OK, parenting.com did but, still, the shitty gift thing is all me. I own it. I've been writing about it since March when I got shit for my birthday and now these cocksuckers at parenting.com think they can lift my pathetic life and turn it into a feel good article for women to read? Feel good as in "doesn't it feel good to get your husband shit when he gets you whatever you want, whether there's a holiday or not."
For those of you that actually read this shit, you can see how some joker tamed my shtick and reworked it to meet a deadline here:
http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/personal/06/15/p.unfair.fathersday.afterthought/index.html
Go on, read it. You'll be thinking "holy shit, this guy is some lame ass floogin."
And how fucking pathetic is that? A lame version of me? That's pretty lame. That's like getting hit by a bus and being rescued by paramedics, only to have the ambulance get into an accident on the way to the hospital.
Pretty fucking sad.
Feel free to comment over there and tell them that they're lifting my material.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Giftless Streak Continues
So, last night was my anniversary. Nine years of wedded bliss. So she tells me.
Took Mrs McNoogin out to dinner. Daniel. Very nice, very fancy. Good food. Good time. Went home and there were boxes of gifts for me to open. My wife decided it was time to give me last year's channukah gift, my birthday and our anniversary gifts all at once. I'm guessing there was a sale at Barney's so she hit the store with a vengeance. I opened the first box. A nice belt. Too small and I don't really need another black belt so back it goes. Next box. Two long sleeve shirts, sweatshirt like in appearance. "They're for after the beach" she tells me. "Black? After the beach?" Back they go.
A jacket. Ugly. Looks like a nascar driver's jacket minus all the color and patches. She says I need another spring/summer jacket. I tell her I have two black jackets and the suede brown. She says "forgot about them but this was more than 50% off."
I then explain that I don't want a gift that was a good bargain, I want a gift that is right for me, something I will like.
Next box.
a weekend bag. This I like. Leather bag, blue with brown stripes. Very classy, very nice. "It's perfect for when you go away for a weekend." I only go away with her for weekends and, thanks to her and the kids, I pack a huge bag and fit all of their shit in with mine. I tell her I will attempt to pack for a weekend tonight, see if the bag is big enough. I'm fairly sure it isn't. It's really a gym bag but I didn't want to tell her this.
So, no gifts. Again. I know, I'm difficult but I'm certainly not going to let my wife waste money on things I don't want or need. More so since she is unemployed.
So, back to the drawing board she goes and now she has the added misery of father's day coming up too. Last father's day she was successful, perhaps this one will break the curse.
Took Mrs McNoogin out to dinner. Daniel. Very nice, very fancy. Good food. Good time. Went home and there were boxes of gifts for me to open. My wife decided it was time to give me last year's channukah gift, my birthday and our anniversary gifts all at once. I'm guessing there was a sale at Barney's so she hit the store with a vengeance. I opened the first box. A nice belt. Too small and I don't really need another black belt so back it goes. Next box. Two long sleeve shirts, sweatshirt like in appearance. "They're for after the beach" she tells me. "Black? After the beach?" Back they go.
A jacket. Ugly. Looks like a nascar driver's jacket minus all the color and patches. She says I need another spring/summer jacket. I tell her I have two black jackets and the suede brown. She says "forgot about them but this was more than 50% off."
I then explain that I don't want a gift that was a good bargain, I want a gift that is right for me, something I will like.
Next box.
a weekend bag. This I like. Leather bag, blue with brown stripes. Very classy, very nice. "It's perfect for when you go away for a weekend." I only go away with her for weekends and, thanks to her and the kids, I pack a huge bag and fit all of their shit in with mine. I tell her I will attempt to pack for a weekend tonight, see if the bag is big enough. I'm fairly sure it isn't. It's really a gym bag but I didn't want to tell her this.
So, no gifts. Again. I know, I'm difficult but I'm certainly not going to let my wife waste money on things I don't want or need. More so since she is unemployed.
So, back to the drawing board she goes and now she has the added misery of father's day coming up too. Last father's day she was successful, perhaps this one will break the curse.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Trouble on the horizon
ok, not serious trouble but an issue that needs to be dealt with, and fast.
My beloved Zen is almost at capacity. That's right. 32 GB of music and I've got 1.7 GB left. I'm screwed. It's going to take me a lifetime to sift thru the music and delete songs. Napster would be an easy way to do this if it actually read the Zen. Sure, the songs transfer perfectly but the whole concept of using napster to organize the songs? Not happening.
So I use the Zen organizer software and it sucks. I can't simply list all the songs. I can only go by the folders, opening them individually, deleting the songs and moving forward. Very time consuming.
And the truth is, I like my songs. I'd rather get an mp3 player that holds more music. I could snag a 16 gb memory card but I can't figure out how to transfer songs to the card so I'm kinda fucked anyway.
I have my old Vision:M (60GB). It was an incredible player but it's big and clunky and the zen is small and sounds better. The thing is like a credit card. It's stellar in every way. Creative makes the best players around. Apple has said as much by settling the patent infringement lawsuits for hundreds of millions of dollars.
Alas, the 32 GB zen is the most space around and it isn't enough.
So, I'm contemplating my options, trying to figure out what to do and I'm open for suggestions.
Anyone who can think of a small player with huge storage capacity, please let me know and, for the record, apple products suck so don't bother mentioning them.
My beloved Zen is almost at capacity. That's right. 32 GB of music and I've got 1.7 GB left. I'm screwed. It's going to take me a lifetime to sift thru the music and delete songs. Napster would be an easy way to do this if it actually read the Zen. Sure, the songs transfer perfectly but the whole concept of using napster to organize the songs? Not happening.
So I use the Zen organizer software and it sucks. I can't simply list all the songs. I can only go by the folders, opening them individually, deleting the songs and moving forward. Very time consuming.
And the truth is, I like my songs. I'd rather get an mp3 player that holds more music. I could snag a 16 gb memory card but I can't figure out how to transfer songs to the card so I'm kinda fucked anyway.
I have my old Vision:M (60GB). It was an incredible player but it's big and clunky and the zen is small and sounds better. The thing is like a credit card. It's stellar in every way. Creative makes the best players around. Apple has said as much by settling the patent infringement lawsuits for hundreds of millions of dollars.
Alas, the 32 GB zen is the most space around and it isn't enough.
So, I'm contemplating my options, trying to figure out what to do and I'm open for suggestions.
Anyone who can think of a small player with huge storage capacity, please let me know and, for the record, apple products suck so don't bother mentioning them.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
McGaggin and McShavin'
I went to take a piss before and there was someone dropping a load that was so foul, so pungent, so fucking gross that there were flies in the bathroom. I'm on the 20th floor. That's a big fucking climb for a little fly. Sadly, these flies came up thinking there was a fine smelling shit to land on and eat. What they discovered when they got to the open window was a bathroom with no shit to land on. They were, clearly, too weak to fly down to the street so they were buzzing, weakly, around the bathroom. As I was peeing, and holding my breath, a fly landed on the top of the urinal. It looked up at me, those big, fucked up fly eyes looked so sad, so weak. And then it happened. The fly gagged. This guy's shit stunk so bad, even flies were gagging. That's about as foul as it can get, I guess.
When your shit's so wrong that even flies aren't showing love, you should head to a doctor for a check up.
I quickly finished up and washed up so I could escape from the cloud and get some air.
As I began heading back to my office I thought about the fly, sitting there, looking up at me with those odd looking eyes.
I had to go back and save the fly. I couldn't let it lie there, wallowing in that stench. I turned the knob, took a deep breath and ran in. The fly, alas, was dead.
The source of the odor was now at the sink, washing his hands and talking on his cell. It was my new tenant. I immediately screamed at him for killing the fly. He looked at me like I was crazy so I scooped up the dead fly and brought it over to him. He looked at me like I was nuts.
I looked at him like a murderer. His ass, and the contents within, killed a fucking fly. Flies live for shit, they love stink and his shit, his stink, were so fucking bad that it killed a fly. Think about that. That's like being killed by air or a really big, really tasty cheeseburger. Too much to handle? An overdose of sorts, I guess.
R.I.P. Fly
On a side note, I shaved my balls over the weekend. I was having a conversation with someone about girls who go with the full bald look and I said I liked a bit of hair down below, nothing major, nor 70's Angela Davis Afro, just a nice strip to point me in the right direction. The conversation turned towards men who shave their pubes and someone said "it makes your dick look bigger, that's why so many porn stars do it."
First, I thought, "dude's spending too much time staring at cock." then I thought, perhaps, maybe, it was worth a try. Not like anyone will notice, besides me so what's the difference, right?
So I did some trimming with my electric razor, then I realized I can no longer use that to trim the burns. Then I started lathering up the stubble and then it hit me. What the fuck was I doing? I was about to take a razor to my most sacred, special place and for what? To make my dick look bigger? Does that even work? Seriously, I've seen plenty of shaved vaginas in my life, some real and up close, some in print, some in movies, they've never seemed abnormally large due to lack of hair. Why would a woman want to make her vagina appear bigger anyway? Boobs? Sure, I can understand that. Some men are into big boobs, even if they do look cartoonishly silly with basketballs implanted under the skin. Some men get off on really fat broads too. Hell, there are sites on the internet for women in glasses getting facials. But a big pussy? Does the concept of giant pussy really appeal to anyone other than farm animals and elephants? I guess, if I was hung like Dumbo, I might see a grand canyon sized pussy and think "yeah, that would work."
Of course, I'm not elephantine at all, unless you count my ego so I see a large vagina and think "lots of kids or lots of cock." I guess, if I shaved my pubes, my dick would look bigger and I'd see the giant vagina and think, yeah, that'll work.
So I shaved my pubes.
And my wife saw me towelling off after a shower and said "wow, you're penis looks huge, too bad you had to shave your balls though, it's gonna itch like a motherfucker and now it's looking too big for this" and she pulled down her panties and as the wookie fur expanded into the new found space around it, I swear I heard a whooshing sound. I definitely felt a breeze.
When your shit's so wrong that even flies aren't showing love, you should head to a doctor for a check up.
I quickly finished up and washed up so I could escape from the cloud and get some air.
As I began heading back to my office I thought about the fly, sitting there, looking up at me with those odd looking eyes.
I had to go back and save the fly. I couldn't let it lie there, wallowing in that stench. I turned the knob, took a deep breath and ran in. The fly, alas, was dead.
The source of the odor was now at the sink, washing his hands and talking on his cell. It was my new tenant. I immediately screamed at him for killing the fly. He looked at me like I was crazy so I scooped up the dead fly and brought it over to him. He looked at me like I was nuts.
I looked at him like a murderer. His ass, and the contents within, killed a fucking fly. Flies live for shit, they love stink and his shit, his stink, were so fucking bad that it killed a fly. Think about that. That's like being killed by air or a really big, really tasty cheeseburger. Too much to handle? An overdose of sorts, I guess.
R.I.P. Fly
On a side note, I shaved my balls over the weekend. I was having a conversation with someone about girls who go with the full bald look and I said I liked a bit of hair down below, nothing major, nor 70's Angela Davis Afro, just a nice strip to point me in the right direction. The conversation turned towards men who shave their pubes and someone said "it makes your dick look bigger, that's why so many porn stars do it."
First, I thought, "dude's spending too much time staring at cock." then I thought, perhaps, maybe, it was worth a try. Not like anyone will notice, besides me so what's the difference, right?
So I did some trimming with my electric razor, then I realized I can no longer use that to trim the burns. Then I started lathering up the stubble and then it hit me. What the fuck was I doing? I was about to take a razor to my most sacred, special place and for what? To make my dick look bigger? Does that even work? Seriously, I've seen plenty of shaved vaginas in my life, some real and up close, some in print, some in movies, they've never seemed abnormally large due to lack of hair. Why would a woman want to make her vagina appear bigger anyway? Boobs? Sure, I can understand that. Some men are into big boobs, even if they do look cartoonishly silly with basketballs implanted under the skin. Some men get off on really fat broads too. Hell, there are sites on the internet for women in glasses getting facials. But a big pussy? Does the concept of giant pussy really appeal to anyone other than farm animals and elephants? I guess, if I was hung like Dumbo, I might see a grand canyon sized pussy and think "yeah, that would work."
Of course, I'm not elephantine at all, unless you count my ego so I see a large vagina and think "lots of kids or lots of cock." I guess, if I shaved my pubes, my dick would look bigger and I'd see the giant vagina and think, yeah, that'll work.
So I shaved my pubes.
And my wife saw me towelling off after a shower and said "wow, you're penis looks huge, too bad you had to shave your balls though, it's gonna itch like a motherfucker and now it's looking too big for this" and she pulled down her panties and as the wookie fur expanded into the new found space around it, I swear I heard a whooshing sound. I definitely felt a breeze.
Monday, June 01, 2009
But the weekend started out on the right foot....
Friday morning I sent out an email to my dad, figuring I'd avoid further drama with my mother over the whole deadbeat brother in law mess. The email was sent to my dad with a note that said I had planned on sending it to them both blah blah blah.
My dad gave it to my mom. He figured she needed to know everything since, between the two of them, they'd created a situation that was now on the verge of ripping the family apart.
So, I had a little talk with my dad, brief but he apologized, said he had no clue how much I've had to deal with, no idea how my mom was treating me etc.
Then my mom called. She was crying, she's sorry, she had no idea what was going on, how much I've had to handle and how much I've been burdened with and how little she was aware of and blah blah fucking blah.
She sounded sincere. I'm guessing the email will last for a week. After young McNoogin's 4th birthday, things will go back to normal, I'll be the asshole who is always trying to create drama in the house of McNoogin. But Friday? One day? Yeah, I was the good son again. First time in ten or so years. It felt kinda nice.
Of course, from there it went downhill.
Saturday, the beach with the kids. Got there early, saw some friends and was all prepped to enjoy a nice day by the ocean. Only it wasn't that warm. It was hot as balls in the city but by the ocean? Cooler. Much cooler. So, when my daughter said she wanted to go in the ocean I said no. For starters, it's 70 at best out and the water temperature is in the neighborhood of 50 degrees. We were standing in the water, ankle deep when I said that. Then my balls ran, shrieking, up behind my spleen for warmth.
So, the pool, she said. Let's go in the pool. Definitely. She can swim well enough that I can sit on the side and watch and all is right in the world and "Dad, I want to go too."
FUCK.
The boy.
Forgot about him. I need to be with him. I could put swimmies on him but he has to learn to swim without them and he can stand in this pool now so, fine, fuck it, I'll go in. How bad can it be?
I shit an ice cube Saturday night. That's how bad.
The pool is heated but it's huge so it takes forever for it to warm up. By August it feels like you're swimming in a giant urine filled toilet but now? In May? The Titanic wouldn't have sailed in that water.
But my kids did. And so did I. For an hour.
Then we ate at my wife's favorite italian restaurant. She loves this place because it's where she went when she was growing up. Every town has a pizza/pasta joint like this. Hers is much larger than most but the food is, more or less, the same. Good, not great. Big scene etc.
And, for some reason, I get sick every time I eat there. Doesn't matter what it is, something in the food results in my spending inordinate amounts of time on the throne afterward.
And I did.
Big time.
Sunday we had to go see my mother outlaw at her new rehab facility. Not rehab for her addiction to painkillers (thank god), rehab for her hip. She had the second one replaced last week and, as much as she drives me nuts, this woman is an ox. She had the hip replaced on Tuesday. She was walking the next day. She's a tough old broad. If I'm ever in a dark alley, surrounded by some gang, I want her with me. She's scary as fuck and strong as hell. I'd take her over tyson in his ear eating days.
Before rehab , my daughter had a birthday party. A fucking movie at 10 am. I didn't even know movie theaters were open that early. I was going to take both kids and stay with my son and watch the movie (UP) but he bailed at the last minute so I took my daughter and wound up with 2 or so hours to kill. So, I went to the toy store for a bit, hit starbucks and then sat in the middle of Broadway and enjoyed the scenery. Then, after realizing I'd killed all of twenty minutes, I walked to my office. My new tenant was moving in so I thought it might be nice to check on his progress. I was sorry I did the minute I opened the door. Well, tried to open the door. It was blocked from the inside so I had to climb in.
The office was a fucking disaster area.
I hung out for a few minutes and then left because it was scaring me. All that shit and no place to put it. I reminded the new guy that the one caveat is no clutter.
Spent the afternoon at rehab, dinner with the outlaws (not mother outlaw, she's confined to the facility). Decent burger joint, got home late.
Get to work this morning and see that the new guy has moved artwork and furniture around. He's going to have to put that all back.
He also managed to get his network up and running as well as his printer.
And how did he manage this? By disabling mine, it seems. And the cocksucker isn't here to deal with it.
His tech guy says he'll be in around lunch time. My tech guy can't make it at all today.
So, I can access the internet. I can look at my files and I can talk to my clients but I cannot do anything beyond that.
On the bright side, I have time to head to the costume shop and see if there's a spiderman costume that won't make me look like a fucking jackass. Either that or a goblin costume for the boy's party.
My dad gave it to my mom. He figured she needed to know everything since, between the two of them, they'd created a situation that was now on the verge of ripping the family apart.
So, I had a little talk with my dad, brief but he apologized, said he had no clue how much I've had to deal with, no idea how my mom was treating me etc.
Then my mom called. She was crying, she's sorry, she had no idea what was going on, how much I've had to handle and how much I've been burdened with and how little she was aware of and blah blah fucking blah.
She sounded sincere. I'm guessing the email will last for a week. After young McNoogin's 4th birthday, things will go back to normal, I'll be the asshole who is always trying to create drama in the house of McNoogin. But Friday? One day? Yeah, I was the good son again. First time in ten or so years. It felt kinda nice.
Of course, from there it went downhill.
Saturday, the beach with the kids. Got there early, saw some friends and was all prepped to enjoy a nice day by the ocean. Only it wasn't that warm. It was hot as balls in the city but by the ocean? Cooler. Much cooler. So, when my daughter said she wanted to go in the ocean I said no. For starters, it's 70 at best out and the water temperature is in the neighborhood of 50 degrees. We were standing in the water, ankle deep when I said that. Then my balls ran, shrieking, up behind my spleen for warmth.
So, the pool, she said. Let's go in the pool. Definitely. She can swim well enough that I can sit on the side and watch and all is right in the world and "Dad, I want to go too."
FUCK.
The boy.
Forgot about him. I need to be with him. I could put swimmies on him but he has to learn to swim without them and he can stand in this pool now so, fine, fuck it, I'll go in. How bad can it be?
I shit an ice cube Saturday night. That's how bad.
The pool is heated but it's huge so it takes forever for it to warm up. By August it feels like you're swimming in a giant urine filled toilet but now? In May? The Titanic wouldn't have sailed in that water.
But my kids did. And so did I. For an hour.
Then we ate at my wife's favorite italian restaurant. She loves this place because it's where she went when she was growing up. Every town has a pizza/pasta joint like this. Hers is much larger than most but the food is, more or less, the same. Good, not great. Big scene etc.
And, for some reason, I get sick every time I eat there. Doesn't matter what it is, something in the food results in my spending inordinate amounts of time on the throne afterward.
And I did.
Big time.
Sunday we had to go see my mother outlaw at her new rehab facility. Not rehab for her addiction to painkillers (thank god), rehab for her hip. She had the second one replaced last week and, as much as she drives me nuts, this woman is an ox. She had the hip replaced on Tuesday. She was walking the next day. She's a tough old broad. If I'm ever in a dark alley, surrounded by some gang, I want her with me. She's scary as fuck and strong as hell. I'd take her over tyson in his ear eating days.
Before rehab , my daughter had a birthday party. A fucking movie at 10 am. I didn't even know movie theaters were open that early. I was going to take both kids and stay with my son and watch the movie (UP) but he bailed at the last minute so I took my daughter and wound up with 2 or so hours to kill. So, I went to the toy store for a bit, hit starbucks and then sat in the middle of Broadway and enjoyed the scenery. Then, after realizing I'd killed all of twenty minutes, I walked to my office. My new tenant was moving in so I thought it might be nice to check on his progress. I was sorry I did the minute I opened the door. Well, tried to open the door. It was blocked from the inside so I had to climb in.
The office was a fucking disaster area.
I hung out for a few minutes and then left because it was scaring me. All that shit and no place to put it. I reminded the new guy that the one caveat is no clutter.
Spent the afternoon at rehab, dinner with the outlaws (not mother outlaw, she's confined to the facility). Decent burger joint, got home late.
Get to work this morning and see that the new guy has moved artwork and furniture around. He's going to have to put that all back.
He also managed to get his network up and running as well as his printer.
And how did he manage this? By disabling mine, it seems. And the cocksucker isn't here to deal with it.
His tech guy says he'll be in around lunch time. My tech guy can't make it at all today.
So, I can access the internet. I can look at my files and I can talk to my clients but I cannot do anything beyond that.
On the bright side, I have time to head to the costume shop and see if there's a spiderman costume that won't make me look like a fucking jackass. Either that or a goblin costume for the boy's party.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
My Son Might Actually Know God
As I mentioned in the previous posting, my son seems to have an in with the dude in the sky. I mentioned that this might not be a bad thing for me, that, perhaps, the big fella might toss some karma my way.
Well, it seems, Zoogin (not his real name) said something to his buddy because my wife called and told me she convinced Best Buy to take the Apple TV doorstop that my sisters gave me for my birthday. The drunken deadbeat brother in law slipped and mentioned how he had over $500 worth of apple gift cards and credits thanks to his 40th birthday and how he bought the gift for me and still had more than $250 left.
Well, I have taken his regift, which he got cash from my other sister for, and added to the regift chain. I had no receipt so I couldn't return it anywhere other than apple and apple is a store that I wouldn't be able to use a $1 credit at because I don't buy their products. So, I told my wife to turn it in at best buy and get little Zoogin his dsi for his upcoming birthday. The dsi is my mother in law's gift to him. I told my wife to get the dsi, games, case etc until she spends the full $220.
Well guess what?
She returned it at Best Buy, after convincing the floor manager to let her speak to the store manager who immediately said yes. And how much does this pointless device sell for at Best Buy? $270 (with the tax). That's right. I got an extra $50 by returning it at Best Buy.
So, the boy got the dsi, a starter kit (whatever that is), two games and 2 years of insurance for $30 out of pocket.
My mother in law is going to demand I take money and I won't take it. I'll explain the pay it forward deal and how, thanks to Z's being bff with the holy dude, it would behoove me to pass the favor along lest we upset the chain and cause biblical issues like brimstone or frog plagues or some such shit.
Thanks go out to Zoogin for wanting the dsi and mentioning it to his buddy God.
Thanks to my wife for being, her words here, a persistent bitch and getting this thing out of my life.
Thanks to Best Buy for selling this pointless piece of shit for $50 more than apple does.
Thanks to the store manager for listening to the holy whispering in his ear that said "thou shalt take this fruity piece of shit back from this family, they've been through enough."
And now, since I will never be able to do this on a grander stage than my pathetic blog, never be able to broadcast my thanks like mvps, oscar winners etc, I'm gonna do it here.
Thanks to my wing man, my hero, GOD, for giving me the courage to suggest my wife go to the Best Buy on 86th street instead of the one on 45th and 5th. Without my faith in GOD, I'd still be using the apple tv as a doorstop and a box to prop up other boxes.
GOD you rock.
I'm Going To Disneyword
Well, it seems, Zoogin (not his real name) said something to his buddy because my wife called and told me she convinced Best Buy to take the Apple TV doorstop that my sisters gave me for my birthday. The drunken deadbeat brother in law slipped and mentioned how he had over $500 worth of apple gift cards and credits thanks to his 40th birthday and how he bought the gift for me and still had more than $250 left.
Well, I have taken his regift, which he got cash from my other sister for, and added to the regift chain. I had no receipt so I couldn't return it anywhere other than apple and apple is a store that I wouldn't be able to use a $1 credit at because I don't buy their products. So, I told my wife to turn it in at best buy and get little Zoogin his dsi for his upcoming birthday. The dsi is my mother in law's gift to him. I told my wife to get the dsi, games, case etc until she spends the full $220.
Well guess what?
She returned it at Best Buy, after convincing the floor manager to let her speak to the store manager who immediately said yes. And how much does this pointless device sell for at Best Buy? $270 (with the tax). That's right. I got an extra $50 by returning it at Best Buy.
So, the boy got the dsi, a starter kit (whatever that is), two games and 2 years of insurance for $30 out of pocket.
My mother in law is going to demand I take money and I won't take it. I'll explain the pay it forward deal and how, thanks to Z's being bff with the holy dude, it would behoove me to pass the favor along lest we upset the chain and cause biblical issues like brimstone or frog plagues or some such shit.
Thanks go out to Zoogin for wanting the dsi and mentioning it to his buddy God.
Thanks to my wife for being, her words here, a persistent bitch and getting this thing out of my life.
Thanks to Best Buy for selling this pointless piece of shit for $50 more than apple does.
Thanks to the store manager for listening to the holy whispering in his ear that said "thou shalt take this fruity piece of shit back from this family, they've been through enough."
And now, since I will never be able to do this on a grander stage than my pathetic blog, never be able to broadcast my thanks like mvps, oscar winners etc, I'm gonna do it here.
Thanks to my wing man, my hero, GOD, for giving me the courage to suggest my wife go to the Best Buy on 86th street instead of the one on 45th and 5th. Without my faith in GOD, I'd still be using the apple tv as a doorstop and a box to prop up other boxes.
GOD you rock.
I'm Going To Disneyword
Rabbi McNoogin Junior
When I came home last night, my son, Zoogin McNoogin (not his real name) ran up to me and said "dad, I learned the ten commandants today."
"Do you mean commandments?" I asked.
"Those too," was his response.
Zoogin goes to pre-k in a synagogue and, as a result, there's some religious education tossed into the paste eating and finger painting.
Before I could get the ten commandants from my son, my daughter comes racing over on her razor scooter. She uses the scooter to get around the apartment because it's fucking tiring walking the 20 feet from one room to the other. She says "dad, I can read your mind." "I just need a pen, paper and two cups," she tells me.
So, I tell her to get the cups, the pen, the paper and I tell Zoogin to have a seat and I will change and then he can tell me the commandants and she can read my mind.
As I'm heading into my bedroom the babysitter comes over. "Daddy," she starts, "Zoogin pushed Joogin (not her real name) today."
She then quickly adds that it wasn't a big deal but, she said, "I told him God didn't like that."
(Zoogin seems to bring up the big guy quite a lot these days, even threatened my wife with a god is watching you type remark)
I asked the sitter what Zoogin's response was to the announcement that God didn't like him pushing his sister.
"He didn't see it, he was busy eating dinner," was Zoogin's response.
Zoogin, it seems, has a direct line to the man upstairs. I'm hoping this works out for me down the road because, given the other shit in my life, having an "in" with god might be a good thing for me.
So, I quickly change and I head back out to the table. My daughter says "dad, I know what you're thinking about" and she starts writing.
I ask her what I'm thinking about and she holds up the paper.
"Hot Chicks" is written on the page.
I tell my daughter I'm always thinking of hot chicks. She then starts tearing up paper and writing on the cups for some trick that turns out to be not a trick and she did it wrong and it made no sense but I pretended to be mystified by her mad mind reading skills and she seemed genuinely thrilled by it all.
Then I gave Zoogin the floor.
Ok Z, give me the Ten Commandants, According to Zoogin.
so, without further adieu, here they are.
10. Don't Lick
9. Don't eat in the bedroom
8 Try not to pee in your pants (I think this is actually one of the Ten Suggestions)
7. Be Respectful of Everyone
6. Don't Kill. (he then fell to the floor, legs akimbo, playing dead and said "don't make someone like this forever. I guess he felt I needed help with the don't kill part)
5. Be nice to moms and dads or brothers and sisters and boyfriends and girlfriends
4. Don't say bad words like stupid or idiot or shit (he whispered the last one)
3. Love Everybody
2. Don't Jump on the couch
It should be noted that the last one, the primo commandant according to Zoogin was, originally, I love my daddy but his sister informed him that announcing he loved his daddy wasn't a commandment so he had to pick another one. And picking another one led to...
1. Don't pick your boogers.
There you have it. Follow those ten commandants and you shall find yourself in heaven, waiting on God, who's probably too busy eating dinner to welcome you.
"Do you mean commandments?" I asked.
"Those too," was his response.
Zoogin goes to pre-k in a synagogue and, as a result, there's some religious education tossed into the paste eating and finger painting.
Before I could get the ten commandants from my son, my daughter comes racing over on her razor scooter. She uses the scooter to get around the apartment because it's fucking tiring walking the 20 feet from one room to the other. She says "dad, I can read your mind." "I just need a pen, paper and two cups," she tells me.
So, I tell her to get the cups, the pen, the paper and I tell Zoogin to have a seat and I will change and then he can tell me the commandants and she can read my mind.
As I'm heading into my bedroom the babysitter comes over. "Daddy," she starts, "Zoogin pushed Joogin (not her real name) today."
She then quickly adds that it wasn't a big deal but, she said, "I told him God didn't like that."
(Zoogin seems to bring up the big guy quite a lot these days, even threatened my wife with a god is watching you type remark)
I asked the sitter what Zoogin's response was to the announcement that God didn't like him pushing his sister.
"He didn't see it, he was busy eating dinner," was Zoogin's response.
Zoogin, it seems, has a direct line to the man upstairs. I'm hoping this works out for me down the road because, given the other shit in my life, having an "in" with god might be a good thing for me.
So, I quickly change and I head back out to the table. My daughter says "dad, I know what you're thinking about" and she starts writing.
I ask her what I'm thinking about and she holds up the paper.
"Hot Chicks" is written on the page.
I tell my daughter I'm always thinking of hot chicks. She then starts tearing up paper and writing on the cups for some trick that turns out to be not a trick and she did it wrong and it made no sense but I pretended to be mystified by her mad mind reading skills and she seemed genuinely thrilled by it all.
Then I gave Zoogin the floor.
Ok Z, give me the Ten Commandants, According to Zoogin.
so, without further adieu, here they are.
10. Don't Lick
9. Don't eat in the bedroom
8 Try not to pee in your pants (I think this is actually one of the Ten Suggestions)
7. Be Respectful of Everyone
6. Don't Kill. (he then fell to the floor, legs akimbo, playing dead and said "don't make someone like this forever. I guess he felt I needed help with the don't kill part)
5. Be nice to moms and dads or brothers and sisters and boyfriends and girlfriends
4. Don't say bad words like stupid or idiot or shit (he whispered the last one)
3. Love Everybody
2. Don't Jump on the couch
It should be noted that the last one, the primo commandant according to Zoogin was, originally, I love my daddy but his sister informed him that announcing he loved his daddy wasn't a commandment so he had to pick another one. And picking another one led to...
1. Don't pick your boogers.
There you have it. Follow those ten commandants and you shall find yourself in heaven, waiting on God, who's probably too busy eating dinner to welcome you.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The Sacrificial Lamb
I've been debating posting any of this crap as it will either make me look like I'm seeking pity or some other shit and I'm not. I think it might just be nice to get it off my chest and, since I will probably wind up sending an email to a few of the parties involved, it might actually help.
So, be forewarned. It isn't funny. It isn't happy. It is nothing more than the shit I deal with on a daily basis.
This weekend, after a nice day spent at our beach club, we packed up the kids and headed to my parents' place. Over the course of the weekend I swallowed my tongue on several occasions as my brother in law created more chaos that I have to clean up.
For starters, he told my dad he was moving out. Vacating the office space we shared. So, my father and I discussed it and I said I had a tenant if he was really moving. "He's gone. End of May the space is available."
So I got a tenant. Same amount the deadbeat was supposed to pay. Then, in talking to the new tenant, I found that he only needed one of the offices and I found us a second tenant. So, we went from carrying this piece of shit to actually reducing our rent. Win win.
Until Saturday night. I went out to dinner with the deadbeat and my sister and another couple who we are both friendly with. (don't ask how he can afford to dine out at an expensive restaurant, it's beyond me). Over the course of the meal he's talking up how he's "streamlining" his company, focusing on one area to maximize profits etc. Truth is, he's abandoning the old company and his wife will start a new that he will work for. This way he won't drag his shitty history into yet another company. Someone at the table asked him where he was moving his offices to. He said he wasn't moving. I was perplexed and I asked him about it. He said "I told your father I was moving into one office."
Great, now I need to tell one tenant he's out and reduce the rent of the other guy because he's taking less space as a result of the non-moving piece of shit.
I get the chaos, he lies to either me or my dad and winds up with free rent.
Sunday night, the whole family has a big dinner. This means the deadbeat has been drinking since 3 and by 8 at night, he's a fat, slurring sweaty mess. After the meal, my son, his kids, my older sister, my other brother in law, my wife, my mother and the other kids are all sitting around the table talking. My dad, my daughter and the deadbeat's wife are all watching tv in another room. The phone rings. My brother in law (the good one) picks up the phone. It's the bank calling for my father. I take the call, figuring, cold call. Who else calls on Sunday night?
Turns out it's a serious call. My father's line of credit is way overdrawn and way behind in payments. My father has no line of credit. Well, he does but he obtained it, using a business I own with him and my sisters, for the deadbeat. So, the deadbeat is behind and overdrawn. I explain to the woman on the phone that I will handle the overdraft and the late payments Tuesday morning, as soon as the bank opens and I hang up. My brother in law, who is overdrawn and late, goes into a nice little riff on how my father must be getting old and he probably can't manage all of his accounts anymore and that would be why he is bouncing checks and late on his payments.
Um, right. You fucking leech.
I say nothing.
Monday we go fishing. Me, my kids, my older nephew, deadbeat and his kids. We're out for about 2 hours when the kids (his) want to head in and get yoohoos and candy. So, we pack up and go. We pull into the marina and I'm going to tie us up but I see no lines. I ask if they (the deadbeat and the older nephew) if they can grab some lines. My nephew jumps up and starts opening compartments, looking for lines. The bloated deadbeat? Sits there, pointing to the compartment next to him. He could lean over and grab the lines without lifting more than half an over sized ass cheek. Does he? No. He points. My nephew has to walk around the boat to grab the lines. He does. As I'm tying up, the deadbeat jumps off, grabs his kids and heads up, leaving me, the kids, my dad and my nephew to tie up. I help my daughter off and she follows them up. The rest of us tie up with my dad and my son hanging out.
I finish tying up, grab my nephew and my son and up we go. We stop to check out the fishermen filleting their hauls. As we head up to the marina my nephew, who is 14, says "you think deadbeat's gonna ask for money?"
He's 14 and he sees it.
Sure as shit, the door to the shop slams open and the fat fuck comes barrelling out mumbling "is he coming up or do I have to down and get the money from him?"
Fucking guy rushes off and doesn't bring money.
Total scumbag.
I head into the shop and I ask how much for the kids' stuff and one more yoohoo and a bag of skittles.
$8.
This piece of shit couldn't spring for $6 worth of shit for three kids (I added my son to the mix afterward).
I paid.
Back on the boat and then to the marina that we dock the boat in. I hop off the boat, one foot on, one off to get the 4 kids off. Fatty sits there, doesn't move.
I contemplate dropping his annoying kids into the water.
I walk the kids up to the waiting cars and then head back to our slip to help tie up. My father is backing up the boat as my nephew is keeping us from banging into stuff.
Fatty sits.
If there was an Olympic event for sitting and sweating, he'd be banned from the sport for being too fucking good.
I tie up. My nephew offloads 7 rods and heads up to put them in the car. Fatty grabs a small rod and leaves for the car.
I tie up and I carry my kids shoes, sweatshirts, hats, my binoculars (gift from a friend, wanted to try them out - very cool), my father's stuff, some other shit that needs to be repaired and deadbeat's kids stuff.
that's right, this fat lazy piece of shit was sitting in the car while I carried his shit.
We head home and I'm sitting, alone, with my brother in law (the good one). We're away from everyone. We're sitting there talking and he asks for my take on the yacht club thing. Along with milking my old man for $100k and more in cash, he's requested (presumably with my sister) that my parents buy them a yacht club membership to go with the golf club membership they buy him each year.
I tell the good one that I think it's a joke. I tell him I can't believe the balls of this guy, asking for all that money and then asking for golf and yacht club memberships. I say, if it were me, I'd cut back before taking but, on the bright side, the house will be much quieter (a reference to their annoying whiny kids and the screaming deadbeat does). The good one says "yeah, it will be quieter until lunch, not like they'll pay for lunch."
Then he laughs and says "no, wait, he'll charge that to your dad too."
I tell him not to be so sure. I tell him how my father cut off the house account on the membership when the cheap fuck charged $10 worth of golf balls to my dad. Every week for two months.
Suddenly, my mother screams at me. She calls me jealous. She says I'm acting like a little girl. I just shake my head back and forth. My mother was eaves dropping, waiting, in the house, a good 10, 15 feet away, listening to us.
I tell her I am acting like a big girl and it ends there.
Or so I thought.
I decide to let it go. I know now that my mother is willing to destroy what's left of her relationship with her son, her blood, in an effort to protect this piece of shit.
There's no point discussing it with her as she will accuse me of having a persecution complex and god knows what else. Guess what? When someone eaves drops and waits for 20 minutes before alerting you to their presence, you should have a persecution complex because you're being monitored and observed for wrongdoing.
I decided late Monday night that I am finished with this bullshit. I am no longer going to be involved in dealings with this crap. It's boring. It depresses me and the hurt and aggravation isn't going to make my life better.
Then my dad comes to work today.
He says he spoke with deadbeat and that we should
and I cut him off. I say, very calmly, "listen, it's best if you deal with the new tenant and deadbeat. I'm tired of being in the middle and being blamed for all the problems. I'm tired of having everyone watch me with a scornful eye when they don't know the whole story and I'm tired of listening to one thing and having to play fix and clean up when the truth finally comes out. From now on, you deal with it and I won't be put into positions that make my life difficult."
My father goes mental. I'm a shit stirrer. I'm this I'm that.
So I tell him, I tell him how his golden boy said he was too old to manage his own account and how I sat there, biting my tongue. My old man accused me of making this up. He called my brother in law (the good one) to confirm. I walked out.
My father, too, has offered me up as a sacrifice so as to protect my brother in law from...?
From what?
I'd say they're protecting my sister from knowing she married a deadbeat but I think she knows that.
How could she not?
So, I leave. I go to verizon to deal with some shit, I get myself lunch etc.
I come back and there's a check from the deadbeat's business account, payable to my company, on my desk.
What the fuck? $2,194? He doesn't owe me anything. I don't want his money.
My father comes in to talk about something and asks "did you see the check?"
"um, yeah dad. why is he paying me with money that is going to be taken from you anyway? why am I getting money?"
Apparently, he's paying me for the work I did. I didn't do any so I'm considering this some lame fucking attempt to buy me off.
It won't work.
I'm drafting an email to the two people who claim to be my parents and I'm explaining to them the concept of love and blood and all that crap. I'm explaining that even Jeffrey Dahmer's mother probably sat and showed support when he was on trial.
Me? I get thrown under a bus for $2,194.
So, be forewarned. It isn't funny. It isn't happy. It is nothing more than the shit I deal with on a daily basis.
This weekend, after a nice day spent at our beach club, we packed up the kids and headed to my parents' place. Over the course of the weekend I swallowed my tongue on several occasions as my brother in law created more chaos that I have to clean up.
For starters, he told my dad he was moving out. Vacating the office space we shared. So, my father and I discussed it and I said I had a tenant if he was really moving. "He's gone. End of May the space is available."
So I got a tenant. Same amount the deadbeat was supposed to pay. Then, in talking to the new tenant, I found that he only needed one of the offices and I found us a second tenant. So, we went from carrying this piece of shit to actually reducing our rent. Win win.
Until Saturday night. I went out to dinner with the deadbeat and my sister and another couple who we are both friendly with. (don't ask how he can afford to dine out at an expensive restaurant, it's beyond me). Over the course of the meal he's talking up how he's "streamlining" his company, focusing on one area to maximize profits etc. Truth is, he's abandoning the old company and his wife will start a new that he will work for. This way he won't drag his shitty history into yet another company. Someone at the table asked him where he was moving his offices to. He said he wasn't moving. I was perplexed and I asked him about it. He said "I told your father I was moving into one office."
Great, now I need to tell one tenant he's out and reduce the rent of the other guy because he's taking less space as a result of the non-moving piece of shit.
I get the chaos, he lies to either me or my dad and winds up with free rent.
Sunday night, the whole family has a big dinner. This means the deadbeat has been drinking since 3 and by 8 at night, he's a fat, slurring sweaty mess. After the meal, my son, his kids, my older sister, my other brother in law, my wife, my mother and the other kids are all sitting around the table talking. My dad, my daughter and the deadbeat's wife are all watching tv in another room. The phone rings. My brother in law (the good one) picks up the phone. It's the bank calling for my father. I take the call, figuring, cold call. Who else calls on Sunday night?
Turns out it's a serious call. My father's line of credit is way overdrawn and way behind in payments. My father has no line of credit. Well, he does but he obtained it, using a business I own with him and my sisters, for the deadbeat. So, the deadbeat is behind and overdrawn. I explain to the woman on the phone that I will handle the overdraft and the late payments Tuesday morning, as soon as the bank opens and I hang up. My brother in law, who is overdrawn and late, goes into a nice little riff on how my father must be getting old and he probably can't manage all of his accounts anymore and that would be why he is bouncing checks and late on his payments.
Um, right. You fucking leech.
I say nothing.
Monday we go fishing. Me, my kids, my older nephew, deadbeat and his kids. We're out for about 2 hours when the kids (his) want to head in and get yoohoos and candy. So, we pack up and go. We pull into the marina and I'm going to tie us up but I see no lines. I ask if they (the deadbeat and the older nephew) if they can grab some lines. My nephew jumps up and starts opening compartments, looking for lines. The bloated deadbeat? Sits there, pointing to the compartment next to him. He could lean over and grab the lines without lifting more than half an over sized ass cheek. Does he? No. He points. My nephew has to walk around the boat to grab the lines. He does. As I'm tying up, the deadbeat jumps off, grabs his kids and heads up, leaving me, the kids, my dad and my nephew to tie up. I help my daughter off and she follows them up. The rest of us tie up with my dad and my son hanging out.
I finish tying up, grab my nephew and my son and up we go. We stop to check out the fishermen filleting their hauls. As we head up to the marina my nephew, who is 14, says "you think deadbeat's gonna ask for money?"
He's 14 and he sees it.
Sure as shit, the door to the shop slams open and the fat fuck comes barrelling out mumbling "is he coming up or do I have to down and get the money from him?"
Fucking guy rushes off and doesn't bring money.
Total scumbag.
I head into the shop and I ask how much for the kids' stuff and one more yoohoo and a bag of skittles.
$8.
This piece of shit couldn't spring for $6 worth of shit for three kids (I added my son to the mix afterward).
I paid.
Back on the boat and then to the marina that we dock the boat in. I hop off the boat, one foot on, one off to get the 4 kids off. Fatty sits there, doesn't move.
I contemplate dropping his annoying kids into the water.
I walk the kids up to the waiting cars and then head back to our slip to help tie up. My father is backing up the boat as my nephew is keeping us from banging into stuff.
Fatty sits.
If there was an Olympic event for sitting and sweating, he'd be banned from the sport for being too fucking good.
I tie up. My nephew offloads 7 rods and heads up to put them in the car. Fatty grabs a small rod and leaves for the car.
I tie up and I carry my kids shoes, sweatshirts, hats, my binoculars (gift from a friend, wanted to try them out - very cool), my father's stuff, some other shit that needs to be repaired and deadbeat's kids stuff.
that's right, this fat lazy piece of shit was sitting in the car while I carried his shit.
We head home and I'm sitting, alone, with my brother in law (the good one). We're away from everyone. We're sitting there talking and he asks for my take on the yacht club thing. Along with milking my old man for $100k and more in cash, he's requested (presumably with my sister) that my parents buy them a yacht club membership to go with the golf club membership they buy him each year.
I tell the good one that I think it's a joke. I tell him I can't believe the balls of this guy, asking for all that money and then asking for golf and yacht club memberships. I say, if it were me, I'd cut back before taking but, on the bright side, the house will be much quieter (a reference to their annoying whiny kids and the screaming deadbeat does). The good one says "yeah, it will be quieter until lunch, not like they'll pay for lunch."
Then he laughs and says "no, wait, he'll charge that to your dad too."
I tell him not to be so sure. I tell him how my father cut off the house account on the membership when the cheap fuck charged $10 worth of golf balls to my dad. Every week for two months.
Suddenly, my mother screams at me. She calls me jealous. She says I'm acting like a little girl. I just shake my head back and forth. My mother was eaves dropping, waiting, in the house, a good 10, 15 feet away, listening to us.
I tell her I am acting like a big girl and it ends there.
Or so I thought.
I decide to let it go. I know now that my mother is willing to destroy what's left of her relationship with her son, her blood, in an effort to protect this piece of shit.
There's no point discussing it with her as she will accuse me of having a persecution complex and god knows what else. Guess what? When someone eaves drops and waits for 20 minutes before alerting you to their presence, you should have a persecution complex because you're being monitored and observed for wrongdoing.
I decided late Monday night that I am finished with this bullshit. I am no longer going to be involved in dealings with this crap. It's boring. It depresses me and the hurt and aggravation isn't going to make my life better.
Then my dad comes to work today.
He says he spoke with deadbeat and that we should
and I cut him off. I say, very calmly, "listen, it's best if you deal with the new tenant and deadbeat. I'm tired of being in the middle and being blamed for all the problems. I'm tired of having everyone watch me with a scornful eye when they don't know the whole story and I'm tired of listening to one thing and having to play fix and clean up when the truth finally comes out. From now on, you deal with it and I won't be put into positions that make my life difficult."
My father goes mental. I'm a shit stirrer. I'm this I'm that.
So I tell him, I tell him how his golden boy said he was too old to manage his own account and how I sat there, biting my tongue. My old man accused me of making this up. He called my brother in law (the good one) to confirm. I walked out.
My father, too, has offered me up as a sacrifice so as to protect my brother in law from...?
From what?
I'd say they're protecting my sister from knowing she married a deadbeat but I think she knows that.
How could she not?
So, I leave. I go to verizon to deal with some shit, I get myself lunch etc.
I come back and there's a check from the deadbeat's business account, payable to my company, on my desk.
What the fuck? $2,194? He doesn't owe me anything. I don't want his money.
My father comes in to talk about something and asks "did you see the check?"
"um, yeah dad. why is he paying me with money that is going to be taken from you anyway? why am I getting money?"
Apparently, he's paying me for the work I did. I didn't do any so I'm considering this some lame fucking attempt to buy me off.
It won't work.
I'm drafting an email to the two people who claim to be my parents and I'm explaining to them the concept of love and blood and all that crap. I'm explaining that even Jeffrey Dahmer's mother probably sat and showed support when he was on trial.
Me? I get thrown under a bus for $2,194.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Ouch
The pain sits behind my right eye. It's a dull throb when it ebbs and a serrated knife twisting around and around when hits its peak. The pain is so bad that it makes me want to vomit. It's brutal. When the throb turns to knife, the sweat comes. Little spiders crawling through my hair, twisting and weaving over my scalp, down to my neck, meeting and joining with other spiders. Bigger now. Fat rivulets sliding down my chest and back.
Then the knife stops twisting, the throb returns, the sweats subside and I'm freezing. Shivering. It's 80 fucking degrees and I'm cold.
This is how I woke up this morning. This is how I showered. I was actually sweating in the shower. Is that even possible. I showered, I tried to dry off and the water kept pouring out of me. I drank two bottles of water to try and replenish my already low supply. My futil attempt at hydration resulted in the nausea. I guzzled the water making my stomach ache as much as my head.
Well done Floogin.
I went back to bed. I never do this.
I woke up at 8. Let's see....nausea? Check....Burning, aching throb in the head? Check....Take another shower.
Second shower didn't help.
Got dressed, using the Lamaze breathing whenever the pain grew to the point of unbearable, creating the urge to spew water and whatever else was residing in my gut.
Noticed the blood on the pillowcase. Not much but where the fuck did that come from? Ran to the bathroom, looked for cuts on my face, neck, shoulders. Found none.
Ebola?
Maybe.
Got myself dressed, still doing the Lamaze thing, trying to will the pain away.
My son is on cloud nine, Daddy's taking him to school today.
Daddy's wishing for death and can't let the little guy see how miserable he is. So, off we go, holding Floogin Junior's hand. It's hot out,I'm walking with my boy, the dull throb is almost bearable when, suddenly, my hair is wet, my shirt is sticking to my body, I'm blinded by pain and, if I had any food in me, I'd be puking right there, on the sidewalk, possibly on my kid.
I'm considering handing my son off to someone and leaping in front of a bus when I hear his voice, faint, barely audible over the pounding in my head and the normal morning chaos and cacaphony.
"This is the best day ever daddy. I love you. I want to walk to school with you every morning."
And through this agony, this blinding pain, this vomit swallowing hell, I'm smiling. Beaming.
I get to the school and the teacher shows me the book my son put together. They all did a "this is me" type book. Pictures they drew with things like "I'm 4, My favorite color is blue" and so on.
I flip through the book and there, at the end , the last page I see.
I'm happiest when "my daddy plays with me alone."
I'm sad when "my daddy plays with my sister."
When I grow up I want to be "a daddy like my daddy, he's the best."
I'm still swallowing bile, sweating and near death, dying from the pounding in my head but I'm smiling. Big time.
Sadly, I am supposed to meet a friend for drinks tonight and the thought of vodka is making me want to puke. Yes, it's a hangover, not a tumor or some other horrific thing.
Never did find out where the blood came from.
Then the knife stops twisting, the throb returns, the sweats subside and I'm freezing. Shivering. It's 80 fucking degrees and I'm cold.
This is how I woke up this morning. This is how I showered. I was actually sweating in the shower. Is that even possible. I showered, I tried to dry off and the water kept pouring out of me. I drank two bottles of water to try and replenish my already low supply. My futil attempt at hydration resulted in the nausea. I guzzled the water making my stomach ache as much as my head.
Well done Floogin.
I went back to bed. I never do this.
I woke up at 8. Let's see....nausea? Check....Burning, aching throb in the head? Check....Take another shower.
Second shower didn't help.
Got dressed, using the Lamaze breathing whenever the pain grew to the point of unbearable, creating the urge to spew water and whatever else was residing in my gut.
Noticed the blood on the pillowcase. Not much but where the fuck did that come from? Ran to the bathroom, looked for cuts on my face, neck, shoulders. Found none.
Ebola?
Maybe.
Got myself dressed, still doing the Lamaze thing, trying to will the pain away.
My son is on cloud nine, Daddy's taking him to school today.
Daddy's wishing for death and can't let the little guy see how miserable he is. So, off we go, holding Floogin Junior's hand. It's hot out,I'm walking with my boy, the dull throb is almost bearable when, suddenly, my hair is wet, my shirt is sticking to my body, I'm blinded by pain and, if I had any food in me, I'd be puking right there, on the sidewalk, possibly on my kid.
I'm considering handing my son off to someone and leaping in front of a bus when I hear his voice, faint, barely audible over the pounding in my head and the normal morning chaos and cacaphony.
"This is the best day ever daddy. I love you. I want to walk to school with you every morning."
And through this agony, this blinding pain, this vomit swallowing hell, I'm smiling. Beaming.
I get to the school and the teacher shows me the book my son put together. They all did a "this is me" type book. Pictures they drew with things like "I'm 4, My favorite color is blue" and so on.
I flip through the book and there, at the end , the last page I see.
I'm happiest when "my daddy plays with me alone."
I'm sad when "my daddy plays with my sister."
When I grow up I want to be "a daddy like my daddy, he's the best."
I'm still swallowing bile, sweating and near death, dying from the pounding in my head but I'm smiling. Big time.
Sadly, I am supposed to meet a friend for drinks tonight and the thought of vodka is making me want to puke. Yes, it's a hangover, not a tumor or some other horrific thing.
Never did find out where the blood came from.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Floogin Coins a New Word and Gets Gum Shoed
I referred to someone, ok, I referred to a group of people as halftards and the recipient of this comment mentioned that they liked the word but never heard it. I realized that I made it up. Right there, on the spot, I referred to this group as halftards without a thought.
So, I realized, a definition was needed. Etymology is simple. It comes from ancient McNoogin.
halftard
hahf tahrd
noun
someone who is too fucking stupid to be worth the time, not retarded enough to qualify for sympathy.
Halftards are lower on the social scale than a fucktard because fucktards are often thought to be acting intentionally retarded to garner sympathy or annoy the shit out of you. Halftards are really retarded without the clinical diagnosis.
Fell free to use it, pass it around, etc. Just remember, it's M C N O O G I N when you give me credit.
So, I've been bored with myself of late. I finished the bulk of the clusterfuck of work and I have found myself unable to sit still or do much of anything. I can't focus, can't write, the weather mostly sucks so there's no point leaving early to enjoy the day. Some anonymous halftard (see how it's used) thought I should write about the gum on the bottom of my shoe. I thought that odd since I did have gum on the bottom of my shoe but this anonymous person, who's old enough to still say Jay is no Johnny and Johnny was no Jack Parr, apparently knows about the gum. So, I wonder, did they put it there? Did they raid my closet one night and check my shoes for gum? Is it commonplace to have a wad of gum underfooot?
No, can't be. This wad is not the standard gray or green. It's brown. It has a couple of hairs stuck in it. It's gross and I know, you're thinking "Floogin, you halftard (again, proper usage), that's not gum, it's shit."
Well, I know it isn't shit. It's too gooey to be shit, it doesn't smell like shit and it has a slight mint taste to it so who's the halftard? (again, see that usage?)
Speaking of shit. I've heard people say "oh, he's such an ass, he thinks his shit don't stink."
Not about me but, I'm sure, someone, somewhere, has said it or thought it and, I think, perhaps, now is as good a time as any to address this issue.
Yes, my shit does stink. Bad. I think it might, actually, stink worse than other people's shit. No, I'm not stinky shit elitist, it's just an observation.
I can walk into the bathroom, inhale and get a whiff of someone else's eau d'anus and the first thing that comes to mind (after "mmm, peppers and cheese") is "lightweight."
The shit they drop might make a kid gag but the presence of a kernel of my shit leaves a thick residue on the windows which kinda sucks if you want to crack the window for some air but, otherwise, it's downright amazing. The room becomes a shit sauna where anyone who enters must endure the rectal vapors and the pungeont air and if they are fortunate enough to merely swallow their vomit, well, good on them.
How the hell did I go from gum on my shoe to brown airy joy? Blame that anonymous halftard who thought gum on my shoe was as good a topic as the mistakes I made in my life.
Everything I've done in my life has led to something else and, having not yet experienced a living dead end, I can say there've been no mistakes.
Thus, you ask me how I'd change things and I take a shit instead.
So, I realized, a definition was needed. Etymology is simple. It comes from ancient McNoogin.
halftard
hahf tahrd
noun
someone who is too fucking stupid to be worth the time, not retarded enough to qualify for sympathy.
Halftards are lower on the social scale than a fucktard because fucktards are often thought to be acting intentionally retarded to garner sympathy or annoy the shit out of you. Halftards are really retarded without the clinical diagnosis.
Fell free to use it, pass it around, etc. Just remember, it's M C N O O G I N when you give me credit.
So, I've been bored with myself of late. I finished the bulk of the clusterfuck of work and I have found myself unable to sit still or do much of anything. I can't focus, can't write, the weather mostly sucks so there's no point leaving early to enjoy the day. Some anonymous halftard (see how it's used) thought I should write about the gum on the bottom of my shoe. I thought that odd since I did have gum on the bottom of my shoe but this anonymous person, who's old enough to still say Jay is no Johnny and Johnny was no Jack Parr, apparently knows about the gum. So, I wonder, did they put it there? Did they raid my closet one night and check my shoes for gum? Is it commonplace to have a wad of gum underfooot?
No, can't be. This wad is not the standard gray or green. It's brown. It has a couple of hairs stuck in it. It's gross and I know, you're thinking "Floogin, you halftard (again, proper usage), that's not gum, it's shit."
Well, I know it isn't shit. It's too gooey to be shit, it doesn't smell like shit and it has a slight mint taste to it so who's the halftard? (again, see that usage?)
Speaking of shit. I've heard people say "oh, he's such an ass, he thinks his shit don't stink."
Not about me but, I'm sure, someone, somewhere, has said it or thought it and, I think, perhaps, now is as good a time as any to address this issue.
Yes, my shit does stink. Bad. I think it might, actually, stink worse than other people's shit. No, I'm not stinky shit elitist, it's just an observation.
I can walk into the bathroom, inhale and get a whiff of someone else's eau d'anus and the first thing that comes to mind (after "mmm, peppers and cheese") is "lightweight."
The shit they drop might make a kid gag but the presence of a kernel of my shit leaves a thick residue on the windows which kinda sucks if you want to crack the window for some air but, otherwise, it's downright amazing. The room becomes a shit sauna where anyone who enters must endure the rectal vapors and the pungeont air and if they are fortunate enough to merely swallow their vomit, well, good on them.
How the hell did I go from gum on my shoe to brown airy joy? Blame that anonymous halftard who thought gum on my shoe was as good a topic as the mistakes I made in my life.
Everything I've done in my life has led to something else and, having not yet experienced a living dead end, I can say there've been no mistakes.
Thus, you ask me how I'd change things and I take a shit instead.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I got nothing.
Seriously. Nothing. My life has been so damned boring, there's nothing to make fun of, nothing to brag about, nothing to rant about and nothing to rave about.
I've been buried in work when I shouldn't be. It sucks but, on the bright side, the weather has, for the most part, sucked lately. Two days of sun bookended by a week of rain. Nasty shit that makes the weekends suck even more.
No trip at the end of the month. Cancelled. Swine flu issues made me afraid to leave the kids behind.
I'd talk about how the sports reporters are all talking about the decline in last year's superstars as a result of age and not one has mentioned the possibility that (gasp) maybe they were all juicing and now that they've stopped, age is catching up to them. Yes, this means Big Papi, Moyer, Jeter, Giambi, Sheffield et al. They all cheated, now they need to face aging. I'd talk about it but it's fucking boring.
I'd talk about how my kids will be in Issue 54 of the Spiderman Adventure Book Series, out in August (with Spidey holding up a bunch of cars while staring at a young girl on the cover) but it isn't out yet so there's no point telling you to go buy it.
I'd talk about lots of things, if I had something to say. Has a mild depression settled over our hero? Can he pop out of this normalcy and return to his bumbling oaffish ways?
How about some ideas? Gimme something to talk about, I'll do my best.
I've been buried in work when I shouldn't be. It sucks but, on the bright side, the weather has, for the most part, sucked lately. Two days of sun bookended by a week of rain. Nasty shit that makes the weekends suck even more.
No trip at the end of the month. Cancelled. Swine flu issues made me afraid to leave the kids behind.
I'd talk about how the sports reporters are all talking about the decline in last year's superstars as a result of age and not one has mentioned the possibility that (gasp) maybe they were all juicing and now that they've stopped, age is catching up to them. Yes, this means Big Papi, Moyer, Jeter, Giambi, Sheffield et al. They all cheated, now they need to face aging. I'd talk about it but it's fucking boring.
I'd talk about how my kids will be in Issue 54 of the Spiderman Adventure Book Series, out in August (with Spidey holding up a bunch of cars while staring at a young girl on the cover) but it isn't out yet so there's no point telling you to go buy it.
I'd talk about lots of things, if I had something to say. Has a mild depression settled over our hero? Can he pop out of this normalcy and return to his bumbling oaffish ways?
How about some ideas? Gimme something to talk about, I'll do my best.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Cheer The Fuck Up! Or Don't.
What the hell is it lately? It has pretty much rained some Noah type rains for about a week. Sun is finally out but the forecast is for thunderstorms later today and tonight. All this shitty weather has managed to cast a pall over the city. Everyone's in a shitty mood. Hell, it seems like it might be a global thing.
Over the last 3 days I've heard nothing but misery. Divorce, separation, misery.
That's all I'm hearing.
Isn't the spring supposed to bring out life? Isn't this the time where people are happy again? Weddings. Proms. Graduation. Fishing starts up again. Beaches open, pools open. Parks are filled with kids.
And, yet, everyone's pissed off, depressed or just unhappy.
Can't be the economy, can it? Has the global economic downturn evolved into a globlal mental downturn? Is our collective psyche in synch with the economy?
Can the job instability, the shrinking income, the increasing cost of living all be adding up to equal personal misery?
Sure as shit seems that way.
Is there anything we can do? Besides the usual Floogin method of "fuck it," I'm not sure what else can be done. Ride it out, hope it ends without too many casualties and move on.
So, cheer up, it's not all gloom and doom. Someone, somewhere, is making money in this shitty economy. Someone, somewhere just got a blow job. Someone, somewhere is happy.
Over the last 3 days I've heard nothing but misery. Divorce, separation, misery.
That's all I'm hearing.
Isn't the spring supposed to bring out life? Isn't this the time where people are happy again? Weddings. Proms. Graduation. Fishing starts up again. Beaches open, pools open. Parks are filled with kids.
And, yet, everyone's pissed off, depressed or just unhappy.
Can't be the economy, can it? Has the global economic downturn evolved into a globlal mental downturn? Is our collective psyche in synch with the economy?
Can the job instability, the shrinking income, the increasing cost of living all be adding up to equal personal misery?
Sure as shit seems that way.
Is there anything we can do? Besides the usual Floogin method of "fuck it," I'm not sure what else can be done. Ride it out, hope it ends without too many casualties and move on.
So, cheer up, it's not all gloom and doom. Someone, somewhere, is making money in this shitty economy. Someone, somewhere just got a blow job. Someone, somewhere is happy.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Monday, April 27, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, April 17, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
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
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
Friday, April 10, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
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.
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.
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