On Foot Over The Line.

So, I went out to dinner last night with my wife and two other couples. The wives are my wife's college roommates. The husbands are ok, I guess. Both are very successful, one is self made, the other took over his family business and grew the business to a much more successful enterprise. Vastly different people, both of them, with me falling somewhere in the middle.

Anyway, during the course of the meal I feel a foot on my leg and I look up at my wife who's sitting across from me, and she smiles at me.

Wow!

So not like her.

The foot moves up my leg and before I know it, I'm getting a foot job. Aroused, and enjoying it, I look back at my wife and she's smiling at me while talking to one of her friends.

Realizing that I need to stop the wife before things become explosive, I slip a hand under the table and grab the foot. I start massaging the foot and smiling back at my wife who now looks at me like I'm mildly retarded.

I look down at the foot.

Not my wife's.

I look casually back at my wife and I notice, out of the corner of my eye, that her friend seems to be enjoying something other than the conversation.

What the fuck?

Does she know she's parked on the wrong cock?

I casually move her foot down, away from my frank and beans and it comes back.
So I move it again.
Again, it comes back.

Fortunately, at this point, the Eiffel Tower is more like the leaning tower of Pisa, and I slide my seat back a bit, making it impossible for the girl to reach me.

I gulp down the stoli orange on the rocks, readjust the little guy and head to the bathroom to regroup.

Was it a mistake? Does this woman know she was foot jerking me and not her husband? Do I tell my wife that her best friend of 20+ years was toeing the line, as it were?

I stayed back from the table for the rest of the meal, leaning forward to eat, making for a most uncomfortable meal but the alternative was an entirely different kind of uncomfortable.

On the walk home, my wife asked my why I was so weird during dinner. I told her I was tired, that I wasn't up for the night out and, in the future, let's not do these kinds of dinners when I'm so tired and overworked.

Apparently, we're seeing this couple again in three weeks. I doubt if I'll tell my wife. Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding. Maybe she did think I was her husband. I hope so.

I'm wearing a cup next time, just in case.

What's the Fascination, Kenneth?

So I went to get shaving cream at Macy's and was greeted by a wall of people behind those metal jail bars for midgets that the cops use to cordon off protesters. As I walk by I notice the throngs of people are carrying signs or posters and cameras. I take a closer look and see that they're all carrying Mariah Carrey crap.

So I ask one of the cops what's up and he tells me Mariah Carrey is making an appearance in a few minutes. I shrug my shoulders, move in to Macy's, get my shaving cream and exit as far away from these losers as possible.

I say losers because, to be honest, anyone that is over the age of 12, who stands around in a crowd of people waiting to see a celebrity is a loser. That's right. It's not like the celebrity is going to change their lives. Mariah Carrey will get out of the limo, flash those fat thighs, maybe provide the porn sites with a nipple slip, certainly give the tabs more fuel for the "she's fat or pregnant" pages and then she'll do her thing, posing for press photos, maybe sign an autograph or two and move on.

And the 29 year old fat chicks and greasy dudes will live far more enjoyable lives I guess. Why not? They can now say they stood outside, rubbed asses with other dudes, whilst Mariah Carrey walked by and, guess what man, she looked at me. Seriously. She saw me and we made eye contact and if there weren't 500 other losers around, she weren't married, I wasn't a fat, unemployed stain on society, she wasn't Mariah Carrey, wasn't married, wasn't wealthy, talented and, some might say good looking (not me), she'd have asked me out man. Seriously. we had a moment there and I could see, in her eyes man, the way she looked at me, she wanted me. Bad.

What the fuck is the point? Why do people sit around so they can see, that's right see, a celebrity? I don't get it.

I waited over night, in the rain, for stones tickets when I was in college. It was one of those things, decided at 2 in the morning, when we were hammered and, probably, high on some for of narcotic, so we went, figuring, the stones are old, they might not tour again. Waited all night, made friends with the girls in front of us, thankfully, because they sold out when it was my turn to buy tickets and the girls asked us to go with them.

The last fucking row in the superdome. That's like sitting on the 75th floor of a building, staring down on the street. But they had speakers so we heard the music and I could care less about seeing those corpses prancing around on the stage.

I'd never stand around to get a glimpse of a celeb. Perhaps, because I live in a city filled with celebrities, and I see them wandering around from time to time, I'm no longer as impressed. There are those moments when I spot a celeb and I dial the wife or email a friend but only when it's a cool sighting like seeing the donger on the street or sitting in front of Abe Vigoda at a show, doing a double take upon seeing him and having him lean over and confirm that yes, indeed, he is still not dead.

Sure, I've seen them and, at times, spoken to them but only because the situation called for it. Richard Gere once approached me in a store because we were both killing time checking out stereo equipment and Alec Baldwin did exchange shoe advice at the Cole Haan store in East Hampton (he talks to everyone) and he did play with my daughter when she was hysterical one night in a restaurant but I'd never, ever stand around waiting to see him.

I tend to do the opposite when it comes to celebrities. I have no desire to bother them and, as such, I tend to move away faster than normal. What the fuck are Drew Barrymore and I going to talk about? Would she feel more comfortable if I stared at her?

No, she wouldn't.

So why the fuck are those folks still down there, an hour and a half later, waiting on Mariah Carrey?

To misquote the crazy fuck who assaulted Dan Rather, What's the Fascination, Kenneth?

I'm Off The Wagon and Paying For It

So, I decided to eat some carbs. Surrounded by bagels all weekend will do that to a guy. Plus, I've been carrying around a roll of sprees and a roll of bottle caps for about a month now, in anticipation of my ditching the diet for a few days.

I've been thoroughly enjoying myself. Bagels, rice, pop corn, the aforementioned candy etc.

After picking up a salad for lunch, adding all the things I never, ever eat, I decided to walk ten blocks to the only candy store in the vicinity that might actually sell bottle caps (I know this because I scoured the area yesterday when I ran out). Like a junkie seeking a fix, I marched uptown to the candy store and there, in the window, was the most glorious site. Row after row of Wonka candies. Wonka Bars, Pixy Stix, Runts, Spree!!!! Bottle Caps!!!!! and tons more.

I tried to contain my glee but I think I might have wet the shorts a bit and let out a small moan.

I bent down, scooped up fistfulls of the spree bottle cap rolls from their respective boxes and headed to the counter.

"should I pop one of these bad boys open now or wait till I get to the office?" I thought to myself.

"No, wait. You don't want to run into someone looking for a root beer flavored bottle cap."

So I showed some constraint. I waited. I ate my salad, I did some more work, I reached into the bag and pulled out a roll. I snapped the roll in half as I scoured the internet for ways to ingest bottle caps in a manner that will make them last longer, producing a stronger, longer lasting flavor. I fingered the round little morsel as I read about main lining sprees. I popped the little sugary happiness into my mouth, closed my eyes and bit down.

What the fuck?

Drool flooded my mouth.

My eyes watered.

My lips turned inward, into a most horrific scowl.

Did I just eat a rotten bottle cap? Is that even possible? Did Wonka add a new flavor - sour ass?

I look down at the roll next to my quivering hand.

Shockers? I bought shockers? Who the fuck stocked shockers in the spree and bottle cap boxes.

I emptied my bag o' tricks onto the desk.

3 rolls of sweet tarts, 1 roll of shockers, 1 roll of sprees and three rolls of bottle caps.

Now, do I walk back and swap out all the wrong stuff? No. Of course not. I love sweet tarts and the shockers, once you get over the initial, um, shock, are actually kinda good.

I'm still going back, just not returning anything.

After all, no junkie turns down drugs, he takes em and gets more.

The Sad Price of Fame

So, my son starts his last year of pre-K today and, last week, the school inundated us with emails, meetings and so on. As a result of all this communication, mothers started talking, old friendships renewed, new friendships begun. In the course of all this activity, my wife found out that we have a celebrity in our midst. The temple itself has quite the roster of members, from Ron Perlman to Jerry Seinfeld but the school, well, that's not something we're used to so, when we learned that this rather well known actor's kids would be attending this fall, we got a mild thrill. His kids are both younger than my son so we'll have no real chance to bump into each other although I know a half dozen parents with kids in the older child's class so, perhaps, birthday parties might result in some chance meetings.

Then my wife ran into a friend she hadn't seen in a while and this woman tells her she has a kid in the celebrity kid class and the actor's wife approached her after their orientation meeting and asked if she'd be interested in getting a cup of coffee. Turns out the actor will probably never be seen at the school. He will not walk on the street with his children and he won't go out in public with them because he wants to keep them sheltered from the cameras and the paparazzi and all that crap.

My first reaction was "how sad it that?" Think about it. You have kids and you cannot experience walking down the street, holding their hand? You can't swing them with each third step? You can't take them to the zoo in Central Park or push them on swings in any of the parks scattered throughout the city? That's a shitty deal. That's not parenting.

Don't get me wrong, the woman wasn't complaining about his parenting or any such thing. She was merely pointing out that he won't be around as he doesn't want his kids to be hounded and he wants to keep the school free of that bullshit as well.

Then I started thinking about the many celebrities I've seen and met around the city. I've stood side by side with James Gandolfini as we both pushed our kids on swings. Spoke to him a bit as our kids ran around the jungle jim. Nobody was taking his picture. I met Sarah Jessica Parker at the ob-gyn's office (same doc as my wife). No photogs hanging around out front and she was with her son, who was about a month old. Kelly Ripa takes her kids to birthday parties, she doesn't seem to be surrounded by photographers. Granted, none of these celebs are anywhere near the star wattage that the guy I'm talking about is but, still, they're targets of the cameras and I've never seen them being bothered by the cameras.

Here's what I think. I think that Angelina Jolie enjoys the cameras. I think Lindsey Lohan calls the photographers to tell them where she'll be flashing her beaver that night and I think that, perhaps, in LA, things are different than they are here. In NYC there are a lot of famous people and most New Yorkers could give a shit. Thus, you can walk into the gross deli on 35th and 7th and see Nicole Kidman and her redneck husband buying meals for their crew or some other large group of hungry, not too picky, people. No shit, she was loading up food from the salad bar and nobody even noticed.

Now I want to befriend this guy so I can show him that it is possible to lead a normal life here in the big apple. All he needs to do is call Jerry Seinfeld and ask him how he manages to lead a normal life here without constantly being the target of all those cameras.

And for the record, no, I won't say who he is as his privacy deserves to be respected.

Viva Las Floogin..

The hangover is finally fading, the body slowly recovering from the lack of sleep and I'm now back at work and ready to talk about Vegas.

I know, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Know why?

Me Neither.

It's a strange place. All neon lights and pretend tourist destinations. Who, in their right mind, picks a Vegas hotel over going to Paris, NYC, Egypt, Rome, Venice, etc is beyond me but, apparently, they do. This is why you drive thru the city and, as you gaze out the window of your car, it looks like you are scanning the pages of a travel brochure. It is truly strange.

And somewhat sad.

Driving thru the area felt like I was on a back lot at some Hollywood studio. It was like making a wrong turn in Disney's Hollywood Studios, and finding yourself in some after hours version of the park. Adults only.

Don't get me wrong, I had a blast. I saw college friends that I haven't seen in close to twenty years. I spent time with my college roommates and all my old partners in crime. I stayed out until after 6 am, we laughed our asses off. Some funny stories will never be told but they happened.

Of course, the group I was with would have had the same good time if we were in New Orleans, Houston, Anchorage, Des Moines. We didn't need the blinking lights and the bells and whistles of Vegas to have a good time.

Sure, being surrounded by hookers who want to grind and gyrate with you until you realize you might as well take her upstairs for the $500 because there are no freebies in the joint tonight.

I'm under the impression that every woman out at night is a prostitute. I'm not calling all women hookers. Not at all. I just think that every woman we saw during the time out there was willing to fuck for $500. That's right. I personally turned down more solicitations to bump and grind in one night than I've turned down in my entire life. Women hit on me but not with the frequency or the aggressiveness that every woman in Vegas hit on me and every other guy there.

They all want to party. They want to dance in your little VIP section, drink you always flowing booze, snort some of your drugs (if you got em), and they'll do this all night long, always reminding you that, at the end of the night, the entry fee to her club is $500.

OK, maybe they aren't all hookers. They might all figure, hell, I'm going to get fucked up with the guy, drink his booze, dance with him and snort his drugs. I'll probably end up fucking him anyway, maybe I can clip him for some coin too.

One of the guys in our group took home two girls that had been partying all night with some of the gang. When the fucking had ended, they asked for their money and he said he thought they wanted to fuck, not fuck him. He claimed to have had no clue they were hookers, told them he was tapped out, broke and he's sorry.

So they pissed on his leg (no shit) on left. No pimp showed up to break his legs or steal his luggage or hang him from the balcony until a friend came and grabbed some cash for him. This leads me to believe most girls in Vegas are amateurs. They charge for it but they often get screwed and fucked. A pro would have taken the money first. A pro would have had a better contingency plan than pissing on the guy's leg.

These women help make Vegas what it is. A flashy, soulless town.

Vegas is depressing. It has no history, no soul. Every city was built on something. Not Vegas. Built in the oppressive heat of the desert, built for the sole purpose of drawing people in and taking their money.

New Orleans, Los Angeles, New York City, Chicago, Boston, Paris, London, Rome, Venice, Munich, Tokyo, Moscow....Vegas.


Vegas is new, it's flashy, it's loud, sleazy, it's fuck, it's like being in a quiet restaurant on St. Barth's and being embarrassed by the loud group of drunk Americans at the next table. Vegas is that loud, embarrassing group. Vegas is to cities, what Texas is to states and what Americans is to people. Don't get me wrong, I'm proud to be an American but I know that, globally, when people think American, they think Texan. Loud, obnoxious, bit low on class, bit flashy, perhaps a bit sleazy.

I'm sure there are normal parts of Vegas and I know there are normal people there because I know a couple of them but, still, overall, it's a pretty fucked up joint and by living there, you are, to some degree, becoming part of that fucked up joint.

By the way, I've already booked my room for the next bachelor party in Vegas.

Proof That There Is No God, part 2.

Shortly after my daughter was born, my coworker, went into the hospital to have her baby. The day after the delivery she collapsed and died on the operating table. Aneurysm.
She was my age (34 at the time). She was overweight and borderline diabetic, before the pregnancy, administering insulin shots during the pregnancy. She was a high risk candidate for an aneurysm and the hospital totally fucked things up. This was the first time I had proof that there was no god. All this woman wanted was a baby. She tried for years with her husband before going the in vitro route. The first two times, it didn't work. Three times' the charm, they say and on the third try, she wound up pregnant. She enjoyed barely a moment with her son before being taken and, to this day, I can't understand how something like this can happen to someone so good, so nice and so fucking undeserving.

Well, today, I got another dose of proof.

My bookkeeper, who has been with me for a few years now, who buried her mother less than 6 months ago, thanks to cancer ravaging her body, found out that she, too, has cancer. She's had all kinds of ailments of late, heart issues, etc and each time she's gone to the doctor, she's come away fine. Not today. She had tests done a week ago and the doctor called yesterday, asking that she come in today. Never a good thing when they won't give you the news over the phone. I told her the doctor was probably looking to tag the insurance company for a complete visit, thus he wanted her in his office.

Sadly, this was not the case. She now faces the prospect of surgery to remove the disease and, if that doesn't work, well, she knows, all too well, what lies ahead.

This is a single mother, who has struggled to provide her daughter with a good home and a proper upbringing and, in August, she had the pleasure of driving her daughter to college for her freshman year.

She's now tasked with coping with the realities of this disease alone. I know her, she'll tell her daughter when she's ready, not wanting to worry her and not wanting her daughter to even consider leaving school to be with her.

She came to the office today, after the doctor's appointment because this is her second home. A place where she knows we'll do what we can to comfort her and she knows that we will do whatever it takes to make her smile, to forget, if only for a moment, that the same shitty disease that took her mother from her, is now in her, looking to do what it does best.

If there was some being out there, some forgiving deity who absolves you of your sins, he'd never, ever let someone like this get the fucking sniffles, let alone cancer.

Again, I'm left thinking that it doesn't add up. To put it in the most simple of terms, it isn't fair.

I've never been a big believer in god but I do hope there is one because nothing would give me more pleasure than, upon my death, being greeted by this guy, and then being evicted for punching him in the face.

The World's A Crazy Place Man, Right? It Is, Right Man?

I'm standing in front of my building, enjoying the sunshine, taking a break from my work (been here for a couple of hours). I'm standing there, watching the throngs of people heading towards their offices and I see this very tall, black guy walking against the flow of traffic. He's got his arms up and out and he seems to be motioning to, well, nobody in general but he's moving those arms like he's talking to someone, pointing out some important shit.

I look away and start my internal prayer "please walk past me...please walk past me...please walk past me..."

"He comes up with his hand out, looking for a shake. Sidles right up next to me and says "the world's a crazy place man. It's crazy, right? It is, right man?"

I give him a quick glance and agree that yes, indeed, it is crazy.

He asks if he should do it and I tell him I don't think so. I'm not sure what the fuck he's talking about but, to be honest, this dude was homeless and off his meds so whatever it is that he's thinking of doing, can't be good.

He's got his hand out, still waiting for that shake and now his shoulder is up against mine, he's bumping shoulders, talking about how crazy it is and how he thinks he should do it and I realize, I am going to have to shake this guy's hand or run like a mother fucker for my building. I grimace and take his hand, he gives it a quick shake and squeeze and says "you're right, I'm doing it"

Then he turns to face the flow of pedestrian traffic and I'm looking at him and he gives me a look that says "be discrete, don't look at me" and his eyes move to the crowd and then down to the ground. Back to the crowd, to me, to the ground. He wants me to follow his eyes so I do.

And I look to the crowd, then I look down at the ground where his eyes are and as my eyes pan down I see what he's going on about.

He's holding his fully erect cock, wrapped in his shirt, in his hand. His free hand is motioning around like he's pointing out something and he's gripping his cock, pointing it at the people walking past him.

I move to my left, he stands next to me, saying "I'm doing it, I'm gonna do it man, it's a crazy world and I'm doing it, man."

Now, I'm not sure what else he's doing but I have an idea and I don't want to be covered in it.

I start to walk towards my office, wishing him good luck and he's saying "c'mon man, come back, I'm doing it. I promise."

I left him standing there, holding his cock.

The world is, most definitely, a crazy place. More so now that I have met the man with the elephant cock who likes to stroke it for the crowded morning commute.

My day is complete.

Vacation And The Shitty Bookends of Family Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

All was great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The little fag went down like tower two.

It was that fast.

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

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

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

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

He said no, Baby Marcus is a baby.

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

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

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

She said she totally understood.

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

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

What the hell?

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

She's also kinda cute.

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

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

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

She flashed a bit of the goods.

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

And Floogin liked it.

Diarrhea, minus the happy ending.

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

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

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

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

Fuck me.

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

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

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

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

That's right, it vanishes. Nothing.

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

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


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

I got nothing.

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

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

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

I love the smell of ass in the afternoon.

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



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



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



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



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



So, I walk.



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



Or so one would think.



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



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



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



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



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



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



Pretty fucking bad, right?



Now imagine him taking a dump.



That's how bad it got.



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



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



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

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

I glanced around again.

Nobody was looking.

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


I gagged.

It was me. I stunk.

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

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

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

This was horrible.

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

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


And so I waited.

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

She says we may have to move.

I'm fucked.

Living the good life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scenes from an Italian Wedding..

A bottle of red,
A bottle of white,

Fuck that, pass the Jack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry, I had to swallow my vomit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somewhere in the room, her date contemplated suicide.

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

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

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

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

Everyone cheered.

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

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

This was a standard diversionary tactic.

Why?

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

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

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

It was that kind of crowd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good times.

Big Giant Balls and Paul McCartney

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

Pointless.

But the pc is cool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now for the biggest random segue ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" I ask.

"You Dada, on a building."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say what?

That was my sister's suggestion.


Seriously.


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

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

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

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

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

They loved it.

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

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

She says she gets it.

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

She responds with "perfection!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or my money back.


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

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

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

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

For 3 days we do this.

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

It's annoying to no end.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

I can tell.

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

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

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

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

No, we don't.

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

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

When it rains, it fucking pours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Say what?

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

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

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

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

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

Time will tell.

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

Fire and Brimstone and Happy Birthday USA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She told me to fuck off.

Truth hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fight over.

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No other explanation seemed to work.

A Day Off? For What?

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

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

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

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

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


Back to the secretary.

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

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

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

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

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

Say what?

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

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

I can do that for them.

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

unfuckingbelievable.

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

A con artist.

That's what she was going to do.

And she lied to me.

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

Who am I kidding?

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

Way to ruin the fun of gift giving.