On Being Vader and The Coolest Kid on the Planet

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

The night before the party, I got sick. Bad chicken or something. I spent a great deal of time that night on the throne. I feared standing up. Every time I did, it was like gravity was laughing at me, pulling more burning liquid thru my ass. By the time I was brave enough to crawl into bed, my body was ravaged by the shits. I was physically exhausted, drained and dehydrated. I felt like death. I woke up the next morning weak and afraid to eat.  My body was rumbling, begging me to put something in it but every time I walked into the kitchen, my gut turned over and I swear I heard laughing from within. 

Fortunately, I wasn't going wearing that giant pleather jumpsuit, the helmet, robes, pads, codpiece, shin guards and electrical gear.

Then I remembered who the friend was.

One of life's mysteries.

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

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

Strep Strikes Again

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

He's a fucking champ.  Fever hitting 102 - 103 and he's cracking jokes and reminding to me to pick up a toy for him if he takes his medicine. 

As a result of his being sick, I had to pick up my daughter and bring her home.  Pain in the ass as I then had to come back to the office but no big deal. 

I walked into the apartment and I hear my son crying.  Not a normal occurrence for my son.  The only crying he ever does is the fake, tearless bullshit so hearing him whimpering was rather upsetting.

"I hurts when I breathe, I can't breathe" was what he was saying between gasping sobs.

Apparently, I'm Also Pathetic and Boring

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

Dreams are often a window into the deepest, darkest recesses in our minds.  They are a form of release, a form of suppression, a means of therapy for a mind that is not working properly.  Other times, they're our central computer telling us what we should do, what we want to do and what we cannot do, no matter how badly we want it.  In our dreams, we do things good, and bad, with no repercussion.  We can kill, we can screw around, we can hit the winning basket, be millionaires, paupers and sex addicts.  We are supermen in our dreams.  We are zombies in our dreams.  We are anything our minds can conjure.  My mind, being somewhat twisted, very much over used and under utilized, has come up with all kinds of mental movies.

Last night's dream was the worst I've ever had.

One More Reason To Hate Obama

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

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

I'm Old and Sad

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

What the hell happened to me?

Smell Ass Sweat

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

I Lost My Ads

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

So, here's the letter I should have received from google. This is what I imagine is sitting in my inbox.

Dear Mr. McNoogin,

We are writing this letter to inform you that we have disabled your adsense account. Again. We are doing this because we are a bunch of prepubescent scum lovers with nothing better to do than sit around disabling adsense on blogs that would only earn us money, not you. That's right, your shitty assed traffic is so small, so pathetic that we would never have to pay you one cum covered bloody nickle which, by the way, we keep lodged in our employees asses.

Please don't sign up for another account as we plan on disabling that one too. Along with any other accounts you might attempt to have. In the meantime, we will continue to sit around our offices, taking 4 hour lunches, sitting on the opposite end of the cafeteria from the 4 women who work here. We will all wear our atari shirts on the same day, pretend it isn't gay when when jerk off to porn together and we will continue to pretend that we're fantasizing about bikini clad Princess Leia when we masturbate, all the while, knowing that it's Luke and Chewy that make our cocks hard.

Regards,

The cocksucking team at Google.
(yes, we swallow)

And Several Hours Vanish

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

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

www.pornclerk.com

Enjoy

I Used An Ipod, sorry Ipad.

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

Check it out bitches!

I got advertising back.

Please, do not click anything unless you are interested in it. The last thing I need is to have google pissed off at me again.

I love google. They're less evil than Apple and only slightly more evil than Microsoft. Bill, if you still read my blog, you need to do some evil shit, you're starting to look like the good guy in all this and that's some fucked up shit man.

Seriously, enjoy the concept of my having advertising. Tell your friends how Floogin's site is even cooler now because there are ads for shit nobody cares about, like nuts and dildos. That's right, that's the kind of shit you'll get, once again because, let's face it, everything I write about devolves into a discourse on tits, ass, balls, shitting, farting, sex toys or some other unsavory shit that is currently being sold by 2109 different vendors on the internet, all arriving at your door in a discrete brown wrapper.

The Recurring "Friend"

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

This guy, somehow, doesn't detect the hint of "motherfucker" in my voice. I can tell that I sound annoyed and disappointed when I find out it's not who I thought it was. Why can't he?

Why does he keep calling back? I haven't seen him in 5 years, maybe more. I speak to him 3, maybe 4, times a year and each call is as short as I can make it without being a total douche bag.

I just don't get it. I'm not a huge phone guy. Fuck, I'm not a big email guy either. I have my friends. I talk to them from time to time but it's a rare moment when I pick up a phone and call any of them. I might do an email blast to my friends, telling them all the same thing at the same time but I rarely initiate a conversation to shoot the shit. I'm too busy, too disinterested. I'm guessing this is why other people use facebook and why I don't even bother with that. I care a great deal about my friends. I really do. I don't, however, think they want to hear about my mundane life and I certainly don't want to hear about theirs.

Is that so odd?

How To Ruin A Good Thing

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

So, today, I drop my daughter off at school and I'm walking to my office, somewhat happy that it's not raining that hard. Sadly, as a result, it's fucking humid. Sweat inducing humid. I hate this weather but, the one saving grace, is the way people dress. That's right, I dig checking out the ladies in their short skirts, low cut tops and skin baring outfits.

Sue me.

So, I'm standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change and, in front of me, is an incredible specimen. She's tall, well dressed, skirt just above the knee, great legs, heels. The whole package. Worthy of a slower walk. Watching this woman saunter will make the humidity far more bearable.

The light changes and, as it does, we start to walk. As we start to walk, an emergency vehicle comes blaring up the street, drowning out all noise (I forgot the music this morning, otherwise I'd have been oblivious to it).

I'm walking slowly, mesmerized by the swaying of this woman's incredible ass. My eyes are glassy as I watch the shapely legs move in long, sexy strides. The siren fades and then I hear it. What the fuck is that? Can it be? No. It can't.

She's clomping like a fucking Clydesdale. The coconut clop clop of her shoes distracts my mind. No longer do I see this lovely visage as something warm and fuzzy to ease me into the start of the work week. No, now I'm envisioning a saddle on her back, a long fuzzy tail and hooves.

While I am a deviant of biblical proportions, this image is not one that will make my McNoogin do the Floogin. It kills me. It feels like my penis is crawling in on itself, creating a mangina. I raced up to my office, plopped down at my desk and immediately started surfing for porn to see if I couldn't coax my cock out of its hidey hole.

No such luck.

I am woman, hear me roar.

So, here I sit, testosterone in flux, libido crushed. Instead of staring at naked women, feeling my little fella get all warm and happy, I'm pondering Glee. I'm wondering what song Kurt will sing this week. I'm wondering if I have the right clothes picked out for the movie screening I'm attending this Thursday. I'm wondering if these pants make my ass look huge.

I need help.

Badly.

Single Parent Time

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

I got the kids dressed in their baseball uniforms and off to Central Park we went. My daughter's game was first and it was a blast. I coached first or third when they were batting and assisted coached them in the field when they were out there. My son spent the morning playing with the younger brothers of the players.

After the game we went home so my daughter could change, got lunch and headed back out for the afternoon game of the double header. My son's league is a bit less structured as the kids are, for the most part, incapable of hitting, catching and throwing the ball. My son can hit. He's upset that it's tee ball and he's been asking the coaches to pitch to him. They won't do it and, in this game in particular, it would have been impossible as the opposing team's coach decided the best way to win was to line all 20 or so players up, shoulder to shoulder, in a wall between the mound and the batter. They don't actually keep score so I'm not sure what the fuck this moron was thinking, other than he might get a nice youtube video of his team getting hurt. The first two kids hit the ball well and the opposing team dove all over the place, piling onto each other, trying to snare the ball. Of course, there's nobody covering the bases so getting the ball served only to stop the runner from advancing.

Up walks my son. He's twice as tall as all the other kids. He's smiling. He loves the game. I'm standing on the third base side, coaching the runners. I shout out to my son, telling him to relax, keep his eye on the ball until he makes contact, and then run.

I then realize that there's going to be serious shit if he does connect. I shout to the opposing coach. I ask him if, perhaps, he should give the hitters a bit of respect. His response? "Limit them to singles and the we can win."

I explain that they don't actually record outs in the game. I explain that he's putting his kids at risk by sticking them 4 feet in front of the hitters. He tells me that, since the kids all hit dribblers, there's no real risk.

Then my son smokes a ball thru his so call wall of defenders. They dive out of the way. They all hit the floor. The ball shoots towards second base. Nobody there but another opposing coach. It hits him in the thigh and caroms towards the back of the field.

I'm waving the kids home. My son comes trotting around the bases, all smiles.

I pat him on the ass as he saunters home.

The opposing team is in a pile, all of them trying to grab the ball that has rolled all the way to the back field, disrupting the other game that was being played.

The league representative jogs onto the field and tells the idiot coaching the other team that he can either play the kids in positions of sit two thirds of the team while they play the field.

The moron decides the benching will work better.

While in the field, my son is placed in front of the pitcher, with another boy. Between the two of them, not one ball makes it to the pitcher. Their throwing is fair, at best, but these two boys are hoovering up every ball that comes their way.

So, in the next inning, one of my son's teammates is on third and my son is getting ready to hit and this tall woman comes over and asks me where my son learned how to play. I explain that he played in another "league" in the fall and that we play whenever we can. She's asking all kinds of questions and then she leans down and starts talking the boy on third base. Turns out that's her son. She then suggests we get the kids together for a play date so my son can play baseball with him. I agree that it should be fine with my son. She then tells me how it's tough for her, being a single mom, not knowing about sports, not knowing what they should do now, to learn to play the various games that boys like to play. I tell her I understand and I tell her that my son is big on baseball and soccer and that he takes classes and plays in leagues for both and she's asking about details etc when my son smokes another shot into the outfield.

As he rounds third, trotting towards home, the woman high fives my son and asks if he wants to play with her son in the park after the game. He says yes and I explain that we have other plans and that my daughter is roaming the park with another friend and that we'd love to get the boys together when we weren't so busy.

She agrees and says we'll talk when the game is over.

The game plays on in the usual manner. Lots of hitting, running and shitty fielding.

Towards the end of the game, the mother of one of my son's friends walks over, cracking up. She tells me that the woman I was talking to thinks I'm single. I tell her that my wife left me just that morning and, technically, I am single. She tells me that the woman wants a play date with me. I asked why she didn't tell her that I'm married and she said "more fun this way."

When the game ended, my kids made a beeline for the playground and we ran into other friends so there was no chance for this woman to ask me out. Next weekend will be interesting.

Afterward, my son got into a fight with a 9 year old who kicked him in the balls. Seems the 9 year old was fucking with my son's friend and my son, being the friend that he is, defending his buddy and wound up in a fight.

I found this out later that night when my friend, who was there with those boys, called me to tell me what had happened (his son fessed up). Couldn't be prouder of my son.

Sunday, my kids let me sleep late and we got dressed, went out for brunch, went shopping for some clothes for my daughter and then hit Central Park for some rock climbing, Carousel riding, baseball playing and general fucking around.

Some time Sunday evening, the kids were fed, bathed, and the apartment cleaned (they did it themselves, no asking, no suggesting), my wife returned. She was greeted as if she was coming back from the garbage chute. The kids barely registered her absence or her return.

Now, with mother's day coming, I need to make sure we all do something really special for her because, at the moment, she thinks we can, and would, survive like champs, were she not around.

Lego, Star Wars and the Rebellion in My Livingroom

My son is obsessed with Star Wars and he's obsessed with Lego. He's addicted to them both so, when he found out about Star Wars Lego, it was like a junkie learning about speedballs for the first time.

He's played the Wii game. Finished all the levels. Now he's replaying them as all the different characters. He also learned that you can buy Lego kits to make various Star Wars scenes and vehicles. He's been nagging me for a Millenium Falcon and a Death Star. No way in hell am I spending close to a grand on either one. More so since I always end up doing all the construction as he watches tv and ignores my pleas for assistance.

I know my dad wants to buy one of them for him and make it a summer project that they will work on. So, I figured, perhaps it was time to start the boy out on some of the smaller, easier kits. I picked up a couple of little star wars kits and some super hero kits and he, and I, put them together. Together. It was a blast. Of course, several hours after completion, they had fallen apart. He plays rough with his toys. It kills me when I spend money on something and see him playing with a broken down version of that toy after only a week.

Anyway, I took him to his baseball game on Saturday and he was incredible. Smoking line drives when he was at bat and sucking up balls like an all star in the field. He has his own little mantra on the field: Nothing Gets Past Me. Fucking brilliant.

Anyway, he was in such good spirits after the game that he agreed to go belt shopping with me, in exchange for a stop at a toy story. I complied and, once there, he made a beeline for the lego section. The kits he wanted were all way too complex for him and the easier ones were limited to the ones he had so we agreed to pick up Luke Skywalker's X-Wing and he agreed to work on it with me.

We picked up a belt, grabbed some lunch and headed home. He immediately tore open the box and opened each of the plastic bags housing the 437 pieces. Yes, that's right, 437 pieces. He separated them into piles of matching pieces and then he set out building the characters it came with. Luke, Leia, Chewbacca, Han Solo, C3P0, R2D2 and Wedge Antilles. Then he picked them all up and said he was going to play with them while I did my part, building the ship.

I explained that this was a father and son project and, after a bit of arguing, he begrudgingly sat next to me, helping me locate the pieces and snapping them in place.

It took us about two hours to finish. It was pretty fucking cool. The wings move open and closed by turning a little knob in the back of the ship. R2 fits in the back. Luke can sit in the cockpit. There's even a secret cargo hold for his light saber.

My son immediately grabbed all the other ships, characters, figures, books etc on the subject of star wars and a massive battle between the rebellion and the empire took over my living room. There were even a few super heroes in the mix, presumably helping the rebellion. The battle waged on, taking a break for dinner and then, it started right up again.

My wife and I went out to dinner, leaving my kids, and the intergalactic battle, in the capable hands of the sitter.

We returned home shortly before midnight to a battlefield at rest. There were figures on the furniture, on the window ledge, on the coffee table, on the tv and there was even one character hanging on the lip of the fish tank.

The sitter told us how wonderful the kids were, how they went to be early, on their own and how my son was distraught because his new ship broke.

I asked where it was and she pointed to the coffee table.

The X-Wing had lost an engine and a wing has popped loose.

So, I pick up the craft and try to replace the wing. This was a mistake. I had several drinks and was in no condition to be messing around with the lego ship.

By the time I gave up, all four wings were now off the craft.

My son woke up around 7 the next morning and came into my bedroom in tears. I told him that the battle waged on well after he had gone to sleep but he shouldn't worry. Luke and R2 escaped and the rebellion managed to take the ship, and all the broken parts back to their garage and a master mechanic would fix the craft.

So, my morning consisted of coffee, aspirin for the raging hangover and my shaky fingers taking the entire craft apart. Piece by piece.

I then went and picked up some glue. Not the elmers kind. No, I grabbed some cyanoacrylate. High end, fast drying, krazy glue type stuff.

My wife took my daughter to a birthday party and left us to the rebuilding of the X-Wing.

At first it was a breeze. Then I got a bit cocky. I was using more glue than necessary. Snapping pieces on far to fast and my son comes over and goes to pick up a piece to help and I snapped, yelling "no, don't touch it, it's very strong glue, I don't want you to get it stuck on your skin."

He says he'll be careful. I tell him it's best if he helps me locate the pieces. He does.

I'm holding a wing in my left hand, I grab the glue in my right, ready to put a few drops onto the next addition to the wing when I realize said wing is now a part of me. That's right, three fingers glued to the wing. I explain what happened to my son. He looks at my hand, tries pulling the pieces, I explain that the only way to remove it is with rubbing alcohol and we need to go to the store. We get dressed and headed out, my lego hand in my pocket, hiding it from potentially mocking eyes.

We head into the store and my son asks if this means I'm turning into a good guy or a bad guy. I ask him what he means and he says "Spiderman was bit by a spider and now he's half spider, sandman was half sand, electro is half electric and I am half lego."

He asks if I am good or bad. I tell him I am good and nobody can know that his daddy is Legoman.

He promises it will be our little secret. Then he tells me he still loves me, even if I am made of lego.

Paying for the alcohol was no easy task, with one hand attached to a wing but we managed to get it done and then we headed home. I soaked my hand for a good 20 minutes before the wing came loose. So did all the other pieces and I was back to rebuilding the damned wing, this time with much more caution.

The X-wing was completed (again) and the rebellion, led by Luke Skywalker and his X-Wing, were back battling the Empire before dinner.

Lack of Motivation

I can't get a thing done. It's normal, post tax hell, for me to be restless, bored at work and unable to accomplish the ost menial tasks. I spent a whole week looking at the same piece of paper. I've taken to finding reasons to leave the office so I can go outside and enjoy the warm weather. I'll go down for soda and intentionally not hit the bank so I have a reason to leave in 20 minutes. I've tried playing games. I've tried surfing for porn.

Nothing piques my interest.

I need a vacation. Clear the head, get my shit together and get back to work.

The Facts of Life

The weather is (was) warmer and that brought out the best, and worst, of New York City. The short skirts, the shorter shorts, the low cut tops, the barely there tank tops. They were all taken out of the mothballs and worn. And it got me thinking. It seems that some folks simply don't understand the facts of life. I'm not talking about sex here, no, I'm talking about those basic facts that everyone should know, and understand.

for example.

Fact 1. Those really long nails are disgusting. That's right women. If your finger nails are inches long, you look like a whore. If they're so long that they curve and you can't do anything without having to reposition your hands to avoid breaking them, you're nothing more than an idiot whore. And if you waste your hard earned whore dollars getting them painted with streaks and sparkles and stars? Trailer Park Whore. It's really that simple. There's not a guy out there who sees you, with your nails that are longer than a cock, painted with stars and moons and thinks "classy lady, I should see if she wants to get a cup of coffee." No, he's got his hand in his pocket so he can see if he has enough quarters and dimes for a blow job.

Fact 2. If you're fat, dress appropriately. You want to show off some skin, do it in the privacy of your own home. When your back is so fat you have extra ass cheeks, you should wear a tent, not a form fitting shirt that resides above the second roll of blubber below your tits.

Fact 3. If you don't have the legs for it, don't wear short skirts or short shorts. Here's the thing. When fat women show off their legs and jam their pigs knuckles into some fuck me pumps, all that happens is men see your legs and those shoes and they are immediately reminded of Miss Piggy at a formal. No joke. Take a peek at a pigs leg and hoof and then check out a fat broad in a short skirt and heels. Same fucking thing.

Fact 3a. Do not wear fish nets or any of the other fashionable lacy hose/stockings. This is an addendum to the above. If you've got the legs for it, by all means, wear them but, if your flesh oozes through the lace or net, stop. Throw them out. Your legs will look like some perverted play-doh porn for chubbie chasers. Nobody wants to see that.

Fact 4. No belt clips or ear pieces for your cell phone. You look like a star trek wannabe. I don't care how hot you might be, if you have a phone clipped to your belt or an ear piece hanging on your melon, you look like an idiot. In the car, when nobody can see you, and it is required, I don't care if you wear two. On the street? Ditch it.

Fact 5. When talking on your cell in public, remember, it's a fucking phone call that nobody else cares about. Nobody gives a shit if you got blown last night or if some guy went down on you or your boyfriend's a prick or you made some money in the market. Nobody gives a shit about you, except, possibly, the person you're talking to so keep it the fuck down. If we wanted to know more about your life, we'd give you a reality show, call it Real Jackasses of the City and 3 people would watch it. You, the moron on the other end of the phone and the one loser impressed by your new found "celebrity."

Fact 6. Guys think your Ugg boots are awful. Not only do they destroy the image of a nice pair of legs, we know how fucking hot your feet must get and, now that it's spring, it's time to mothball them until the winter. I actually prefer a fat broad in a short skirt, fishnets and heels to a supermodel in a skirt or shorts and uggs. Why? Because I know that, when taking off her clothes, her feet will be sweaty and the stench from the boots and her feet will be enough to stop a herd of elephants in their tracks.

Fact 7. Have a Good One. What the fuck does this even mean? If I run into you as I'm heading for the shitter, are you telling me to enjoy my dump? If I tell you to "have a good one" as you head over to your ob-gyn, am I suggesting you get a good speculum? It's a stupid fucking expression. Stop using it.

Fact 8. If you email someone, and you leave them a voicemail, wait for their fucking response. We are so wired to everything these days that you can be sure at least one of the the voicemails, texts, tweets, emails, smoke signals and facebook postings has been seen. If we haven't responded yet, there's a reason so stop fucking adding to the shit we have to sift through before we can get back to you. If you haven't heard back yet, assume that the person you want to talk to is busy, or being held hostage by a gang of angry gypsies, or fell into a coma, is dead or simply doesn't want to talk to you. If they do, they'll get back to you.

That's it for now. I'm sure I'll find more and I'll add to them as I do. If you have any facts of life to add, let me know.

City of Dead

I'm sitting high atop the city. In the distance, the blue black sea stretches out across the horizon. A ball of tie dyed colors stretches up from the water, reds, oranges and yellows bleeding out from a fiery white center.

It's a gorgeous view.

Of course, I'm not looking at it. I'm looking down. 20 floors down. At the concrete below.

The dead are walking the earth. They don't see out human flesh. They aren't after brains. They shuffle along, feet dragging, as they move about the city. They mumble and moan, their stare, glassy and lifeless. They might say something to you. They might not. Their arms leaden and limp at their sides. Their legs feel like 500 pound sacks of grain. Moving them, walking, is a chore. Their eyelids droop, their black, dilated pupils, stare down at the pavement as they slowly wend their way through the crowded, shuffling throngs of people.

If you bump into the walking dead, their body will absorb the hit, turning them, spinning them but that's about it. They won't turn on you, shredding your skin, tearing your limbs off. If anything, they might utter a muffled complaint. They have no energy. They are dead.

I know this because I have become one of the walking dead. Movement is a chore. Rational thinking no longer exists. This is why I sit and stare at the pavement instead of the gorgeous day dawning on a dead city.

This is why I contemplate the wind in my hair, the feeling of flying, the feeling of life as I plummet.....

down

I....Am.....Tired.....

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Epic Hell

So, I'm mired in my work. Waking up around 5, working from around 6 until after 11PM every night. It's been brutal. I can't recall it being this awful in years. I can't even figure out why it's so bad, other than the usual bullshit. Clients coming in late, random must have immediately crap and the ever worsening issue of amended statements from brokerage houses. All that has managed to make my days far more miserable than I anticipated.

A client came in yesterday, took one look at me, shook his head and said "you look awful."

I do.

I feel awful too.

So, yeah. I'm exhausted. I can deal with that.

This past week also saw a heat wave in the city. We hit 92 degrees the other day. NYC was the hottest place in the country. If that doesn't suck enough, we don't have air conditioning and, somehow, there was no breeze on the 20th floor. This means the office was a fucking sauna. Sweating like a pig, I sat and worked, for about 17 hours each day.

I stank by the end of each day.

Still, I can endure all this. More so since, thanks to the opressive heat, a client of mine, who is a c list celebrity, came in wearing the loosest clothing she could without looking like a tart and I managed to be there when she had a mild clothing malfunction. I was graced with a celebritit sighting. Big win. Made the sweat rivulets crawling down my back like little spiders seem so inconsequential.

Floogin endures. I have to. My clients rely on me. They need me. My family relies on me. They need me. My father relies on me. He needs me. If I can't soldier on, his income stream will slow and he won't be able to dole out money to my deadbeat brother in law and he won't be able to fund my sister's new business, much as he did for her piece of shit husband.

I endure.

Until yesterday, I thought, stress, heat, exhaustion....bring it on motherfucker.

Then I went downstairs to grab a bite to tide me over for the night. Chicken salad. The deli next door has this awesome chicken salad. I've been getting a scoop every night this week.

So, I grab the meal, head up to the office, sit down and notice a large pile of new work dumped on my desk. Fucking work gremlins torturing me again.

I shrug my shoulders, smile at the pile, mumble a fuck you to the work gods and tell myself I am the lizard king, I can do anything.

And I eat.

And I get back to work.

I hammer out yet another "must finish by the morning" return and then, the oddest, strangest thing happens.

My stomach grumbles. Odd. I just ate. I can't be hungry.

Then I feel it. Like there's a hose down my throat, I feel some liquid moving back and forth across my abdomen. I can feel it turning back and forth making its way towards my.....fuck!

GET OUT OF THERE! NOW NOW GO GO GO!!

I bolt for the bathroom. Fumbling for the keys in my pocket, I stumble, my hand, instinctively reaches for my ass. I turn the corner, racing to the bathroom and, like in some lame horror movie, my keys go flying. Nooooooooooooooooooo!! I try to catch them, I stumble again, the keys skidder across the floor. On the run, I bend and grab them, fumbling with the ring, trying to find the right key.

My hands shaking, my ass clenching, I work the key into the lock, fly into the bathroom, slam the stall door open as I tear at my belt and my pants. I sit down just as it happens.

Now, I know nobody likes to read this but, well, it's my story and I'll shit if I want to.

Out it comes. No cramps. No pain. No nothing. It's like someone stuck a needle in a water balloon. A long, steady, never ending stream. I'm literally peeing from the wrong end. Disgusting? Yes. Relieving? So I thought.

Then the sweats hit me. As if I'm not hot enough already.

Sweat is pouring down my face.

The asspee stops.

A beat passes. I hear/feel another crazy surge of liquid in my gut.

And it happens again.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Where the fuck is all this liquid coming from.

As the second (literal) wave subsides I realize the automatic lights never went on.

Fabulous. I'm in the dark, pissing out of my ass and I didn't grab my phone so I could give myself a bit of light.

A third epic blast ensues and then, for the first time in the last 15 minutes, my body begins to feel as normal as it can. I finish up. Stand up and then the nausea hits me. No, it isn't the smell. The liquid flame thrower that was my ass produced an oddly odorless napalm.

No, this nausea is something else. A burp exits my mouth. Oh god. Chicken salad, coming right up!

Pants still around my ankles, I spin around and start to bend down. As I open my mouth to get that salad out I see my sunglasses slipping out of my shirt pocket. My first reaction, "why are my sunglasses in my pocket." My second reaction, reach for the glasses. My third reaction?

Puke all over my hand.

The splash of my projectile vomiting, masked the splash of my sunglasses as they hit the soupy, nasty mix of toilet water, shit and puke.

I look down.

I can't even see them.

My hand is covered in puke.

I've got no choice.

I'm going in.

I close my eyes, say a quick prayer to whatever demon is watching me, laughing his red tailed ass off, and thrust my hand into the mess.

I swirl my hand around, reaching as deep as I can. They're on the bottom, in the hole that leads to shit purgatory.

I'm not going in further, no. I'm practically up to my elbow in it and my fingers are grazing the edge of the frame. I manage to move them up a bit and then I grab them.

Now what?

I should abandon them. I know I should.

But I love them and I haven't the time to get new ones. Besides, what if they don't make them anymore. It took me forever to pick these out.

I slowly slip my arm, my wrist, my glasses clenched in my fist, out of the slop. Bits of puke and shit