Monday, July 27, 2009

Scenes from an Italian Wedding..

A bottle of red,
A bottle of white,

Fuck that, pass the Jack.

Yesterday I had to attend a wedding. In Jersey. My wife's brother in law's niece was getting hitched. It was, about 85 degrees and humid and I had to put a fucking tuxedo on to attend this massive italian wedding in Jersey. That meant, not only putting the most complicated and pointless gear ever worn (studs, cuff links, suspenders, bow tie), but driving to Jersey, against the traffic so that I would be stuck in weekend traffic on the way home.

The family on my sister in law's side is great. She married a great guy. Italian, catholic. His brother, the bride's dad, is a DEA agent, formerly undercover. He's cool as hell but being surrounded by all those cops made this drug user a bit uneasy, even if I wasn't carrying anything (sadly).

We got there in no time and I knew we were in for some people watching fun when we pulled up to the place. This was right out of Real Housewives Of NJ. One of those party halls, all marble and sparkles. The cocktail hour room was the size of a fucking football field and there was enough food to feed all of Africa into food comas. We're talking every conceivable appetizer under the sun, and then some. They had a raw bar adorned with a massive ice sculpture of the Jets logo. Not a joke. Both families are big time Jets fans and the hapless team was given its props throughout the wedding.

Since I don't eat carbs, I had to wander around this massive room in search of the proper foods. I hit paydirt at the pulled pork counter. They had a whole pig sitting there and the guy serving the pork would lift the skin back and literally pull the meat off the carcass. If that isn't nasty enough, the pig was wearing a little chef's hat and sunglasses. I was, as a jew, mildly offended.

Of course the pork was delicious so I ignored the totally unkosher aspect of this portion of the evening and I devoured as many handfuls of the tender, stringy meat as they could yank from the ass of the poor, dead animal.

Once this portion of the evening was over, I was easily 5 drinks into the night and, somehow, barely buzzed. If the Jack wasn't going to work, I was fucked.

We were ushered into a ballroom that dwarfed the cocktail hour room. We found our table and watched as they played a video on two massive screens. The video was a Jets promotional video, complete with some warlike music, that was cleverly edited to include pictures of the bride and groom and their respective families. Then the lights went out and spotlights lit up the wall above the dance floor.

Suddenly, curtains pulled back, revealing a room upstairs, overlooking the ballroom. It was as if the owner's box and the stadium was opening up to view a game. Guns N' Roses "welcome to the jungle" started playing and the band (band in the sense that they played the recorded songs and then sang over them) announced the wedding party, one by fucking one. As the party was announced, they would walk down the steps and head towards the other end of the room. Each guy in the wedding party was carrying a small Jets football which they proceeded to throw at the guests.

Then, after the entire wedding party was on the dance floor, the first strains of Van Halen's "hot for teacher" played over the sound system. (The couple are both teachers, get it? Cute, right?)

Sorry, I had to swallow my vomit.

The couple came out and then they did their first dance and then the bride danced with her dad, the groom danced with his mom, the band still not playing anything, only moving around to the prerecorded music of actual bands. Then they kicked into a very extended Michael Jackson tribute with a couple of singers singing over the actual Jackson songs.

The meal itself wasn't bad. The toasts were horrific. Long, boring toasts by the Maid of Honor and the Best Man, made even worse by the shitty sound system. Then, at some point, the tarantella was played. The families from both sides got up and held hands and started dancing around in a big circle and...what the fuck?

The tarantella is the hora. The same fucking dance, different music. Truth is, I kinda felt like I was in the Godfather with the music playing. After the tarantella the band kicked into...wait for it...VOLARE!!!

No kidding. My only knowledge of this song is from the movie The Wanderers (great fucking flick) and The Hollywood Knights (another great movie).

For those not in the know, in Hollywood Knights, Nubomb Turk (Robert Wuhl) farts Volare. Classic scene.

Ken Wahl in Wanderers, Robert Wuhl in Hollywood Knights. Coincidence? I think not.

We ate, I drank a ton, we danced and then, the did the bouquet toss to the single broads. The women were clawing and fighting and jockeying for position and one fat chick actually dove for the flowers. She caught the bouquet, hit the floor, rolled and jumped up to show off her victorious grab.

Somewhere in the room, her date contemplated suicide.

Then they called for the single guys so the groom could throw the garter.

5 or 6 guys reluctantly meandered onto the dance floor, shoved by their aunts, uncles, parents, girlfriends.

The groom slid his hand up his bride's dress, removed the garter and then, with his back to the guys, threw the garter.

And it whistled through air, turning and rolling and the crowd parted and it landed on the floor in the middle of the single guys. One of these poor schmucks, realizing everyone was watching them, bent down and picked it up.

Everyone cheered.

Somewhere in the room, his date felt a little moist in the crotch as she contemplated their wedding.

They cut the cake and then they did some serious pyrotechnics. I'm unsure as to what the hell they were doing but there was a massive fire being tinkered with as they put on some strange show.

This was a standard diversionary tactic.


Because, while they were playing firestarter in the middle of the dance floor, the wall behind me was being rolled away to reveal the biggest fucking dessert buffet known to man. They had ben and jerry's ice cream bars, cotton candy, chocolate fondue towers, cakes, pastries, ice cream, even burgers and chicken nuggets that were, actually, desserts made to look like mcdonalds meals.

This is always the toughest part of the night for me so I decided it was time to pee.

I'm standing at a urinal, doing my thing, when two young guys walk in, saunter over to urinals and as they stood there pissing, one guy says "Andrea Boccelli?"
The other guy said "yup. I always feel like I'm about to get whacked when I pee here."

It was that kind of crowd.

The women were mostly short, fat and wearing too tight dresses. Lots of boobs jiggling and spilling out of outfits. Lots of women dancing with beer bottles in hand.

Class, to this group, was something you did at the community college.

I managed to drag my wife away from the desserts after her third trip through the room.

We left a little after 11 and were in our apartment a little after 12:30.

The ride there took less than 20 minutes. Getting the car and then sitting in the fucking bridge traffic we witnessed on the way there took over an hour.

Highlight of the night was talking to the dentist who sat next to me. When he asked how I knew the family, I told him my sister in law married the grooms brother and he said "the jews?"

I was about to say something when my wife asked me a question. When I then told her what he said, her response was "that's what they call Jon, Juice."

A little while later, he was talking to a guy on the other side of the table and the other guy asked if he still hung out with Joe something and the dentist said "nope, he's crazy."

He then went into detail, talking about how, every time he was with the guy all he ever said was...he looked over at me, then my wife, then my mother in law, then back at my wife, then at me...."jew bastard this, jew bastard that."

He must have said jew bastard a dozen or more times.

He could have easily said "the guy was a bit too anti-semitic" or "the guy is a bigot" or some other description but he opted to say jew bastard over and over again.

Good times.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Big Giant Balls and Paul McCartney

So, I'm trying to get some work done while I transfer all the files from my old pc to the new one. Sweet set up with two monitors. Only problem is that the tech "genius" who set the thing up on Saturday, did so with the PC sitting on my desk. This behemoth takes up a lot of space and now I'm cramped behind a wall of tech. I can't reach my little adding machine and half of my desk is now accessible by foot. That's right, I need to get up and walk around the desk to get shit.


But the pc is cool.

Anyway, I'm sitting here, working on shit, doing the file transfer thing (love those tiny hard drives) and the phone rings. UPS, it seems, must speak with me. So I pick up the phone and ask how I might help them.

The moron on the other end of the line says he's calling to confirm delivery of the camera, a Cannon of some sort, that was shipped on June 20th.

I tell the guy that I never ordered the camera, that his order, on my credit card, didn't arrive here and he should know that the feds are closing in on him. He asks me what I'm talking about and he says he's confirming my address. I tell him that, for starters, UPS doesn't know what's in the boxes they ship and I know this because people use their service to ship drugs all the time, unbeknown to them. Second, I tell the guy, since I never ordered the camera, my address and phone number wouldn't be in the system for the product and, lastly, UPS sucks more ass than the tranny on the corner and, as such, they never get all proactive on lost shipments. If I ordered something and it didn't arrive, I'd be calling them, not vice versa.

The guy says he doesn't know what I'm talking about, he's just confirming my address.

I tell him to keep talking, we're tracing the call and he says there's no need for my accusations. I agree, I'm not accusing, I'm confirming.

I call him a scumbag, tell him he better start running because we got his address and I hang up.

I wish I could watch him running out of his trailer or refrigerator box.

And now for the biggest random segue ever.

When I was in high school I spent a summer travelling around Japan with two friends. Everywhere we went, it was like the circus was in town. This was back in the 80's, travelling american teenagers wasn't a common sight and everyone wanted to meet us, talk to us etc. It was the most incredible experience, we did some amazing stuff, met great people (a-Ha! and Magic Johnson among them) and had a fucking blast. One of my friend was Japanese and spoke the language. So, the first time we heard unintelligible Japanese, ending with Paul McCartney-san, we were confused. He spoke to the woman saying it and he started laughing. He looked at me, looked at the women, back at me and said "they think you look like Paul McCartney from when he was a Beatle."

We heard this the first day in Tokyo. Then we heard it every day, sometimes several times a day, for the next month and a half.

Wherever we went, people wanted to talk to Americans, little kids wanted to be our pen pals and grown women, giggling behind their hands, wanted a picture with Paul McCartney-san.

I obliged. They knew I wasn't him. This wasn't like when I signed autographs as Kiefer Sutherland in college or when I hooked up with two girls during a Paul Young/Nik Kershaw concert because they both thought I was Billy Zabka.

This was simply women who had crushes on a beatle and now were delusional in thinking I looked like The Cute One.

That's right, I said it. You think I'd repeat any of this if they thought I looked like fucking Ringo?

Anyway, we're driving back from the beach last night and the kids are sleeping for the bulk of the 3 hour ride and then, as we approach the midtown tunnel, sitting in fucking traffic, I hear a stirring in the back seat. Then a gasp. Then little Floogin Jr says "Dad, guess what I just saw."

I look around, figuring there's a billboard for GI Joe or the Transformers or some other superhero but there's nothing there.

"What?" I ask.

"You Dada, on a building."

I turn to my wife and tell her it's been confirmed, he'd retarded.

She looks at my son, who is staring out his window, his mouth wide open with the biggest "amazed" look on his face. All smiles and awe. My wife follows his gaze and she laughs and says "Floogin, you look like that picture of Paul McCartney."

Sir Paul played Shea Stadium (fuck that citi field crap) on Friday and Saturday night and he is scheduled to appear there again tomorrow night so the advertisements are still hanging.

There's massive shots of him/me playing the bass, singing and looking all cute and happy.

Now, I'm thinking, this guy is in his 60's, no? Maybe close to 70. And I look like him.

I won't mention the sunburned scalp today. Looking like old Paul is bad enough.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Lord, I was born a ramblin' man....

I have two sisters. The younger one, as you know, is married to a scumbag. The older one is married to a nice guy who is the polar opposite of the gold digging jackass. My sisters, like their husbands, are polar opposites. So, when it comes time to deal with both of them for something, like my dad's upcoming 75th birthday, I a man can easily go insane.

We were discussing toasts and the idiot sister wants to have her deadbeat husband film the kids talking about their papa. This is great. Brilliant idea. He'll do the interviews, he'll ask them all questions, he'll edit the video and he'll present it.

Say what?

That was my sister's suggestion.


So, I figured, I'd be the one to ask the big question. "Who the fuck wants to get up in the middle of the meal and watch a long video?"

It isn't a party with a bunch of people there. It's just us. A video would be the most unwelcome thing ever.

So, I suggested something different. "How about each kid gets up, starting with the youngest or the oldest, and talks about what Papa means to them and what they have done and experienced with him over the number of years they've been around."

I then explained that, after each kid takes a turn, we will each, in turn, get up and do the same thing, with the oldest wrapping it up with an explanation that, while only celebrating 75 years, he has been touching lives for an accumulation of 174 years - or some shit like that.

Both sisters loved the idea. I then suggested that each kid could give a little, silly gift that compliments their speech. My daughter, for example, would give a piece of 7 layer cake from the diner because that is something he has been doing with her, alone, for as long as she can remember.

They loved it.

Then, my idiot sister calls my wife to make plans so the kids can practice. I point out that they are not doing this together and, as of Monday, we had not written anything so practicing would be pointless. My wife calls my sister, explains this to her, she says she agrees, thought it might be nice to get the kids together to work on the toast, etc.

My wife points out that the concept is for each kid to talk about why Papa is special to them.

She says she gets it.

Then she emails me, asking me if I want to bounce ideas for the kids' speeches via email since I'm too busy to get together. I explain that this is an each kid thing and I cannot write her kids' speeches but, perhaps, she and her husband would know more about their kids' relationship with their grandfather than I would.

She responds with "perfection!"

I don't know what that means. I'm expecting this moron to go and do a video forcing me to rewrite my own speech off the cuff.

Another lovely aspect of this birthday and all family birthdays has been the group gift thing. My sisters are cheap fucks and they love to chip in for gifts. I have no problem with this, provided the gift is a good one. When it sucks and it's cheap for three to give it, count me out.

So, I came up with a great idea for my dad and, since my sisters wanted to chip in, I told them what it was. I had my wife research the thing, find the perfect one and then get me a good price.

Then my older sister had to do her own research. She spent two full days doing this. Checking out every variety, even seeing the same model in different stores, to ensure that the salesperson was giving her good intel. She would call me and discuss the things she saw but she cannot figure out how to email links so she would call me up, with the website up on her screen and she'd start reading me the link, the bazillion fucking numbers and letters and and after a week of this, she and I agreed that the gift was a good one. Now we needed to find out how much my younger sister was planning on spending.

I send my sister an email, explaining what we found and the various models and styles and this is the price for this one, this is the price for that one and I think this one is perfect and so on and how much do you want to spend so I can get my wife in on the price negotiation and my sister responds with "great! I'll make calls and see who I know that can get us one."

She doesn't know anyone in this arena. She works for a fucking clothing label. She deals with jappy clothes and jappy women and, yet, she thinks she has connections to everything. She always claims to get a discount on all items and she has never, ever come through. Matter of fact, the one time she did have something that I wanted and she actually said she'd get it for me, I gave her a check for $240 for a boatload of tee shirts in all different colors and I never got the shirts.

Or my money back.

So, I email her, explaining that I need to know if she likes what I picked out and, if so, what her budget is.

She emails back that she loves it and she knows someone who knows someone and then she responds to something in the first email that is totally unrelated.

She does this. She answers one part of an email, prompting a response, then she responds to another part of the first email, even though the second email might actually have clarified that.

And so it goes, round and round, with her. I wind up on the phone with both of my sisters. The older one talks about the gift idea for an hour straight. The younger one says "I like it, should I call my friends and see who we know.." We interrupt her, explaining that we have a very good connection for these things and all she needs to do is say yes or no and how much money she wants to spend.

For 3 days we do this.

After hours on the phone with my older sister, she will call back and raise one more point that she has already covered to death, twice.

It's annoying to no end.

Then, finally, my sister understands it all. She tells us what her budget is.

So we get the "cheaper" one. It's very nice but, to be totally honest, I'd have paid that amount myself. Also, we wound up getting it from the manufacturer as they are selling them cheaper than any store. This means, should a problem arise, we are stuck with the company, not a store.

Once we cleared this up, and I agreed to spend about 1/3 of what I was planning on spending, they started talking about my aunt's birthday and how we should chip in, with another relative, to get her something.

I immediately said no. I explained that I felt it was better if we did our own thing from now on. They agreed and then my younger sister emails my wife and says she found the perfect gift, it's $200 and Bobby (the 4th relative) was on board and "do we want to chip in?"

Seriously. She did that. For starters, this is a close aunt, someone who her kids and my older sister's kids have spent plenty of time with (they have a home upstate and my sisters have spent plenty of weekends with them - we've never been able to go). She should spend more than $66 and three on the gift is a dick move to the fourth and my sister doesn't get it because she's cheap, she's stupid and she's got no fucking clue about common courtesy.

Why are so many fat people coming here? Seriously. There are tons of them - literally. They waddle around in groups, taking up large swaths of sidewalk, making it impossible to walk home a nice brisk pace.

Where do these fat people come from? Is there some travel agency that caters to porkers? Do they offer larger beds, donuts on your pillow instead of a small chocolate mint? They aren't even all from the states.

I can tell.

Seriously. I can walk behind tourists and, without hearing a word, tell you where they come from. I can spot Germans a mile away. I can point out the goobers and the rednecks and the region they came from.

Sure, I can't always tell you the state but bible belt, Midwest, southwest, etc? Not a problem.

For the most part, they're all getting larger. Sure, some aren't, like the Asian tourists and those cute Japanese girls with their funky clothes.

And the cheesy Midwesterners? Fat dudes with their slightly heavy (on their way to being fat) wives and their under dressed daughters? What the fuck is that all about? Did someone say to them "yer going to New York? Your husband needs to wear a too tight muscle shirt to scare away all the criminals, you need to wear a cowboy hat and you and your daughter need to wear skirts so short your pussy dangles out the bottom, like they do on Sex and the City. They all dress like that there."

No, we don't.

If you come here dressed like a cheap whore and you dress your 13 year old like a cheap whore, we won't look at you and think you fit right in, we'll think you were looking for the old meatpacking district days when 12 year old transvestite boys and fat old women got dolled up in their sluttiest stripper wear and offered to suck cock for a bag of rock.

Man, now I'm getting all nostalgic for the good old days.

Monday, July 06, 2009

When it rains, it fucking pours.

A double dose from me. Odd, yes, but the good cheer in my recent postings is gone. I'll start with a little bit o' fun courtesy young McNoogin as his little prank yesterday should have been a harbinger of the shit to come.

Last night, I'm sitting with my wife and son, finishing our dinner. My daughter, having finished her meal, was off reading before bed. My son is telling us how much fun he had and then, suddenly, he gets all serious and says "I don't want to grow up daddy."

I ask him why and he says "it's fun"

I tell him having your own kids is fun and he gets this sad look and he says "I want to always be with you dada."

The he gets up and walks over and hugs me. He pulls back and as I'm about to say "I'll always be with you" my wife says "he's so sweet, look, he's almost crying"

Then the little fucker spits his mouthful of food onto my plate and says "you might not want to eat that" and he sits back down.

I got to work this morning nice and early, took care of some stuff, was in a groove with work. They watch store called to tell me my watch was shipped. Everything was moving along nicely and then I realized I no longer had my keys. Home and office, one ring. Gone. I went to the bathroom to look for them . Turned the desk upside down. Tore thru my bag. Twice. Went to the two stores I hit this morning. Nothing. Keys gone.

Then I get the call. Some store is calling to confirm my laptop purchase.

Say what?

I pick up the phone and this guy is on the line, asking me about my purchase. I tell him I didn't make a purchase and he says "that's why I was calling, the purchase was a big one and the email we were given was strange."

So, I told him to skip the laptop, it wasn't me, and then I thanked him for the call. Then I went to my amex link to see what the fuck else I've been tagged with. Seems someone bought $629 worth of shit from cosco online in late June. Not me.

I call amex. They immediately reverse the charge on costco, cancel my card and cancel the laptop charge. My new card is forthcoming.

Fucking identity theft. That's just cold. So, now, I'm running a credit report, seeing if these scumbags pulled any other shit on me, I'm calling costco and I'm going to get the mailing address of the shit I apparently bought and, lastly, I'm going to see if the fucker at has anything to discuss with me before I call the fucking cops on his ass.

I wonder, if all of my readers started emailing this piece of shit, would he crawl out from under the rock? Would he respond to the requests for information about his being an identity thieving scumbag?

Time will tell.

For now, I'm only going outside when I absolutely must. I'd hate to get hit by a bus before I finish researching the individual and exacting my revenge.

Fire and Brimstone and Happy Birthday USA

So, this weekend was the old bitch's birthday. That's right, the United States of America celebrated her 233rd birthday. Truth is, she looks like shit these days and making it to 234 is no longer a given.

So, we took out kids out to my parents for the weekend. I know, you're thinking "Floogin you dumb shit."

Let me add to your thought - "why would you go there when it makes you crazy?"

(I know you think I'm a dumb shit and could care less about anything else )

We went because, well, I don't know why. But we did.

Spent the bulk of Saturday in the pool, laying around the back yard, watching my kids swim and play. It was rather nice and made all the more enjoyable by the freeloader family taking an hour and a half away from the house. That was the most peaceful, quiet time of the day.

They took 3 hours away on Sunday. It was so nice that my mother, who never sits outside, spent the whole time outside with us. My sister, upon returning, was truly puzzled about this and I explained it this way - "it's noisy and chaotic when the kids are here, they were gone, making it quiet and enjoyable out here."

My sister then pointed out that my kids were here the whole time.

"Oh, they don't scream like loons all day long, stopping only to cry whenever they don't get their way."

She told me to fuck off.

Truth hurts.

Anyway, it was most pleasurable and when they returned, the shit went south immediately. First, the idiot husband said he was going to play golf. This means my sister needs to pay attention to her kids and not read her book and bask in the sun. So, she did what she does best, she put her daughter in front of the tv (3 PM on the nicest day of the year) and she let her son swim with my daughter. My son took his first strokes without swimmies. He'll be swimming on his own in a week or two. Just turned 4 and he didn't just do that doggy paddle thing, he went face down, breast stroke, for two or three strokes and then stopped to take a breath. Fucking awesome.

Anyway, I promised him a present if he swam the length of the hot tub, which he did, and my mother promised him a candy bar if he took off the swimmies so, when the other family returned, she asked him if he wanted to go get his prizes. (she clearly wanted out of there). He said yes and then my attention craving nephew, who's 7 1/2, said he wanted to go get presents too. My mother told him this was something special for Floogin jr and he started to cry. Then he asked if he could make s'mores since they didn't make them the other night and my mother told him it was too windy to have a fire out back. Full of fucking weep fest. My sister screamed at my mother for telling him he couldn't light a fire in the backyard and my mother was guilted into taking the whiny bitch with them.

They came back and I'm playing scrabble with my wife (she kicked my ass, revenge for the night before when I made up an 85 point deficit with a nice triple word score bingo) so my mom sits down with us, seeing if she can't help my wife trounce me (all vowels, not like I was outmanned or anything). My daughter is swimming, my son hands me his new toy, some spiderman action figure, which I open up for him. He's perfectly content with his toy, playing in the yard.

The whiny boy comes out with a dive toy my mother had to buy him. He walks over to my sister and asks her to open the toy up, handing her the case and a scissors. My sister tells him to ask grandma to open it. Grandma is 10 feet away, sitting with us. He walks over and asks her to open it for him. My mother looks up and I laugh and ask him why his mother couldn't do it. He says she's busy reading. My mother says "my hands are full (she was eating), tell your mother to put her book down and open it." He walks back and my sister goes postal. She's screaming about how she hasn't been able to read a page of her book all day and my mother is inconsiderate and selfish and my mother, in a shocking twist, tells her to shut the fuck up.

It was gorgeous. If it wasn't family, I'd have had a chubby.

My sister is yelling about how hard she's working and we're just sitting there playing a game and I interrupt and say "perhaps you should tell your husband to not play golf if you don't want to watch your own kids."

Fight over.

A short while later, we're talking about the kids in general and how my kids look so much like me or act just like my wife and my sister jokes about how she knows her son got the smart genes from her. I then add that he clearly didn't get the skinny gene from either of his parents to which my wife quickly responds with "Deadbeat (his real name) was rail thin as a kid." She then added " not sure what happened there."

"He ate himself" I explained, adding, "along with several cows, a ton of cheese and, if you aren't careful, he'll eat your furniture."

Cruel but funny. Anyway, I've yet to have the weekend update conversation with my mom - she called, I was busy. Can't wait to hear her talk about the apparent weekend long fight she was having with my sister.

And what, you ask, does this have to do with Fire and Brimstone?


Saturday night we went to town to freeload off the local country club's fireworks show. The club, located right across the street from a church, at the end of the main street through the town, is an old fashioned country club. This means, oddly enough for this town, no jews allowed. That's right, no jews. They hire the same folks who do the NYC fireworks, primarily because the Grucci family used to have their factory in the town next to this one. The show is always amazing and the jews, who aren't allowed to join the club, watch from their homes or, for those who cannot see from their homes, the church lawn. So, off we went. We had dinner and found a nice spot, perfect viewing and with a whoooooosh and a bang, the first red explosion announced the start of the show. My daughter covered her ears, the explosions, apparently, scaring her. Disney fireworks were ok, these were not. Go figure.

They really don't hold back. Huge explosions, bright colors, shapes and even a smiley face lit up the sky and what? what's this? fucking dust falling on me? My wife, at one point, said a dead bird just fell out of the sky. I looked to where she was pointing and a large piece of exploded firework was sitting there, two feet from our blanket. The show raged on, bits of dust and paper settling down and then another large chunk of rocket landed in the lap of the guy in front of us. I told my wife not to worry, nothing is burning and then we looked up and about 1,000 little burning embers were drifting down on the crowd. Most people didn't notice until a few folks behind us, out of the danger zone yelled "look up."

People started running everywhere. Grabbing their shit, their kids and moving away from the firebombing.

We were in a safe spot, nothing came near us but the fear of trampling was enough to get me to stand up and block the family. Burning embers rained down on the crowd in front of us as well as across the street in the parking lot and a few blocks away.

As the show ended we heard the first sirens. There was a fire or two going on somewhere near our show. Presumably, this was a result of the firebombing the club subjected the town to.

When my daughter asked why they exploded the rockets so that they'd fall onto the people watching, I explained that the club was trying to tell the freeloading jews to back off their good time.

No other explanation seemed to work.

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

A Day Off? For What?

So, my secretary comes in Monday wearing a skirt and a tight little tank top. Very nice look for her. She's tall and she's got some great legs and she knows it. Smallish on top but she's sexy as hell when she wants to be. Alas, for the most part she wears jeans and button down shirts. As a friend of her told her, she dresses more like a lesbian biker than the hot sexy woman she is.

Anyway, she comes in wearing a skirt for the first time in a year, or longer. She wants something.

So, after a few hours of her prancing around in this sexy little number she comes in to see me. She wants to take Wednesday off. I ask her what for and she says she needs to take her husband to the doctor. 44 years old and he needs her to take him to the doctor. Most likely, she is forcing him to go and he is a child, hooked on amphetamine salts and he won't go anywhere if she doesn't drag his out out of bed and out of the apartment. This is a major task for her because he sleeps all day. She says he takes ambien around 4 or 5 each morning, sleeps until 5ish and wakes up so she can feed him, then she goes to the gym and he is gone by the time she gets home.

She swears she loves him but there's nothing to love. It's one of the mysteries of the office. Right up there with "who left the booger on the mouse?"

Wasn't me. I did a carb check once. Boogers are lo-carb and, therefore, make a fine midday snack.

Back to the secretary.

So I tell her it's cool, take the guy to the doctor, no worries.

This morning I'm sitting at my desk, pondering life's little foibles, wondering why things happen the way they do and she comes in to say hello.

I ask her how the doctor went and she says "it didn't happen."

I feel for her. I really do. This guy is like a lump of shit, minus the tasty morsels. All dried out and useless. He's got no street value. He has no purpose whatsoever and, yet, she does these all she can for him.

So, I ask my bookkeeper, who finds him to be even more of a waste than I do, if that's possible, what happened. She says "he refused to go have the cards read."

Say what?

That's right, Wednesday, a work day, was going to be blown off for the sake of a fucking palm reader.

Friday is a fucking holiday. She's taking ten days off from the 16th or something and she needs to ditch work to go have their fucking future told to them?

I can do that for them.

The one income family might find themselves with no income. Times will be tough as the do nothing continues to not write the epic masterpiece script and the secretary with no references tries to get a job in the worst job market in decades.


She ditched work to see a fucking seer. A tarot reader.

A con artist.

That's what she was going to do.

And she lied to me.

Yeah, I know the future baby. It ain't pretty. She can show up in her thong and I still won't forgive this.

Who am I kidding?

On a side note, my dad is turning 75 in a couple of weeks and I've been trying to come up with some ideas for him. Seems I'm stuck chipping in with both sisters. One doesn't want to spend much money, the other is ok with spending but needs to discuss the options until I kill myself. Spent a solid 53 minutes discussing one gift item, the merits of buying it etc and then, not even 5 minutes later, she fucking called back with a few other things to talk about regarding the same god damned gift.

Way to ruin the fun of gift giving.