, white trash girls I've seen since that time in Lousiana when I discovered the girl I was kissing had three teeth. JT sees us and comes racing over, presumably to avoid having us freak out and run from the place. He ushers us over to a table and sends two waiters to our table to ensure our happiness.

The food was great (burger wasn't but the paella, grilled shrimp and the mound of shaped vomit my wife had on her plate was, apparently, far better eating than looking) and my son got a kick out of the music. It was loud. So loud that you had to scream to order food. Every three seconds it was someone's cumplianos and the music would stop, some birthday song would be played, everyone would clap, hooting and whistling ensued and then right back to the heavy beats of latin flavored disco.

The best part of this place was the food itself. Giant portions, apparently, for giant people, mostly women. This was chubby chaser nirvana. Seriously, if you dig fat broads (or guys), head over to Sofrito. Tons of fat folks there. Literally.

So, anyway, that was the night.

Yesterday, after picking up my daughter, we decided to enjoy the heat wave and head over to Coney Island. For those not in the know, this is an old, famous beach in Brooklyn. Home of The Cyclone, one of the scariest roller coasters in the country. Scary because it's about 100 years old and feels like it might collapes beneath you. Also home of The Wonder Wheel. Frightening ferris wheel with moving cars. Not swinging cars, moving. As in they slide forwards and backwards as you rise up and come down.

Speaking of swinging, we're waiting on line for the Wheel and the two women behind us are decidiing if they want the swinging cars or the other, stationary, cars and one woman points up at the signs and asks her friend, do we want swinging or, um, standinary?

That's right, she saw the two signs, swinging and stationary, and still, said standinary.

I quietly pulled out the Storm to type that one in. Never want to forget something like that. More so since her friend said "standinary?" to which the first woman replied, the one that doesn't swing. Standinary." The second woman then said "no, swinging is more fun, standinary is higher but boring. fuck standinary."

Verbatim. I typed it as they said it.

We took the swinging car as well. She's right. Fuck standinary.

My daughter was an inch too short for the Cyclone. So, we'll come back at the end of the summer and try again.

The kids rode the rides, mini free fall, small coasters etc. I did the tilt a whirl three times with my daughter and still feel like puking.

On the ride home we got a flat. Not a slow leak but a full on flat. On the fucking FDR. This is a highway type road that runs from the Battery Tunnel (where we came into the city), up the east side of Manhattan. No shoulder, no median, no place to pull over. I'm driving on a dead tire, it's smoking up a storm and, finally, I see the exit so I pull into the small island between the exit lane and the highway and we call AAA. I've changed tires before, fully capable of doing so but not in the fading light with my kids out cold in the back seat and cars whizzing by at 60 miles an hour. No room to maneuver around the car and see where to place the jack. No room for any comfort. Shit, getting out of the car was a bitch in and of itself.

Fortunately, we've got AAA. They promised to be there within the hour. Then they said no, make that 20 minutes. Wait, 20 more.

In the interim, 3 cop cars and two cop trucks flew passed us. Nobody stopped. Not one cop. Not even to put flares around us. Assholes.

Then, at about 8 PM cop pulls up. I'm about to get out of the car and my wife yells "he'll shoot you."

Fucking paranoid.

So I get out of the car and I swear to god I thought I was staring at John C. McGinley. Dude was the spitting image of the actor.

Anyway, I'm behind the car talking to him and he says the tow truck is about 20 minutes away, why don't we just change it ourselves. The two of us then get to work. Far easier knowing a cop is watching the road as I remove the lugs. He did the jack like a pro. I'd have been lying on my back, feet in the street, trying to find the right spot. As we were removing stuff from the back of the car to get to the spare my wife gets out and starts putting it in the back seat. I tell her to get back inside, it isn't safe and she's ranting and yelling and I turn to the cop and I say, "this is your territory, tell her to get inside for safety reasons."

I swear to god, this guy was McGinley. He says "some times, it's best to step back and let it happen. just make sure the life insurance is paid up."

I love this guy.

We changed the tire, nobody got splattered and as we were putting the destroyed tire away the two shows up. Nice guy. Wasn't too bent out of shape about not being called to tell him he was no longer needed. The cop then blocked the highway for me so we could get back on. As I was getting into my car he said "you're front headlight is out." I told him it happened last night, we didn't expect to be on the road at night and it was being fixed Monday (it is). Jokingly, I said "don't give me a ticket for that."

He said "for the irony, I should but you've had a long enough evening and it looks like (he gestured to the car) it's not going to get shorter."

I looked back at the car, both kids were up, my boy was crying about something, my daughter was talking to my wife and she looked like she was ready to dive headfirst into traffic.

We made it home in ten minutes, I dropped them off, unloaded the car, headed to the garage, almost got into an accident with a taxi with a driver who, it seems, doesn't care about blinker signals, and parked the car. They'll change the light for me, double tighten those lug nuts and, if I am really lucky, clean the shit from the destroyed tire, out of the back of the car. So, in all, the day wasn't totally destroyed by this added hour or two.

And most important, thank you to the NYPD and the awesome officer McGinley (not his real name) who helped us. It was greatly appreciated and my wife wrote down the car number and she is going to locate the precinct he works out of so we can make a donation to the station - she wanted to send flowers, I told her that was not the way to go.

I she can't locate the station, I'll hit the station around the corner.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

A punchline, does not, a celebrity, make.

So, my client had a book signing last night. The book store was a block from my apartment and, I figured, crappy day, not such a big name, she could probably use the support. So, I took my wife and daughter with me and off we went. (Little Floogin was with his grandparents). We got to the book store about 5 minutes into her speech. She wasn't reading from the book, I don't think. No, it seems she was simply talking about how she became the person she is today. The store was fucking packed. Tons of women of all ages. A few men here and there, most of them seemed to be gay (not that there's anything wrong with that). Ever seat was filled, people were standing in all the adjacent aisles and they were crowding around the fringe aisles as well. Who knew this woman was famous enough to draw this kind of crowd?

I've mentioned this before, my client is on the Real Housewives of NYC. I've mocked the show and the women before. It's mockable. These women are, for the most part, pathetic charicatures of what NYC women are supposed to be like. They are, for the most part, pseudo-royalty, trying to appear important when, in reality, they are actress and celebrity wannabes who couldn't hack it as actresses or celebrities so they decided to go on tv and humiliate themselves to gain their celebrity status. A punchline, does not, a celebrity make.

Kato Kaelin is not a celebrity.

I've never seen a whole episode of the show these women are on. There's no point. They aren't indicitive of New York City women. Not the ones I, or anyone else I know, knows. These women are indicitive of what the rest of the country wants to believe NYC housewives are like. Much like they all want to think Carrie Bradshaw and her crew are indicitive of the single NYC woman. Simply not true.

So, anyway, my client, who, I think, seems to be the closest thing to a non-joke on the show, introduces one of her cast memebers. This woman, Brittney I think, looks like a shaved door mouse. She's downright ugly. What's scary is that she seems to be an uglier person inside than out and she's pretty fucking ugly. The crowd still cheered when she waved to them. She's a staaaahhhhhh.

Towards the end of the speaking part of the evening, my client mentioned another cast mate, asking if she was there. The crowd gasped in unison. Could she be here? Here? In this very room? Oh....My.....Gawd.....


Not there.

Not yet.

So, on with the speaking. Suddenly, from behind me a whirling dervish blasts through the room. Some overdressed, over makeuped woman with an entourage of a few gay guys (not that there's anything wrong with that) comes plowing through the crowd. My client sees this woman and says "Jill's here!!!" and the crowd screams. It's like Hugh Jackman just walked into the room and whipped out his cock. The women are screaming, squealing. Flashes are going off.

Brittney comes up to podium with the other two and the woman swoon. Screaming and shouting and cheering and clapping their hands, the woman are going berserk.

These three broads, three veritable nobodies, one of which is good looking (my client), none of which is really "important" in a societal way, are creating a near riot in the book store.

These three woman are the A-Rods of push obnoxious D list celebrities.

Then one of the women says "this is her night, let's give her the spotlight"

totally fucking cool, totally selfless.

totally full of shit.

They then started giving out autographs - on my client's book.

Classless broads.

And now, some Brittney background. Brittney, it seems, was friends with my college roommate's wife. Brittney was at the wedding. I've run into her a few times. Mutual friends as a result of this connection with my old roommate. Anyway, one of my fraternity brothers took Brittney out on a date and she had him stop at a 7-11 (convenience store) so she could pick something up. He had no clue what it might be but, whatever. She comes out of the store swigging a bottle of fucking cough medicine. Now, I'm old so this dates back to when strong cough medicine had shit in it to knock you for a loop. she was swigging the bottle and she made a comment about getting ready for the night or something. This friend of mine is a bit of a freak. Dude's got porn with people taking dumps on eachother. He digs the smell of his own balls. He's got some frightening fucking habits and fetishes. He found Brittney to be too crazy for him.

That's my story for the day.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Spring is in the Air.

I'm done. Got home last night around 6:30. Made myself some dinner, watched some tv, fell asleep around 10:30. Woke up this morning at 9:30. That's right, 11 fucking hours and I feel great. Rested, and, to add to the good cheer, it was the first time in 3 months I could sit my ass on a toilet and enjoy a good dump. No kids rushing me, no work calling, no cleints coming, no nothing. Me, the throne and silence.

If it wasn't so disgusting, I might have jerked off to celebrate the occaison.

That is gross, right?

So, it's over 70 degrees here (that's warm for you non-farenheit holdouts). The sun is shining, people seem, genuinely, happy. I am. I can walk without a wobble, I don't feel like I'm about to keep over or stumble from exhaustion and women are wearing less clothing.

Legs are on display again and that is always a good thing.

Shit, I even saw a gutter fisherman earlier today. He was working the grate like a pro but, alas, I think he lost whatever he had hooked because he didn't seem too pleased with himself.

I'm supposed to go see the auto show now but, it seems, the old man is running late and, given that it's already 3PM here (3PM for you non-farenheit holdouts), I might have to pass. I have plans tonight. Going out with a friend who I see from time to time. He's one of my best friends, fratenity brother with whom I have done some fairly bad things. We're going out to dinner so, I assume, the ugly side of partying with him is not going to happen.

If so, I might just post something horrific and embarrassing at 4 in the morning.

Anyway, I'm going to wander around in the sun like some mindless fool, lost in a sea of humanity.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Almost ...there....can't....see...the....finish....line...I...

so, 10 smoke free days, ten pounds lighter thanks to no food after 4 PM, blood shot eyes, receding hairline, bed sores on my ass and thighs, build up of man stuffs from complete lack of energy, desire and time to fire off a flare or two and I am nearly dead from it all.

I've been stumbling around like a drunk for two days. Coherent thoughts are long gone, my clients are noticing my inability to speak in complete sentences and the whole forgot my pants incident is going to hurt business (except for that one client who seemed rather pleased - didn't know the guys dug little floogin's)

Empty home. Nobody home. No wife. No kids. No brain in my skull. Nobody home.

Wake up, sun down. Go home, sun down. Does the sun still rise?


Back to the wall, nearly done. New piles of shit appear. Still need to handle my own shit. Pay my own bill. Random surprise clients sure to show up tomorrow.

Perhaps, this close, death is still an option.

Did I pay the insurance premium?




or not.

Might celebrate in a day or two.

Celebrate in an orgiastic party of sleep.

If I make it

Friday, April 10, 2009

Put A Fork In Me

I can't seem to locate my mind. My eyes burn, tears pouring out. Not tears of sadness, not tears of joy, just tears. Fucking watery eyes. Lack of sleep. Stress. Aggravation at work, both jobs.

I had a dream last night. In it I was alive, rested and happy. Nothing like the dead man I have become.

The hollow stare is brought to you by life.
The rotting flesh courtesy death.

Floogin has left the building.

The light's on, the attic is vacant.

No, wait, the light's out as well.

Or something.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Rescue Me

Ok, Tommy and the gang are back and not a minute too soon. I was itching for real life drama and humor all mashed into one dysfunctional extended family (other than my own) and so, FX gives us 22 episodes of Rescue Me. For those of you who don't know the show, you're fucking morons. It is the best written show on tv. More real dialogue than any show and you can try and prove me wrong. You'll fail. Denis Leary is a comedic genius and he and his partner, Peter Tolan, have created a chance to live and breath with a NYC fire department crew.

Tommy's a recovering alcoholic and it's no wonder why he drinks. Booze is in the blood with his family and he's living post-9/11 and he's still, literally, haunted by the dead from that day. Actually, he's haunted by the dead from various parts of his life.

The crew he works with are crude, childish and brotherly. They will mock and ridicule eachother without any remorse and they will carry eachother out of a jam without any hesitation.

There is a problem with this new season.

Michael J. Fox. Don't get me wrong. I like the guy. Other than his being about 4 feet tall, he's alright. But, he's sick and as much as I hate to say it, it makes watching him on screen very uncomfortable. In the current season, he's playing Tommy's wife's boyfriend (they're separated). Apparently, he's wheelchair bound on the show. We know this from promos but, so far, he's only been in one scene, sitting and acting like a dick. It's great watching Alex P Keaton say shit and make fun of firefighters as being manchildren but doing it with the twitches and body tremors is downright sad.

This storyline is going to make for difficult viewing. I know it sounds harsh but it's true.

And check it out, I hadn't posted in a while, I thought I was blogstipated.

I know the post stinks but what do you expect when I haven't blogged in a week? All that crap backs up and creates an awful stench but I feel better, I feel relieved, having vacated the bowels of my mind.

back to the trenches of hell. Dante can suck ass, he never made it this far down.