Why Our Country Is Failing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Odd Job Selection

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, anyway, that was the night.

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

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

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

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

Verbatim. I typed it as they said it.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Fucking paranoid.


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

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

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

I love this guy.

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

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

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

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

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


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

A punchline, does not, a celebrity, make.

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

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

Kato Kaelin is not a celebrity.

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

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

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

Nope.

Not there.

Not yet.


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

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

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

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

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

totally fucking cool, totally selfless.

totally full of shit.

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

Classless broads.


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

That's my story for the day.

Spring is in the Air.

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

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

That is gross, right?



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

Perhaps, this close, death is still an option.
Perhaps.

Did I pay the insurance premium?

Fuck

It


All

or not.

Might celebrate in a day or two.

Celebrate in an orgiastic party of sleep.


If I make it

Put A Fork In Me

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

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

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


Floogin has left the building.

The light's on, the attic is vacant.

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

Or something.

Rescue Me

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

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

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

There is a problem with this new season.

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

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


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

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

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

Google Lunch

Dammit, I want to come here and talk all about the evil empire, how they sit around laughing at the many ways they screw the little guy but, to be honest, I met with human resources and I'm changing fields.

The place is great. For starters, there are razr scooters all over the place with parking spots for them by the elevators and other more trafficked areas. There are games and other play toys everywhere. The cafeteria is insane. Several stations set up with food to make everyone happy. Enough Zero to keep me burping for decades.

Obviously, everything is high tech. The meeting rooms, conference rooms and offices all look more like play rooms for kids. Air hockey in the cafeteria, nintendo wiis, a ball pit and loads of other distractions. It's amazing they actually get anything accomplished.

The children that work there must love it. I am not exaggerating when I say children. Aside from the guests (visitor passes) and the advertising people, puberty is, apparently, a negative on your resume at google. I'm not kidding. The guy who took us around was in advertising. He's in his 30's. He's a geezer for google. We met his boss' boss. The guy was in his 30's or low 40's. The rest of the place is pimple cream and puberty.

The women? That's the other perk. The women who work there were, for the most part, all very good looking. Sure, there were a few fatties and a few ugly women but you can't have an all hot work force or you'll get slapped with a lawsuit. You can hire the hottest women and they can dress in short skirts, low cut tops and whatever else they want without fear of being hit on because the majority of the work force there is too busy jerking off to lara croft video games to notice the talent pool in the cafeteria. The cafeteria was full from 11:30 until 1:15. Nobody left. Big hang out scene, all these hot women, hanging out, nerdy young boys, eating and talking about some l33t haxor shit or something and not once did a guy talk to a woman.

I'd love it there.

I'm leaving my wife, quitting my job and working there. I'd work in the kitchen. Cleaning up. I'm sure the pay sucks but you probably get google options and you get to be around all those young women and they are definitely not having office romances.

Not a chance.

I did not get to mention my posing a significant risk. Even when I signed in at the 4th floor lobby, under the name Floogin McNoogin, nobody seemed to care. It's such a happy place, nobody has the time to be bothered with some little blogger like me. I probably could have asked for it to be fixed and I probably would have been told "sure, here in google land, we make dreams come true. would you like some gold and some gummy bears?"

yes, there are gummies. bags of them. everywhere. the good kind. haribo or whatever. I didn't take any. I was too weighted down with the scooter, the coke zero, the toys and the case of google phones.

they didn't notice me leaving with this stuff. the guys were too busy not staring at the women and the women were so busy staring at the straight guy who wasn't wearing a lord of the rings shirt that they didn't see what I was carrying.

Guess Who's Coming To Lunch?

That's right google, you heard it here first. I'm coming to you tomorrow. We're going to discuss the whole "significant risk" claim in your home. 11:30 am, tomorrow, google dining room. Me, a few jappy broads from my temple (my wife included) and google. Duking it out over lobster. Yeah, you will be serving lobster and I will report about how you fed a bunch of jews lobster, even though it isn't kosher, because you're anti-semitic to go with evil and demonic and, when I leave? I'm taking a fucking truck load of gummy bears.

A fucking truck load so stock up motherfuckers.

See you tomorrow!

Jury Duty? For Me?

So I got tagged with a notice for jury duty. Actually, it's a subpoena for my failure to respond to the two previous notices. Well, now, it seems, I am ordered to appear, in person, between April 1st and April 10th or risk a $1,000 fine and possible imprisonment. That's right, I need to leave my office in the busiest week of the year and spend my day sitting on my ass waiting for them to tell me I am not going to work out.

Why won't I work out? Because I am not going to do what they want. I will be difficult. I will be disruptive. I will bring work with me. I will not sit on a fucking jury and listen as two scum bag lawyers verbally spar over some shit I could care less about.

The unemployment rate in New York City is 8.4% as of last month. Let the unemployed sit on jury duty. Let them earn their unemployment compensation. Instead of forcing employed people to sit on jury duty, risking my own income, putting my business in jeopardy, let someone who isn't working sit for me.

My wife, for instance. Let her sit and listen to the case and weigh in and cast judgement. I could give two shits about the judicial system. Right now I care about the mountain of work and the day lost sitting in the courthouse waiting for them to tell me to leave.

So, I am now risking a $1,000 fine and possible imprisonment. First I find out I'm posing a significant risk, now this.

I'm fucking dangerous.

Floogin's Blog Poses a "Significant Risk"

Well, as I awaited my big fat $100 check from google for the 2 plus years of advertising, I began compiling lists of how I will use the money. Sure, I thought about myself. Sure, I thought I'd buy some shoelaces and twizzlers with all that money. I contemplated 3 minutes of spank time on a porn site. I even thought about packing a back and travelling until the money ran out. I hear the Bronx is lovely this time of year. In the end, I decided I would split the money and put it in the kids' college accounts.

So, when I got the email last night, telling me that I was not getting paid and my adsense account was shut down, I was a bit stunned.

I found this part to be truly frightening.

While going through our records recently, we found that your AdSense account has posed a significant risk to our AdWords advertisers.

What the fuck does that mean? Is google calling me Floogin Bin Laden? Am I going to be shipped off to some dank eastern european makeshift prison while agents from foreign countries torture confessions out of me? If this is true, let me save everyone the trouble. I'm guilty. Whatever you want me to admit to, I'm guilty.

Huh? What? The significant risk stems from my asking people to support the blog by clicking the ads? That's not allowed? Seriously? So, when Pearl Jam plays a concert in New York City for the Robin Hood Foundation and they suggest, between songs, that people buy the shirts from the show to support the charity, are they posing a significant risk? When the auctioneer is imploring people to open their wallets and buy the products located around the room as a means of supporting the cause, is he posing a significant risk?

When the folks in Disney shove mouse product after mouse product down the throats of parents, are they not posing a significant risk?

Let's see, people come here, they read, they enjoy, or they don't, they click an ad out of respect for the blog. It's like tossing the change in the tip jar.

Fuck! Is suggesting people tip posing a significant risk?

I don't recall suggesting people sit and click for hours. I simply asked people to click the ads. How on earth is that posing a significant risk? If someone got a bit overzealous and clicked like a madman, is that my fault? I can't see how someone with a happy click finger should result in my being punished and losing out on the $125 or so dollars that was sitting in my google account.

I'm supposed to have lunch on Monday at Google's NY office. Want to know why? Because google threw it in as part of the prize for anyone buying the artwork from the school auction I went to a few weeks ago. I paid for a class project done by 4 year olds and google threw the lunch for two in to sweeten the pot. I wanted to go to their lunchroom. I did not want the kids' art. They enticed me into buying the painting. Isn't that posing a "significant risk?"

So, now I need a lawyer to represent me. I am going to sue Google for this accusation. I am going to sue them for slander. I am going to sue them for my money, plus interest and I am going to demand a public apology.

Now, if only I had some ads on the site, I might find myself a lawyer. I wouldn't click the link. I'd merely see the name and then call information, lest I be accused of posing a significant motherfucking risk.

Yin and Yang in the Can

I went to pee earlier and someone was using the middle stall. Presumably, he was taking a shit but it smelled like he was baking cookies. I swear, it smelled like warm Toll House Cookies were sliding out of his ass into the water. I took some extra time washing my hands and I thought, this guy must think his shit doesn't stink. Because it doesn't.

This got me thinking, as these things are wont to do, about smells. Actually, it was the guy in the elevator who, apparently, sprayed himself with Off, thinking it was cologne, that got me thinking about smells. I know that one man's shit is another man's gold and to each his own and all that crap but some things are universal. Everyone thinks bug spray smells like crap and, ergo, any cologne that smells like bug spray, by default, smells like crap. It's universal, like the way everyone agrees that play-do smells like how you think it must taste, or something like that.

So, with these smells making me ponder the olfactory system in general, I went to the can to pee and the smell that hit me as I entered the bathroom was, well, very different from the Toll House Cookie dump of yore. No, this was more like what you might smell if you were to take runny shit, mix it with dead snails, eat it, shit it out, eat it again, die, rot under the hot sun for a week and then open your stomach and sniff the contents.

It was pretty bad.

I tried vomiting to mask the smell of the shit but, alas, it didn't work.

Files and Piles and Piles of Files

It's almost 9:00 A.M. and I've been here for two and a half hours. The work never ends. I am sitting at a desk with piles of files all over it. There are more files on the chairs and there are a few piles of files on the floor. It's like I'm slowly being bricked into the room. I have to dodge these fucking things just to leave the room. I pick one up, put it on my desk, do my work and drop it on another pile. The piles have a life of their own. They grow, they shrink, the move around the room. They breath. I talk to the piles. They don't talk back. Why? Why won't they talk to me. It's just us here. All day, all night. Why won't they answer me when I ask them to go away?

Every so often I finish a file. I pick it up and bring it to another room where it gets processed. When I return to my office there are new files on the piles.

That's right, they replace themselves. They are like little Bin Ladens. Kill one and two more pop up. Or however that claim goes.

So, at 7:20 this morning, all alone in the office, I finished up a file, signed off on it, picked it up, cradling this birth in my arms, I walked it to the processing area. I gingerly placed it on the new pile I created out there. I kissed my fingers, I touched those fingers to the file. "Go, young file, go. Go to your owner, provide them with a year's worth of satisfaction and protection from the powers that be. Go"

As I entered my office, I heard them speak. It was a whisper but I heard it.

"We're growing not shrinking"

No shit. More piles. More files. Nobody was here to add to the piles but they seemed larger, they seemed more in control of the office space than when I walked out 5 minutes earlier.

A voice popped in my head. A high pitched, childish voice. It was Pee Wee Herman. No, he wasn't jacking off in a porn theater, he was Pee Wee, not Paul. He was the beloved man child who's bike was stolen. He was the happy go lucky man child who was slowly driven mad over his obsessive need to locate his beloved bike.

He was saying "The mind plays tricks on you. You play tricks back! It's like you're unraveling a big cable-knit sweater that someone keeps knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting... "

This is me. My mind is fucking with me. I try fucking with it but, alas, I'm no match for my own mind. So, here I sit, unravelling the sweater and some outside, unforseen force is knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and.............

Recession Woes, My Personal Gain?

In the last 3 weeks I've been to two charity events. One for each child's school. In prior years, these things were guady affairs, tons of items up for auction, people drinking too much, overbidding on everything and I usually walked away with my wallet intact.

Not this year.

At my son's school auction, they didn't serve alcohol, other than wine. It was low key and the number of items being offered was cut in half. The items in the auction were similar to prior years but the silent auction sheets were devoid of bids. I wound up snagging, among other things, lunch at google ($200) as part of a painting buy and tickets to see the Mets at the new stadium this summer. I split this one with another parent as our sons are friends and he and I were the only ones bidding. We picked up the tickets for $600. The face value of the four tickets? $920. A fucking steal.

Well, last night was my daughter's auction. Last year, the one thing I wanted was a chance to have your kid drawn into a Marvel Comic. Joe Quesada is a parent at the school and his family always donates all kinds of comic book art etc. So, last night I went in prepared to spend a few bucks on the comic book. I figure, it's cool as hell, I can probably get both kids in and you get a tour of Marvel so, once there, who knows what else you might walk away with.

During the course of the night, I got involved in bidding for a few other things. I wound up winning a pair of original spiderman drawings. They're plates or inserts or something. Straight out of a comic. They had a wolverine one but I know nothing of this genre so, when the bidding closed and I wond the spidey stuff I was pumped for my son. Someone told me the wolverine panel was better, it was the original artist and worth far more. So? My son lives for spiderman. He likes wolverine but spidey is the nuts.

Anyway, the wife is running around bidding on stuff and the live auction is about to begin.

I'm all psyched up. The first few items go up and don't sell for very much. The annual Drury signed jersey and ranger tix deal goes for half of what it usually does. The class art is not selling. One of my friends wound up buying the art from a different class because he felt bad that nobody bid on it.

Then they auction off a month at a very well known summer camp. This must be a $5,000 or more value. $250. That's it.

I knew I was going to have competition but I figured it wouldn't be bad.

Last year, the comic went for $6,000. I dropped out at $1,000. I knew it wasn't mine and I didn't bother playing when I knew I wasn't going to win. Not tonight. No, I wanted this thing and I wanted it bad.

They called the lot number. 6, a Marvelous something or other. Here we go. The bidding starts. $250. $350. My wife asks why I'm not bidding. I lean over and tell her, no point bidding now. Let it run up first.

It goes to $600 and suddenly nobody is left. I raise my card. $650. It jumps to $750, then $800. I bid.

$850.

Going once.

Holy fuck, that's it?

Going Twice....


Motherfucker, I stole this thing. This is insane and

"$900 just in time from the lovely woman in the back"

Son of a bitch. It's my daughter's reading buddy's mother. She's smiling at me. She's a former model or she should be a former model. Her, and her husband are standing there, smiling, like they got this thing. They think they're stealing this. Good looking couple. Not too bright, it seems.

I raise my hand, never taking my eyes off of them.

$1,000.

He goes to $1,100

My hand never goes down.

He walks towards me. My hand is still up. He's smiling, I'm smiling. I'm slowly nodding at him, letting him know he's wasting his time. He says "wanna take it outside?"

I laugh, I say "sure, as soon as I win this."

"Sir, are you bidding or is your hand stuck in the up position?" asks the auctioneer.

"Bidding, $1,200"

"You can put your hand down, Sir"

"When he's done, I will."

Handsome guy smiles and says, take it.

Everyone applauds. I get a few claps on the back.

I get up, walk over and introduce myself to handsome guy. The wife I already met. She had told him who we were when he saw someone else bidding for the book.

We hung out a bit, nice guy, I told him I was planning on asking if we could toss a few kids into the book (my daughter and son) and if they can do two, they can probably do three and we'll get his son in.

The second to last item was something I was considering as well. A trip to Howard Stern's show, you get to hang out, watch the show and then hang out and do the post show wrap with Gary and some other dude. Meeting Howard Stern was not a guaranty. It was at $350 and I turned to a friend and asked if he wanted to go. $400 for that was pretty cheap. We opted out. In the end, paying $12 to only meet Gary wasn't worth it. $400 seemed pointless.

On the way out I met Joe Quesada's wife. Well, met her again, I met her last year. She saw what we won and told us to call her husband to set it up etc. She said they had a ton of stuff that they grabbed for the auction that they didn't use. She said "remind me in the school yard, we'll make arrangements to get it to your son." When I asked why she said "I have a daughter, we have tons of that stuff, you were tonight's big donor (frightening for a variety of reasons, mostly because I didn't spend that much money) and I need to the room.

Not going to turn down that offer.

So, over the course of the last three weeks, I've scored insane Met tickets, some cool comic book items, a special day for my daughter ( we got the one thing she wanted) and a variety of other smaller items that made my wife very happy.

No I need to figure out how I plan on paying for it all.

Last Night's Blind Date

You read that right. I went on a double blind date last night. My wife actually knew the woman a bit so it wasn't entirely blind.

Here's the deal. Last May we went to Mexico. On the last day, while I was getting a massage, my wife was talking to a couple by the pool. We both returned to our house at the same time and as we sat out on the back porch smoking, she starts telling me how this woman came over and asked if I was Floogin McNoogin. She said I was and she asked how this woman knew me. She said this woman told her that her roommate from college married my roommate and several of her friends dated me and my friends and a few of my friends wound up marrying her friends. She said we hung out in the hamptons, at a few weddings etc.

So, she's telling me this story and I ask my wife if the creepy couple that is staring at us from across the pond would be them. She said it was. I told her how they were always staring at our back porch. I told her they were creepy.

They started waving.

My wife asked if I could see their faces. They were too far to see so I couldn't say if I recognized her.

So, we go out for dinner and, upon our return, we're getting a cart ride back to our house and we run into them, stumbling home from their dinner. The chick is shouting my name. Calling for my wife as well. So we have the driver stop the cart and we talk to them. She's asking how I am, how's my sister, do I speak to this guy? How's that guy? What happened to him, her etc. We talk for about 15 minutes and then we tell them we need to go pack, we're leaving in the morning.

We get back in the cart, head back towards our house and my wife asks if I remember her.

Nope. No clue who she is.

But she knows all my college friends and she knows me. She knows the girl I was screwing when I met my wife. (side note, I was not dating her exclusively, I was seeing two girls, both named Pam, very convenient and I went to a charity event, met my wife and severed ties with the pams the next morning).

Anyway, she knows me, I know nothing about her. Not the first time this has happened.


The next morning, we're checking out and there's an envelope for us with a 4 page letter from this girl. She gives us her info and tells us to keep in touch and blah blah blah.

My wife leaves a return note.

We hear from her the first week back. She wants to get together for dinner. We're fairly booked up so my wife makes plans with them at an impossible to get restaurant - she used her connection to lure us into dinner. We wound up cancelling for some reason.

And so we booked and cancelled for months, all real reasons but, the truth is, we don't really want to go. She emails my wife 3 to 5 times a week. We have enough friends. Still, my wife finally caves and books again.

So, last night was the dinner. I didn't even know what they looked like. I barely remember the 15 minute conversation 10 months ago. I have no clue what her husband's name is. The only thing I remember is that they were sloppy drunks that night and that they were not that bright and were a bit rough around the edges. I remember thinking they were better suited to hang out with my younger sister and her husband.

I'm exhausted, I'm not getting any sleep these days and the last thing I want to do is dine out with complete strangers who, for some fucked up reason, really want to be our friends. We're not cool, we're not famous, we're really nothing special. A total fucking mystery and I'm being forced to do this. And what the fuck am I going to talk about with this guy? Am I going to ask how he's been when I don't know how he was? I could care less about the kids or work because I don't know them and I don't know what he does.

So, I started wondering, what if these sickos want to swing? What if if they're the kind of sexual deviant that wants to watch another couple fuck their spouses? What if he wants to fuck me?

So, with the help of a friend, I devised a plan to fall ill should the evening go wrong. I also planned a variety of ways to upset them, ensuring we never have to do this again.

We go to the restaurant and walk in and we're standing there, looking around, like some singles looking for their internet friend, unsure what they look like since our image was devised after hearing their self description and seeing a photo that might have been torn from a catalogue 25 years ago. And then we hear our names. Oh, shit, they' right in front of us. "Bad on us, it's been so long, you look great blah blah blah"

We sit and order drinks and start talking about whatever. Suddenly, Bethany from Housewives of NYC comes in. She lived with the girl for a while. Bethany claims to not remember her. Bethany looks like one of those big eyed, long eared mice. She's an ugly little rodent of a woman. She seems to think she is rather famous and she acts like we're fans.

I put an end to that with my reminding her that she had a huge crush on a friend of mine and she guzzled a bottle of cough syrup before she went home and fucked him on their first date and how even he, a guy who sticks a spoon under his balls and sniffs it, not to see if he stinks but, rather, because he digs the smell, found her to be a freakshow.

The rest of the meal, our lady friend is up in arms over this non-celebrity snubbing her. She tells us how she almost had her own tv show and how she could have been a big star as a result and blah blah fucking blah shut up already.

The husband must have mentioned that he was legal counsil for a publicly traded company a hundred times. I never asked the name of the company. I don't care. I have friends who do that, did that. Big fucking deal. They ask the inevitable do you know madoff victims question and he starts spewing his thoughts on the subject. I start refuting some of his thoughts and he's asking me how I could say this or that, how would I know these things. So, I tell him. I've got clients, I've been dealing with these things for ten years, I know former employees etc. Shuts him up fairly quick.

By dessert I've learned that he's an expert on the atkins diet as well as almost everything else. I learn that he went on a $17,000 a week (per person) cruise. That he has 6 vacations booked for the year. That he blogs about vacationing, wine, restaurants and hotels. He sounds like he might be gay. (not that there's anything wrong with that).

I order a coffee with a shot of sambuca. I pour the sambuca into the coffee and pray that this drink does what the other 4 didn't do, make him shut up.

And then he tells me that all the alcohol I drank negates the no carb meal.

Excuse me?

And he starts lecturing me on atkins and no carbs. I sit there, letting this moron go. And he goes. On and on about this that and the other thing.

When he pauses I say sugar alcohol, not the same as sugar. He says they're still carbs I say, yes, they are but they have no impact. They are not going to screw up the ketosis or create any reversal of the no carb program.

He asks me where I heard this.

So I tell him.

I tell him how much I lost doing this. How I've been living this way for 7 years. I tell him that I think I know my atkins diet. I want to tell him to shut the fuck up but I don't. I drink some more laced coffee and ponder the bathroom and the upset stomach excuse that was invented to get me out of this situation.

And then he moves in closer, shifting his seat around, to tell me something and holy shit, what the fuck, is this guy's foot touching me?

Now, I know that this was all merely a coincidence but the discussion I had early in the day planted the worst seeds in my little brain and now, several drinks into the evening, I'm seeing an accidental bump as a cock grabbing play for hot swinger sex.

I turn to my wife and whisper, I'm going to the bathroom, start the exit discussion, it's late and this guy wants to fuck me, or you or both of us and I'm not doing that.

She looks at me like I've lost my mind.

I head to the bathroom and when I return everyone is by the bar. Seems my wife thinks I'm puking so she managed to bring on the goodbyes.

In the cab ride home I explained that he wanted to fuck one of us and thank you for getting us out of there and she thinks I'm insane and then she says "he wasn't bad looking. We should go out with them again, it was fun."


What the fuck? Did she not understand me? Does she not care? Does she want to have some creepy sex romp with these weirdos who seemed to want to tell us how much everything cost and all the famous people they've met? I can't do the swinger thing. It's not me. I wouldn't know what to do. I'd ball my hands up into fists like soccer players do to. A subconscious attempt to not touch ball or, in this case, balls.


Besides, I don't have the wardrobe for a swinger and I am certainly not going to buy banana hammock underwear.

Subways, Why They Suck

WARNING: THE LANGUAGE CONTAINED IN THIS POSTING IS NOT MINE. I DO NOT SPEAK LIKE THIS, EVER. JUST REPEATING WHAT I HEARD.

I ride the subways. A lot. They're crowded, they're dirty. Not my favorite mode of transportation. I wear my headphones whenever I'm on the subway and, if it is still sunny out, I don't take my sunglasses off when I'm underground.

Not because I'm cool. Far from it. I am doing everything in my power to tune out my surroundings. It's why I bought noise cancelling headphones in the first place.

So, yesterday, my daughter calls me up and asks if I can come get her. She's with my wife but she doesn't want to wait and it's Friday so I figure, yeah, I'll leave now, hop on the subway and head up to get her.

During rush hour.

Fucking mistake.


So I pack up my shit and head down to the subway. Sunglasses on, buds firmly tucked into my ears. I head down to my platform and hop on the subway. I'm standing by the door, like I always do, and I see everyone looking towards the back end of the car. I shift my gaze in the same direction and see a black guy waving sitting down, waving his arms like a lunatic and, apparently, he's yelling. I shrug my shoulders and get back to my tuning out.

There's a young woman standing next to me and she looks angry. Pissed off at whatever is happening in the back of the car. She moves towards that area, stopping by a pole. She's holding on to the pole as we move away from the station. The angry guy is ranting about something, I can't hear shit, but he keeps looking over at the woman who nods her approval.

What the fuck is going on? It almost seems coordinated. Suddenly, some guy stands up and walks over to the angry dude. He leans down and starts talking, or yelling, and the angry dude is yelling back, fingers pointing, folks around them are starting to appear a bit frightened but there's a bit of anger and annoyance mixed across their faces as well.

The train stops. The doors open. Standing guy says something and gets off the train.

A woman sitting across the car from the angry guy says something, I don't know what, and the angry guy goes nuts. He's up, out of his seat, he's yelling at her, in her face. She's just sitting there, staring at him like he's lost his fucking mind.

At this point, I figure, might want to hear what's happening as I might wind up being questioned by the cops.

I click on the microphone. I mentioned this I think. The headset has a mic so you don't need to pull the buds out of your ears to hear. I flip the switch. To anyone watching me, I look like a guy listening to music but I am picking up everything. I hear this guy yelling about minding your own business, this isn't about you, stupid white bitch shut up.

Oh, I get it, crazy man, act crazy, scare people. For fun.

Headset back on.

Angry dude sits back down. Everything seems calm for a minute, then his hands go up and a ranting and a raving he goes again.

All the while, the woman who was nodding her approval is staring at him. Angry look on her face. He keeps looking back at her. It's odd. Really fucking odd.

So, he's yelling and screaming and suddenly this white guy with glasses leans forward out of his seat and looks towards the angry guy. I flip the mic back on so I can hear and the white guy says "man, can't we all go home in peace and quiet, can you please let it go?"

Black guy stands. Tears the reggae hat off his head. Says "we can go out there and I can slap your white ass up and down the platform. I will not let it go." Fuck this fuck that blah blah I'm nobody's nigger...you fucking white people...."

And then someone from the MTA (Metro Transit Authority), a conductor I guess, come into the car and says "sir, can I talk to you please?" to the angry black guy. He says no, he's riding the car, fuck this. The MTA guy says "I'm asking you to come here."

Angry guy, seeing that this was the MTA guy saying, come here or get arrested, looks over towards the MTA guy and says "for a brother, and only for a brother."

MTA guy says "what's the problem" nice and quiet. Angry dude is now standing next to me. As he turns towards the crowd, to shout the injustice that has created this nightmare, he bumps me. With his back pack. Not hard but he bumps me. I move a little to the left.

Here's the basics of what went down. He shouts, he points, he yells at everyone, he screams, he bumps me, he steps on my foot, he bumps me again, as he swings his arm he actually almost hits me in the head.

I'm ducking and bobbing and weaving like a fucking prizefighter.

There's a little older, black woman standing next to me, and she moves over a bit, to either make more room for me or to hide behind me, lest she take a shot in the melon.

And all the while, angry woman is saying "that's right, he's nobody's nigger."

And why is he nobody's nigger?

So he says, this man sat down on the subway, next to a white woman who, during the ride, crossed her legs and opened her newspaper and her foot hit him and then, when she put her foot down she rested her newspaper on her leg AND his!!! and here is where he went nuts.

Fucking white woman puts her foot on me and no motherfucking apology? Because I'm black!! Because I'm a nigger uncle tom and she don't need to apologize and I'm better than him, he's probably homeless and he wants to rob me.

Say what?

Yup, but it gets even better.
I'm stunned. This dude gets on a subway, during rush hour, someone accidentally touches him and we've got the equivalent of a race riot on our hands.

As he's telling this last part, about not being her nigger or whatever the fuck he's railing on and on about, he bumps me again.

And I start laughing. And angry guy looks at me and says "something funny?"

I say "seriously, you're pissed off because a woman, sitting next to you bumped you? That's what this is all about? a foot bump?"

"mind your business white man"
so I said
"I'm sorry, no, I minded it when you went berserk...over there...but now, you're here, bumping me, stepping on my feet, in my space and I'm simply saying relax. You're all pumped up over a woman touching you. Am I going all calling for justice over the bumps? stepping on my foot? the body slam? It's Friday Afternoon, people want to go home, be with their families, they don't want to listen to you scream for the sake of screaming."

The MTA guy says "she's sorry for bumping you" and the angry guy is yelling about god knows what and everyone on the subway is yelling "get him off the train"

I'm standing there, shaking with fear and anger. I've been taught, from day one, never get involved in these kinds of situations. You never know who's carrying a gun or a knife.

All I wanted was to leave work at a normal time and see my daughter. Now I'm late and I'm, apparently, about to get into a fight.

The angry guy starts talking to the woman "you see, fucking white mother fuckers want me to sit here, quietly, and accept my lynching."

Suddenly, the little woman behind me leans over and says "son, we will never be treated as equals if kids like you keep acting like assholes. sit down and shut up and let us all go home"

The whole fucking car erupts in applause.

The angry guy is seething. The angry woman is seething. The whole fucking car is vibrating with anxiety and anger.

MTA guy says "cops will be at the next stop (mine, thank fucking god) so best keep your thoughts inside"

The doors close, the train moves, the angry guy turns to me and says "hey, sorry man, didn't mean to bump you"

I said "it's cool, I'm just trying to see my daughter for the first time in a week, I just want to go home"

The white guy with the glasses gets up, presumably to get off at the next stop. He walks over towards us, big fucking guy, much bigger than he seemed. He says to the angry guy, "I'm not afraid of you, nobody is, you need to relax"

I turn to the white guy and say "don't get him started, it's over, sit down"

Angry black woman turns to angry black man and says "look at this, he wants to take you on"

Black guy turns his back on the white guy and says "I'm going home, it's miller time."

Ignoring the white guy.

The old lady and I got off at the same stop. she said she can't stand seeing kids behave like that (this guy was my age, maybe a bit younger, not a kid). Black or white, it's a disgrace she says.

I agree, tell her that I prefer walking to avoid this stuff.
She says "you should probably put your headphones on and tune everyone out.

Smart woman.

Adventureland and Other Adventures

Saw the press screening for Adventureland last night. Great movie. Funny as hell, an amazing soundtrack and definitely worth seeing when it comes out.

I've noticed my followers all went dark, except for Trent. Thanks Trent, for not being afraid to show yourself. Brave soul? Not worried you'll be found following a social deviant? Either way, again, thanks for following me.

Which leads me to....


Click my motherfucking links people. After 2 years of adsense, over 2 blogs, I am closing in on the minimum balance for payment. I need the money people. Economic crisis? Recession? Depression? Hello? You watch the news, you read the paper, you know how hard it is. Clicking the link doesn't take much work. If you get injured, I promise to kiss and make it better, except for Trent. I'll send you some out of court settlement. A share of the income you generated. I'll round it up. One full cent.

Proof of God

So, I run out to grab some drinks for the long day ahead of me. On my return, I am about to enter the building via the revolving doors and some dick with a big pizza box jumps in front of me and enters the spinning doors.

I start to enter in the next opening when the doors suddenly jerk to a stop. The knucklehead was in such a rush to jump into the doors that he didn't pay attention to the pizza box fitting and it got stuck in the door. So, there he is, jammed in there, and he's trying to back out and the door won't move backwards. So, he starts moving forward, slowly, and the pizza box is twisting and tilting towards him. And opening. So he stops.

And tries backing up again. And he calls to the doormen, asking them to unlock the reverse so he can back out.

And they clearly want to see how this plays out and act busy.


So he moves forward. Slowly. He tries to turn his body in an effort to lift the box upwards.

Instead he spills hot pizza, with meatballs or sausage, all over himself.

As the gooey cheese and sauce starts oozing all over his chest, down to his pants and legs, he realizes how hot the shit is and starts hopping around.

He's bouncing around his little glass cage and some jackass who clearly didn't see what was going on, enters the door, pushing it further. The guy in the pizza booth drops what's left of the pizza, creating a fucking mess all over his feet and the floor.

Pizza sauce is, apparently, very slippery when it is on marble.

He falls. The doormen, realizing that they now have a scene on their hands, head over to help but there's no backing out now so they wait for the guy to get up and they slowly slide the door open enough to open and swing the door forward, giving the moron enough room to exit.

They take the box and pick up the pizza.

Then they close the thing up and let idiot number two through.

As he's leaving the door, he makes a comment about how stupid the first guy is.

Then he slips. He lands on his ass. In the cheese and sauce.

When the two morons were gone, into the elevators and, presumably, up to the bathrooms to clean their shit up, I asked the doormen why they didn't open the door sooner, knowing that the mess was inevitable. They said "we don't clean up the mess, that's someone else's job."

Why I'm Here

My daughter's toast was written by her, with no help other than the suggestion, from my wife, to find words that best represented me, using the letters in my name.

SO, here it is, unedited, spelling unchanged. My wife bolded the letters so my daughter knew to accentuate the letter. She originally wrote a song, which she sang for me last night. It was short, sweet and impressive but the speech was amazing. She ad libbed a few extra lines and, at H, she stopped to take a bathroom break.

Again, she turned six in December:

My daddy is Super Silly.I love when he makes up crazy stories and when he dances like a girl. When I was little, daddy would dress up with me and put bows in his hair and wear my princess dress up wigs. Now me and Jacky love to roll on the floor and giggle with daddy. He lets us play rough house with him. We practice our Tai Kwon-do moves on him and daddy even lets Jacky fight him up and shoot webs at him. Daddy teaches us great magic tricks and some reall funny stuff mommy doesn't think we should know, like putting pretzels up our noses and gross farting tricks.

Daddy is a Terrific Tickler. Sometimes I say, "stop I hate it." And then I say "keep going - I lust love it." He knows all my most ticklish spots. Sometimes he makes me laugh so hard - I pee in my pants.

Excellent - my dad is excellent because he's the most awesome dad in the whole entire world. All my friends think he's awesome too. He makes everyone laugh. He's so fun to play with and he's so cool. I love spending time with my dad -boxing on the Wii, scooting around the city, reading with him , or just cuddling. He ROCKS!!!

I thought of a lot of P words that describe my dad like Popular, Playful, Powerful, Protective and Patient. But I liked Priceless the best. Dady's Priceless because even if you had 2 million dollars we wouldn't sell him to you. We wouldn't give him away because he's the Perfect dad, and we could never find another dad as good as him.

Handsome. When I was little I used to tell my daddy how hampsome he was. Now I know the right way to say it, and what it really means, and I think he's more Handsome than ever!

Everything. Daddy's Everything a dad should be. He loves us so much and we live for him.

The Nicest dad any kid could wish for.

Happy 40th Daddy.


so, yeah, the crap from the rest of my family is inconsequential when you get that from your daughter.

I did buy myself new headphones yesterday. I had been tinkering with replacing the shure ear buds and then, as I got into the elevator, the ones I had started going crackly and I figured, fuck it, my mother in law gave me $400, I gave my wife $100 of it, so, go to the store and pick up the new ones. The ones I was toying with getting are $550 from the manufacturer, $350 at the store so, done. I now have the shure noise reducing woofer and dual tweeter buds with the microphone so I can hear and talk without removing the buds.

they sound pretty fucking cool.

Officially The Best and Worst Birthday Ever

Ok, I'm going to bitch and moan and, at times, I'll probably sound like an ungrateful prick but, well, it's my fucking blog and nobody reads it anyway so fuck off if you don't want to hear me kvetch.

Last night my family gathered to celebrate my 40th birthday. My mother made a big fucking deal about throwing this party for me. Let me emphasize that - FOR ME.

So, she called my wife and asked what time worked for her. She told my wife she wanted to make sure she didn't interfere with any birthdays the kids might be attending and she wanted to make sure she didn't have the kids eating too late, out too late etc.

Then she called my younger sister and my older sister to confirm their schedules and see if the menu suited their needs.

Hello? I'm the one that doesn't eat carbs, does anyone want to check the fucking menu with me? Hello....hello....beuhler.....


I left the office, went uptown to get the family, got them all packed into a cab, took the cab to an amazing restaurant (Valbella) to pick up the napoleon they made for the part, for free. Fucking awesome stuff. Or so I'm told. I don't eat that shit anymore. Get to my parents' place, head up and the fun really begins. My kids immediately go nuts. They are like feral animals around my younger sister's kids. My son makes her kids cry a dozen times during any gathering. Not like it's an arduous task. Her son, who might be gay (not that there's anything wrong with that) even though he's about to turn 7, cries all the time. So does their daughter. For no reason whatsoever so, when young Drugan McNoogin (not his real name) plays a bit rough with these kids who are 1 and 4 years older than him, he winds up hurting them physically, if not emotionally.

I figure I should start drinking immediately, get a nice buzz going and I'll make it thru the night a bit easier.

I saunter over to where the drinks are. Coke Zero, good. Bourbon? Whiskey? No. No. Ok, Stoli Orange? No. Stoli Vanil? No. Any flavored vodka? Stoli Roadkill eve? No. Grey Goose. Plain. Blech. What the fuck am I going to mix that with? Coke Zero and vodka is fucking nasty so I'm drinking 3 times the amount I normally would. It's like I'm downing one glass of soda for a dropper shot of vodka. The caterer's assistant (yes, my mother felt it was necessary to cater a meal for just us) tells me there's only one coke zero bottle so I might want to ease up on it.

Great.


So, I get hungry. I head over to the rest of the grown-ups. they're shoving the usual down their gullets. My secretary knows of a russian caviar store and she, being russian, gets it for my dad at a steep discount. so, there's always caviar. And the adults are all eating it. On blinis. Can't eat that. Let's see, brochetta? Nope. Crackers? Nope. Carrots? Nope. Celery. I can eat celery. I can also fuck a donkey if I so desired. I don't. On both.

So, I guess I'll have to wait.

Then my other sister shows, everyone says hello, happy birthday etc. My older sister, whom I get along fairly well with, asks me if I had any issues with turning 40. I said only the issue of having to have a party. Other than that, just another day. She told me how hard it was for her etc. Understandable, she's wired differently. Some people, like my wife, react differently to birthdays.

My little sister than brings over bags of gifts. She hands my brother in law a present for his birthday, she hands my wife a present for her birthday.

Um, who's fucking party is this?

My wife opens up anothe cashmere sweater and she looks like she's one step away from institutionally insane. She doesn't like cashmere. Never has. She has expressed this many times and, yet, my mother and my younger sister always get her cashmere sweaters. This one came damaged. From a showroom - my sister works in the fashion biz, her friends work in showrooms so all the clothes she buys come from show rooms and will, at times, have a touch of damage. Can't return these items. Doesn't fit? Tough shit.

Ok, background time. My sistsers and my mom are of the "do it and move on school of thought." They seek out the path of least resistence always. Especially with gifts. They will walk into a 10 floor department store, buy something in the first department inside the door and leave. They could give a shit if it is appropriate, desireable or even nice. It was easy. That's what matters.

So, now, my sister hands me a box. It's from both of my sisters and their families. My younger sister had told my wife months ago that they had the perfect gift for me. She said she had it and loved it and, therefore, so would I. She wouldn't tell my wife what it was. My wife asked why? She said "what if he has it?" My sister said "he won't but he'll love it."

I unwrap the box. What the fuck? It's an apple tv thing. As I unveil the soon to be doorstop, my sister says "you'll love it and you don't even need an itunes account."

Of course you do dumbass. That's the whole fucking point.


So, I put the box down and open up the picture of my kids that the wife had framed for me. Nothing special, cheap frame, I bought it, along with the photo. I told her to get it for me so I had something I liked at the party. As I'm looking at the picture of my kids, I'm thinking about this pointless apple thing. I recall being at my sister's apartment a couple of months back and they are showing me the new gadget they got. It's this apple thing. I look at it, I tell them it's cool but something I would never need. I explain that I don't have itunes, don't want itunes, don't rent movies that much and, when I do, I go with on demand. I remember them saying "yeah but now you can buy the shows you like on tv" to which I replied, I record them whether I will be home or not so I always have my shows, all 3 of them, available, in case I am not around. I don't watch that much tv I tell them. I then asked my wife if she could remember the last time we sat and watched a movie, from beginning to end, on tv. She said she does sometimes but it usually is some crap on lifetime or something.

We don't rent movies. We don't have the time to watch a 2 hour movie. I'd rather read in bed for an hour or two than watch movies all the time.

I basically said to them, I like your new toy but it isn't for me.

So they bought on for my birthday.

They got me the cheaper one, which is a bit insulting. They cost $229 (I know because I plan on putting it on craig's list so I checked the price) for the small hard drive, $329 for the bigger drive. Not sure why you need that much memory space for movies you will, invariably, delete anyway but, whatever.

My mother in law, who has no money and is the cheapest woman on the planet, gave me a check for $400. she spent almost 4 times what each of my sisters spent on me. I spend more on their regular birthdays. My older sister hadn't bought me a birthday present in 3 years. You'd think they would have put a bit more effort or coin into this gift.

So, now I have this apple product that I can't return - no gift receipt. Even if I could return it, what would I do with a credit for $229 at the apple store? Try and sell the credit?

The only good thing going right now is that, when they ask me, daily, did you set it up? don't you love it? I can respond - no, I haven't had the time to upgrade my wireless router, move the furniture to access the back of the receiver and tv, sign up for an itunes account and then watch a movie. After April, I'll get on it. After my vacation. After the summer.

So, I am now totally giftless, other than the picture I bought for myself, the doorstop my sisters got me and the $400 my mother in law gave me which is already $300 because my unemployed wife tapped me for a c note this morning before I left.

And why was it the best and the worst birthday ever?

Because during dinner, which, by the way, consisted of soup I couldn't eat, some steak that the caterer lied and said was filet mignon (it wasn't and it was wrapped in undercooked fatty bacon) and some side dishes that all contained mushrooms, which I despise - fortunately, I wasn't eating the sides but, if I wanted to, I couldn't.
Anyway, where the fuck was I? Oh, right, the reason why it was the best birthday. During the meal, my mother got up and made some sad attempt at a toast and then my wife and daughter spoke. My wife wasn't going to speak but my daughter didn't want to go it alone. She had, originally, made up a song for me. My wife was telling me this last night so I have yet to hear it. Music and lyrics. She said it was really cute, really sweet.

My daughter chickened out on Friday so, Friday afternoon, they wrote a toast. My daughter wanted to take the letters in my name and say something about me for each letter. She told my wife she had to do it also. So, my wife said a line or two for each letter but my daughter, who just turned 6 in December, spoke volumes. She wrote her part herself, adlibbed a bit during the toast, and she typed it up for me so I could have it when it was over. My younger sister, who can't stand seeing my little girl do anything that upstages her son (he scored into the best school in the city for k-5, kid is smart but, a year older and his reading is nowhere near my daughter's and it drives my sister crazy) got up from the table a dozen times during the toast, usually when my daughter was speaking. My mother got up a few times to help my sister. My dad sat there, in awe. My little girl brought tears to my eyes. She is so damned smart, so precious, so cute and so fucking funny. My wife said something, then she did and everyone laughed. Then my wife said something and before my daughter started up again she stopped and said "you guys are supposed to all go "awwwww" when she reads the mushy stuff and you're supposed to laugh when I read the funny stuff. She had those of us willing to listen, in stiches.

I was going to retype the toast but I forgot to bring it. I'll have my 6 year old email it to me and I will repost it here. Yes, you will learn that Floogin is not my real name (shocker, huh?). Yes, I will divulge my real name. It is necessary for me to repost her speech and it is so worth it.

She made the whole affair worthwhile.

Driving Me Crazy

You ever get a song in your head that you cannot shake? I'm not talking Oh Mickey or the theme from I Dream Of Jeannie. Sorry, now you have one of those songs in your head. My bad. I know, it sucks and you either hear that hand clapping Toni Basil cheer repeating in your head or, worse, you hear that chirpy, happy, keyboard beat from the old tv show. I do apologize but that's not what I'm talking about.

I'm talking about when you have a song in your head, that you like, and you cannot remember the name of the band or the song. I've got that going on now and it's driving me nuts. The lyric I can actually articulate is part of the chorus - something like "feeling like a brand new day" or something about a brand new day. There's violins and other string instruments as well. At first I thought it might be Annuals but, now, after listening to everything they have on napster, I'm at a loss.

The worst part? The song is on my Zen, which means I can find it by scrolling thru all 4,500 songs. The crappy part? Napster is screwy and when I list all songs on the player it only pulls up a few from A-E. Not exactly useful.

So, if anyone knows the song, building violins and strings, leading up to a dude singing something about brand new day, I'll be forever grateful, forever in your debt. Who knows, I might even find a way to repay you.

In the mean time, let me suggest you cut and paste the link to rid yourself of Oh Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, hey mickey.

Tom's Diner

while I'm at it, if anyone knows why I cannot post links, feel free to school me on that as well.


Here's the song I couldn't remember:

One Day Like This by Elbow

Happy Birthday.....Whatever

Yeah, I turned 40 today. How'd it go? Fanfuckingtastic. Woke up, showered (nope, no time for a little celebration in the shower - never could figure out how guys do that but that's not for this post) got dressed, woke the wife, woke my daughter who said, as her eyes fluttered awake, "happy birthday daddy!"

She then asked me how I feel - so sweet this one. I told her I felt old and she said "don't say that, you're not old."

I asked her if she wanted to help me celebrate by blowing out candles on her pancakes. She laughed and told me that she couldn't help me because it's my dream, not hers and if she helped, the wish might not work.

She's an angel.


So I made her breakfast, we sat and talked a bit. The wife came out of the shower and gave me my cards. Nice stuff from the kids. My son loves me so much he wants to eat my face. Sounds like fun.

I opened the cards I got in the mail. Interesting stuff. My younger sister sent 3 cards. One from her and her moron husband and one from each kid. Nice stuff, typical stuff.
My mother in law sent an odd message. It was wrapped in a check for $400 so she's off the hook for this comment but, here's a direct quote:
"you're a good husband and a fantastic father"

See that fucking barb? A good husband ....fantastic father. Someone's not happy with me in my relationship with my wife.

Beats the cards I got from my own mother. Well, let me rephrase that. Beats the cards my mom bought for my dad to fill out. For the first time in 40 years my father wrote my cards. Both of them. My mother did sign one card but that's it. Just the mom and dad part, not a word otherwise.

While I can't stand my mother and I've known for a long time that she doesn't think very highly of me, this was a somewhat painful moment. My own mother can't even suck it up and write happy birthday. Fucking cold. I know I'm not the deadbeat son in law that she thinks is a fucking god, I know I'm not the money grubbing, can't wait for you to die so I can move in to your home and take your shit sister and I know I'm not my older sister who manages to drive my mother crazy by always forcing her own timeline into any event (power play).

No, me? I'm just me. And yet my mother has proven to me, yet again, that in deep recesses of her mind, I'm expendable.

Sad fucking way to start a birthday.

On the bright side, I'm not getting any gifts, other than the one a client sent over this morning. Not sure what it will be, probably booze or something along those lines but it's a gift.

Thanks to a special lady who sent a very nice birthday card. It arrived a bit early but it sure as hell was sweet. Still sitting on my desk next to a keychain from Roswell that I'm supposed to send out and, for some reason, can't let it go.

Floogin Tests Sex Toys

Thanks to the comments in an earlier entry, this next bit of sickness was born.


A glowing finger sex toy - hmmm, I sense an invention. Testing it should be fun.

Ever wonder about the test marketing of sex toys? There's a group of people who subject themselves to the rigors of testing sex toys. Given that there are only so many things a sex toy can do, the need to test must mean the new toy must do some freaky shit.

Ok, so, you're going to take this toy into that room and use it and we want you to try and remember how it felt, how it was using it, was it user friendly (imagine a sex toy that isn't) etc. There's a pad and pen in there so you can jot down notes.

Ok, the basics - it goes in and out - duh but this button here, this makes it twirl and this knob makes it vibrate. The two combined make it vibrate and twirl. This switch here makes it throb, this one makes it sing. This one shoots fireworks up onto the ceiling. Laser show here, this one puts money into your account, this one slaps your ass and calls you names, this one pulls your hair, this here button, this one bites your neck and this one wants you to dress up in schoolgirl clothes and this one makes it go limp and this one needs to be pissed on to work and this one wants to call you mommy and this one will work once and never let you use it again. This one steals money from you, this one will give you the orgasm of your life and then do the same for your sister and all your friends. This one will get you off and then never leave you. This one says it loves you, this one says it hates you. This one will ask you to bring another sex toy into the bedroom and this one, oh, this one is still not working so great so we are suggesting you don't use it but this one will make you feel like shit and then shower you in gifts after it had too much to drink and hit you a few times.

And Now I Shall Die

I have a drawer that houses my snacks. Low carb stuff. Nothing great but it's there. I come in each morning, open a breakfast bar. Have another bar around the middle of the day and one more some time around dinner time. Daily. My drawer always has between 5 and 20 bars. I'm always adding to the drawer.

Well, I had my apple thing for breakfast and a granola bar for lunch and I was hungry so I stuck my hand in to grab a snack and the wrapper was torn open. So I threw it out and grabbed another.

and another

and another

and another


fucking things were all opened and gnawed on. little tiny teeth marks.


a fucking mouse


I'm ill. My stomach is doing flip flops. A fucking mouse. I'm going to get the plague and die. Ugh. Fuck, I'm already starting to foam at the mouth. I'm rabid. I'm a goner.

Here Lies Floogin McNoogin
He Ate Mouse Food
Now He's a Dead Dude.

Floogin McNooginsteen Sings Dressing in the Dark

I wake up every morning, seconds before the alarm. I stumble into the bathroom, pee, brush my teeth, put the contacts in, take a shower, and get dressed in the dark. Then I wake my daughter up, get her breakfast, get her ready for school, take her to school and then head to my office where I do, pretty much the same shit all day long. The routine is so mundane and repetitive that I have taken to stumbling over the same things in the bedroom.

It's dark when I wake up, dark while I get dressed. Unlike my wife, I don't turn all the lights on while she sleeps. So, I need to go all jedi and maneouver around in the dark. I'm actually rather good at it. Well, I am when I'm home when the lights are on. Once I am dressed, I am not in my bedroom again until I go to bed, usually after 11. My wife is usually asleep by the time I get home, have some dinner and hit the sack so I am, basically, playing blind in the bedroom at all times.

I don't know where anything is. If the kids leave toys in the room, I'm unaware of them until I step on them or stub my toe on them or trip over them.

Along with the lovely mine field of objects that are tearing my feet to shreds, I have also discovered that I lack the ability to see colors in the dark. Every morning I am forced to use the dim light of my storm to try and decipher the color of my socks. It doesn't help that I am missing the majority of my socks. I have no idea where they might be but it has gotten so bad that I plan on hitting the story today to buy more. It's the only way to ensure that my feet are clad in cloth matching the rest of the outfit.

I'm unsure why but my daughter's broken razr has been sitting in the hallway for 3 days now. The wheel fell off over the weekend. It's broken. Not fixable. Yet, it sits, parked in the hallway, by the elevator. If I lived in one of the other apartments, I'd be fucking furious. It's the equivalent of having a broken down car on the lawn. I'm probably viewed as trailer trash by my neighbors. Maybe I should put a gnome and a flamingo next to the scooter and an inflatable pool to the right of the door. Then I can sit in the hallway, drink my beer, and enjoy some fresh air.

I'm sure the neighbors will love that.

On a side note, my daughter found was told to start taking books from the "m" bin. They are assigned reading levels based on their comprehension and reading skill and she is now the highest level in the class. She was just behind a few of the boys and one other girl but she jumped ahead of them all. she is, apparently, so advanced for her age that her 3rd grade reading buddy was joking with her and said she should come to his class to assist some of the 3rd graders since most of them are not yet "m" level readers. I know, bragging father and all. True but she is my daughter so fuck off. I was reading when I was very young. My parents caught me scaring the shit out of their friend's daughter, who was a bit younger than me. I was 4, or so the story goes, and I was reading Jaws to this little girl. Anyway, my daughter turned 6 this past December. She is the second youngest kid in her class by one day. Most of her friends are 7. So, for her to be reading at this level makes me doubly proud.

I know I have written about the boy quite a bit and she hasn't received the same attention. This is mainly a result of her being a stellar kid. She's cute as hell, she has an incredible sense of humor and she's scary smart. Not in a bookish way. She sees everything, knows what's going on and is extremely aware of her surroundings. I ran into her pre-K teacher from two years ago. She was talking to my son's current pre-k teacher. They teach the same age group so it was nice to have them both there. They started talking about my kids and the current teacher was talking about the boy, how special he is, so smart, so funny and my daughter's old teacher started talking about my daughter, bragging. It was odd but then she said "that girl was born a teenager" and I realized she nailed it. My daughter is like a teenager. In as good a way as possible of course.


Ok, done bragging about my kids and whining about my life.

I'm supposed to turn 40 in two days. I'm either rejecting the new age or I am going to have myself one hell of a mid life crisis.

An Ode To Nothing

I'm so fucking bored and alone here that I'm almost looking forward to the cleaning crew. Almost.

I took a short break before, went down to stock up on the drinks for the night and I wandered the street a bit. The area where I work is a bit odd. Lots of businesses, lots of tourists and I'm right near a major train station so there's tons of day traveller traffic to boot. It's actually a bit scary. Post 9/11 it would be referred to as a target. Major department store, major landmark building, major transportation hub, music and sporting arena, some new buildings in the area and the main post office are all a couple of blocks away. Times Square is also a short walk away.

Crowded at all times. Lots of people, makes for good people watching.

And I do love to people watch. I'm in an area that is known for having fashion businesses as well as everything else I've mentioned. Lots of showrooms and, as a result, lots of women. Models are in abundances, the random celebrity coming or going from fittings etc. Kinda cool. Nicole Kidman and that drunken cowboy musician husband were seen at the deli across the street a couple of weeks ago. Cool stuff indeed.

I, however, am more mystified by the asian girls. I've always had a thing for asian girls and redheads. Truth is, I like women of all types. I find all women to be very appealing in one way or another. This doesn't mean I get my McNoogin in a fit at the sight of all women and it certainly doesn't meant I want to shag every woman I meet (I do but it doesn't meant that).

It just means I find women to be sexy and attractive. Each in their own way.

But redheads and asians, well, different league.

Especially the asian girls. The ones who dress so funky you think you might have walked onto a movie set. I was walking around earlier and I saw a small group of girls heading up the street and they just looked hot. They were wearing some of the most ridiculous stuff but they were strutting up the street, not a care in the world and man that oddball circus shit looked sexy as hell on them.

Mismatched knee high socks, crazy tight dresses , strange hats. At first glance, I thought, maybe, I was having an acid flashback. Then I saw that their faces and I was smitten.

I was walking behind them, just close enough to admire their look and I could've followed them for miles if not for the whole pepper spray and cop intervention but that's another story.

For now, I'm gonna download some harajuku girls and get all Mr. Roboto on my self.

Birthday Gifts

Well,the annual issue of what to get me for my birthday is now in full force. My mom, who has never bought me anything, called yesterday and asked me what I wanted this year. Now, to be fair, when I say she has never bought me anything, I should clarify this. She has bought me plenty. She just never did it on her own. Initiative is not her thing. If I were to call her right now and say I want "a swingline stapler with a box of staples" she'd tell me to buy it and she'll pay me back. She has done this with me for as long as I can remember. She does it with my kids too but they don't know and we wrap the gifts so they appear, to them,as presents.

So she calls me up and asks me if I want a flat screen tv. I tell her I plan on getting new tv's when I finally locate, purchase and move into my new home. Until then, if I wanted a flat screen, I'd have bought it. Not like they aren't cheap enough these days.

Then she asked me if I wanted something to do with music. I asked her if she meant a gift card to napster or something and she said "I figured you would know."

So, she's asking me to figure it out.


The two things I want are new headphones, which I would buy if I wasn't disgusted by the price tag ($550), and a watch. The watch I want is something I want to buy myself when I close a big deal or feel the need to reward myself for something. I don't even know which one I want but I know what I like and the watch is going to be expensive. Not Rolex expensive. A. Lange & Sohne expensive.

Anyway, so she's hammering on me and I don't have time to think about it, let alone go looking for something.

My wife is also stumped. She was hoping to throw me that party until she got laid off. Then she was hoping to plan that party that I'd throw myself.

I told her I don't care about the gifts, which is true. I'd rather not deal with the never ending display of items that are not right for me. I'd rather not watch her frustration as she tries to find something for me when I have everything I need or want.

I'll never understand how people need to tear paper off a fucking box to unveil some store bought item on their birthday.

Bored

I forgot how lonely and boring life can be. I've been working since 7 this morning. Just me. Nobody else is here. The only sounds I hear are the printer spitting out paper in the other room, the music from my pc (currently The Love Speaks) and the tap tap tap of my fingers punching out this posting.

So boring. Nobody calls on Saturdays. That's why I'm here. To get work done. Very few distractions and, while the work does keep me busy, it does get lonely.

No wonder I used to run down and have a smoke every time I finished another file. Interaction with the outside world is needed I guess.

Perhaps I'll go down and enjoy the warm weather for a few minutes.

Quick thoughts

I've been drinking too much Rockstar Sugar Free Energy drink of late. It probably doesn't doo much for me, other than make my pee highlighter yellow and toxic smelling. Well, worse than normal pee smell.

I'm worn down and getting sick. This normally happens around the end of March, beginning of April. I'm a few weeks early this year. That can't be good. Maybe I won't make it to my birthday.

Speaking of, I hate my birthday. It's never really about me. I work, regardless of the day. The party my family throws for me revolves around the grandkids and, more often than not, it centers on pleasing the ones that aren't from my seed.

My wife gets me tons of gifts but tells me to pick one. The end result is that I like everything, nothing fits and she returns it all with nothing ever purchased to replace the gifts. The one or two times that things fit, I wound up paying for everything, other than one so her gift cost me a fortune. She has good taste and a complete lack of stones when it comes to making a decision. A result of living under the rule of her mother for too long.

Every year my mother asks me what I want. I don't know. I'm like my dad. I buy shit for myself when I want something so it's rare that I want something when gift time rolls around. Last year's birthday present? I told them to get me an slr digital camera. My wife wanted one. So, rather than spending my money, they bought it for me and my wife used it until she dropped it one time too many.

In years past, I've been given a check from my mother. She cannot be bothered with actually buying me something. If I called her up and said I want an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle, she wouldn't tell me I'll shoot my eye out, she'd tell me to go buy it and she'll pay me back. Fucking pathetic. She called me today and asked me what I want and I told her I had no clue. Can't wait to see how that works out for me. Gee, check?

Those rockstar energy drinks make me feel all gangsta. They look like malt liquor tall boy cans. Now I need a glock, a posse and some bling.