Monday, December 06, 2010
These images have seeped into my dreams.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Today I found out what the issue really is.
Monday, November 08, 2010
This past Tuesday he told me I was on a very long wait list and, odds were, I wasn't going. Friday after noon, my wife made plans for the 6th (Saturday) with another couple.
At midnight, the email comes thru - two tickets for tomorrow. House seats.
At first, I was thrilled. My wife and I were going to see an incredible show. I've heard that it's life altering, incredible, insane etc. I contacted my friend and told him we were so excited. His response:
"It's you and me bud, I'm in."
Monday, November 01, 2010
In the past I've done all kinds of things. Pig nose and wings last year in honor of the Swine Flu (swing flew get it?), Bloody nail thru the head the year before that. Always something a little fun, a little odd. This year, with the kids getting older and the masks and whatnot no longer scaring them, I decided to go with something a bit more nasty. I slashed my throat.
My wife was with my daughter and her friend, getting manicures so, while the boy watched some tv, I locked myself in the bathroom with a fake wound, spirit gum and stage blood. I applied the wound across the neck, added copious amounts of blood to my neck and shirt and staggered into the living room telling my son I cut myself shaving.
This is how I looked:
My son looked up at me and gagged before telling me I looked gross and he didn't like it. He then asked if it was real. I told him it was not and he laughed and asked if I was going to wear it to soccer practice. I said I was.
So, we packed up our stuff and headed to the nail salon to pick up my daughter and her friend. On the one block walk, not a single person smiled, laughed, pointed, grimaced or blinked.
We walked into the salon and wandered to the back, where my daughter and her friend were drying their nails and my wife was getting her toes done. My wife looked up and said we needed a couple more minutes so the girls' nails would be fully dried. Not a word about the blood on my shirt, the slash across my throat. Then the woman painting her toes looked up. And screamed. Everyone in the salon looked at me. There were gasps, and laughs and my daughter looked up and told me it was disgusting and she loved it.
We packed up the kids and went out on the street. Two blocks walked to get a cab. Nary a nod or a smile at the slashed throat.
We got out of the cab by a hospital which is across the street from the entrance to the park. Nobody noticed.
At the soccer game, a few of the kids said something but, until they did, not a word from the parents or coaches. So sad.
After soccer, I took the kids home so they could get their costumes on and I ran out to grab some lunch for them. 4 blocks walked to a bagel store. Nobody noticed.
Went to a drug store to get a few things.
What the hell is wrong with people? Are we all that cold, that detached from our surroundings, that we fail to notice a man with his throat cut?
Walking back to my apartment a small group of tourists notice me, laugh and ask if I will take a picture. Of them, not with them.
Head to the halloween party and, finally, a local adult notices the blood and gore. Have my picture taken a few times. Do the trick or treat thing with the kids and get a comment or two from the folks wandering the buildings, seeking treats with their kids.
After dropping the kids back off at the apartment with my wife, I head back out for pizza for the kids. In the pizzeria, the guy behind the counter asks what I'm having, doesn't register the blood and gore. As I'm paying, a japanese woman in front of me bumps into me, turns to apologize and screams. Upon seeing that I am, in fact, not dying, she turns to her companion and shakes him, pointing at me. They both say something in japanese, smiling and laughing and walk away.
On the walk back, again, nobody notices.
What's wrong with my city? Are we so afraid to look at people? Are we so accustomed to death and gore that, even if we do see someone, we don't register it? Are we afraid that, if we say something to a stranger, they might take it the wrong way?
I need to move. Find a place where people care. Where someone will notice a guy when he slashes his throat.
Here's another, better shot of the gore.
Seriously. How could you not, at the very least, acknowledge that?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
I was there to soak it all in.
Friday, October 15, 2010
So, by this past weekend, I was sitting around, calling clients, prodding them to get their shit in sooner, rather than later. For the most part, it worked. Clients sent stuff in earlier or ignored me. By Wednesday, I was leaving at humane hours (9PM) and the work was moving quickly off my desk and out the door.
Then something happened, ruining the flow, destroying my mood and creating hell in the workplace.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
So, this past week, I was pushed, once again, by an associate and the situation called for a bold statement.
I was happy to oblige.
Monday, October 04, 2010
The guy's incredible and his prices are pretty fair so I brought my pants in to work today to let him fix them up for me. Instead, I got my ego crushed.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
So, when I found out my daughter went out to dinner, alone, with my mom, I knew I'd be dealing with all kinds of bullshit when I got home.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
I enjoy myself at these things. I help with the coaching if needed and, if it isn't needed I'm giving the kids tips and advice when the coaches aren't. Even at 8am, it's still something I look forward to.
So, this time of year, I miss that fun and the random things that happen afterward.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
25 years ago, a film came out that managed to hit home for kids all over the world. That movie went on to become one of the defining films of a generation and, somehow, managed to continue to reach out and touch high school and college kids for the next two decades. Last night, in celebration of the release of this classic, a screening was held in NYC. In attendence were four of the five primary stars. They were there to honor the man who created the film, and a multitude of classics before and after this film. Kevin Smith was on hand to moderate a question and answer period after the screening and then, all those that ponied up for the VIP passes, were invited to a private party at a night club where the stars went to mingle with the guests.
The Breakfast Club.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Well, shocker, the thumb is stiff as fuck, swollen as hell and not very useable.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Thursday, September 02, 2010
A client of mine, an estate, has been having an issue regarding a refund. Long story short, the IRS issued the refund in the wrong name and it was returned by the post office. Then, when we tried to get it reissued in the right name, they said they needed proof that the executor was, in fact, the executor. We provided court documents, letters testamentary, and figured all was right in the world.
We were wrong.
Monday, August 30, 2010
About 20 minutes into the drive, the ridiculous rain resumed and my wipers apparently couldn't keep up with the rain. A blade came loose, the other blade overlapped with it and suddenly my wiper blades were bent and useless.
So, I called BMW roadside assistance and my wife called AAA. Since we were on a highway, we had to be towed.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Giant motherfucking pop off the screen porn.
And I'm horrified by it.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Monday, August 02, 2010
He was right. Sort of.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
This sucks but not as much as not being able to use my left hand in the manner I'm accustomed to.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Of course, to quote my surgeon "you already fucked the thumb up, can't do more damage to the ligament now so bring me some steaks."
Gotta love the guy for that.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
That's right, I said it, a fart's refreshing in Jersey and, still, this show makes them look bad.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
And, in the process, I removed my ability to surf for porn.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Add to the mix, the guy's new wife is hot. Megan Fox hot. She's actually been stopped on the street by people thinking she's Megan Fox. She's so Megan Fox hot that she's playing Fox's sister in an upcoming movie.
So, how did my son manage to destroy these connections in one fell swoop?
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
The night before the party, I got sick. Bad chicken or something. I spent a great deal of time that night on the throne. I feared standing up. Every time I did, it was like gravity was laughing at me, pulling more burning liquid thru my ass. By the time I was brave enough to crawl into bed, my body was ravaged by the shits. I was physically exhausted, drained and dehydrated. I felt like death. I woke up the next morning weak and afraid to eat. My body was rumbling, begging me to put something in it but every time I walked into the kitchen, my gut turned over and I swear I heard laughing from within.
Fortunately, I wasn't going wearing that giant pleather jumpsuit, the helmet, robes, pads, codpiece, shin guards and electrical gear.
Then I remembered who the friend was.
Friday, May 21, 2010
What's the point in showing off your legs, ass or cleavage if you don't want anyone to look?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
He's a fucking champ. Fever hitting 102 - 103 and he's cracking jokes and reminding to me to pick up a toy for him if he takes his medicine.
As a result of his being sick, I had to pick up my daughter and bring her home. Pain in the ass as I then had to come back to the office but no big deal.
I walked into the apartment and I hear my son crying. Not a normal occurrence for my son. The only crying he ever does is the fake, tearless bullshit so hearing him whimpering was rather upsetting.
"I hurts when I breathe, I can't breathe" was what he was saying between gasping sobs.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Dreams are often a window into the deepest, darkest recesses in our minds. They are a form of release, a form of suppression, a means of therapy for a mind that is not working properly. Other times, they're our central computer telling us what we should do, what we want to do and what we cannot do, no matter how badly we want it. In our dreams, we do things good, and bad, with no repercussion. We can kill, we can screw around, we can hit the winning basket, be millionaires, paupers and sex addicts. We are supermen in our dreams. We are zombies in our dreams. We are anything our minds can conjure. My mind, being somewhat twisted, very much over used and under utilized, has come up with all kinds of mental movies.
Last night's dream was the worst I've ever had.
Friday, May 14, 2010
One problem. Obama was in town. Fucking traffic nightmare.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
What the hell happened to me?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
So, here's the letter I should have received from google. This is what I imagine is sitting in my inbox.
Dear Mr. McNoogin,
We are writing this letter to inform you that we have disabled your adsense account. Again. We are doing this because we are a bunch of prepubescent scum lovers with nothing better to do than sit around disabling adsense on blogs that would only earn us money, not you. That's right, your shitty assed traffic is so small, so pathetic that we would never have to pay you one cum covered bloody nickle which, by the way, we keep lodged in our employees asses.
Please don't sign up for another account as we plan on disabling that one too. Along with any other accounts you might attempt to have. In the meantime, we will continue to sit around our offices, taking 4 hour lunches, sitting on the opposite end of the cafeteria from the 4 women who work here. We will all wear our atari shirts on the same day, pretend it isn't gay when when jerk off to porn together and we will continue to pretend that we're fantasizing about bikini clad Princess Leia when we masturbate, all the while, knowing that it's Luke and Chewy that make our cocks hard.
The cocksucking team at Google.
(yes, we swallow)
Check it out, believe me, it's worth it.
Friday, May 07, 2010
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Please, do not click anything unless you are interested in it. The last thing I need is to have google pissed off at me again.
I love google. They're less evil than Apple and only slightly more evil than Microsoft. Bill, if you still read my blog, you need to do some evil shit, you're starting to look like the good guy in all this and that's some fucked up shit man.
Seriously, enjoy the concept of my having advertising. Tell your friends how Floogin's site is even cooler now because there are ads for shit nobody cares about, like nuts and dildos. That's right, that's the kind of shit you'll get, once again because, let's face it, everything I write about devolves into a discourse on tits, ass, balls, shitting, farting, sex toys or some other unsavory shit that is currently being sold by 2109 different vendors on the internet, all arriving at your door in a discrete brown wrapper.
This guy, somehow, doesn't detect the hint of "motherfucker" in my voice. I can tell that I sound annoyed and disappointed when I find out it's not who I thought it was. Why can't he?
Why does he keep calling back? I haven't seen him in 5 years, maybe more. I speak to him 3, maybe 4, times a year and each call is as short as I can make it without being a total douche bag.
I just don't get it. I'm not a huge phone guy. Fuck, I'm not a big email guy either. I have my friends. I talk to them from time to time but it's a rare moment when I pick up a phone and call any of them. I might do an email blast to my friends, telling them all the same thing at the same time but I rarely initiate a conversation to shoot the shit. I'm too busy, too disinterested. I'm guessing this is why other people use facebook and why I don't even bother with that. I care a great deal about my friends. I really do. I don't, however, think they want to hear about my mundane life and I certainly don't want to hear about theirs.
Is that so odd?
Monday, May 03, 2010
So, today, I drop my daughter off at school and I'm walking to my office, somewhat happy that it's not raining that hard. Sadly, as a result, it's fucking humid. Sweat inducing humid. I hate this weather but, the one saving grace, is the way people dress. That's right, I dig checking out the ladies in their short skirts, low cut tops and skin baring outfits.
So, I'm standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change and, in front of me, is an incredible specimen. She's tall, well dressed, skirt just above the knee, great legs, heels. The whole package. Worthy of a slower walk. Watching this woman saunter will make the humidity far more bearable.
The light changes and, as it does, we start to walk. As we start to walk, an emergency vehicle comes blaring up the street, drowning out all noise (I forgot the music this morning, otherwise I'd have been oblivious to it).
I'm walking slowly, mesmerized by the swaying of this woman's incredible ass. My eyes are glassy as I watch the shapely legs move in long, sexy strides. The siren fades and then I hear it. What the fuck is that? Can it be? No. It can't.
She's clomping like a fucking Clydesdale. The coconut clop clop of her shoes distracts my mind. No longer do I see this lovely visage as something warm and fuzzy to ease me into the start of the work week. No, now I'm envisioning a saddle on her back, a long fuzzy tail and hooves.
While I am a deviant of biblical proportions, this image is not one that will make my McNoogin do the Floogin. It kills me. It feels like my penis is crawling in on itself, creating a mangina. I raced up to my office, plopped down at my desk and immediately started surfing for porn to see if I couldn't coax my cock out of its hidey hole.
No such luck.
I am woman, hear me roar.
So, here I sit, testosterone in flux, libido crushed. Instead of staring at naked women, feeling my little fella get all warm and happy, I'm pondering Glee. I'm wondering what song Kurt will sing this week. I'm wondering if I have the right clothes picked out for the movie screening I'm attending this Thursday. I'm wondering if these pants make my ass look huge.
I need help.
I got the kids dressed in their baseball uniforms and off to Central Park we went. My daughter's game was first and it was a blast. I coached first or third when they were batting and assisted coached them in the field when they were out there. My son spent the morning playing with the younger brothers of the players.
After the game we went home so my daughter could change, got lunch and headed back out for the afternoon game of the double header. My son's league is a bit less structured as the kids are, for the most part, incapable of hitting, catching and throwing the ball. My son can hit. He's upset that it's tee ball and he's been asking the coaches to pitch to him. They won't do it and, in this game in particular, it would have been impossible as the opposing team's coach decided the best way to win was to line all 20 or so players up, shoulder to shoulder, in a wall between the mound and the batter. They don't actually keep score so I'm not sure what the fuck this moron was thinking, other than he might get a nice youtube video of his team getting hurt. The first two kids hit the ball well and the opposing team dove all over the place, piling onto each other, trying to snare the ball. Of course, there's nobody covering the bases so getting the ball served only to stop the runner from advancing.
Up walks my son. He's twice as tall as all the other kids. He's smiling. He loves the game. I'm standing on the third base side, coaching the runners. I shout out to my son, telling him to relax, keep his eye on the ball until he makes contact, and then run.
I then realize that there's going to be serious shit if he does connect. I shout to the opposing coach. I ask him if, perhaps, he should give the hitters a bit of respect. His response? "Limit them to singles and the we can win."
I explain that they don't actually record outs in the game. I explain that he's putting his kids at risk by sticking them 4 feet in front of the hitters. He tells me that, since the kids all hit dribblers, there's no real risk.
Then my son smokes a ball thru his so call wall of defenders. They dive out of the way. They all hit the floor. The ball shoots towards second base. Nobody there but another opposing coach. It hits him in the thigh and caroms towards the back of the field.
I'm waving the kids home. My son comes trotting around the bases, all smiles.
I pat him on the ass as he saunters home.
The opposing team is in a pile, all of them trying to grab the ball that has rolled all the way to the back field, disrupting the other game that was being played.
The league representative jogs onto the field and tells the idiot coaching the other team that he can either play the kids in positions of sit two thirds of the team while they play the field.
The moron decides the benching will work better.
While in the field, my son is placed in front of the pitcher, with another boy. Between the two of them, not one ball makes it to the pitcher. Their throwing is fair, at best, but these two boys are hoovering up every ball that comes their way.
So, in the next inning, one of my son's teammates is on third and my son is getting ready to hit and this tall woman comes over and asks me where my son learned how to play. I explain that he played in another "league" in the fall and that we play whenever we can. She's asking all kinds of questions and then she leans down and starts talking the boy on third base. Turns out that's her son. She then suggests we get the kids together for a play date so my son can play baseball with him. I agree that it should be fine with my son. She then tells me how it's tough for her, being a single mom, not knowing about sports, not knowing what they should do now, to learn to play the various games that boys like to play. I tell her I understand and I tell her that my son is big on baseball and soccer and that he takes classes and plays in leagues for both and she's asking about details etc when my son smokes another shot into the outfield.
As he rounds third, trotting towards home, the woman high fives my son and asks if he wants to play with her son in the park after the game. He says yes and I explain that we have other plans and that my daughter is roaming the park with another friend and that we'd love to get the boys together when we weren't so busy.
She agrees and says we'll talk when the game is over.
The game plays on in the usual manner. Lots of hitting, running and shitty fielding.
Towards the end of the game, the mother of one of my son's friends walks over, cracking up. She tells me that the woman I was talking to thinks I'm single. I tell her that my wife left me just that morning and, technically, I am single. She tells me that the woman wants a play date with me. I asked why she didn't tell her that I'm married and she said "more fun this way."
When the game ended, my kids made a beeline for the playground and we ran into other friends so there was no chance for this woman to ask me out. Next weekend will be interesting.
Afterward, my son got into a fight with a 9 year old who kicked him in the balls. Seems the 9 year old was fucking with my son's friend and my son, being the friend that he is, defending his buddy and wound up in a fight.
I found this out later that night when my friend, who was there with those boys, called me to tell me what had happened (his son fessed up). Couldn't be prouder of my son.
Sunday, my kids let me sleep late and we got dressed, went out for brunch, went shopping for some clothes for my daughter and then hit Central Park for some rock climbing, Carousel riding, baseball playing and general fucking around.
Some time Sunday evening, the kids were fed, bathed, and the apartment cleaned (they did it themselves, no asking, no suggesting), my wife returned. She was greeted as if she was coming back from the garbage chute. The kids barely registered her absence or her return.
Now, with mother's day coming, I need to make sure we all do something really special for her because, at the moment, she thinks we can, and would, survive like champs, were she not around.
Monday, April 26, 2010
He's played the Wii game. Finished all the levels. Now he's replaying them as all the different characters. He also learned that you can buy Lego kits to make various Star Wars scenes and vehicles. He's been nagging me for a Millenium Falcon and a Death Star. No way in hell am I spending close to a grand on either one. More so since I always end up doing all the construction as he watches tv and ignores my pleas for assistance.
I know my dad wants to buy one of them for him and make it a summer project that they will work on. So, I figured, perhaps it was time to start the boy out on some of the smaller, easier kits. I picked up a couple of little star wars kits and some super hero kits and he, and I, put them together. Together. It was a blast. Of course, several hours after completion, they had fallen apart. He plays rough with his toys. It kills me when I spend money on something and see him playing with a broken down version of that toy after only a week.
Anyway, I took him to his baseball game on Saturday and he was incredible. Smoking line drives when he was at bat and sucking up balls like an all star in the field. He has his own little mantra on the field: Nothing Gets Past Me. Fucking brilliant.
Anyway, he was in such good spirits after the game that he agreed to go belt shopping with me, in exchange for a stop at a toy story. I complied and, once there, he made a beeline for the lego section. The kits he wanted were all way too complex for him and the easier ones were limited to the ones he had so we agreed to pick up Luke Skywalker's X-Wing and he agreed to work on it with me.
We picked up a belt, grabbed some lunch and headed home. He immediately tore open the box and opened each of the plastic bags housing the 437 pieces. Yes, that's right, 437 pieces. He separated them into piles of matching pieces and then he set out building the characters it came with. Luke, Leia, Chewbacca, Han Solo, C3P0, R2D2 and Wedge Antilles. Then he picked them all up and said he was going to play with them while I did my part, building the ship.
I explained that this was a father and son project and, after a bit of arguing, he begrudgingly sat next to me, helping me locate the pieces and snapping them in place.
It took us about two hours to finish. It was pretty fucking cool. The wings move open and closed by turning a little knob in the back of the ship. R2 fits in the back. Luke can sit in the cockpit. There's even a secret cargo hold for his light saber.
My son immediately grabbed all the other ships, characters, figures, books etc on the subject of star wars and a massive battle between the rebellion and the empire took over my living room. There were even a few super heroes in the mix, presumably helping the rebellion. The battle waged on, taking a break for dinner and then, it started right up again.
My wife and I went out to dinner, leaving my kids, and the intergalactic battle, in the capable hands of the sitter.
We returned home shortly before midnight to a battlefield at rest. There were figures on the furniture, on the window ledge, on the coffee table, on the tv and there was even one character hanging on the lip of the fish tank.
The sitter told us how wonderful the kids were, how they went to be early, on their own and how my son was distraught because his new ship broke.
I asked where it was and she pointed to the coffee table.
The X-Wing had lost an engine and a wing has popped loose.
So, I pick up the craft and try to replace the wing. This was a mistake. I had several drinks and was in no condition to be messing around with the lego ship.
By the time I gave up, all four wings were now off the craft.
My son woke up around 7 the next morning and came into my bedroom in tears. I told him that the battle waged on well after he had gone to sleep but he shouldn't worry. Luke and R2 escaped and the rebellion managed to take the ship, and all the broken parts back to their garage and a master mechanic would fix the craft.
So, my morning consisted of coffee, aspirin for the raging hangover and my shaky fingers taking the entire craft apart. Piece by piece.
I then went and picked up some glue. Not the elmers kind. No, I grabbed some cyanoacrylate. High end, fast drying, krazy glue type stuff.
My wife took my daughter to a birthday party and left us to the rebuilding of the X-Wing.
At first it was a breeze. Then I got a bit cocky. I was using more glue than necessary. Snapping pieces on far to fast and my son comes over and goes to pick up a piece to help and I snapped, yelling "no, don't touch it, it's very strong glue, I don't want you to get it stuck on your skin."
He says he'll be careful. I tell him it's best if he helps me locate the pieces. He does.
I'm holding a wing in my left hand, I grab the glue in my right, ready to put a few drops onto the next addition to the wing when I realize said wing is now a part of me. That's right, three fingers glued to the wing. I explain what happened to my son. He looks at my hand, tries pulling the pieces, I explain that the only way to remove it is with rubbing alcohol and we need to go to the store. We get dressed and headed out, my lego hand in my pocket, hiding it from potentially mocking eyes.
We head into the store and my son asks if this means I'm turning into a good guy or a bad guy. I ask him what he means and he says "Spiderman was bit by a spider and now he's half spider, sandman was half sand, electro is half electric and I am half lego."
He asks if I am good or bad. I tell him I am good and nobody can know that his daddy is Legoman.
He promises it will be our little secret. Then he tells me he still loves me, even if I am made of lego.
Paying for the alcohol was no easy task, with one hand attached to a wing but we managed to get it done and then we headed home. I soaked my hand for a good 20 minutes before the wing came loose. So did all the other pieces and I was back to rebuilding the damned wing, this time with much more caution.
The X-wing was completed (again) and the rebellion, led by Luke Skywalker and his X-Wing, were back battling the Empire before dinner.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Nothing piques my interest.
I need a vacation. Clear the head, get my shit together and get back to work.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Fact 1. Those really long nails are disgusting. That's right women. If your finger nails are inches long, you look like a whore. If they're so long that they curve and you can't do anything without having to reposition your hands to avoid breaking them, you're nothing more than an idiot whore. And if you waste your hard earned whore dollars getting them painted with streaks and sparkles and stars? Trailer Park Whore. It's really that simple. There's not a guy out there who sees you, with your nails that are longer than a cock, painted with stars and moons and thinks "classy lady, I should see if she wants to get a cup of coffee." No, he's got his hand in his pocket so he can see if he has enough quarters and dimes for a blow job.
Fact 2. If you're fat, dress appropriately. You want to show off some skin, do it in the privacy of your own home. When your back is so fat you have extra ass cheeks, you should wear a tent, not a form fitting shirt that resides above the second roll of blubber below your tits.
Fact 3. If you don't have the legs for it, don't wear short skirts or short shorts. Here's the thing. When fat women show off their legs and jam their pigs knuckles into some fuck me pumps, all that happens is men see your legs and those shoes and they are immediately reminded of Miss Piggy at a formal. No joke. Take a peek at a pigs leg and hoof and then check out a fat broad in a short skirt and heels. Same fucking thing.
Fact 3a. Do not wear fish nets or any of the other fashionable lacy hose/stockings. This is an addendum to the above. If you've got the legs for it, by all means, wear them but, if your flesh oozes through the lace or net, stop. Throw them out. Your legs will look like some perverted play-doh porn for chubbie chasers. Nobody wants to see that.
Fact 4. No belt clips or ear pieces for your cell phone. You look like a star trek wannabe. I don't care how hot you might be, if you have a phone clipped to your belt or an ear piece hanging on your melon, you look like an idiot. In the car, when nobody can see you, and it is required, I don't care if you wear two. On the street? Ditch it.
Fact 5. When talking on your cell in public, remember, it's a fucking phone call that nobody else cares about. Nobody gives a shit if you got blown last night or if some guy went down on you or your boyfriend's a prick or you made some money in the market. Nobody gives a shit about you, except, possibly, the person you're talking to so keep it the fuck down. If we wanted to know more about your life, we'd give you a reality show, call it Real Jackasses of the City and 3 people would watch it. You, the moron on the other end of the phone and the one loser impressed by your new found "celebrity."
Fact 6. Guys think your Ugg boots are awful. Not only do they destroy the image of a nice pair of legs, we know how fucking hot your feet must get and, now that it's spring, it's time to mothball them until the winter. I actually prefer a fat broad in a short skirt, fishnets and heels to a supermodel in a skirt or shorts and uggs. Why? Because I know that, when taking off her clothes, her feet will be sweaty and the stench from the boots and her feet will be enough to stop a herd of elephants in their tracks.
Fact 7. Have a Good One. What the fuck does this even mean? If I run into you as I'm heading for the shitter, are you telling me to enjoy my dump? If I tell you to "have a good one" as you head over to your ob-gyn, am I suggesting you get a good speculum? It's a stupid fucking expression. Stop using it.
Fact 8. If you email someone, and you leave them a voicemail, wait for their fucking response. We are so wired to everything these days that you can be sure at least one of the the voicemails, texts, tweets, emails, smoke signals and facebook postings has been seen. If we haven't responded yet, there's a reason so stop fucking adding to the shit we have to sift through before we can get back to you. If you haven't heard back yet, assume that the person you want to talk to is busy, or being held hostage by a gang of angry gypsies, or fell into a coma, is dead or simply doesn't want to talk to you. If they do, they'll get back to you.
That's it for now. I'm sure I'll find more and I'll add to them as I do. If you have any facts of life to add, let me know.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
It's a gorgeous view.
Of course, I'm not looking at it. I'm looking down. 20 floors down. At the concrete below.
The dead are walking the earth. They don't see out human flesh. They aren't after brains. They shuffle along, feet dragging, as they move about the city. They mumble and moan, their stare, glassy and lifeless. They might say something to you. They might not. Their arms leaden and limp at their sides. Their legs feel like 500 pound sacks of grain. Moving them, walking, is a chore. Their eyelids droop, their black, dilated pupils, stare down at the pavement as they slowly wend their way through the crowded, shuffling throngs of people.
If you bump into the walking dead, their body will absorb the hit, turning them, spinning them but that's about it. They won't turn on you, shredding your skin, tearing your limbs off. If anything, they might utter a muffled complaint. They have no energy. They are dead.
I know this because I have become one of the walking dead. Movement is a chore. Rational thinking no longer exists. This is why I sit and stare at the pavement instead of the gorgeous day dawning on a dead city.
This is why I contemplate the wind in my hair, the feeling of flying, the feeling of life as I plummet.....
Monday, April 12, 2010
Friday, April 09, 2010
Monday, April 05, 2010
I do this every night after work, unless it's pouring. Then I take the subway or a cab (depending on the time).
Anyway, I did this last night, as always and I was somewhat surprised by the number of people on the street. Tourists everywhere. Fuck, people everwhere. It made my bobbing and weaving more difficult and I wound up with a few too many "I'm sorrys" after an errant elbow or shoulder bump.
As I exited the shower this morning, I turned on the news. The first story was about the 4 separate shootings on 7th Avenue last night.
2 people shot in Herald Square. That'd be the area around Macy's. Well, gee, that's across the street.
The other 2 were shot in the 40's and 50's along 7th Ave. In other words, right along my normal route.
Granted, the shootings ocurred after I had passed through but one of them was early enough that, on any other night, I might have been there.
That's fucked up.
On a side note, the desire to continue the drama with "the twins" is gone. I was going to take pictures of my hands, with gloves and without, post em for Trent, and talk about how my twins were refusing to let me go back to my normal life with my wife and kids but, well, to be totally honest, I just don't have it in me.
I've lost my sense of humor and my sense of fun.
The work and the stress of finishing this shit on time is, for the first time in my life, weighing down on me. It's an odd feeling and I'm trying to figure out how best to understand and deal with it.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
Well, this morning, for the first time in, basically, forever, there was a story that brought that familiar lump in the throat. Fortunately, this time, it was uplifting and that lump was one brought on by my pride in humanity.
I know, Floogin's getting a bit mushy and sentimental but, seriously, this was that good of a story.
Seems some family was checking out one of the old sailing vessels down by the South Street Seaport, working their way up the ramp to the entrance of the boat, when the dad turned around and realized his two year old daughter wasn't beside him. He looked around and realized that she had slipped and fallen, 20 feet, into the cold water below. Without missing a beat, he started running down the ramp, emptying his pockets as he went. He got to the dock, looked down, located his daughter under the surface and went, feet first, into the frigid waters.
Like a needle, straight down he went. When he popped back up, his limp child was in his arms. After a couple of seconds, the little girls started crying, indicating she was, for the most part, ok.
As this was unfolding, an unknown french tourist jumped over the side to help the man with his daughter. The father swam towards the Frenchman who helped hoist the child up to another man who was lying on his stomach, reaching for the baby. That man was being held down by yet another man. In all, there were 4 or 5 guys working to help get this baby out of the water and then they aided the man in climbing out of the drink as well.
All these strangers, from around the globe, reaching out to help one man. In and out of the water. Nobody hesitated, nobody looked around, waiting on others to take charge. Everyone acted. Heroes, all of them. The baby was taken to a nearby hospital and released a little while later. The father was fine as well. The Frenchman? He simply did his heroic thing and hopped into a cab, presumably, to head to his hotel for some dry clothes.
I'd like to think I'd be able to do this. I did it once before, heading into treacherous waters, to save someone. I didn't hesitate. I didn't even have the foresight to empty my pockets, like the father did. I ran head first into waters that had taken the life of a father and son several months earlier, not just drowning them, but smashing them to pieces on the rocks as well. I did it for my wife, the mother of my infant daughter. Could I do something like that for a complete stranger? Could I jump into icy waters to help a man and his daughter?
While I hope I never have to find out, I sure hope I would.
For the whole story, complete with pictures of the rescue, head to www.nydailynews.com
Saturday, April 03, 2010
The twins wanted some fun but I was tired, not up for it at all. I told them my plans for the night and they said they understood but wanted to hang out with me so, stupidly, I obliged.
No sooner had I put my dishes in the dishwasher, did they start in on me.
I explained that I wanted to watch Fringe, they promised to obliged.
Two minutes into the show, they're all over me. Moving over my body, trying to find their way into my pants.
I managed to fend them off during fringe but, when parenthood was turned on, they protested. After a lengthy argument about my needing rest, needing some down time, they asked me why I even asked them to hang out with me. I reminded them that I wanted nothing more than to watch tv and sleep and then they got weird on me.
You need us, they said.
No, I don't
Yes, you can't live without us, they told me.
I think I can.
I told them that I had warned them that this wasn't going to be anything more than a little fun while the wife was out of town. They told me they can't do that. They told me they want to be by my side, always.
I told them that was impossible.
Getting rid of us impossible, they said.
Seriously, I cannot walk around with you two hanging by my sides, practically attached to my wrists.
But, yes, you can they said. We will always be there. We won't go away.
So now I have these two sex craving nutters refusing to leave.
They're here in the office with me now. One on either side of me, telling me to shut the door so we can have a little play in the office.
I need to get my work done. They are insatiable. They are crazy.
Friday, April 02, 2010
So, anyway, I left for work with the coffee on the coffee table (how apropos) and the pillows stacked up next to my wife's closet.
I left work a little after nine last night. One of my college roommates was in town so I was going to stop by my apartment, drop my shit off and head to the bar where he was waiting for me, with another friend of ours.
I open my apartment door, toss my jacket on the chair, my bag on the floor next to it and then the mail on the pile on the ....where's my mail?
Odd. I don't remember moving it to the kitchen counter.
I turn around, head towards my bedroom and I look down at the coffee table. Something isn't right.
Where the fuck is my gigantic box of coffee?
To say I was confused would be an understatement.
I walked over to the fish tank. Clean as a whistle. Are whistles clean? You blow spit and stink breath through them. I'd say they're actually pretty fucking filthy but, I digress.
The tank cleaners were here. Did they steal my coffee? As I'm walking back towards the hallway leading to my bedroom, I see the box. It is placed, neatly, at the bottom of a bunch of other boxes, to the side of the entrance. Did Kiwi (my tank cleaner) straighten up my living room? I know she, and her husband, are meticulous and neat as hell in and around the fish tank but this box was nowhere near the tank. Could she have been bothered by my placement of the box? Could it have been so annoying to her that she felt compelled to stow it neatly in the corner?
Oh well, no time to consider that. I was late.
I walk out the door, head downstairs and walk the block to the bar. The night was fun. Drank a bit too much and spent a few hours catching up with the friend. Good stuff.
Asked the twins if they wanted to party, they did so, home I went.
I stumbled into my apartment with the twins and made a beeline towards the bedroom. On the way, I explained to them how the coffee and the mail moved and nobody had been in my apartment and I told them I might have a cleaning ghost. They told me I was crazy and they started removing my clothes.
We collapsed onto the bed and as we started getting into it, I realized something was wrong.
The pillows were all back on the bed.
I sat up, startled.
What the fuck?
This was like the kitchen chairs in Poltergeist (for the young'uns - a classic haunted house movie from the past). I move em, they move back.
Now I'm fully convinced I have a ghost that likes a tidy home.
When I left this morning, the pillows were piled up next to the closet. Yesterday's mail was on the kitchen table and the coffee was where the ghost left it. We'll see what happens tonight.
As for the twins, I'm sensing a problem with them. I think that they might be getting too into all this fun. I was extremely clear about this being a temporary thing, only possible while my wife was out of town but, the one that likes to be to my left asked me last night, in the middle of it all, to remove my wedding band. Something about it making them uncomfortable, physically and emotionally.
I might have to end this before it gets too far out of control.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
I got home around 10:45 last night. Empty apartment. It was freakishly clean and quiet. The lack of clothes, suitcases missing, made it feel like I'd been abandoned.
So I celebrated.
I dropped my shit off and went to the restaurant down the block. I brought my nook so it would appear as if I was not some loser sitting alone, drinking alone.
After the second, maybe the third drink, I met them. Twins. They were sweet as could be. Friendly, great listeners, great sense of humor. We had a few drinks and then I did something I never thought I'd do. I brought them back to my apartment. I tried sneaking them past the doorman but he saw us so I drunkenly explained that they are cousins or some such slurring bullshit. He looked at me like I was insane.
I don't recall much but I do know that they live near me so I had to explain that I am married and a father and this was a temporary thing. I explained to them that, upon my family's return, we shall go our separate ways. They agreed. They understood completely.
And then, after another drink in my apartment, I had sex in my bed. I never thought I'd do this without the wife being there but it happened and it was incredible. I'm not going into details but we were up until the wee hours of the morning, doing it every which way possible.
Woke up after 7 this morning. about 2 hours later than normal so I had to wake them up and they joined me in the shower for one last romp before heading off to work.
I'm hoping I'll see them again tonight. I'm supposed to have dinner with some of my college friends and, obviously, I can't let them know what's going on so, if they're still willing after a night out with the boys, I'm hoping they'll come back tonight.
Before you ask, yes, I do feel a little guilty about it all but my wife is out of town and I need this to relieve the stress and tension of all this work.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Well, I had me a doozy yesterday.
I'm walking home, enjoying the end of an incredibly nice day. Of course, I didn't enjoy the day as I was working but the walk home was my only chance to take in the first truly gorgeous day this year. And I was loving it. Sound cancelling ear buds set firmly in my ears, music to walk to was all I heard. Sunglasses on, I'm bobbing and weaving through the overly crowded pedestrian section of Times Square and I come to a red light. I'm standing there, waiting for the light to change when I get tapped on my shoulder. I turn around and there's a dude standing there, staring at me. I slip a bud out of my ear and say "what can I do for you?"
"Yo, you checking out my woman?"
"You heard me motherfucker, you checking out my girl?"
"What? She ain't worth checking out?"
"Um, seriously man, I don't know what you're talking about, I'm just walking home."
"I asked you, she ain't worth checking out?"
"I don't even know who she is."
"She right here"
"Very nice, yes, sure, she's worth checking out."
"Motherfucker, you checking out my woman"
A small crowd is gathering. The light changes, I start to walk away, he follows.
"Hey, motherfucker, don't walk away from me."
"Sorry, I need to get going and I wasn't checking out your girlfriend but, yes, she's a real looker, you should be proud to have her on your arm"
"Don't you talk to him, bitch. Yo, don't be making fun asshole, I asked you if you checking out my girl. I don't need you eyeballing my lady."
walking and talking
"I wasn't, I didn't, I'm blind to my surroundings, I'm listening to music, heading home from work, I really don't pay much attention to other people when I'm walking."
"You paying attention to me now, asshole."
"You're talking to me."
"That's right motherfucker, I am talking to you."
"Well, like I said, I gotta run but, seriously, you should keep an arm around that girl, you spend too much time talking to me, she might start looking for someone else to keep her company."
"What the fuck you saying?"
"Nothing, just saying you don't need to worry about me, you should pay attention to her, she deserves it."
"Look at her, she's very pretty."
"So you was checking her out."
"No, man, you pointed her out to me. I'm just saying, she were mine, I'd spend my time looking at her, not at other dudes to see if they were checking her out."
"You saying I'm checking you out?"
"shit. No. I'm saying you should spend less time worrying about other guys, more time devoted to looking at her."
"Don't you tell me how to treat my woman. she happy, I treat her just fine motherfucker."
"Then why are you still walking with me? She's back there somewhere, stopped at a light."
Turning, running the other way....
"Fuck you, motherfucker, we ain't done. I'm coming back after I get her lazy ass.
"Ok but I think you'll understand if I don't wait for you."
"I'll catch you motherfucker. You won't be happy when I do."
And then, as soon as I saw him melt into the crowd, I turned off the street, heading east.
She was pretty damned hot. What she was doing with this half pint gangsta wannabe, this 10 cent (certainly no fitty cent), is beyond me.
Oh, and yes, I was totally checking her out.
Friday, March 19, 2010
To make matters even worse, the guy's a washed up goth shock rocker. He's Jesse James. He of the cool, outlaw name. I figured, that kind of name, a tv show, an a-list oscar winning wife, he should be able to get all kinds of tail, male or female. Instead, he opts for Marilyn Manson?
I really can't say more than that. I used to dig some of Manson's work and I always understood that he did what he did, dressed the way he dressed, as a means of self promotion but, seriously, messing around with Sandra Bullock's husband? That's a new low. I don't even think he has a new cd that needs to be promoted. The guy's just scum.
Hopefully, I'm not the only one who finds Jesse James and Marilyn Manson's tryst to be degrading and repulsive.
Sandy, if you're reading this, my sympathies go out to you. I can't even begin to imagine what's touched Manson's dick which, now, by proxy, has touched Jesse's. While I can't imagine you'd take him back but, if you do, I strongly recommend a complete battery of tests on the guy.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
I went downstairs for an afternoon break of the tobacco kind and I'm standing on the corner, facing the entrance for the Long Island Railroad, watching the crowd of swaying, staggering kids, soaking in the glorious, warm sun when I see two girls across the street. One of them is holding a green yard glass (those long crazy ale glasses) in one hand and a tether of about 20 green and white balloons in the other. The other is holding a yard glass and waving. I casually look around me to see what she's waving at but there's nobody near me. The girl with the balloons, who's wearing a form fitting print dress that seems to stop just below the pubic hair line, assuming she has any (she looked like the full shave type), is now pointing at me with the yard glass. I take a closer look and realize that, sleazy outfit aside, she's hot. Real hot. Her friend, on the other hand, is real not. She, too, is wearing a too tight dress that barely covers her ass. Problem is, it reveals every roll and crease in her oversized body. Now they're both waving at me, pointing at me and the fat one motions for me to come over.
I laugh, smile and shake my head, indicating I'm not coming over. What the fuck do I need that for? The hot one throws her hands up in the air in disgust, the balloons smacking some guy in the head, and starts to cross the street. As curious as I am regarding what this young lady might say to me, I'm really not in the mood to have my short break co-opted by her. 34th Street is a wide street, two lanes in each direction and, as she gets to the middle she looks up, does a little jog of sorts, smiling at me, points and then pukes. That's right, pukes. Big foamy spray of puke. She stops, pukes again, looks up and smiles. She starts to walk towards me and now I'm in a panic. I look to my right, Starbucks. It's crowded. I might not get in and thru the store before she reaches me. I look to my left. Mass of people waiting to cross the street. Tons of St. Paddy's drunks milling about.
She's getting closer. Stagger stumbling towards me. No shame with this one. She must think I didn't notice the massive, technicolor, yawn she let loose on the street. People are edging away from her, fearing another explosion. A few look at me, pity in their eyes.
What to do? What to do?
Then it hits me.
I wheel around on my heels, grab the door, toss my smoke and enter the bank.
I move thru the second set of doors and head towards the other exit which is on the other side of the atm room. As I grab the door to leave I hear "wait, I want to ask you a question."
"Got gum?" would be appropriate about now but I don't even want to turn around and say it. I don't want to smell the vomit. I don't want to be around her when she pukes again. I don't want her to come near me.
I exit the door, make a left and head for my building.
Being too drunk to follow me, she opts, instead to walk along the windowed wall that leads in the same direction. She's saying something to me but I can't hear her.
She sees my eyes move towards the door and she picks up her pace, hoping to cut me off.
I pass the door as she is pushing on it and then she pukes again.
It sprays out from her mouth against the glass and back onto her.
It's fucking nasty and, normally, I'd probably puke myself but I start to laugh instead.
I hear her friend yelling to her from behind me as I enter my building and jog towards the elevators. The last thing I need is to have these crazy puking girls chasing me into my place of business.
To be safe, I jump in the wrong elevator and jam the door close button like I'm in some crazy chase scene in some cheesy movie.
The doors close. The elevator rises and I'm safe.
Of course, when I go home tonight, there will be twenty times more of these drunkards wandering the streets.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
During the course of the meal, my wife explained to me how she fought with the theater manager over her attempt to get replacement seats for a show that we had tickets for back when we had the last big snow storm. She said they wouldn't let her use the tickets for a weekend so she decided to try other shows and, she told me, she couldn't find something that she thought I'd like. Then she says "then I found this, I think it might be fun" and she handed me a Ticketmaster envelope. Inside were two tickets to BB King's and the band was The Radiators or, as we called them back when I was in college, the Rads. Fucking awesome. I didn't even know they were playing. They are a fair band, at best but, back in college, they were one of three bands that you went to see whenever they played. They might play 2 or 3 nights in a row and, if they did, you were there. They'd play 3 sets (later it was only 2) and it was an endurance night, starting the partying around 8 and getting home some time after 4 am. Tons of booze and, more often than not, plenty of X to go around.
So I was kind of psyched about this. Then my wife told me how she found out about the show. My sister. Seems she's going to be there, with that piece of shit husband of hers. Oh well, maybe I'll see some of my friends, or some folks I haven't seen in a while. The band will still be fun. Not like I'll be hanging out with them.
So, off we go. We get to the show just as the band is tuning up. Run into a friend of my wife who I went to school with and then we hit the bar. Hanging around by the bar, scanning the crowd for familiar faces, I start seeing my sister and her friends. Ugh. They all come over. Hugs, kisses and well wishes abound. She's with a large group of friends. Some are cool, others, not so much. I deal. I'm nice, I laugh, reminisce. Then I see my college roommate's old girlfriend. This girl manages to get better looking every time I see her. She's one of the few people from school who I can honestly say is just very cool. Great sense of humor. Always a pleasure seeing her. She informs me that none of my friends are there. Bummer.
Then it happens.
I get grabbed in a massive bear hug. I turn around and I'm being accosted by a guy I haven't seen in close to 20 years. He grabs me again and hugs me one more time. Then the normal talk begins. What are you up to? Kids? Mistresses? The usual. He winds up calling one of his friends to tell him he's with Shaggy. I get on the phone and say hi to the friend. This guy was in another fraternity and my friends and I ran into a bunch of them in Mexico one year and spent the better part of our trip hanging out with them. At some point, one of them decided I was not me but, rather, I was the spitting image of Shaggy from the scooby doo cartoons. I was tall, very skinny and I did, at times, have that chin fuzz thing going. Didn't help that I can do a frighteningly accurate ZOINKS! when needed.
So, this friend brings his wife over and introduces me. I introduce them to my wife. Good times ensue. Numbers exchanged, cards swapped. Then he leans over and asks if I saw Jane (not her real name). I tell him I hadn't seen her in 15 years and that last time was in a restaurant, she was on the other end of the room, walking out and I didn't get a chance to say hello.
I didn't even have a minute to look for her. She saw my sister, heard I was there, and came running. She gives me this huge hug, huge kiss, is holding me tight, telling me she can't believe its been this long, she always asks my friends for updates on me and she cannot believe we don't talk anymore. My wife is standing there, looking at us like we're reunited lovers and she's about to lose her man. I pull back from Jane and introduce her to my wife. Jane then tells my wife how we were the best of friends her senior year (she was a year older than me). She asks my wife if she knows Jim (not his real name) and my wife says yes, she does and she had met his brother as well (his brother died in the WTC). So, Jane says, "I was dating Jim my junior and senior year and he graduated a year before me and he asked Floogin to keep an eye on me." What she didn't say was "floogin was the guy I trusted enough to help me count pills when my shipments would arrive."
So, I wound up hanging out with two old friends. Had a fucking blast. Drank way too much. Barely recall the band actually playing, although I do know they played Da Nang and I vaguely recall a hearing a few other songs.
A total surprise. A total blast. My gift is in Jersey, my wife's license expired on her birthday and it's pouring outside so she won't be driving to her sister's to get my gift. No biggie. Last night was all I needed. Although, I could do without the spinning nausea I'm now suffering from.
Oh, and no, I'm not going to go into any detail about what went on when we got home. A gentleman never talks. Of course, I'm no gentleman.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
I didn't do it for myself. I didn't do it to see where my ex girlfriends are. I didn't do it to see if I am married to a prettier woman than my childhood friend or if my kids are cooler looking than my ex's.
I did it for work. I did it to be a part of the business I am involved in and to help further the reach of said business.
And what have I managed to get for it? Well, lots of spam about farm critters and other people's activities at the moment so, here's my plan with all of this.
I am going to tweet that I got a facebook account. Then I'm going to write on my facebook wall that I tweeted about my facebook account. Then I'm going to tweet that I am going to update my facebook account and, after I update it, and everyone gets the update blasted out to them, I'll tweet that I did it for good measure.
I'll post on facebook that I'm taking a break from posting on facebook but I'm still going to tweet and then I'll tweet that I'm no longer going to tweet, opting to update my facebook page instead.
Then I'll have lunch. I'll tweet and update facebook with each bite so everyone will know what I'm doing at that exact moment.
then I'm going to call all of my friends, one at a time. I'll ask them what they're doing, at that exact moment, and then, when they tell me, I'll hang up and tweet and facebook it so everyone knows that I am up to date with my friends and my own tweets and facebook. Then I'll update my friends, via the phone, to tell them I'm going to tweet some updates but I'll only tweet that I'm updating my facebook and then I'll update facebook to say that I've had enough and I'm going to kill myself.
Then I'm going to tweet that I will update facebook right before I off myself. I'll post this on facebook and then I'll tweet that the facebook update was not my final update before offing myself.
Then I'll have a smoke.
I'll tweet about it because, well, everyone wants to know that I'm sucking on a small stick of dried plants and paper.
Then I'll post my final words on facebook and I'll tweet that I've posted the final words on facebook.
Then I'll update facebook so that facebook gets the last word, and not twitter.
Then I'll tweet that I am going to try and post a final comment on both, simultaneously.
Then I'll take a nap.
Then I'll come here and write about how fucking stupid facebook is and how fucking ridiculous it is to update every minute detail of your boring lives so that everyone else can wallow in your misery.
Seriously. We don't give a shit. You want to tweet or post something in real time on facebook? Here's what would be interesting.
tweet: I'm going down on a woman right now.
tweet: she's wrapping her legs around my head. think she's gonna cum
tweet: squirtz. damn, bb is wet. might break
or facebook update something like:
robbing a bank
holding gun in one hnd nd typgin wit otter. gettign cassh nd takig offf
cops heer i in trubl
We should all go back to writing letters. Using proper fucking english.
gotta run. facebook needs an update