Monday, August 31, 2009

Vacation And The Shitty Bookends of Family Time

Been a while but I'm back. Took a nice long, well deserved rest. Back to Montauk for a week on the beach, riding waves, swimming and sunning with the kids. It was just what I needed, minus a couple of minor annoyances but would it be a Floogin vacation if there weren't a few minor annoyances?

Spent Sunday night with my parents and my pain in the ass sister and her annoying family. Monday was travel day, driving to Montauk in time to get some swimming in at the hotel before dinner and sleep. Tuesday, our first full day there, was annoyance number one. My sister and her family wanted to come see us one day out east and they chose Tuesday. Our first day there and we couldn't relax. We had to deal with them. The annoying kids, the asshole husband and my pain in the ass sister. Oddly enough, she was the only none nuisance the whole day. Her dead beat husband complained about the beach which wasn't our first choice but he couldn't park at the good beaches without paying for a one day permit and he's too fucking cheap for that so we hit the only beach with public parking. It's still an amazing beach but, according to this pile of nothing, it was too crowded, the sand wasn't "nice" and a myriad of other pointless complaints. Their kids can't sit still for two seconds but, somehow, that vast expanse of sand and surf isn't capable of occupying their attention for even a fleeting second. So, we lasted a couple of hours on the beach. Then we hit the best restaurant on the beach. A nice, outdoor rooftop deal. Stunning views of the beach, nice breeze, amazing food.

Well, all that if you aren't the fat fuck who thinks everything is shitty if it isn't free, it seems. During the meal we found out why they chose this day to come see us. It was the one day that there'd be nobody to tend to them at my parents' house so, off they went, ruining the first day of my trip.

They came back to the hotel and whined about the smell in the hallway, the shoddy carpets, the too small pool and anything else they could complain about. During dinner, a place I hate but a place that is perfect for cheap fucks like them and ideal for dining with kids that don't eat, don't sit at the table and don't want to let anyone enjoy a good meal. Basically, this place was designed for them. He complained about the service, the food, the gravel in his motherfucking shoes.

Before we were even finished, I asked for the check, paid for the meal, in full, thanked them for ruining the first day of our trip and asked them to go home.

Wednesday and Thursday were far more pleasant. We stayed on the beach well past 6, built sand castles, rode the waves, boogie boarded and had a fucking blast. We played mini golf, we ate great meals on the docks, and, at night, I had a chance to dine out with the wife, sans kids.

All was great.

Until some cocksucker named Daniel decided to rain on my parade. Literally.

Fucking tropical storm off shore allowed some minor front to settle over us on Friday, effectively ruining the beach day. We wound up doing lots of other things to pass the time but it was somewhat depressing being in a fishing and surfing town with no fishing or surfing to be had.

On Saturday, that asshole Daniel dumped a shitload of rain on us but, fuck him, we were leaving anyway. We drove home in the rain, stopping for lunch, for a pit stop at the children's museum and a few stores. Anything to avoid sitting in my parents' house, doing nothing, with those screaming, whining, crying, pain in the ass kids.

We arrived in time for dinner. Barbecue. Always barbecue. The fat fuck likes to barbecue and drink. He's white trash.

Sunday was spent splitting up. I was planning on heading back to the city, my wife and kids stayed behind. The weather was shitty again so she decided to take my daughter and go shopping. Her cousin wanted to come so my wife took him. He's about 9 months older than her and there's this fierce competition amongst them, thanks to my mother and my sister. Truth be told, there's no competition. He's a whiny brat of a kid who somehow managed to get into the city's top public school but, as he heads into second grade, he can't fucking read. Go figure.

Anyway, they were shopping for clothes for my daughter and she's not much into shopping. My nephew, however, is gay and loves to shop. We always thought he was a bit on the fem side, he wears tons of bracelets, his favorite nintendo ds games are fashion and cooking games, he knows all the disney songs and dance moves from the high school musical series, hannah montana etc. His friends are all girls, he never plays with boys. He's gay.

At the store, my wife tells me he ran around like some crazed beast, grabbing accessories to go with clothes my wife was picking up for my daughter and, she said, his sense of style is amazing. He knew which patterns went with what, he picked out shoes, hats, belts, etc. She said it was like shopping with a real girlie girl.

Then he turned into his more annoying side. He was screaming and acting like a putz and she finally had enough and took them home. Then he teamed up with his sister to pester my son. My son doesn't take to being pestered and those two kids scream and cry when someone brushes against them and the combination of the those two an my son always winds up with those two crying bloody murder.

This time, we watched it unfold and it was most enjoyable. My niece, who's a year older than my son and, possibly, on the slow side (I know, not a joke but she can't be that stupid without having some kind of handicap), decided to try and stand in front of my son, no matter where he went. My son did his best to move away from her, asking her to stop, screaming at her to stop and then I told her that I saw what she was doing and it wasn't nice and she gave her mildly retarded smile face and stared into space so he pushed her. She moved back a step and started screaming "Floogin hit me." I stood up and said, "no, he pushed you lightly because you wouldn't get out of his way, even after he asked you a few times." Then, the more annoying gay older brother decided to get into the act. He leaned his face right into my son's face and did his best, high pitched "nananananana."

My son kicked him in the chest and slapped him in the face.

The little fag went down like tower two.

It was that fast.

Both of my sister's kids are now screaming and crying and out rushes the big sweaty trailer park king.

"what the fuck did your crazy son do this time?" he bellowed at me.

"He shoved your pain in the ass daughter out of his way because asking her several times didn't seem to register and then, when your moron son thought my son was going to get in trouble, he shoved his face in my boy's face and mocked him, so Floogin hit him, and kicked him."

I then bent down and picked up my son and said, loudly, in front of the whole fucking family "Floogin, we don't hit, we don't push and we don't kick. I don't care how annoying they are or how much they tease you, you don't hit them. You don't hit baby marcus, do you?"

He said no, Baby Marcus is a baby.

"Right," I said "we don't hit babies and gayson and idiotdaughter (not their real names but oh, so appropriate) are big babies so we can't hit them."

I know, sort of bad parenting but what I wanted to do, at that very moment, was high five him and call his taekwon do school and tell them they missed the best punch/kick combo ever.

Later in the day my sister asked me why I was going to sit on a bus back to the city and find myself dropped off blocks away from my apartment with all my luggage when they could drop me off at my front door. I explained that I didn't think I could handle the two plus hour ride, sandwiched between her kids. I told her it would result in my stabbing pens in my ears to avoid listening to their whines.

She said she totally understood.

Got home after 9. Enjoyed a nice, quiet meal. Alone. Enjoyed a nice, quiet apartment and a kind sized bed, alone.

It was a rather fitting end to a hectic weekend. Sadly, that hectic weekend somewhat dimmed the bright sunshine that was the week in Montauk.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

What the hell?

Since my brother in law moved out, we replaced him with another accounting firm and a small company that does all things tech. The accounting firm is a nice little firm, run by a guy a few years older than I am and he handles slightly different types of accounts so we can feed each other business as it comes in. A great mix. The tech company is run by a husband and wife who are a few years younger than me. Very nice folks. The guy is a wanderer, he cannot sit still for very long and he wanders in and out of his office, looking for someone to talk to or something to occupy his time. The wife is, clearly, the brains of the operation.

She's also kinda cute.

Their office is located across the "hall" from mine and since nobody ever shuts their doors around here, I can see into their office at all times. I can't see him but she is almost always in my vision. Enough so that I've been privy to the whale tail thong display a couple of times. Not that I look but when you have something directly in your line of sight, it's hard to miss.

Today, she's wearing a dress. Nothing fancy, nothing too sexy but a dress. Looks good on her. The look she was cultivating until now was one of New Hampshire lez so the dress, with a hint of leg showing, is a welcome respite.

Anyway, I'm on the phone, talking to a very good friend (booking the Vegas trip) and she turns around in her chair so that she's facing me. She appears to be doing something but I cannot tell and I am not going to outright stare at her. That's when she spread the knees a bit.

She flashed a bit of the goods.

Not enough to induce wood but enough for me to notice.

And Floogin liked it.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Diarrhea, minus the happy ending.

I'm a moron. I'm the first to admit it. I have this tendency to get hooked on something and go balls out on it until I've paid the price. I then stop, cold turkey and move on, for a spell but, being a moron, I tend to drift back towards these stupid habits.

I do the no carb diet most of the time. I am fairly good at keeping my diet free of sugars, starches etc and, for the most part, my body is grateful. I lost over 70 pounds as a result (7 years ago) and I've kept most of it off. I go off the diet from time to time, indulge in sweets, pasta, whatever. I go off, my body punishes me for it and back on the diet I go.

The one thing I've managed, for the most part, to avoid, has been the smoking. About a week or so ago, I bought a pack. First one this year. It led to another and I've now been hating myself for smoking for about a week. To mask the stench and to try and keep me from wanting more, I picked up a pack of Dentyne. I hate gum chewers. It's an ugly habit but it beats the smoking so I chewed. And chewed and chewed. I dig the taste so I started upping the intake. I decided to check the ingredients, make sure I'm not ingesting carbs and I see that the gum has sorbitol and malitol as the first two ingredients. These are alcohol sugars that can, in large amounts, cause all kinds of intestinal hell. Diarrhea, gas, etc. I know this because I once downed two bags of sugar free butterscotch candies, only to find myself with what can only be described as a leaky ass. I spent a great deal of time hovering over the can as my body drained itself like a car getting an oil change.

So, I look at the pack of gum and see these two ingredients, then I look in the garbage can and see two empty packs lying there and a half chewed pack on the desk.

Fuck me.

The stomach had been rumbling, I thought it was hunger.

Nope. My stomach twisted and a strange noise came from my gut. mmmmmooooooorrrrroooooonnnnn it squealed.

Sensing I was about to piss out of my ass, I bolted for the bathroom. Fumbling with the lock, not sure if the butt clench will contain the package that is screaming, literally, to get out, I start to sweat. It's 100 degrees today and shit sweats aren't pleasant in an unairconditioned room. The sweat box that is the bathroom will be 150 degrees and I'd be sweating without the stomach cramping and the intestinal attempts to invert itself.

I managed to open the door and get my pants down as I settled onto the seat. The noise that escaped my anus was something akin to a dying moose. Some ghostly wailing followed. I gripped the sides of the bowl. It's coming.....that horrific expulsion of all things it comes...a ghastly moaning from my ass, coupled with some kind of mechanical churning sound inside my stomach and the sweat is coming and I'm ready for it, I want it, I'm embracing it, bring it I want it I want to feel the burning fluid I want to smell that acrid disgusting roadkill smell and then it happens.

That's right, it vanishes. Nothing.

I sit there in my drenched clothes, waiting for the payday, and it never comes. I figure my body is waiting until I get dressed before turning me into a soft serve machine but still, it never happens.

I do the unthinkable, I give a push. Normally, pushing with diarrhea can blow your o-ring and cause horrific damage to your ass, the bowl, your thighs and your already fragile ego but this time, nothing happened. I simply no longer had to shit.

There's nothing in me so my body can't expel it but it can, apparently, put me through the motions, punish me beyond belief for chewing all that gum. It's like a blow job minus the orgasm and without the blue balls to remind you that, at the very least, you did have your dick in someone's mouth.

I got nothing.

I want that happy ending, I need that pain and suffering to make the whole experience complete.

Fuck it, I'm going to chew all the gum that's left while I go pick up some mexican food and some licorice for dessert.

Show my body to fuck with me. I'll shit for two days. Then we'll see who's in charge, won't we?

Thursday, August 06, 2009

I love the smell of ass in the afternoon.

It's been hot here lately. August rolled in and brought 90 degree heat and humidity to go with it. It has been brutal. Yesterday I took little Floogin and Papa McNoogin to see the Mets play a day game. Amazing seats, ten rows behind home plate. Off to the right? The dude who won American Idol (my wife had to point this out to me as I had no clue who the guy was). To the left? Smoking hot blond with Zach Braff. I was going to say hello (we've met, mutual friend and all that) but the dude was so sweaty that I was afraid he'd get his sweat on my sweat and man sweat should never mingle with another man's man sweat.

Behind us, in the box? Couple of hot tv women, maybe actresses. I couldn't figure out who they were but we all recognized them.

Anyway, all this eye candy and people watching and the game itself was a good one. It was my son's first game and he loved it. He was attentive, interested in the game itself, and cheering and clapping and having a blast. My son, like his dad, sweats. A lot. So does his mom. We were all, pretty much, soaked from our own meltage. It was most unpleasant. Even the air conditioned 360 club failed to keep us cool.

The Mets won for a change. It was a blowout. So, we spent the ninth inning in the shop, buying Floogin junior souvenirs and getting his sister a hat (she asked for one). We hopped on the subway and headed home with the crowd. Floogin sat on my lap in the barely air conditioned subway car. More sweat. We split up at Grand Central Station, me heading towards the office, they went home to take showers.

I got back to my office and the enjoyed the cool, refreshing air for an hour and a half and then I grabbed my stuff and headed home. I walk home for two reasons. One, I like the exercise. Two, the subways are brutally hot and, if the street level is brutal, the subways are a death trap.

So, I walk.

Up Seventh Avenue, towards Times Square. The streets are without cars there, set up for walking, sitting and loitering en mass. I first noticed the smell as I crossed 42nd street. It actually smelled like sex. Now, Times Square, and 42nd Street in general, had a reputation for being a hooker filled, porno zone and the stench of warm jizz would be normal, were it 1974 but, sadly, this is the Disney version of Times Square. Joe's Jizz Emporium is now The Lion King. Twatoria Del Twat is now Madame Tussaut's wax museum and Toys for Twats is now Bubba Gump Shrimp. It's sad bit, with that sadness comes the lack of genital stench.

Or so one would think.

I'm walking and sniffing and I'm thinking, ok, it's been a long time since I had sex (with someone else in the room) but that is the smell of hot love. I'm looking around, expecting some bacchanalia type orgy but all I see are fat tourists standing around taking pictures or sitting on their over sized asses, pondering their next feeding.

So, I start mouth breathing, trying to get through this smell zone as fast as I can and it starts to fade. No, not fade. It is no longer as prevalent but it's there. Masked by this new smell that is getting stronger with each step. It's the smell of an overripe, unwiped, sweaty, pungent ass.

It grew worse with each block until it was so bad that I was considering going back a few blocks to enjoy the smell of ball sack.

I moved forward, knowing that the sooner I got home, the sooner I'd be free to breath cleaner air.

But it never got better. Somehow, it got worse.

Imagine, if you will, being held down and some 900 pound tourist from the Midwest, who's been eating only tacos and broccoli and cabbage, walking around the city in the 90 degree heat, wearing a wetsuit, and then dropping trou and settling his brown eye right over your nose, draping his cheeks over your entire face.

Pretty fucking bad, right?

Now imagine him taking a dump.

That's how bad it got.

I looked around to see if anyone else was noticing this. Nobody seemed to be choking. No eyes watering. I know my schnoz is strong. I know it can sense odors that others cannot. Still, this wasn't some faint hint of ass in the air. This was a giant sweaty gorilla ass of biblical stenchage.

I was now a couple of blocks from my apartment and I should have been in the clear. Literally.

And yet, here it was, following me home. Did I walk through some Seinfeldian stench that is following me around, reminding me that there is a hell, and this is how it smells? Did I step in some steamy pile of shit that came from a monster dog? Did I wade through Clifford the Big Red Dog's Big Brown Shit?

I looked around, checked to see who was looking at me. Nobody. I did the foot check. Nothing there.

I glanced around again.

Nobody was looking.

I lifted my arm, pretended to stretch and turned my head to the right, my nose inches from my armpit, I inhaled and.......

I gagged.

It was me. I stunk.

If a thousand animals ate each other's shit and then they died and Louie Anderson and Roseanne Barr had sex on top of these dead animals, eating the animals as they fucked each other, their sweaty love creating a broth for the dead animals, and then they vomited up the meal so that vultures could re-eat their mess and vomit it for Louie and Roseanne to eat again, and then they shit it out? That's how I smelled.

Realizing I was a walking WMD, I picked up my pace, trying to get home before anyone saw me. Or smelled me.

Fuck, were people smelling me and thinking "man, that guy smells like Louie Anderson's shit?

This was horrible.

I raced upstairs, mouth breathing, hoping to not be noticed. I started peeling off my sweaty clothes in anticipation of the cleansing shower, the boxers coming off as I opened the bathroom door. I was greeted by my daughter who was taking a dump in my bathroom since her brother was having a bath in the other bathroom.

"daddy, you smell worse than my poop. get out!"

And so I waited.

I told my wife the story and she said she thought the room smelled bad. I told her I didn't sit on anything and I threw my clothes into the incinerator as soon as I was cleaned, leaving them on the bathroom floor during the shower so that they smell didn't leap onto the carpet.

She says we may have to move.

I'm fucked.

Monday, August 03, 2009

Living the good life.

So, my wife and I have become somewhat friendly with our son's friend's parents. So much so that, a few weeks back, the two dads went fishing - without the boys.

Well, this kid's mother invited us to hang out with them this weekend. So, we headed out east to see my parents Friday night, spend the morning in the pool and then, after lunch, we were set to move into Sag Harbor for the day. This is where they would pick us up for a day on the boat.

The boat is her brother's 70 foot Viking Cruiser.

A fucking yacht. Not one of those massive, holy shit there's a swimming pool on the boat type yachts but a 3 bedroom, 3 bathroom, has a fucking washer and dryer yacht.

So we got picked up and headed out for a day of pleasure cruising. We anchored off of Montauk, enjoyed the sun, drank and ate and then the back of the boat opened up and a smaller boat was removed from the big boat. It was like the big boat took a dump and shit a smaller boat. Attached to the smaller boat was a big fucking tube with handles. That's right, time to drag the kids (and grown-ups) around the bay.

I took my daughter out on the tube and we were flying. I decided to give us some fun and moved us back and forth across the wake, giving us air time, scaring the shit out of my daughter.

I took my son and things didn't go quite as well. We kept getting dunked. He was freaking out - rightfully so as he was basically being water boarded. The second time I took my daughter out, things didn't go quite as well. I did the wake jump and she got scared. Thought I was going to fall off.

The wife went with the other mother - truly comical. The captain tried to dump them, to no avail.

I've been on all kinds of boats, but this was a first and it was a fucking treat. The captain was a prick, docked in Montauk, claiming there was a risk of fog. Being somewhat experienced on the water, I knew he was full of shit as, even if it was foggy, we were merely moving along the channel, the guy has auto pilot to guide him and the tide was up so the risk of running aground was minimal but I said nothing. When the boss's sister found out we were being left in Montauk, she was livid. He told her he was low on fuel, which was bullshit since he had just fueled up in Sag Harbor.

Since it was a total treat, I told them we'd take a cab back to the car, nothing to worry about. They wound up giving us their car and they would then get dropped off in Sag Harbor the following day, shaving an hour and a half off their drive back to the city.

I can say that, without a doubt, if I had the means, I'd buy me a nice sized boat, hire a captain and one all purposed crew (nice brazillian girl who handled the kids, cleaned up the boat etc) member and I'd spend most of my time tooling around the islands in the winter and the north east in the summer.

Of course, to do this, I'll need about 2.5 to 3 million for a boat like the one I was on and I'd need several thousand a week to maintain the boat and the crew but, if I have 3 million in disposable funds, I'm guessing the inflow of new monies will be good enough to sustain this lifestyle.

Sadly, I doubt I'll ever get there but I'll keep dreaming.