So, my wife and I have become somewhat friendly with our son's friend's parents. So much so that, a few weeks back, the two dads went fishing - without the boys.
Well, this kid's mother invited us to hang out with them this weekend. So, we headed out east to see my parents Friday night, spend the morning in the pool and then, after lunch, we were set to move into Sag Harbor for the day. This is where they would pick us up for a day on the boat.
The boat is her brother's 70 foot Viking Cruiser.
A fucking yacht. Not one of those massive, holy shit there's a swimming pool on the boat type yachts but a 3 bedroom, 3 bathroom, has a fucking washer and dryer yacht.
So we got picked up and headed out for a day of pleasure cruising. We anchored off of Montauk, enjoyed the sun, drank and ate and then the back of the boat opened up and a smaller boat was removed from the big boat. It was like the big boat took a dump and shit a smaller boat. Attached to the smaller boat was a big fucking tube with handles. That's right, time to drag the kids (and grown-ups) around the bay.
I took my daughter out on the tube and we were flying. I decided to give us some fun and moved us back and forth across the wake, giving us air time, scaring the shit out of my daughter.
I took my son and things didn't go quite as well. We kept getting dunked. He was freaking out - rightfully so as he was basically being water boarded. The second time I took my daughter out, things didn't go quite as well. I did the wake jump and she got scared. Thought I was going to fall off.
The wife went with the other mother - truly comical. The captain tried to dump them, to no avail.
I've been on all kinds of boats, but this was a first and it was a fucking treat. The captain was a prick, docked in Montauk, claiming there was a risk of fog. Being somewhat experienced on the water, I knew he was full of shit as, even if it was foggy, we were merely moving along the channel, the guy has auto pilot to guide him and the tide was up so the risk of running aground was minimal but I said nothing. When the boss's sister found out we were being left in Montauk, she was livid. He told her he was low on fuel, which was bullshit since he had just fueled up in Sag Harbor.
Since it was a total treat, I told them we'd take a cab back to the car, nothing to worry about. They wound up giving us their car and they would then get dropped off in Sag Harbor the following day, shaving an hour and a half off their drive back to the city.
I can say that, without a doubt, if I had the means, I'd buy me a nice sized boat, hire a captain and one all purposed crew (nice brazillian girl who handled the kids, cleaned up the boat etc) member and I'd spend most of my time tooling around the islands in the winter and the north east in the summer.
Of course, to do this, I'll need about 2.5 to 3 million for a boat like the one I was on and I'd need several thousand a week to maintain the boat and the crew but, if I have 3 million in disposable funds, I'm guessing the inflow of new monies will be good enough to sustain this lifestyle.
Sadly, I doubt I'll ever get there but I'll keep dreaming.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Scenes from an Italian Wedding..
A bottle of red,
A bottle of white,
Fuck that, pass the Jack.
Yesterday I had to attend a wedding. In Jersey. My wife's brother in law's niece was getting hitched. It was, about 85 degrees and humid and I had to put a fucking tuxedo on to attend this massive italian wedding in Jersey. That meant, not only putting the most complicated and pointless gear ever worn (studs, cuff links, suspenders, bow tie), but driving to Jersey, against the traffic so that I would be stuck in weekend traffic on the way home.
The family on my sister in law's side is great. She married a great guy. Italian, catholic. His brother, the bride's dad, is a DEA agent, formerly undercover. He's cool as hell but being surrounded by all those cops made this drug user a bit uneasy, even if I wasn't carrying anything (sadly).
We got there in no time and I knew we were in for some people watching fun when we pulled up to the place. This was right out of Real Housewives Of NJ. One of those party halls, all marble and sparkles. The cocktail hour room was the size of a fucking football field and there was enough food to feed all of Africa into food comas. We're talking every conceivable appetizer under the sun, and then some. They had a raw bar adorned with a massive ice sculpture of the Jets logo. Not a joke. Both families are big time Jets fans and the hapless team was given its props throughout the wedding.
Since I don't eat carbs, I had to wander around this massive room in search of the proper foods. I hit paydirt at the pulled pork counter. They had a whole pig sitting there and the guy serving the pork would lift the skin back and literally pull the meat off the carcass. If that isn't nasty enough, the pig was wearing a little chef's hat and sunglasses. I was, as a jew, mildly offended.
Of course the pork was delicious so I ignored the totally unkosher aspect of this portion of the evening and I devoured as many handfuls of the tender, stringy meat as they could yank from the ass of the poor, dead animal.
Once this portion of the evening was over, I was easily 5 drinks into the night and, somehow, barely buzzed. If the Jack wasn't going to work, I was fucked.
We were ushered into a ballroom that dwarfed the cocktail hour room. We found our table and watched as they played a video on two massive screens. The video was a Jets promotional video, complete with some warlike music, that was cleverly edited to include pictures of the bride and groom and their respective families. Then the lights went out and spotlights lit up the wall above the dance floor.
Suddenly, curtains pulled back, revealing a room upstairs, overlooking the ballroom. It was as if the owner's box and the stadium was opening up to view a game. Guns N' Roses "welcome to the jungle" started playing and the band (band in the sense that they played the recorded songs and then sang over them) announced the wedding party, one by fucking one. As the party was announced, they would walk down the steps and head towards the other end of the room. Each guy in the wedding party was carrying a small Jets football which they proceeded to throw at the guests.
Then, after the entire wedding party was on the dance floor, the first strains of Van Halen's "hot for teacher" played over the sound system. (The couple are both teachers, get it? Cute, right?)
Sorry, I had to swallow my vomit.
The couple came out and then they did their first dance and then the bride danced with her dad, the groom danced with his mom, the band still not playing anything, only moving around to the prerecorded music of actual bands. Then they kicked into a very extended Michael Jackson tribute with a couple of singers singing over the actual Jackson songs.
The meal itself wasn't bad. The toasts were horrific. Long, boring toasts by the Maid of Honor and the Best Man, made even worse by the shitty sound system. Then, at some point, the tarantella was played. The families from both sides got up and held hands and started dancing around in a big circle and...what the fuck?
The tarantella is the hora. The same fucking dance, different music. Truth is, I kinda felt like I was in the Godfather with the music playing. After the tarantella the band kicked into...wait for it...VOLARE!!!
No kidding. My only knowledge of this song is from the movie The Wanderers (great fucking flick) and The Hollywood Knights (another great movie).
For those not in the know, in Hollywood Knights, Nubomb Turk (Robert Wuhl) farts Volare. Classic scene.
Ken Wahl in Wanderers, Robert Wuhl in Hollywood Knights. Coincidence? I think not.
We ate, I drank a ton, we danced and then, the did the bouquet toss to the single broads. The women were clawing and fighting and jockeying for position and one fat chick actually dove for the flowers. She caught the bouquet, hit the floor, rolled and jumped up to show off her victorious grab.
Somewhere in the room, her date contemplated suicide.
Then they called for the single guys so the groom could throw the garter.
5 or 6 guys reluctantly meandered onto the dance floor, shoved by their aunts, uncles, parents, girlfriends.
The groom slid his hand up his bride's dress, removed the garter and then, with his back to the guys, threw the garter.
And it whistled through air, turning and rolling and the crowd parted and it landed on the floor in the middle of the single guys. One of these poor schmucks, realizing everyone was watching them, bent down and picked it up.
Everyone cheered.
Somewhere in the room, his date felt a little moist in the crotch as she contemplated their wedding.
They cut the cake and then they did some serious pyrotechnics. I'm unsure as to what the hell they were doing but there was a massive fire being tinkered with as they put on some strange show.
This was a standard diversionary tactic.
Why?
Because, while they were playing firestarter in the middle of the dance floor, the wall behind me was being rolled away to reveal the biggest fucking dessert buffet known to man. They had ben and jerry's ice cream bars, cotton candy, chocolate fondue towers, cakes, pastries, ice cream, even burgers and chicken nuggets that were, actually, desserts made to look like mcdonalds meals.
This is always the toughest part of the night for me so I decided it was time to pee.
I'm standing at a urinal, doing my thing, when two young guys walk in, saunter over to urinals and as they stood there pissing, one guy says "Andrea Boccelli?"
The other guy said "yup. I always feel like I'm about to get whacked when I pee here."
It was that kind of crowd.
The women were mostly short, fat and wearing too tight dresses. Lots of boobs jiggling and spilling out of outfits. Lots of women dancing with beer bottles in hand.
Class, to this group, was something you did at the community college.
I managed to drag my wife away from the desserts after her third trip through the room.
We left a little after 11 and were in our apartment a little after 12:30.
The ride there took less than 20 minutes. Getting the car and then sitting in the fucking bridge traffic we witnessed on the way there took over an hour.
Highlight of the night was talking to the dentist who sat next to me. When he asked how I knew the family, I told him my sister in law married the grooms brother and he said "the jews?"
I was about to say something when my wife asked me a question. When I then told her what he said, her response was "that's what they call Jon, Juice."
A little while later, he was talking to a guy on the other side of the table and the other guy asked if he still hung out with Joe something and the dentist said "nope, he's crazy."
He then went into detail, talking about how, every time he was with the guy all he ever said was...he looked over at me, then my wife, then my mother in law, then back at my wife, then at me...."jew bastard this, jew bastard that."
He must have said jew bastard a dozen or more times.
He could have easily said "the guy was a bit too anti-semitic" or "the guy is a bigot" or some other description but he opted to say jew bastard over and over again.
Good times.
A bottle of white,
Fuck that, pass the Jack.
Yesterday I had to attend a wedding. In Jersey. My wife's brother in law's niece was getting hitched. It was, about 85 degrees and humid and I had to put a fucking tuxedo on to attend this massive italian wedding in Jersey. That meant, not only putting the most complicated and pointless gear ever worn (studs, cuff links, suspenders, bow tie), but driving to Jersey, against the traffic so that I would be stuck in weekend traffic on the way home.
The family on my sister in law's side is great. She married a great guy. Italian, catholic. His brother, the bride's dad, is a DEA agent, formerly undercover. He's cool as hell but being surrounded by all those cops made this drug user a bit uneasy, even if I wasn't carrying anything (sadly).
We got there in no time and I knew we were in for some people watching fun when we pulled up to the place. This was right out of Real Housewives Of NJ. One of those party halls, all marble and sparkles. The cocktail hour room was the size of a fucking football field and there was enough food to feed all of Africa into food comas. We're talking every conceivable appetizer under the sun, and then some. They had a raw bar adorned with a massive ice sculpture of the Jets logo. Not a joke. Both families are big time Jets fans and the hapless team was given its props throughout the wedding.
Since I don't eat carbs, I had to wander around this massive room in search of the proper foods. I hit paydirt at the pulled pork counter. They had a whole pig sitting there and the guy serving the pork would lift the skin back and literally pull the meat off the carcass. If that isn't nasty enough, the pig was wearing a little chef's hat and sunglasses. I was, as a jew, mildly offended.
Of course the pork was delicious so I ignored the totally unkosher aspect of this portion of the evening and I devoured as many handfuls of the tender, stringy meat as they could yank from the ass of the poor, dead animal.
Once this portion of the evening was over, I was easily 5 drinks into the night and, somehow, barely buzzed. If the Jack wasn't going to work, I was fucked.
We were ushered into a ballroom that dwarfed the cocktail hour room. We found our table and watched as they played a video on two massive screens. The video was a Jets promotional video, complete with some warlike music, that was cleverly edited to include pictures of the bride and groom and their respective families. Then the lights went out and spotlights lit up the wall above the dance floor.
Suddenly, curtains pulled back, revealing a room upstairs, overlooking the ballroom. It was as if the owner's box and the stadium was opening up to view a game. Guns N' Roses "welcome to the jungle" started playing and the band (band in the sense that they played the recorded songs and then sang over them) announced the wedding party, one by fucking one. As the party was announced, they would walk down the steps and head towards the other end of the room. Each guy in the wedding party was carrying a small Jets football which they proceeded to throw at the guests.
Then, after the entire wedding party was on the dance floor, the first strains of Van Halen's "hot for teacher" played over the sound system. (The couple are both teachers, get it? Cute, right?)
Sorry, I had to swallow my vomit.
The couple came out and then they did their first dance and then the bride danced with her dad, the groom danced with his mom, the band still not playing anything, only moving around to the prerecorded music of actual bands. Then they kicked into a very extended Michael Jackson tribute with a couple of singers singing over the actual Jackson songs.
The meal itself wasn't bad. The toasts were horrific. Long, boring toasts by the Maid of Honor and the Best Man, made even worse by the shitty sound system. Then, at some point, the tarantella was played. The families from both sides got up and held hands and started dancing around in a big circle and...what the fuck?
The tarantella is the hora. The same fucking dance, different music. Truth is, I kinda felt like I was in the Godfather with the music playing. After the tarantella the band kicked into...wait for it...VOLARE!!!
No kidding. My only knowledge of this song is from the movie The Wanderers (great fucking flick) and The Hollywood Knights (another great movie).
For those not in the know, in Hollywood Knights, Nubomb Turk (Robert Wuhl) farts Volare. Classic scene.
Ken Wahl in Wanderers, Robert Wuhl in Hollywood Knights. Coincidence? I think not.
We ate, I drank a ton, we danced and then, the did the bouquet toss to the single broads. The women were clawing and fighting and jockeying for position and one fat chick actually dove for the flowers. She caught the bouquet, hit the floor, rolled and jumped up to show off her victorious grab.
Somewhere in the room, her date contemplated suicide.
Then they called for the single guys so the groom could throw the garter.
5 or 6 guys reluctantly meandered onto the dance floor, shoved by their aunts, uncles, parents, girlfriends.
The groom slid his hand up his bride's dress, removed the garter and then, with his back to the guys, threw the garter.
And it whistled through air, turning and rolling and the crowd parted and it landed on the floor in the middle of the single guys. One of these poor schmucks, realizing everyone was watching them, bent down and picked it up.
Everyone cheered.
Somewhere in the room, his date felt a little moist in the crotch as she contemplated their wedding.
They cut the cake and then they did some serious pyrotechnics. I'm unsure as to what the hell they were doing but there was a massive fire being tinkered with as they put on some strange show.
This was a standard diversionary tactic.
Why?
Because, while they were playing firestarter in the middle of the dance floor, the wall behind me was being rolled away to reveal the biggest fucking dessert buffet known to man. They had ben and jerry's ice cream bars, cotton candy, chocolate fondue towers, cakes, pastries, ice cream, even burgers and chicken nuggets that were, actually, desserts made to look like mcdonalds meals.
This is always the toughest part of the night for me so I decided it was time to pee.
I'm standing at a urinal, doing my thing, when two young guys walk in, saunter over to urinals and as they stood there pissing, one guy says "Andrea Boccelli?"
The other guy said "yup. I always feel like I'm about to get whacked when I pee here."
It was that kind of crowd.
The women were mostly short, fat and wearing too tight dresses. Lots of boobs jiggling and spilling out of outfits. Lots of women dancing with beer bottles in hand.
Class, to this group, was something you did at the community college.
I managed to drag my wife away from the desserts after her third trip through the room.
We left a little after 11 and were in our apartment a little after 12:30.
The ride there took less than 20 minutes. Getting the car and then sitting in the fucking bridge traffic we witnessed on the way there took over an hour.
Highlight of the night was talking to the dentist who sat next to me. When he asked how I knew the family, I told him my sister in law married the grooms brother and he said "the jews?"
I was about to say something when my wife asked me a question. When I then told her what he said, her response was "that's what they call Jon, Juice."
A little while later, he was talking to a guy on the other side of the table and the other guy asked if he still hung out with Joe something and the dentist said "nope, he's crazy."
He then went into detail, talking about how, every time he was with the guy all he ever said was...he looked over at me, then my wife, then my mother in law, then back at my wife, then at me...."jew bastard this, jew bastard that."
He must have said jew bastard a dozen or more times.
He could have easily said "the guy was a bit too anti-semitic" or "the guy is a bigot" or some other description but he opted to say jew bastard over and over again.
Good times.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Big Giant Balls and Paul McCartney
So, I'm trying to get some work done while I transfer all the files from my old pc to the new one. Sweet set up with two monitors. Only problem is that the tech "genius" who set the thing up on Saturday, did so with the PC sitting on my desk. This behemoth takes up a lot of space and now I'm cramped behind a wall of tech. I can't reach my little adding machine and half of my desk is now accessible by foot. That's right, I need to get up and walk around the desk to get shit.
Pointless.
But the pc is cool.
Anyway, I'm sitting here, working on shit, doing the file transfer thing (love those tiny hard drives) and the phone rings. UPS, it seems, must speak with me. So I pick up the phone and ask how I might help them.
The moron on the other end of the line says he's calling to confirm delivery of the camera, a Cannon of some sort, that was shipped on June 20th.
I tell the guy that I never ordered the camera, that his order, on my credit card, didn't arrive here and he should know that the feds are closing in on him. He asks me what I'm talking about and he says he's confirming my address. I tell him that, for starters, UPS doesn't know what's in the boxes they ship and I know this because people use their service to ship drugs all the time, unbeknown to them. Second, I tell the guy, since I never ordered the camera, my address and phone number wouldn't be in the system for the product and, lastly, UPS sucks more ass than the tranny on the corner and, as such, they never get all proactive on lost shipments. If I ordered something and it didn't arrive, I'd be calling them, not vice versa.
The guy says he doesn't know what I'm talking about, he's just confirming my address.
I tell him to keep talking, we're tracing the call and he says there's no need for my accusations. I agree, I'm not accusing, I'm confirming.
I call him a scumbag, tell him he better start running because we got his address and I hang up.
I wish I could watch him running out of his trailer or refrigerator box.
And now for the biggest random segue ever.
When I was in high school I spent a summer travelling around Japan with two friends. Everywhere we went, it was like the circus was in town. This was back in the 80's, travelling american teenagers wasn't a common sight and everyone wanted to meet us, talk to us etc. It was the most incredible experience, we did some amazing stuff, met great people (a-Ha! and Magic Johnson among them) and had a fucking blast. One of my friend was Japanese and spoke the language. So, the first time we heard unintelligible Japanese, ending with Paul McCartney-san, we were confused. He spoke to the woman saying it and he started laughing. He looked at me, looked at the women, back at me and said "they think you look like Paul McCartney from when he was a Beatle."
We heard this the first day in Tokyo. Then we heard it every day, sometimes several times a day, for the next month and a half.
Wherever we went, people wanted to talk to Americans, little kids wanted to be our pen pals and grown women, giggling behind their hands, wanted a picture with Paul McCartney-san.
I obliged. They knew I wasn't him. This wasn't like when I signed autographs as Kiefer Sutherland in college or when I hooked up with two girls during a Paul Young/Nik Kershaw concert because they both thought I was Billy Zabka.
This was simply women who had crushes on a beatle and now were delusional in thinking I looked like The Cute One.
That's right, I said it. You think I'd repeat any of this if they thought I looked like fucking Ringo?
Anyway, we're driving back from the beach last night and the kids are sleeping for the bulk of the 3 hour ride and then, as we approach the midtown tunnel, sitting in fucking traffic, I hear a stirring in the back seat. Then a gasp. Then little Floogin Jr says "Dad, guess what I just saw."
I look around, figuring there's a billboard for GI Joe or the Transformers or some other superhero but there's nothing there.
"What?" I ask.
"You Dada, on a building."
I turn to my wife and tell her it's been confirmed, he'd retarded.
She looks at my son, who is staring out his window, his mouth wide open with the biggest "amazed" look on his face. All smiles and awe. My wife follows his gaze and she laughs and says "Floogin, you look like that picture of Paul McCartney."
Sir Paul played Shea Stadium (fuck that citi field crap) on Friday and Saturday night and he is scheduled to appear there again tomorrow night so the advertisements are still hanging.
There's massive shots of him/me playing the bass, singing and looking all cute and happy.
Now, I'm thinking, this guy is in his 60's, no? Maybe close to 70. And I look like him.
I won't mention the sunburned scalp today. Looking like old Paul is bad enough.
Pointless.
But the pc is cool.
Anyway, I'm sitting here, working on shit, doing the file transfer thing (love those tiny hard drives) and the phone rings. UPS, it seems, must speak with me. So I pick up the phone and ask how I might help them.
The moron on the other end of the line says he's calling to confirm delivery of the camera, a Cannon of some sort, that was shipped on June 20th.
I tell the guy that I never ordered the camera, that his order, on my credit card, didn't arrive here and he should know that the feds are closing in on him. He asks me what I'm talking about and he says he's confirming my address. I tell him that, for starters, UPS doesn't know what's in the boxes they ship and I know this because people use their service to ship drugs all the time, unbeknown to them. Second, I tell the guy, since I never ordered the camera, my address and phone number wouldn't be in the system for the product and, lastly, UPS sucks more ass than the tranny on the corner and, as such, they never get all proactive on lost shipments. If I ordered something and it didn't arrive, I'd be calling them, not vice versa.
The guy says he doesn't know what I'm talking about, he's just confirming my address.
I tell him to keep talking, we're tracing the call and he says there's no need for my accusations. I agree, I'm not accusing, I'm confirming.
I call him a scumbag, tell him he better start running because we got his address and I hang up.
I wish I could watch him running out of his trailer or refrigerator box.
And now for the biggest random segue ever.
When I was in high school I spent a summer travelling around Japan with two friends. Everywhere we went, it was like the circus was in town. This was back in the 80's, travelling american teenagers wasn't a common sight and everyone wanted to meet us, talk to us etc. It was the most incredible experience, we did some amazing stuff, met great people (a-Ha! and Magic Johnson among them) and had a fucking blast. One of my friend was Japanese and spoke the language. So, the first time we heard unintelligible Japanese, ending with Paul McCartney-san, we were confused. He spoke to the woman saying it and he started laughing. He looked at me, looked at the women, back at me and said "they think you look like Paul McCartney from when he was a Beatle."
We heard this the first day in Tokyo. Then we heard it every day, sometimes several times a day, for the next month and a half.
Wherever we went, people wanted to talk to Americans, little kids wanted to be our pen pals and grown women, giggling behind their hands, wanted a picture with Paul McCartney-san.
I obliged. They knew I wasn't him. This wasn't like when I signed autographs as Kiefer Sutherland in college or when I hooked up with two girls during a Paul Young/Nik Kershaw concert because they both thought I was Billy Zabka.
This was simply women who had crushes on a beatle and now were delusional in thinking I looked like The Cute One.
That's right, I said it. You think I'd repeat any of this if they thought I looked like fucking Ringo?
Anyway, we're driving back from the beach last night and the kids are sleeping for the bulk of the 3 hour ride and then, as we approach the midtown tunnel, sitting in fucking traffic, I hear a stirring in the back seat. Then a gasp. Then little Floogin Jr says "Dad, guess what I just saw."
I look around, figuring there's a billboard for GI Joe or the Transformers or some other superhero but there's nothing there.
"What?" I ask.
"You Dada, on a building."
I turn to my wife and tell her it's been confirmed, he'd retarded.
She looks at my son, who is staring out his window, his mouth wide open with the biggest "amazed" look on his face. All smiles and awe. My wife follows his gaze and she laughs and says "Floogin, you look like that picture of Paul McCartney."
Sir Paul played Shea Stadium (fuck that citi field crap) on Friday and Saturday night and he is scheduled to appear there again tomorrow night so the advertisements are still hanging.
There's massive shots of him/me playing the bass, singing and looking all cute and happy.
Now, I'm thinking, this guy is in his 60's, no? Maybe close to 70. And I look like him.
I won't mention the sunburned scalp today. Looking like old Paul is bad enough.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Lord, I was born a ramblin' man....
I have two sisters. The younger one, as you know, is married to a scumbag. The older one is married to a nice guy who is the polar opposite of the gold digging jackass. My sisters, like their husbands, are polar opposites. So, when it comes time to deal with both of them for something, like my dad's upcoming 75th birthday, I a man can easily go insane.
We were discussing toasts and the idiot sister wants to have her deadbeat husband film the kids talking about their papa. This is great. Brilliant idea. He'll do the interviews, he'll ask them all questions, he'll edit the video and he'll present it.
Say what?
That was my sister's suggestion.
Seriously.
So, I figured, I'd be the one to ask the big question. "Who the fuck wants to get up in the middle of the meal and watch a long video?"
It isn't a party with a bunch of people there. It's just us. A video would be the most unwelcome thing ever.
So, I suggested something different. "How about each kid gets up, starting with the youngest or the oldest, and talks about what Papa means to them and what they have done and experienced with him over the number of years they've been around."
I then explained that, after each kid takes a turn, we will each, in turn, get up and do the same thing, with the oldest wrapping it up with an explanation that, while only celebrating 75 years, he has been touching lives for an accumulation of 174 years - or some shit like that.
Both sisters loved the idea. I then suggested that each kid could give a little, silly gift that compliments their speech. My daughter, for example, would give a piece of 7 layer cake from the diner because that is something he has been doing with her, alone, for as long as she can remember.
They loved it.
Then, my idiot sister calls my wife to make plans so the kids can practice. I point out that they are not doing this together and, as of Monday, we had not written anything so practicing would be pointless. My wife calls my sister, explains this to her, she says she agrees, thought it might be nice to get the kids together to work on the toast, etc.
My wife points out that the concept is for each kid to talk about why Papa is special to them.
She says she gets it.
Then she emails me, asking me if I want to bounce ideas for the kids' speeches via email since I'm too busy to get together. I explain that this is an each kid thing and I cannot write her kids' speeches but, perhaps, she and her husband would know more about their kids' relationship with their grandfather than I would.
She responds with "perfection!"
I don't know what that means. I'm expecting this moron to go and do a video forcing me to rewrite my own speech off the cuff.
Another lovely aspect of this birthday and all family birthdays has been the group gift thing. My sisters are cheap fucks and they love to chip in for gifts. I have no problem with this, provided the gift is a good one. When it sucks and it's cheap for three to give it, count me out.
So, I came up with a great idea for my dad and, since my sisters wanted to chip in, I told them what it was. I had my wife research the thing, find the perfect one and then get me a good price.
Then my older sister had to do her own research. She spent two full days doing this. Checking out every variety, even seeing the same model in different stores, to ensure that the salesperson was giving her good intel. She would call me and discuss the things she saw but she cannot figure out how to email links so she would call me up, with the website up on her screen and she'd start reading me the link, the bazillion fucking numbers and letters and symbols.com and after a week of this, she and I agreed that the gift was a good one. Now we needed to find out how much my younger sister was planning on spending.
I send my sister an email, explaining what we found and the various models and styles and this is the price for this one, this is the price for that one and I think this one is perfect and so on and how much do you want to spend so I can get my wife in on the price negotiation and my sister responds with "great! I'll make calls and see who I know that can get us one."
She doesn't know anyone in this arena. She works for a fucking clothing label. She deals with jappy clothes and jappy women and, yet, she thinks she has connections to everything. She always claims to get a discount on all items and she has never, ever come through. Matter of fact, the one time she did have something that I wanted and she actually said she'd get it for me, I gave her a check for $240 for a boatload of tee shirts in all different colors and I never got the shirts.
Or my money back.
So, I email her, explaining that I need to know if she likes what I picked out and, if so, what her budget is.
She emails back that she loves it and she knows someone who knows someone and then she responds to something in the first email that is totally unrelated.
She does this. She answers one part of an email, prompting a response, then she responds to another part of the first email, even though the second email might actually have clarified that.
And so it goes, round and round, with her. I wind up on the phone with both of my sisters. The older one talks about the gift idea for an hour straight. The younger one says "I like it, should I call my friends and see who we know.." We interrupt her, explaining that we have a very good connection for these things and all she needs to do is say yes or no and how much money she wants to spend.
For 3 days we do this.
After hours on the phone with my older sister, she will call back and raise one more point that she has already covered to death, twice.
It's annoying to no end.
Then, finally, my sister understands it all. She tells us what her budget is.
So we get the "cheaper" one. It's very nice but, to be totally honest, I'd have paid that amount myself. Also, we wound up getting it from the manufacturer as they are selling them cheaper than any store. This means, should a problem arise, we are stuck with the company, not a store.
Once we cleared this up, and I agreed to spend about 1/3 of what I was planning on spending, they started talking about my aunt's birthday and how we should chip in, with another relative, to get her something.
I immediately said no. I explained that I felt it was better if we did our own thing from now on. They agreed and then my younger sister emails my wife and says she found the perfect gift, it's $200 and Bobby (the 4th relative) was on board and "do we want to chip in?"
Seriously. She did that. For starters, this is a close aunt, someone who her kids and my older sister's kids have spent plenty of time with (they have a home upstate and my sisters have spent plenty of weekends with them - we've never been able to go). She should spend more than $66 and three on the gift is a dick move to the fourth and my sister doesn't get it because she's cheap, she's stupid and she's got no fucking clue about common courtesy.
Why are so many fat people coming here? Seriously. There are tons of them - literally. They waddle around in groups, taking up large swaths of sidewalk, making it impossible to walk home a nice brisk pace.
Where do these fat people come from? Is there some travel agency that caters to porkers? Do they offer larger beds, donuts on your pillow instead of a small chocolate mint? They aren't even all from the states.
I can tell.
Seriously. I can walk behind tourists and, without hearing a word, tell you where they come from. I can spot Germans a mile away. I can point out the goobers and the rednecks and the region they came from.
Sure, I can't always tell you the state but bible belt, Midwest, southwest, etc? Not a problem.
For the most part, they're all getting larger. Sure, some aren't, like the Asian tourists and those cute Japanese girls with their funky clothes.
And the cheesy Midwesterners? Fat dudes with their slightly heavy (on their way to being fat) wives and their under dressed daughters? What the fuck is that all about? Did someone say to them "yer going to New York? Your husband needs to wear a too tight muscle shirt to scare away all the criminals, you need to wear a cowboy hat and you and your daughter need to wear skirts so short your pussy dangles out the bottom, like they do on Sex and the City. They all dress like that there."
No, we don't.
If you come here dressed like a cheap whore and you dress your 13 year old like a cheap whore, we won't look at you and think you fit right in, we'll think you were looking for the old meatpacking district days when 12 year old transvestite boys and fat old women got dolled up in their sluttiest stripper wear and offered to suck cock for a bag of rock.
Man, now I'm getting all nostalgic for the good old days.
We were discussing toasts and the idiot sister wants to have her deadbeat husband film the kids talking about their papa. This is great. Brilliant idea. He'll do the interviews, he'll ask them all questions, he'll edit the video and he'll present it.
Say what?
That was my sister's suggestion.
Seriously.
So, I figured, I'd be the one to ask the big question. "Who the fuck wants to get up in the middle of the meal and watch a long video?"
It isn't a party with a bunch of people there. It's just us. A video would be the most unwelcome thing ever.
So, I suggested something different. "How about each kid gets up, starting with the youngest or the oldest, and talks about what Papa means to them and what they have done and experienced with him over the number of years they've been around."
I then explained that, after each kid takes a turn, we will each, in turn, get up and do the same thing, with the oldest wrapping it up with an explanation that, while only celebrating 75 years, he has been touching lives for an accumulation of 174 years - or some shit like that.
Both sisters loved the idea. I then suggested that each kid could give a little, silly gift that compliments their speech. My daughter, for example, would give a piece of 7 layer cake from the diner because that is something he has been doing with her, alone, for as long as she can remember.
They loved it.
Then, my idiot sister calls my wife to make plans so the kids can practice. I point out that they are not doing this together and, as of Monday, we had not written anything so practicing would be pointless. My wife calls my sister, explains this to her, she says she agrees, thought it might be nice to get the kids together to work on the toast, etc.
My wife points out that the concept is for each kid to talk about why Papa is special to them.
She says she gets it.
Then she emails me, asking me if I want to bounce ideas for the kids' speeches via email since I'm too busy to get together. I explain that this is an each kid thing and I cannot write her kids' speeches but, perhaps, she and her husband would know more about their kids' relationship with their grandfather than I would.
She responds with "perfection!"
I don't know what that means. I'm expecting this moron to go and do a video forcing me to rewrite my own speech off the cuff.
Another lovely aspect of this birthday and all family birthdays has been the group gift thing. My sisters are cheap fucks and they love to chip in for gifts. I have no problem with this, provided the gift is a good one. When it sucks and it's cheap for three to give it, count me out.
So, I came up with a great idea for my dad and, since my sisters wanted to chip in, I told them what it was. I had my wife research the thing, find the perfect one and then get me a good price.
Then my older sister had to do her own research. She spent two full days doing this. Checking out every variety, even seeing the same model in different stores, to ensure that the salesperson was giving her good intel. She would call me and discuss the things she saw but she cannot figure out how to email links so she would call me up, with the website up on her screen and she'd start reading me the link, the bazillion fucking numbers and letters and symbols.com and after a week of this, she and I agreed that the gift was a good one. Now we needed to find out how much my younger sister was planning on spending.
I send my sister an email, explaining what we found and the various models and styles and this is the price for this one, this is the price for that one and I think this one is perfect and so on and how much do you want to spend so I can get my wife in on the price negotiation and my sister responds with "great! I'll make calls and see who I know that can get us one."
She doesn't know anyone in this arena. She works for a fucking clothing label. She deals with jappy clothes and jappy women and, yet, she thinks she has connections to everything. She always claims to get a discount on all items and she has never, ever come through. Matter of fact, the one time she did have something that I wanted and she actually said she'd get it for me, I gave her a check for $240 for a boatload of tee shirts in all different colors and I never got the shirts.
Or my money back.
So, I email her, explaining that I need to know if she likes what I picked out and, if so, what her budget is.
She emails back that she loves it and she knows someone who knows someone and then she responds to something in the first email that is totally unrelated.
She does this. She answers one part of an email, prompting a response, then she responds to another part of the first email, even though the second email might actually have clarified that.
And so it goes, round and round, with her. I wind up on the phone with both of my sisters. The older one talks about the gift idea for an hour straight. The younger one says "I like it, should I call my friends and see who we know.." We interrupt her, explaining that we have a very good connection for these things and all she needs to do is say yes or no and how much money she wants to spend.
For 3 days we do this.
After hours on the phone with my older sister, she will call back and raise one more point that she has already covered to death, twice.
It's annoying to no end.
Then, finally, my sister understands it all. She tells us what her budget is.
So we get the "cheaper" one. It's very nice but, to be totally honest, I'd have paid that amount myself. Also, we wound up getting it from the manufacturer as they are selling them cheaper than any store. This means, should a problem arise, we are stuck with the company, not a store.
Once we cleared this up, and I agreed to spend about 1/3 of what I was planning on spending, they started talking about my aunt's birthday and how we should chip in, with another relative, to get her something.
I immediately said no. I explained that I felt it was better if we did our own thing from now on. They agreed and then my younger sister emails my wife and says she found the perfect gift, it's $200 and Bobby (the 4th relative) was on board and "do we want to chip in?"
Seriously. She did that. For starters, this is a close aunt, someone who her kids and my older sister's kids have spent plenty of time with (they have a home upstate and my sisters have spent plenty of weekends with them - we've never been able to go). She should spend more than $66 and three on the gift is a dick move to the fourth and my sister doesn't get it because she's cheap, she's stupid and she's got no fucking clue about common courtesy.
Why are so many fat people coming here? Seriously. There are tons of them - literally. They waddle around in groups, taking up large swaths of sidewalk, making it impossible to walk home a nice brisk pace.
Where do these fat people come from? Is there some travel agency that caters to porkers? Do they offer larger beds, donuts on your pillow instead of a small chocolate mint? They aren't even all from the states.
I can tell.
Seriously. I can walk behind tourists and, without hearing a word, tell you where they come from. I can spot Germans a mile away. I can point out the goobers and the rednecks and the region they came from.
Sure, I can't always tell you the state but bible belt, Midwest, southwest, etc? Not a problem.
For the most part, they're all getting larger. Sure, some aren't, like the Asian tourists and those cute Japanese girls with their funky clothes.
And the cheesy Midwesterners? Fat dudes with their slightly heavy (on their way to being fat) wives and their under dressed daughters? What the fuck is that all about? Did someone say to them "yer going to New York? Your husband needs to wear a too tight muscle shirt to scare away all the criminals, you need to wear a cowboy hat and you and your daughter need to wear skirts so short your pussy dangles out the bottom, like they do on Sex and the City. They all dress like that there."
No, we don't.
If you come here dressed like a cheap whore and you dress your 13 year old like a cheap whore, we won't look at you and think you fit right in, we'll think you were looking for the old meatpacking district days when 12 year old transvestite boys and fat old women got dolled up in their sluttiest stripper wear and offered to suck cock for a bag of rock.
Man, now I'm getting all nostalgic for the good old days.
Monday, July 06, 2009
When it rains, it fucking pours.
A double dose from me. Odd, yes, but the good cheer in my recent postings is gone. I'll start with a little bit o' fun courtesy young McNoogin as his little prank yesterday should have been a harbinger of the shit to come.
Last night, I'm sitting with my wife and son, finishing our dinner. My daughter, having finished her meal, was off reading before bed. My son is telling us how much fun he had and then, suddenly, he gets all serious and says "I don't want to grow up daddy."
I ask him why and he says "it's fun"
I tell him having your own kids is fun and he gets this sad look and he says "I want to always be with you dada."
The he gets up and walks over and hugs me. He pulls back and as I'm about to say "I'll always be with you" my wife says "he's so sweet, look, he's almost crying"
Then the little fucker spits his mouthful of food onto my plate and says "you might not want to eat that" and he sits back down.
I got to work this morning nice and early, took care of some stuff, was in a groove with work. They watch store called to tell me my watch was shipped. Everything was moving along nicely and then I realized I no longer had my keys. Home and office, one ring. Gone. I went to the bathroom to look for them . Turned the desk upside down. Tore thru my bag. Twice. Went to the two stores I hit this morning. Nothing. Keys gone.
Then I get the call. Some store is calling to confirm my laptop purchase.
Say what?
I pick up the phone and this guy is on the line, asking me about my purchase. I tell him I didn't make a purchase and he says "that's why I was calling, the purchase was a big one and the email we were given was strange."
So, I told him to skip the laptop, it wasn't me, and then I thanked him for the call. Then I went to my amex link to see what the fuck else I've been tagged with. Seems someone bought $629 worth of shit from cosco online in late June. Not me.
I call amex. They immediately reverse the charge on costco, cancel my card and cancel the laptop charge. My new card is forthcoming.
Fucking identity theft. That's just cold. So, now, I'm running a credit report, seeing if these scumbags pulled any other shit on me, I'm calling costco and I'm going to get the mailing address of the shit I apparently bought and, lastly, I'm going to see if the fucker at piqweyoyoo@gmail.com has anything to discuss with me before I call the fucking cops on his ass.
I wonder, if all of my readers started emailing this piece of shit, would he crawl out from under the rock? Would he respond to the requests for information about his being an identity thieving scumbag?
Time will tell.
For now, I'm only going outside when I absolutely must. I'd hate to get hit by a bus before I finish researching the individual and exacting my revenge.
Last night, I'm sitting with my wife and son, finishing our dinner. My daughter, having finished her meal, was off reading before bed. My son is telling us how much fun he had and then, suddenly, he gets all serious and says "I don't want to grow up daddy."
I ask him why and he says "it's fun"
I tell him having your own kids is fun and he gets this sad look and he says "I want to always be with you dada."
The he gets up and walks over and hugs me. He pulls back and as I'm about to say "I'll always be with you" my wife says "he's so sweet, look, he's almost crying"
Then the little fucker spits his mouthful of food onto my plate and says "you might not want to eat that" and he sits back down.
I got to work this morning nice and early, took care of some stuff, was in a groove with work. They watch store called to tell me my watch was shipped. Everything was moving along nicely and then I realized I no longer had my keys. Home and office, one ring. Gone. I went to the bathroom to look for them . Turned the desk upside down. Tore thru my bag. Twice. Went to the two stores I hit this morning. Nothing. Keys gone.
Then I get the call. Some store is calling to confirm my laptop purchase.
Say what?
I pick up the phone and this guy is on the line, asking me about my purchase. I tell him I didn't make a purchase and he says "that's why I was calling, the purchase was a big one and the email we were given was strange."
So, I told him to skip the laptop, it wasn't me, and then I thanked him for the call. Then I went to my amex link to see what the fuck else I've been tagged with. Seems someone bought $629 worth of shit from cosco online in late June. Not me.
I call amex. They immediately reverse the charge on costco, cancel my card and cancel the laptop charge. My new card is forthcoming.
Fucking identity theft. That's just cold. So, now, I'm running a credit report, seeing if these scumbags pulled any other shit on me, I'm calling costco and I'm going to get the mailing address of the shit I apparently bought and, lastly, I'm going to see if the fucker at piqweyoyoo@gmail.com has anything to discuss with me before I call the fucking cops on his ass.
I wonder, if all of my readers started emailing this piece of shit, would he crawl out from under the rock? Would he respond to the requests for information about his being an identity thieving scumbag?
Time will tell.
For now, I'm only going outside when I absolutely must. I'd hate to get hit by a bus before I finish researching the individual and exacting my revenge.
Fire and Brimstone and Happy Birthday USA
So, this weekend was the old bitch's birthday. That's right, the United States of America celebrated her 233rd birthday. Truth is, she looks like shit these days and making it to 234 is no longer a given.
So, we took out kids out to my parents for the weekend. I know, you're thinking "Floogin you dumb shit."
Let me add to your thought - "why would you go there when it makes you crazy?"
(I know you think I'm a dumb shit and could care less about anything else )
We went because, well, I don't know why. But we did.
Spent the bulk of Saturday in the pool, laying around the back yard, watching my kids swim and play. It was rather nice and made all the more enjoyable by the freeloader family taking an hour and a half away from the house. That was the most peaceful, quiet time of the day.
They took 3 hours away on Sunday. It was so nice that my mother, who never sits outside, spent the whole time outside with us. My sister, upon returning, was truly puzzled about this and I explained it this way - "it's noisy and chaotic when the kids are here, they were gone, making it quiet and enjoyable out here."
My sister then pointed out that my kids were here the whole time.
"Oh, they don't scream like loons all day long, stopping only to cry whenever they don't get their way."
She told me to fuck off.
Truth hurts.
Anyway, it was most pleasurable and when they returned, the shit went south immediately. First, the idiot husband said he was going to play golf. This means my sister needs to pay attention to her kids and not read her book and bask in the sun. So, she did what she does best, she put her daughter in front of the tv (3 PM on the nicest day of the year) and she let her son swim with my daughter. My son took his first strokes without swimmies. He'll be swimming on his own in a week or two. Just turned 4 and he didn't just do that doggy paddle thing, he went face down, breast stroke, for two or three strokes and then stopped to take a breath. Fucking awesome.
Anyway, I promised him a present if he swam the length of the hot tub, which he did, and my mother promised him a candy bar if he took off the swimmies so, when the other family returned, she asked him if he wanted to go get his prizes. (she clearly wanted out of there). He said yes and then my attention craving nephew, who's 7 1/2, said he wanted to go get presents too. My mother told him this was something special for Floogin jr and he started to cry. Then he asked if he could make s'mores since they didn't make them the other night and my mother told him it was too windy to have a fire out back. Full of fucking weep fest. My sister screamed at my mother for telling him he couldn't light a fire in the backyard and my mother was guilted into taking the whiny bitch with them.
They came back and I'm playing scrabble with my wife (she kicked my ass, revenge for the night before when I made up an 85 point deficit with a nice triple word score bingo) so my mom sits down with us, seeing if she can't help my wife trounce me (all vowels, not like I was outmanned or anything). My daughter is swimming, my son hands me his new toy, some spiderman action figure, which I open up for him. He's perfectly content with his toy, playing in the yard.
The whiny boy comes out with a dive toy my mother had to buy him. He walks over to my sister and asks her to open the toy up, handing her the case and a scissors. My sister tells him to ask grandma to open it. Grandma is 10 feet away, sitting with us. He walks over and asks her to open it for him. My mother looks up and I laugh and ask him why his mother couldn't do it. He says she's busy reading. My mother says "my hands are full (she was eating), tell your mother to put her book down and open it." He walks back and my sister goes postal. She's screaming about how she hasn't been able to read a page of her book all day and my mother is inconsiderate and selfish and my mother, in a shocking twist, tells her to shut the fuck up.
It was gorgeous. If it wasn't family, I'd have had a chubby.
My sister is yelling about how hard she's working and we're just sitting there playing a game and I interrupt and say "perhaps you should tell your husband to not play golf if you don't want to watch your own kids."
Fight over.
A short while later, we're talking about the kids in general and how my kids look so much like me or act just like my wife and my sister jokes about how she knows her son got the smart genes from her. I then add that he clearly didn't get the skinny gene from either of his parents to which my wife quickly responds with "Deadbeat (his real name) was rail thin as a kid." She then added " not sure what happened there."
"He ate himself" I explained, adding, "along with several cows, a ton of cheese and, if you aren't careful, he'll eat your furniture."
Cruel but funny. Anyway, I've yet to have the weekend update conversation with my mom - she called, I was busy. Can't wait to hear her talk about the apparent weekend long fight she was having with my sister.
And what, you ask, does this have to do with Fire and Brimstone?
Nothing.
Saturday night we went to town to freeload off the local country club's fireworks show. The club, located right across the street from a church, at the end of the main street through the town, is an old fashioned country club. This means, oddly enough for this town, no jews allowed. That's right, no jews. They hire the same folks who do the NYC fireworks, primarily because the Grucci family used to have their factory in the town next to this one. The show is always amazing and the jews, who aren't allowed to join the club, watch from their homes or, for those who cannot see from their homes, the church lawn. So, off we went. We had dinner and found a nice spot, perfect viewing and with a whoooooosh and a bang, the first red explosion announced the start of the show. My daughter covered her ears, the explosions, apparently, scaring her. Disney fireworks were ok, these were not. Go figure.
They really don't hold back. Huge explosions, bright colors, shapes and even a smiley face lit up the sky and what? what's this? fucking dust falling on me? My wife, at one point, said a dead bird just fell out of the sky. I looked to where she was pointing and a large piece of exploded firework was sitting there, two feet from our blanket. The show raged on, bits of dust and paper settling down and then another large chunk of rocket landed in the lap of the guy in front of us. I told my wife not to worry, nothing is burning and then we looked up and about 1,000 little burning embers were drifting down on the crowd. Most people didn't notice until a few folks behind us, out of the danger zone yelled "look up."
People started running everywhere. Grabbing their shit, their kids and moving away from the firebombing.
We were in a safe spot, nothing came near us but the fear of trampling was enough to get me to stand up and block the family. Burning embers rained down on the crowd in front of us as well as across the street in the parking lot and a few blocks away.
As the show ended we heard the first sirens. There was a fire or two going on somewhere near our show. Presumably, this was a result of the firebombing the club subjected the town to.
When my daughter asked why they exploded the rockets so that they'd fall onto the people watching, I explained that the club was trying to tell the freeloading jews to back off their good time.
No other explanation seemed to work.
So, we took out kids out to my parents for the weekend. I know, you're thinking "Floogin you dumb shit."
Let me add to your thought - "why would you go there when it makes you crazy?"
(I know you think I'm a dumb shit and could care less about anything else )
We went because, well, I don't know why. But we did.
Spent the bulk of Saturday in the pool, laying around the back yard, watching my kids swim and play. It was rather nice and made all the more enjoyable by the freeloader family taking an hour and a half away from the house. That was the most peaceful, quiet time of the day.
They took 3 hours away on Sunday. It was so nice that my mother, who never sits outside, spent the whole time outside with us. My sister, upon returning, was truly puzzled about this and I explained it this way - "it's noisy and chaotic when the kids are here, they were gone, making it quiet and enjoyable out here."
My sister then pointed out that my kids were here the whole time.
"Oh, they don't scream like loons all day long, stopping only to cry whenever they don't get their way."
She told me to fuck off.
Truth hurts.
Anyway, it was most pleasurable and when they returned, the shit went south immediately. First, the idiot husband said he was going to play golf. This means my sister needs to pay attention to her kids and not read her book and bask in the sun. So, she did what she does best, she put her daughter in front of the tv (3 PM on the nicest day of the year) and she let her son swim with my daughter. My son took his first strokes without swimmies. He'll be swimming on his own in a week or two. Just turned 4 and he didn't just do that doggy paddle thing, he went face down, breast stroke, for two or three strokes and then stopped to take a breath. Fucking awesome.
Anyway, I promised him a present if he swam the length of the hot tub, which he did, and my mother promised him a candy bar if he took off the swimmies so, when the other family returned, she asked him if he wanted to go get his prizes. (she clearly wanted out of there). He said yes and then my attention craving nephew, who's 7 1/2, said he wanted to go get presents too. My mother told him this was something special for Floogin jr and he started to cry. Then he asked if he could make s'mores since they didn't make them the other night and my mother told him it was too windy to have a fire out back. Full of fucking weep fest. My sister screamed at my mother for telling him he couldn't light a fire in the backyard and my mother was guilted into taking the whiny bitch with them.
They came back and I'm playing scrabble with my wife (she kicked my ass, revenge for the night before when I made up an 85 point deficit with a nice triple word score bingo) so my mom sits down with us, seeing if she can't help my wife trounce me (all vowels, not like I was outmanned or anything). My daughter is swimming, my son hands me his new toy, some spiderman action figure, which I open up for him. He's perfectly content with his toy, playing in the yard.
The whiny boy comes out with a dive toy my mother had to buy him. He walks over to my sister and asks her to open the toy up, handing her the case and a scissors. My sister tells him to ask grandma to open it. Grandma is 10 feet away, sitting with us. He walks over and asks her to open it for him. My mother looks up and I laugh and ask him why his mother couldn't do it. He says she's busy reading. My mother says "my hands are full (she was eating), tell your mother to put her book down and open it." He walks back and my sister goes postal. She's screaming about how she hasn't been able to read a page of her book all day and my mother is inconsiderate and selfish and my mother, in a shocking twist, tells her to shut the fuck up.
It was gorgeous. If it wasn't family, I'd have had a chubby.
My sister is yelling about how hard she's working and we're just sitting there playing a game and I interrupt and say "perhaps you should tell your husband to not play golf if you don't want to watch your own kids."
Fight over.
A short while later, we're talking about the kids in general and how my kids look so much like me or act just like my wife and my sister jokes about how she knows her son got the smart genes from her. I then add that he clearly didn't get the skinny gene from either of his parents to which my wife quickly responds with "Deadbeat (his real name) was rail thin as a kid." She then added " not sure what happened there."
"He ate himself" I explained, adding, "along with several cows, a ton of cheese and, if you aren't careful, he'll eat your furniture."
Cruel but funny. Anyway, I've yet to have the weekend update conversation with my mom - she called, I was busy. Can't wait to hear her talk about the apparent weekend long fight she was having with my sister.
And what, you ask, does this have to do with Fire and Brimstone?
Nothing.
Saturday night we went to town to freeload off the local country club's fireworks show. The club, located right across the street from a church, at the end of the main street through the town, is an old fashioned country club. This means, oddly enough for this town, no jews allowed. That's right, no jews. They hire the same folks who do the NYC fireworks, primarily because the Grucci family used to have their factory in the town next to this one. The show is always amazing and the jews, who aren't allowed to join the club, watch from their homes or, for those who cannot see from their homes, the church lawn. So, off we went. We had dinner and found a nice spot, perfect viewing and with a whoooooosh and a bang, the first red explosion announced the start of the show. My daughter covered her ears, the explosions, apparently, scaring her. Disney fireworks were ok, these were not. Go figure.
They really don't hold back. Huge explosions, bright colors, shapes and even a smiley face lit up the sky and what? what's this? fucking dust falling on me? My wife, at one point, said a dead bird just fell out of the sky. I looked to where she was pointing and a large piece of exploded firework was sitting there, two feet from our blanket. The show raged on, bits of dust and paper settling down and then another large chunk of rocket landed in the lap of the guy in front of us. I told my wife not to worry, nothing is burning and then we looked up and about 1,000 little burning embers were drifting down on the crowd. Most people didn't notice until a few folks behind us, out of the danger zone yelled "look up."
People started running everywhere. Grabbing their shit, their kids and moving away from the firebombing.
We were in a safe spot, nothing came near us but the fear of trampling was enough to get me to stand up and block the family. Burning embers rained down on the crowd in front of us as well as across the street in the parking lot and a few blocks away.
As the show ended we heard the first sirens. There was a fire or two going on somewhere near our show. Presumably, this was a result of the firebombing the club subjected the town to.
When my daughter asked why they exploded the rockets so that they'd fall onto the people watching, I explained that the club was trying to tell the freeloading jews to back off their good time.
No other explanation seemed to work.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
A Day Off? For What?
So, my secretary comes in Monday wearing a skirt and a tight little tank top. Very nice look for her. She's tall and she's got some great legs and she knows it. Smallish on top but she's sexy as hell when she wants to be. Alas, for the most part she wears jeans and button down shirts. As a friend of her told her, she dresses more like a lesbian biker than the hot sexy woman she is.
Anyway, she comes in wearing a skirt for the first time in a year, or longer. She wants something.
So, after a few hours of her prancing around in this sexy little number she comes in to see me. She wants to take Wednesday off. I ask her what for and she says she needs to take her husband to the doctor. 44 years old and he needs her to take him to the doctor. Most likely, she is forcing him to go and he is a child, hooked on amphetamine salts and he won't go anywhere if she doesn't drag his out out of bed and out of the apartment. This is a major task for her because he sleeps all day. She says he takes ambien around 4 or 5 each morning, sleeps until 5ish and wakes up so she can feed him, then she goes to the gym and he is gone by the time she gets home.
She swears she loves him but there's nothing to love. It's one of the mysteries of the office. Right up there with "who left the booger on the mouse?"
Wasn't me. I did a carb check once. Boogers are lo-carb and, therefore, make a fine midday snack.
Back to the secretary.
So I tell her it's cool, take the guy to the doctor, no worries.
This morning I'm sitting at my desk, pondering life's little foibles, wondering why things happen the way they do and she comes in to say hello.
I ask her how the doctor went and she says "it didn't happen."
I feel for her. I really do. This guy is like a lump of shit, minus the tasty morsels. All dried out and useless. He's got no street value. He has no purpose whatsoever and, yet, she does these all she can for him.
So, I ask my bookkeeper, who finds him to be even more of a waste than I do, if that's possible, what happened. She says "he refused to go have the cards read."
Say what?
That's right, Wednesday, a work day, was going to be blown off for the sake of a fucking palm reader.
Friday is a fucking holiday. She's taking ten days off from the 16th or something and she needs to ditch work to go have their fucking future told to them?
I can do that for them.
The one income family might find themselves with no income. Times will be tough as the do nothing continues to not write the epic masterpiece script and the secretary with no references tries to get a job in the worst job market in decades.
unfuckingbelievable.
She ditched work to see a fucking seer. A tarot reader.
A con artist.
That's what she was going to do.
And she lied to me.
Yeah, I know the future baby. It ain't pretty. She can show up in her thong and I still won't forgive this.
Who am I kidding?
On a side note, my dad is turning 75 in a couple of weeks and I've been trying to come up with some ideas for him. Seems I'm stuck chipping in with both sisters. One doesn't want to spend much money, the other is ok with spending but needs to discuss the options until I kill myself. Spent a solid 53 minutes discussing one gift item, the merits of buying it etc and then, not even 5 minutes later, she fucking called back with a few other things to talk about regarding the same god damned gift.
Way to ruin the fun of gift giving.
Anyway, she comes in wearing a skirt for the first time in a year, or longer. She wants something.
So, after a few hours of her prancing around in this sexy little number she comes in to see me. She wants to take Wednesday off. I ask her what for and she says she needs to take her husband to the doctor. 44 years old and he needs her to take him to the doctor. Most likely, she is forcing him to go and he is a child, hooked on amphetamine salts and he won't go anywhere if she doesn't drag his out out of bed and out of the apartment. This is a major task for her because he sleeps all day. She says he takes ambien around 4 or 5 each morning, sleeps until 5ish and wakes up so she can feed him, then she goes to the gym and he is gone by the time she gets home.
She swears she loves him but there's nothing to love. It's one of the mysteries of the office. Right up there with "who left the booger on the mouse?"
Wasn't me. I did a carb check once. Boogers are lo-carb and, therefore, make a fine midday snack.
Back to the secretary.
So I tell her it's cool, take the guy to the doctor, no worries.
This morning I'm sitting at my desk, pondering life's little foibles, wondering why things happen the way they do and she comes in to say hello.
I ask her how the doctor went and she says "it didn't happen."
I feel for her. I really do. This guy is like a lump of shit, minus the tasty morsels. All dried out and useless. He's got no street value. He has no purpose whatsoever and, yet, she does these all she can for him.
So, I ask my bookkeeper, who finds him to be even more of a waste than I do, if that's possible, what happened. She says "he refused to go have the cards read."
Say what?
That's right, Wednesday, a work day, was going to be blown off for the sake of a fucking palm reader.
Friday is a fucking holiday. She's taking ten days off from the 16th or something and she needs to ditch work to go have their fucking future told to them?
I can do that for them.
The one income family might find themselves with no income. Times will be tough as the do nothing continues to not write the epic masterpiece script and the secretary with no references tries to get a job in the worst job market in decades.
unfuckingbelievable.
She ditched work to see a fucking seer. A tarot reader.
A con artist.
That's what she was going to do.
And she lied to me.
Yeah, I know the future baby. It ain't pretty. She can show up in her thong and I still won't forgive this.
Who am I kidding?
On a side note, my dad is turning 75 in a couple of weeks and I've been trying to come up with some ideas for him. Seems I'm stuck chipping in with both sisters. One doesn't want to spend much money, the other is ok with spending but needs to discuss the options until I kill myself. Spent a solid 53 minutes discussing one gift item, the merits of buying it etc and then, not even 5 minutes later, she fucking called back with a few other things to talk about regarding the same god damned gift.
Way to ruin the fun of gift giving.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Michael Jackson, RIP
What? Floogin's an MJ fan? Um, no. Not really. Sure, a young Floogin was mesmerized by the green lasers in the Off The Wall video - it was off the wall, no? Sure, I watched him steppin' on lights, singing about someone else's kid. Sure, I stayed home to see the WORLD PREMIERE videos, and yes, Floogin did attempt to moonwalk in the privacy of his own home. Didn't everyone back then?
Ok, maybe not everyone but I did. And yes, his music was good back then. Yes, it was overplayed and he most certainly did become a freak show of sorts.
Let's face it, when you hang with a monkey, sleep in a glass coffin and start altering your appearance beyond recognition, things are not quite normal.
So, the world mourns his passing. Today we find out he weighed under 115 pounds and his body was covered in track marks. He was a fucking junkie. That's what they're telling us. That's why his personal physician fled after trying to revive him and that's why his physician's lawyer has been doing all his talking. Who the fuck lawyers up if they're innocent and not being accused of anything? Guilty people, that's who.
And so, we know he was into his pain killers. We also know he was into some odd shit. The monkey and the ranch and all that other crap that he did to ensure that he was surrounded by very young children. That all plays right into the pedophile claims, no? The man paid people off to avoid lawsuits and criminal charges. Again, who does this? Guilty people, that's who.
He was broke. He was was an accused pedo. He was a junkie and he spent the latter part of his life making himself look whiter and whiter and so, now that he's dead, who are the two spokesmen for the grieving family and the lost idol?
The Reverend Jesse Jackson and the Reverend Al Sharpton.
Two of the biggest piles of shit around. These two spotlight hogging scumbags will latch onto anyone in an effort to promote themselves. Sure, Joe Jackson was photographed grinning like a Cheshire over the weekend and why not? Thanks to the death of Michael, all things Jackson will now become hot again. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if the remaining Jacksons put out another cd and went on tour. LaToya and Michael's mom both went to his home, looking to find the cash Michael supposedly loved to stash all over the place.
Everyone wants to cash in on the death of this fallen idol and the two at the top are the two biggest scumbags around. Jesse and Al are talking about how Michael paved the way for black musicians like Jackie Robinson did for black baseball players. Say what?
Before Michael there was Chuck Berry, James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, and, oh, a million others. Michael just sold more records and, like another fallen idol, OJ, he ditched his roots on the way up.
Michael and OJ seemed to shun their roots, OJ wanted nothing to do with the black community and Michael didn't want to look like himself, opting for surgery after surgery in what seemed to be an obsession with looking like some freaky old white queen.
And now that he's dead, he's the Jackie Robinson of music, an insult to every black musician before him. Musicians like Fats Domino, Etta James, Chubby Checker, Snooks Eaglin, Howlin Wolf, etc. Do Berry Gordy, Stevie Wonder and Quincy Jones not matter? What about Diana Ross who discovered the family? Was she not black too?
Such hypocrisy and the concept of ignoring all the kookery of the last 15 or so years of his life is a joke. He hung "his" kids over balcony railings, called one of these kids "blanket" and turned them into freak shows unto themselves. Their mother says they aren't his kids, the semen was from an anonymous donor and she doesn't want them either. Nice.
And there were pics of these kids. They weren't his. One of them looks like an extra from Village of the Damned.
The concert promoter who was looking at a $100 million dollar loss thanks to his death has announced a cd and dvd of his recorded rehearsals. The family supposedly has over 100 songs to release.
The man was worth more dead than alive and everyone will try and capitalize on it.
Somewhere, the dead junkie pedophile is doing a moonwalk.
Ok, maybe not everyone but I did. And yes, his music was good back then. Yes, it was overplayed and he most certainly did become a freak show of sorts.
Let's face it, when you hang with a monkey, sleep in a glass coffin and start altering your appearance beyond recognition, things are not quite normal.
So, the world mourns his passing. Today we find out he weighed under 115 pounds and his body was covered in track marks. He was a fucking junkie. That's what they're telling us. That's why his personal physician fled after trying to revive him and that's why his physician's lawyer has been doing all his talking. Who the fuck lawyers up if they're innocent and not being accused of anything? Guilty people, that's who.
And so, we know he was into his pain killers. We also know he was into some odd shit. The monkey and the ranch and all that other crap that he did to ensure that he was surrounded by very young children. That all plays right into the pedophile claims, no? The man paid people off to avoid lawsuits and criminal charges. Again, who does this? Guilty people, that's who.
He was broke. He was was an accused pedo. He was a junkie and he spent the latter part of his life making himself look whiter and whiter and so, now that he's dead, who are the two spokesmen for the grieving family and the lost idol?
The Reverend Jesse Jackson and the Reverend Al Sharpton.
Two of the biggest piles of shit around. These two spotlight hogging scumbags will latch onto anyone in an effort to promote themselves. Sure, Joe Jackson was photographed grinning like a Cheshire over the weekend and why not? Thanks to the death of Michael, all things Jackson will now become hot again. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if the remaining Jacksons put out another cd and went on tour. LaToya and Michael's mom both went to his home, looking to find the cash Michael supposedly loved to stash all over the place.
Everyone wants to cash in on the death of this fallen idol and the two at the top are the two biggest scumbags around. Jesse and Al are talking about how Michael paved the way for black musicians like Jackie Robinson did for black baseball players. Say what?
Before Michael there was Chuck Berry, James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, and, oh, a million others. Michael just sold more records and, like another fallen idol, OJ, he ditched his roots on the way up.
Michael and OJ seemed to shun their roots, OJ wanted nothing to do with the black community and Michael didn't want to look like himself, opting for surgery after surgery in what seemed to be an obsession with looking like some freaky old white queen.
And now that he's dead, he's the Jackie Robinson of music, an insult to every black musician before him. Musicians like Fats Domino, Etta James, Chubby Checker, Snooks Eaglin, Howlin Wolf, etc. Do Berry Gordy, Stevie Wonder and Quincy Jones not matter? What about Diana Ross who discovered the family? Was she not black too?
Such hypocrisy and the concept of ignoring all the kookery of the last 15 or so years of his life is a joke. He hung "his" kids over balcony railings, called one of these kids "blanket" and turned them into freak shows unto themselves. Their mother says they aren't his kids, the semen was from an anonymous donor and she doesn't want them either. Nice.
And there were pics of these kids. They weren't his. One of them looks like an extra from Village of the Damned.
The concert promoter who was looking at a $100 million dollar loss thanks to his death has announced a cd and dvd of his recorded rehearsals. The family supposedly has over 100 songs to release.
The man was worth more dead than alive and everyone will try and capitalize on it.
Somewhere, the dead junkie pedophile is doing a moonwalk.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Citi Field and Floogin McMoron
My dad's friend gave him tickets to see the Mets. Two tickets per game, four games over the course of the summer. So, last night was the game. Neither one of us really wanted to go. For starters, the weather continues to suck ass. The forecast was for rain at night and we didn't want to get stuck there during a rain delay or, worse, stuck in the rain without umbrellas.
On top of that, the Mets are not the Mets. They're the replaceMets. They have more injured players than starters right now. Two starting pitchers, one relief pitcher (set up man, very important), one catcher gone, one just came back, their centerfielder is gone and he was having a stellar year, their shortstop, who leads off and is a key catalyst in more than half of their wins (their winning percentage in games he gets on base is insane) is out, their first baseman, who is their clean-up hitter, is gone, their back-ups are hurt and, fuck, no need to continue. They have one of their core players still playing. It's a minor league team and even then, some of the players are AA level, not AAA.
Still, we decided to go. The train was at 6:36 so we hightailed it to the station and just made it onto the train before the doors closed. As we approached the first stop I realized I left the tickets on my desk. Not the train tickets, the fucking baseball tickets. We got off the train at the first stop so that we could turn around and go get the tickets and my dad, being the smarter of the two, suggested we call my new tenant to see if he was still around. He was and he said he'd bring us the tickets as soon as his wife dropped his daughter off.
We waited.
He finally showed up around 7:00. We got to the stadium as the first drops fell. As we sat down the rain started coming down. We watched the morons in the grounds crew mangle the tarp covering. Twice. By the time they finally removed and recovered the infield the third time, the rain stopped and the game was set to continue. Problem was, all that time trying to cover the field resulted in a soggy, unplayable infield. We were forced to sit through a rain delay that was more than twice the length of the rain itself as we watched them re-sand the infield.
The game sucked, they lost. The stadium is amazing. Perhaps it's a result of the newness but it was fucking nice. Looked clean and shiny and the staff were all so polite and courtious. Opening doors, greeting you, wishing you well. Even the crowd was a bit classier than normal. It was a very pleasant, extremely enjoyable experience and I'm actually looking forward to taking my son in August - we've got insane seats for him, complete with waitress service.
As a result of my dad being a bit on the tired side, we didn't get a chance to walk around the stadium and check out the restaurants in center field. Some stellar food options exist but this wasn't the night to check them out. My dad said he doesn't think he'll want to go again so I might take my wife or pass the tickets along to my associate who was so fucking cool about bringing us the tickets.
On top of that, the Mets are not the Mets. They're the replaceMets. They have more injured players than starters right now. Two starting pitchers, one relief pitcher (set up man, very important), one catcher gone, one just came back, their centerfielder is gone and he was having a stellar year, their shortstop, who leads off and is a key catalyst in more than half of their wins (their winning percentage in games he gets on base is insane) is out, their first baseman, who is their clean-up hitter, is gone, their back-ups are hurt and, fuck, no need to continue. They have one of their core players still playing. It's a minor league team and even then, some of the players are AA level, not AAA.
Still, we decided to go. The train was at 6:36 so we hightailed it to the station and just made it onto the train before the doors closed. As we approached the first stop I realized I left the tickets on my desk. Not the train tickets, the fucking baseball tickets. We got off the train at the first stop so that we could turn around and go get the tickets and my dad, being the smarter of the two, suggested we call my new tenant to see if he was still around. He was and he said he'd bring us the tickets as soon as his wife dropped his daughter off.
We waited.
He finally showed up around 7:00. We got to the stadium as the first drops fell. As we sat down the rain started coming down. We watched the morons in the grounds crew mangle the tarp covering. Twice. By the time they finally removed and recovered the infield the third time, the rain stopped and the game was set to continue. Problem was, all that time trying to cover the field resulted in a soggy, unplayable infield. We were forced to sit through a rain delay that was more than twice the length of the rain itself as we watched them re-sand the infield.
The game sucked, they lost. The stadium is amazing. Perhaps it's a result of the newness but it was fucking nice. Looked clean and shiny and the staff were all so polite and courtious. Opening doors, greeting you, wishing you well. Even the crowd was a bit classier than normal. It was a very pleasant, extremely enjoyable experience and I'm actually looking forward to taking my son in August - we've got insane seats for him, complete with waitress service.
As a result of my dad being a bit on the tired side, we didn't get a chance to walk around the stadium and check out the restaurants in center field. Some stellar food options exist but this wasn't the night to check them out. My dad said he doesn't think he'll want to go again so I might take my wife or pass the tickets along to my associate who was so fucking cool about bringing us the tickets.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Floogin's Friend Robin, Father's Day Fireworks and More
So, the other day, my son is sitting on the can, doing what men do best (not jerking off, the other thing, wait, not pay your bills ladies, the other other thing). He calls me in to talk to him and I protest, as I'm wont to do. Not a big fan of breathing in fumes.
He offers a courtesy flush so I join him in the bathroom.
He starts telling me some bizarre fucking story about shit that makes no sense whatsoever. I want, for one full day, to live in his world. I have visions of electric neon lighting, people and dinosaurs flying around, super powers abound and everything seems like it came right out of Pee Wee's Playhouse, minus the pedophilia.
So, anyway, he's telling me about his buddy Robin and I stop him and ask if Robin goes to camp with him. He says "no, Dad, Robin's a ninja."
Oh. OK.
How the fuck does my son know what a ninja is?
I ask him what Robin looks like and he says "he's orange and he wears all black. No, wait, I mean he's black and he wears all orange."
Oh, now I get it. Robin's a criminal in prison and I'm wondering how a convict escaped and, more important, has he touched my son?
I ask if Robin knows Floogin McNoogin and he says "DAD!! of course he does. Me and Floogie and Robin are buddies, we fight bad guys together."
It's all making a bit of sense now. He then tells me that Floogin takes them to the bad guys because he's a big dinosaur and he can get there faster than they can because they can't drive, except for mario kart and that isn't real.
OK, so your dinosaur friend can get you there and mario kart isn't real. Now I'm starting to think the acid I took in college is repeating on me. Flashbacks are cool.
I ask my son if Robin has a last name and he says "Storbinz." So, Robin Storbinz, the black ninja in orange is my son's sidekick. Yeah, he's normal.
The weekend at Chez McNoogin was interesting, to say the least. My daughter was very well behaved, none of the bullshit she pulls when she's around her cousins. No rude behavior, no screaming insanity. The other kids all acted like the normal annoying loons they can be, but, thankfully, not her.
I was forced to endure close quarters with the deadbeat as it rained most of the weekend and there was nowhere to go. Fortunately, we had friends stop by so I wasn't forced to witness this interloper acting in a huff over the way everyone was treating his home because that is, pretty much, exactly how he acts. I also might have uncovered the root of his temper. More on that later.
So, for father's day we gave my dad his gifts. The kids weren't allowed to sit on papa's lap because the deadbeat's daughter had to or she would cry. Floogin Jr sat next to him and his sister, Floogette (not her real name) had to stand a bit away because the other idiot grandchild refused to move, lest he too burst into a crying fit.
Every time my kids went to hand something to their grandfather, one of the idiot children had to grab it out of their hands and hand it over as if it was their gift. Then they had to help unwrap the gifts.
After a minute or two of card giving and watching my kids get pushed aside by these dolts, I suggested we do the gift giving later, when we could do it without having the other kids take away the fun. My sister, their mother, sits there, not saying a word so my mother finally says "get off papa, let them have their time with him."
He was thrilled with everything and then it was my turn. For my anniversary, my wife gave me a bunch of things that I didn't need and I told her it was a waste of money to accept things that I truly didn't need. So, what does she do? Gets me the same things (different ones but same category). I act excited about the sweatshirt, it looks good on me so I figure, fuck it, I'll keep it. The belt? I tell her it's a total waste of money (it was expensive, I think, and she needs to preserve her own money). The tee shirts didn't fit, except for one and I'm wearing it today. Then my kids each hand me something they picked out themselves. My son got me a baseball "mitten" so we can play catch all the time and my daughter picked out a gift card to the bookstore because she "feels bad that I always spend my money buying her gifts, now I can use mommy's money to buy the gifts."
I was truly thrilled with it all. Yes, I said that. Happy as a pig in shit.
Later in the day, prior to dinner being served, my idiot brother in law had a fight with his wife. He was in a rush to leave, she wasn't. Everything revolves around him and keeping him calm so, when he started freaking out about my wife not being there I asked what the deal was. He was irate about her not being there so he wasn't going to start grilling until she came back. He asked me 3 times over the course of ten minutes if I knew when she was coming back. I finally said "call your wife and ask her, they're together asshole."
My mother ran out of room. Seems she fears the guy's temper so much that she thinks he is always seconds away from a physical altercation.
During dinner the kids ate and then ran off to do their own thing. My son was walking towards the back bedroom, following his sister and he was saying "leave me alone, I want to be with Floogette" and "I want to be alone with my sister." My niece, the deadbeat's daughter, who is almost a year older than my 4 year old boy, is very annoying, like her mother was at that age and appears to be a few bulbs short, like both of her parents. She is trying to keep up with my son, she's repeating something, right in his face and he's trying to walk away from her, around her etc. They leave the dining room and head into the kitchen and you hear my son repeating his mantra several times, then you hear a knock, then you hear an angry wail (her) and a loud scream of pain (him) and my brother in law is up saying "he hit her, I'm gonna kill him."
My wife is up like a shot. So is my sister. She's yelling "calm down" to her husband. My wife is chasing after them all to protect her son and to discipline him if he did something (the little girl cries when the wind blows). I stand up, calmly, and start walking back towards the scene. As I get to the room, my sister is holding her husband back, he's trying to get my son who has scampered under a bed. My wife is at the bed, slowly trying to pull him out, knowing, if he comes out too soon, crazy brother in law will go after him.
I put my hand on my brother in law's shoulder, pull him back and tell him to take care of his daughter. He mumbles something about my son and I calmly tell him I will handle my son and if he goes near him, there will be two deadbeats (not their real names) holding their heads and crying and, I say, I will not stop until the years of pent up aggression are released. My sister looks at me, sees the frightening calm in my eyes and knows that I am dead serious, that I am actually relishing the opportunity to beat her husband to a fucking pulp. (she told me this later in the evening).
He grabs his daughter and takes her outside to sit on the step right outside our window. Not sure why he chose that spot but he's mildly retarded so there's no point trying to figure it out.
Junior clocked his daughter with his nintendo ds because, in his words, she wouldn't leave him alone. That was the knock. The angry wail was her as she scratched deep lines into his face and the scream of pain was his reaction to the scratches.
He was roundly disciplined because, regardless of her being a gnat, McNoogins don't hit other people.
The rest of the dinner and ensuing dessert was tense as could be. This morning's conversation with my mom explained many of the issues in that household. Everyone's afraid of this fucknut. She told me she is on eggshells, lest she set him off. She says my sister constantly watches him to get to him before he blows a gasket and so on. So, I had to explain to my mother that this is because he is angry over the way every acts in his home. I told her to take her house back, let him know that his temper, his sense of entitlement and his attitude are not welcome otherwise there will always be tension and everything will always be centered around him, driving the family apart.
She agreed so we'll see where that goes. Then I told her to talk to him when he's drunk because he's a crier, not a fighter when he's drunk and that his temper issues and his outbursts are always during sober hours and he's probably on edge without his booze. In other words, he's a fucking alcoholic.
I know, I'm a dick for making things worse but, for the first time in 10 or so years, my family is treating me like the son I am and I'm going to enjoy it.
He offers a courtesy flush so I join him in the bathroom.
He starts telling me some bizarre fucking story about shit that makes no sense whatsoever. I want, for one full day, to live in his world. I have visions of electric neon lighting, people and dinosaurs flying around, super powers abound and everything seems like it came right out of Pee Wee's Playhouse, minus the pedophilia.
So, anyway, he's telling me about his buddy Robin and I stop him and ask if Robin goes to camp with him. He says "no, Dad, Robin's a ninja."
Oh. OK.
How the fuck does my son know what a ninja is?
I ask him what Robin looks like and he says "he's orange and he wears all black. No, wait, I mean he's black and he wears all orange."
Oh, now I get it. Robin's a criminal in prison and I'm wondering how a convict escaped and, more important, has he touched my son?
I ask if Robin knows Floogin McNoogin and he says "DAD!! of course he does. Me and Floogie and Robin are buddies, we fight bad guys together."
It's all making a bit of sense now. He then tells me that Floogin takes them to the bad guys because he's a big dinosaur and he can get there faster than they can because they can't drive, except for mario kart and that isn't real.
OK, so your dinosaur friend can get you there and mario kart isn't real. Now I'm starting to think the acid I took in college is repeating on me. Flashbacks are cool.
I ask my son if Robin has a last name and he says "Storbinz." So, Robin Storbinz, the black ninja in orange is my son's sidekick. Yeah, he's normal.
The weekend at Chez McNoogin was interesting, to say the least. My daughter was very well behaved, none of the bullshit she pulls when she's around her cousins. No rude behavior, no screaming insanity. The other kids all acted like the normal annoying loons they can be, but, thankfully, not her.
I was forced to endure close quarters with the deadbeat as it rained most of the weekend and there was nowhere to go. Fortunately, we had friends stop by so I wasn't forced to witness this interloper acting in a huff over the way everyone was treating his home because that is, pretty much, exactly how he acts. I also might have uncovered the root of his temper. More on that later.
So, for father's day we gave my dad his gifts. The kids weren't allowed to sit on papa's lap because the deadbeat's daughter had to or she would cry. Floogin Jr sat next to him and his sister, Floogette (not her real name) had to stand a bit away because the other idiot grandchild refused to move, lest he too burst into a crying fit.
Every time my kids went to hand something to their grandfather, one of the idiot children had to grab it out of their hands and hand it over as if it was their gift. Then they had to help unwrap the gifts.
After a minute or two of card giving and watching my kids get pushed aside by these dolts, I suggested we do the gift giving later, when we could do it without having the other kids take away the fun. My sister, their mother, sits there, not saying a word so my mother finally says "get off papa, let them have their time with him."
He was thrilled with everything and then it was my turn. For my anniversary, my wife gave me a bunch of things that I didn't need and I told her it was a waste of money to accept things that I truly didn't need. So, what does she do? Gets me the same things (different ones but same category). I act excited about the sweatshirt, it looks good on me so I figure, fuck it, I'll keep it. The belt? I tell her it's a total waste of money (it was expensive, I think, and she needs to preserve her own money). The tee shirts didn't fit, except for one and I'm wearing it today. Then my kids each hand me something they picked out themselves. My son got me a baseball "mitten" so we can play catch all the time and my daughter picked out a gift card to the bookstore because she "feels bad that I always spend my money buying her gifts, now I can use mommy's money to buy the gifts."
I was truly thrilled with it all. Yes, I said that. Happy as a pig in shit.
Later in the day, prior to dinner being served, my idiot brother in law had a fight with his wife. He was in a rush to leave, she wasn't. Everything revolves around him and keeping him calm so, when he started freaking out about my wife not being there I asked what the deal was. He was irate about her not being there so he wasn't going to start grilling until she came back. He asked me 3 times over the course of ten minutes if I knew when she was coming back. I finally said "call your wife and ask her, they're together asshole."
My mother ran out of room. Seems she fears the guy's temper so much that she thinks he is always seconds away from a physical altercation.
During dinner the kids ate and then ran off to do their own thing. My son was walking towards the back bedroom, following his sister and he was saying "leave me alone, I want to be with Floogette" and "I want to be alone with my sister." My niece, the deadbeat's daughter, who is almost a year older than my 4 year old boy, is very annoying, like her mother was at that age and appears to be a few bulbs short, like both of her parents. She is trying to keep up with my son, she's repeating something, right in his face and he's trying to walk away from her, around her etc. They leave the dining room and head into the kitchen and you hear my son repeating his mantra several times, then you hear a knock, then you hear an angry wail (her) and a loud scream of pain (him) and my brother in law is up saying "he hit her, I'm gonna kill him."
My wife is up like a shot. So is my sister. She's yelling "calm down" to her husband. My wife is chasing after them all to protect her son and to discipline him if he did something (the little girl cries when the wind blows). I stand up, calmly, and start walking back towards the scene. As I get to the room, my sister is holding her husband back, he's trying to get my son who has scampered under a bed. My wife is at the bed, slowly trying to pull him out, knowing, if he comes out too soon, crazy brother in law will go after him.
I put my hand on my brother in law's shoulder, pull him back and tell him to take care of his daughter. He mumbles something about my son and I calmly tell him I will handle my son and if he goes near him, there will be two deadbeats (not their real names) holding their heads and crying and, I say, I will not stop until the years of pent up aggression are released. My sister looks at me, sees the frightening calm in my eyes and knows that I am dead serious, that I am actually relishing the opportunity to beat her husband to a fucking pulp. (she told me this later in the evening).
He grabs his daughter and takes her outside to sit on the step right outside our window. Not sure why he chose that spot but he's mildly retarded so there's no point trying to figure it out.
Junior clocked his daughter with his nintendo ds because, in his words, she wouldn't leave him alone. That was the knock. The angry wail was her as she scratched deep lines into his face and the scream of pain was his reaction to the scratches.
He was roundly disciplined because, regardless of her being a gnat, McNoogins don't hit other people.
The rest of the dinner and ensuing dessert was tense as could be. This morning's conversation with my mom explained many of the issues in that household. Everyone's afraid of this fucknut. She told me she is on eggshells, lest she set him off. She says my sister constantly watches him to get to him before he blows a gasket and so on. So, I had to explain to my mother that this is because he is angry over the way every acts in his home. I told her to take her house back, let him know that his temper, his sense of entitlement and his attitude are not welcome otherwise there will always be tension and everything will always be centered around him, driving the family apart.
She agreed so we'll see where that goes. Then I told her to talk to him when he's drunk because he's a crier, not a fighter when he's drunk and that his temper issues and his outbursts are always during sober hours and he's probably on edge without his booze. In other words, he's a fucking alcoholic.
I know, I'm a dick for making things worse but, for the first time in 10 or so years, my family is treating me like the son I am and I'm going to enjoy it.
Friday, June 19, 2009
It Stopped Raining.....for a minute
It has rained every day this month. Ok, that's an exaggeration. It didn't rain today. Yet. The sun came out for a minute or two and people wandered outside, squinting and shielding their eyes like they all just spent a month in the "hole."
To say it's been wet has been an understatement. By the middle of the month we were close to breaking the record for rainfall for the month. That's right, half a month and we've got the highest rainfall on record (almost) for the month of June.
And it's been fucking cold. Mid 60's sucks in June. I spent a nice chunk of change on a cabana at the beach and it's been raining and cold and, basically, not usable. Figures.
The forecast for the weekend is cold and rainy and I think I heard the man on the radio say it was going to shit all weekend. Literally. Large and small chunks of actual shit will fall all weekend. The only time it will let up is when it's raining vomit.
Yay.
Father's day should suck. I'm going to my parents' for the weekend. I was going to go this afternoon but the shitty weather coupled with the incendiary potential for family fireworks made me adjust the time spent in the foyer to hell. Instead, we'll wake up and go tomorrow, drop our shit off, have some lunch and head out to see friends. Avoid them all until Sunday is my plan of action here.
Sure, I know, I posted that I set the house of McNoogin straight a few weeks back but the luster on that wore off after about 8 minutes and my mother has reverted back to being what she always was and my dad, well, he doesn't seem to want to face the issues at hand so he allows everyone to walk around, half informed, filled with internal anger for everyone else.
Fireworks.
On the bright side, I should get something from the wife and kids on Sunday. Probably won't fit or won't be of any use but I am going to act like I love it, regardless. My wife has decided that it doesn't have to look good or even be something I need. Instead, she has taken to buying me things based on the discount. She saw some jackets (I don't need any) at a store, marked down by over 40%. I looked them up on the internet. Ugly. I told her that. She told me they were marked down from over $2000 and now they below $500. I told her they could be free and I still wouldn't want to waste closet space on them.
So, I'll get some shit I don't like but I'll pretend I do.
Maybe they'll get me a hat or a hair piece. Seems I'm losing my hair or so I'm told. Bald spot is visible in the back. That's what my wife told me the other day.
I told her she looked like she might be gaining a second ass.
I think I'll ask for a some sex for father's day. Nothing special, nothing kinky or outlandish. Just a few minutes of loving. I'm sure the wife can offer that to me, right? I mean, how hard is it to take the kids out and leave me alone for 15 minutes?
To say it's been wet has been an understatement. By the middle of the month we were close to breaking the record for rainfall for the month. That's right, half a month and we've got the highest rainfall on record (almost) for the month of June.
And it's been fucking cold. Mid 60's sucks in June. I spent a nice chunk of change on a cabana at the beach and it's been raining and cold and, basically, not usable. Figures.
The forecast for the weekend is cold and rainy and I think I heard the man on the radio say it was going to shit all weekend. Literally. Large and small chunks of actual shit will fall all weekend. The only time it will let up is when it's raining vomit.
Yay.
Father's day should suck. I'm going to my parents' for the weekend. I was going to go this afternoon but the shitty weather coupled with the incendiary potential for family fireworks made me adjust the time spent in the foyer to hell. Instead, we'll wake up and go tomorrow, drop our shit off, have some lunch and head out to see friends. Avoid them all until Sunday is my plan of action here.
Sure, I know, I posted that I set the house of McNoogin straight a few weeks back but the luster on that wore off after about 8 minutes and my mother has reverted back to being what she always was and my dad, well, he doesn't seem to want to face the issues at hand so he allows everyone to walk around, half informed, filled with internal anger for everyone else.
Fireworks.
On the bright side, I should get something from the wife and kids on Sunday. Probably won't fit or won't be of any use but I am going to act like I love it, regardless. My wife has decided that it doesn't have to look good or even be something I need. Instead, she has taken to buying me things based on the discount. She saw some jackets (I don't need any) at a store, marked down by over 40%. I looked them up on the internet. Ugly. I told her that. She told me they were marked down from over $2000 and now they below $500. I told her they could be free and I still wouldn't want to waste closet space on them.
So, I'll get some shit I don't like but I'll pretend I do.
Maybe they'll get me a hat or a hair piece. Seems I'm losing my hair or so I'm told. Bald spot is visible in the back. That's what my wife told me the other day.
I told her she looked like she might be gaining a second ass.
I think I'll ask for a some sex for father's day. Nothing special, nothing kinky or outlandish. Just a few minutes of loving. I'm sure the wife can offer that to me, right? I mean, how hard is it to take the kids out and leave me alone for 15 minutes?
Monday, June 15, 2009
CNN Stole My Shit
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.
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.
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.
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