Monday, May 24, 2010

On Being Vader and The Coolest Kid on the Planet

Friday afternoon a friend of mine offered to don the Vader costume for my son's birthday party.  This would accomplish several things.  First, it would allow me to witness the excitement as my son's favorite bad guy visited his party.  Second, it would allow me to spend more time at the party and less time in the back room getting in, and out, of the 40 pound costume.  Lastly, my son wouldn't start wondering where his dad was while Vader was in da house.  I was thrilled at the prospect of someone being so selfless as to come to a 5 year old's party to sweat his ass off and have a bunch of kids jump all over him.

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

One of life's mysteries.

I don't understand why women dress the way they do.  Don't get me wrong, I appreciate it but, still, it makes no sense.  It's in the 80's outside and the clothes are loose and the skin is showing.  It's a site that can rival the most majestic landscape.  Yet, for some reason, we aren't supposed to look. 

What's the point in showing off your legs, ass or cleavage if you don't want anyone to look?

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Strep Strikes Again

My son's birthday party is this Saturday and he's got strep.  Again.  The poor kid has now had it five times in the last twelve months and the doctor said that, given that frequency, they think we should go see an ENT specialist to determine if, perhaps, the tonsils should come out.

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

Apparently, I'm Also Pathetic and Boring

Last night I had a dream. I have them often and, more often than not, when I awake, I remember them. Sometimes it's the whole dream, so vivid and fresh in my mind that I wonder if it wasn't, actually, real. Other times it's a snippet or moment from the dream and sometimes it's nothing more than a hazy memory, like I'd been out drinking the night before and I have a vague recollection of doing something stupid.

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 More Reason To Hate Obama

My garage managed to bang up my car, yet again.  So, after trying to get the garage to deal with the damage, I decided it was a waste of my time and I took it to get fixed myself.  This happens from time to time, they fuck up my car and ignore the claim and any subsequent attempts to discuss the claim.  I take it to BMW because it's far more expensive than taking it somewhere else and then I stop paying the monthly parking fee until I have recouped my cost for the repairs.  Anyway, I picked up the car yesterday and started driving across town to put the car in the garage.  I left work early so I could drop the car off and then pick up my suits, which I had bought a week or so ago and needed some tailoring.  I figured, leave before 5, avoid the cross town traffic, get it all done and be home in time to sit down for dinner with my kids.

One problem.  Obama was in town.  Fucking traffic nightmare.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

I'm Old and Sad

I remember a time when I could eat anything, do anything, drink anything and, at the absolute worst, suffer a headache for a few hours the next morning.  Now?  Forget it.  I've got no tolerance for anything, including people.

What the hell happened to me?

Smell Ass Sweat

Smell + ass + sweat.  Those are the words that were put into a google search by an individual and those three words brought them to me.  That's right, if you goggle smell ass sweat, my blog shows up in the results.  How fucking sad is that?

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

I Lost My Ads

As is obvious, the evil ball sucking scumbags at google have, yet again, disabled my adsense account. Why? No reason. They just did. No email explaining that they are a group of shitheads sitting in a room sucking each other off. No email explaining that, in the last few days, I received nary a click. No email at all. Just blank fucking boxes where ads should go. When I went into adsense to check out the reason for this, I found nothing.

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)

And Several Hours Vanish

I lost time this morning. I was messing around and came across a blog that piqued my interest. The first post was hysterical and, from there, I found myself reading backwards for a few hours. The woman who writes the blog, as well as her guest bloggers, are geniuses. They are porn store clerks and the blog is mostly musings from the spank booths.

Check it out, believe me, it's worth it.


Friday, May 07, 2010

I Used An Ipod, sorry Ipad.

Ok, so I was actually handed a maxipod, yes, that's what I'm calling it and you should too because that is all it is.  Was it cool?  Absolutely.  Do I see a market for it?  Sort of.  Do I understand why they're being gobbled up by mindless consumers?  Yup.

Tuesday, May 04, 2010

Check it out bitches!

I got advertising back.

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.

The Recurring "Friend"

There's this guy I met, several years ago, via a mutual hobby, has managed to reappear in my life every few months. We are both in the same field, we both took over our family businesses and, one would think, we'd have lots to talk about but, for whatever reason, I got nothing to say to him. He's a nice enough guy. Means well, cares about other people but, I'm guessing, doesn't have a whole lot of friends where he lives and, as such, he calls me from time to time. His first name is the same as a good friend of mine and, it seems, whenever I email my friend, this guy calls shortly thereafter so, when my secretary says "so and so is on the phone" I pick up, looking forward to the conversation.

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

How To Ruin A Good Thing

It's been warm here the last few days. Fuck that, it was hot this weekend. Real hot. As mentioned, we hit the park and there were tons of people tanning in their skivvies. A wonderful sight, for sure.

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.

Sue me.

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.


Single Parent Time

My wife left us Saturday morning. That's right. She packed a bag the night before and, early Saturday morning, she split. We had a busy day planned and, fortunately, the weather was perfect for the outdoor activities lined up.

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.