Fire! Fire! It can save a marriage!

The power of fire. I’m not sure what a burning piece of firewood does for all the other husbands wives out there but this I know for certain. When I so much as light a match in front of my wife she gets turned on like an LED light bulb at a Thomas Edison motivational speech convention hosted by Tony Robbins and co-hosted by that Guidette broad from “Long Island Meduim” with the “something about Mary” jizz hair due who speaks to dead people. Yeah ok.

This woman walks around and has the balls to make us believe she has the ability to communicate with the dead? TLC pays this lady who’s only credibility consists of a reading of some homeless chick at McDonald’s ordering a one piece chicken nugget and a side of honey BBQ sauce as this Nostradamus brain surgeon earns 20k per episode as her dead beat over cooked tanning bed husband with Popeye anchor tattoos on his elbow just prances around like he’s JT bringing sexy back. Please. He’s actually pretty cute for an older gentleman.

I see dead people all the time. Like at the funeral parlor. I don’t get paid for that shit. I particularly enjoy when this Debbie Gibson wannabe so called “Medium” just randomly calls out some cashier at Dunkin Donuts. I find it quite amusing when she says, and I quote, “Did someone close to you pass? Like in the last 35 years?”…No shit you dumb orange adopted daughter of Donald Trump. Chances are somebody died within four decades. Just a hunch.

My wife watches this show as if this shit is actually happening live and when this “Guidette Medium” senses a spirit, my wife becomes emotionally attached as if that physic midget from Poltergeist may actually save Carol Anne from a bad cable TV connection. Stay away from the light!!!

Getting back to fire. If I must be honest and frank? I believe the key to a healthy and successful marriage is fire. If your marriage and connection with your partner is fading and you can’t figure it out or the passion is dying simply start burning shit. Anything you can. Just set anything and everything on fire. Even the children. The house. The vehicles. Just burn baby burn.

Fire will bring the fire back into your relationship. Trust me. My wife hasn’t looked at me in three months. Except when she needs money for bills of course.

I recently set fire to her puke green cotton robe and fluffy Maroon 5 moccasins and miraculously she acknowledged my presence and asked how have I been lately. It was nice to know my presence was felt.

One of my wife’s lifelong dreams is to own a fire pit. I always tried to make this dream a reality but the cost of a fire pit was just a smidgen above our budget. Until today. I checked the mail and my tax return in the amount of $137.00arrived to my surprise. I was so excited. I cashed the check and raced to Lowes. I found the cheapest most rusted broken down leftover 2016 fire pit available and I struck a deal with the Lowes employee who’s pants were wrapped around his calfs as his earlobes were made up of what I can only describe as fat round black Shrek wedding rings. He was an interesting looking fella.

I skipped home and presented the gift to my wife. She was so happy. Most women want diamonds and expensive pocket books. Not this girl. All she wants is fire and a vacuum so once she burns me to death she can suck up my charred remains. Smart!

Fire. Fire. Fire. Trust me gentleman. When you come home tonight light a candle. Burn the cat. Boil some water. It will be life changing. Your significant other might even nibble on your pecker. Good luck!

Finding the perfect time to mate!


Back in the day (And by back in the day I’m referring to the Cro-Magnon Man Era) when a man wanted to mate with his desired female he clobbered the hairy creature over the head with a large tree limb or the nearest decayed Woolly Mammoth femur bone he could possibly find.

Current love and relationship experts like Dr. Phil, the creators of and the brilliant minds behind P.O.F all believe these actions seemed to be the most direct method in achieving a mating session with a woman who was bound to a mountain side apartment view as her hairy triplets latched on to her poison ivy infested breast. During this era women tried to become domesticated as they decorated the cave walls with hieroglyphics and skeletal remains of Aunt Betty who was apparently eaten by a giant mutated dragon fly.

The sexual strategies have changed over the years. Although there is no correct or proven way to seduce or woo your potential mate, cracking her over the skull with any type of weapon or body part is frowned upon in today’s society and will most likely land you in a prison for a few days considering you have a good lawyer.

Most men today attempt the more practical and logical approach. I can’t speak for all men. I can only speak about my own personal experience and what has worked for me. In all honesty, many of my tactics result in major failure. I personally have the sex appeal of a rotten banana. I’m as attractive as roasted brussell sprouts infected with stage 9 Polio.

I’ve seen alot of cool and smooth men do their thing. Most have a Ricky Martin tattoo on their knee cap and a Bell Biv Devoe scarf and this seems to be the type of men who attract the pretty women. I guess we all have our techniques. I can’t seem to find a tattoo artist willing to color my knee up with “Living La Vida Loca”. Damn I’m pissed. I’ll settle for a full back 98 Degrees mural at this point. Any takers?

Detecting sexual signs from your significant other can be as challenging as arranging this years family Easter photo with The Menendez Brothers.

I personally always try and take all potential sexual signs, or at least what I think is a sign, as an opportunity to jump on this woman who is only open for business 15 minutes per week. Shop is also closed on weekends and all major holidays. Including Flag Day.

Signs can be misleading. Women have evolved. They no longer have to embrace the impact of a potential dense bone deadly blow to the temple to convince them to mate. Their skulls have toughened up through evolution. I believe this breakthrough was the inspiration for the creation of steel.

Unlike the caveman era, women have rights. As they should. They are much more intelligent and rational than any penis driven male. Period. At the end of the day, what defines a man is a 6″ (if you’re lucky) alien like ice pop stick. Doesn’t matter the level of intelligence. We only exist because of women. If all women decided to invent some kind of defense mechanism that permanently closed the “passage to male heaven”, life would be over as us males know it. Don’t let any man tell you different. That “thing” located in the center of your body has more power than the organizer of the schools Tricky Tray. That’s some powerful shit!

As much as I love having a beer with my buddies and endure the continuous complaints from my wife who bust my chops about pissing on her recently cleaned toilet seats and my steady lack of financial productivity, I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s worth every aggravating word she spits out of her mouth.

The other day my wife walked around the kitchen dressed in a George Michael mini-skirt singing “I Want Your Sex”. I jumped off the couch like a Mexican man hosting a Taco eating hula hoop contest at the local flea market during a Spanish volleyball tournament. She denied me and made it clear she was now picking up the sexual signals from the 3 foot 1/2″ Spanish gentlemen running the Volley Ball event who happened to be 37 Zimas deep as a Tequila Sunrise oozed out of his left retna. I had to respect her sexual attraction. This was beyond my control. Life works in funny ways.

Next, my wife began walking down the hallway shaking her rump to “Let’s get it on” by Marvin Gaye. This peaked my interest and when I grabbed the top of her “off white” granny panties and tugged playfully she cracked me in the hairline with her IPad and proceeded to explain she would rather have relations with Vanilla Ice in his 5.0 as 90210’s Ray Pruit escorts her to prom.

Moral of the story is this. Times have changed. Today’s sexual signals have changed. You can no longer believe an innocent lick of a cupcake or the unwrapping of a tootsie roll pop is an automatic invitation to sexual activities.

The purpose of this post is to protect and educate my fellow man. Be careful. There are traps and deception everywhere.

I also want to give all the women, mothers, wives all the respect in the world. Your day in and day out motherly duties is a task that only you can accomplish. You should all be proud.

I had to watch my twin boys for 6 minutes the other day and I was ready to flush myself down the toilet with a gallon of draino and dirty wet naps. God bless you.

Is your Colon Unhappy? It has feelings.


Today my wife came home with a box of tea packets she purchased at a concession stand from the local flea market. The tea was called “Happy Colon.”

The purpose of this tea is to encourage her colon to deal with the daily struggles as it
attempts to extract maximum colon happiness from all of life’s challenges and obstacles.

At first I had my suspicions of “unhappy colon syndrome”. I never heard of such a condition. I wasn’t sure if this disease even existed. I was curious and decided to investigate. I wanted to learn more about this. I thought if my wife is suffering, I wanted to educate myself and fully understand what she may be going through. So I Googled it.

Description was as follows. “If your colon is unhappy, you most likely did not wipe your asshole good enough.”

Made sense but I wanted to give my wife the benefit of the doubt. I knew there was more to this. Naturally, as a concerned husband, I asked her why her colon was unhappy and was there anything I could do.

Understanding this was a touchy subject I decided to give her the necessary time and space I felt an individual needs who painfully suffers from “unhappy colon syndrome”

Then I began to back track. I tried to remember any signs she may have given me or obvious cries for help she may have belted out over the past 22 years to indicate her colon was upset. Then it hit me.

I was blinded by her struggles. Selfish to her needs. This poor woman had a condition. She begged for my help as the years passed and I just treated these warning signs as if she was constipated for a few decades.

I assumed her colon was a happy colon and was enjoying its life. It always seem to sing happy songs on a daily basis. It jiggled all around performing the macarena up and down the hallway as I chased it with a spatula. Her colon even acted as a generator and provided electricity for our home during a hurricane when the power went out and kept our goldfish alive during this time of desperation.

I thought her colon was quite heroic and doing its part in contributing to society. I was obviously wrong.

Further research has shown “unhappy colon syndrome” is a very serious condition and unless properly treated, can lead to unpredicted mood swings, castration of the husbands genitals, wear and tear of all vehicle fabric along with destruction of dining room table seat cushions.

Although today my wife and I have an open policy with our colons, it wasn’t always that way. I was against any type of breaking wind and all other colon activities. It was a deal breaker for me. I just didn’t want to believe her colon was active. And somehow someway, this volcanic eruption of a female ass kept her natural daily occurrences a secret for over twenty years. How she managed this will be a mystery until the end of time.

Today she blows more gas out of her ass than a BBQ propane refill station. She releases enough natural fuel to send a hot air balloon to Jupiter.

Bottom line is this. Pay attention to
your significant others colon. It may need help. Colons have feelings. Sometimes they may not wear emotions on their sleeves but “colon lives matter.”

I will be creating a “Go Fund My Wife’s Colon” page on Facebook. We will also be doing the “Colon Challenge” to raise money and awareness to help shed light on this horrific epidemic in attempt to save or rebuild as many colons as we possibly can. Together, with your help and a commercial featuring Rosie O’Donnell’s colon, we can put an end to this.

Our goal is simple. We will strive to make each and every colon flourish. All colons, no matter what color or shape, shall receive the same equal opportunity as the colons before them.

I’m sorry. I’m obsessed with this photo. Can’t believe my colon will finally be happy!!!

The beginning stages of my wife falling out of love with me. Hope not 🤧

I believe my wife is descending gracefully out of love with me. She hasn’t officially said it yet and maybe I’m over reacting. The signs have been everywhere lately. I’m just trying to make sense of it all over the past few weeks and I need to figure out if a subscription to E-Harmony or Christian Mingle is in order.

My wife is a special person. First, she puts up with my shit. Next, she puts up with my twin boys shit which is a byproduct spinoff of my shit which will eventually morph into a great big pile of shit for this woman.

Day in and day out this strong & patient lady washes our shit stain undies. She polishes our pissed drenched community toilet bowl attacked by three peckers with the piss release accuracy of a paraplegic dart champion recovering from a devastating double arm wood chipper accident. I wish I could say she cooks for us but I would be lying. I am the cook in the family. My wife has been known to over cook boiled water!

Push comes to shove, she is the rock that holds this family circle of chaos together.

Lately I have noticed changes with my wife and it has tickled my fancy and I’m very nervous. First, I can never score a babe like her at this stage of my life. She is a 10. I am like three quarters of a percent. My best qualities and what I could potentially offer a future potential mate is as follows. I am equipped with “3 1/2” bright white semi-gloss ear hair that looks as if Teen Wolf went skinny dipping in a pool of whiteout. My physique resembles that of Axel Rose on Jenny Craig. I’m hung like a single pole electrical three way light switch. Second, my yearly income can barely support my FROYO topping addiction and I have the communication skills of Rocky Dennis at a beauty pageant.

So naturally I’m trying to hold on to this Senorita. Otherwise it’s me pretending to be a rich Jewish doctor on J-Date who’s special interests are potato lotka preparation and romantic walks to the bank.

I have been with my better half more than 20 years. I know her moves. I know her actions. I know her intentions. I know when she is trying to run the fuck away.

It starts with the obvious. When we are intimate she begins to sing “I hate everything about you” by Ugly Kid Joe and starts to shake like Vanilla Ice at a police taser seminar. She also installs a cotton sheet with a penetration hole the size of a deer tick between the two of us like she’s applying for an illegal building permit to build the towns largest Yeshiva. If that has not crushed me as of yet she begins to consume enough notoriously gastric roasted broccoli and red pepper humus to blow a hole in the Hoover Damn. She has even gone as far as to hold my child hostage as her fully loaded anal cheeks pinned this poor boys frontal lobe to the floor as she hovered over him lip singing Air Supply’s Greatest Hits threatening to blow his eardrum out of his skull.

Upon attempting these extremely obvious tasks of driving her husband towards divorce or simply forcing me to swan dive off the nearest bridge, she still has the balls to ask me to get her an ice water and rub her dry ass alligator feet. The balls on her.

As I’m actually writing this at
12:30 am she snuck into the room I am hiding in and scared the piss out of me again. Now she must call Stanley Steamers tomorrow to clean her Arizona Tan micro suede couch I just happened to drop a Hershey kiss on.

I love my wife very much but I know when I’m not wanted. I feel my life is in danger. Hopefully I will make it through the night without her popping up through the Garbage disposal or erecting from the crushed ice dispenser.

The struggle is real.

St. Patrick’s Day. Liver in distress!


St. Patrick’s Day. My blood mostly flows greasy ass Italian but there is a small dose of that green hemoglobin running through my veins.

If I can be honest, this holiday is the one holiday where I actually try and take the day off from drinking and give my body a rest. Never seems to work out that way. I really don’t need an excuse to consume green beer and shove a poor mans meat down my throat accompanied by a veggie that will make my asshole sing the star spangled banner in Latin for three weeks straight.

Somehow each year I find myself bellied up to the bar at my local pub shoveling potatoes the size of cantaloupe down my esophagus and continuously naw on over cooked corn beef and chew on cabbage until my rectum does a reverse split and blossoms like a spring tulip.

In my younger years on this epic holiday I made it a point to dye my asshole green and drank enough booze to turn my eyeballs inside out and triggered gout of the lower lip.

As we get older our priorities in life tend to change. For me it was marriage and twin boys who eat more corn beef than that 600lb individual on TLC who needs to be airlifted to the bathroom whenever he has to drop a deuce.


Either way, we as a family always acknowledge the holiday and get our corn beef fix at our local pub D & D’s in New City, NY. I somehow manage to raise my BAC six times the legal limit as child protective services follow me home and my wife continuously beats me with her vehicles ice scraper and pours anti-freeze into my eye lids. Good times. I really look forward to this event.

The beauty of all this? The following morning. I can’t recover like I use to. I wake up three hours late for work as my nostrils are glued to my pillow and my ass hair is parted like the Red Sea. My man tits are lactating and my pinky toes are bleeding profusely. My ears drums are pulsating as my Adam’s apple becomes pregnant with triplets.

Then there is always those parades. Some entrepreneur pushing around a rusted gurney dressed in a bed bug infested quilt selling green tin foil pin wheels for $85 plus luxury tax. The kids jump up and down like a mentally challenged Connor Mcgregor bobble head doll begging you to purchase this item as you struggle to put the cash together as you just spent all the legal tender on shots of Jameson and beer you thought was green but turned out to be the piss!

So yeah. This is a great holiday. Pretty much sounds like a normal Friday for me.

New York blizzard. Ass has gas!

Blizzard of March 14, 2017. Rockland County, NY. They called her Stella. Today our area took on a shitload of the white stuff. Some areas were hit harder than others. Keep in mind it was almost 70 degrees last week as I ambitiously began removing my speedos and wife beaters from my summer draw. Weather has been crazy lately. Just can’t figure it out.

Considering meteorologists and weatherman forecasts are about as accurate as a two year old peeing into a toilet,  the announcement of this storm was taken with a grain of salt by most.

Make no mistake, people were preparing themselves regardless. The need for milk, bread and eggs is a Yoda like force. When individuals feel like they will be stuck in their home for a day, the urge to concoct French Toast over takes them. What else are you going to make with that ingredient list? I personally never understood it. My priorities are a bit different. If I am forced to be home in the house, I want beer, booze and burritos by my side. If I’m going to overdose on something, I’ll go down with Vodka rather than milk.

Who needs a weatherman when you have social media. My friends on these social outlets believe they are the next Amy Freeze or Lee Goldberg.

Everybody is entitled to opinions and predictions but the debates over potential weather conditions is far worse than a presidential debate. Well, not this years debate! People were assassinating family members as a result of this years elections. I won’t go any further on this. I enjoy talking politics as much as I enjoy discussing the removal of my eyeballs.

No matter what you believed, the storm graced us with her presence and it hit hard.  State of emergency was in order.

Most living in the predicted areas woke up to a white winter blanket of snow covering our cars rising up to the door locks and consumed our mailboxes as that little red flag rose in defeat.

The scene outside was breathtaking until you had to actually go out and shovel that shit. Wind gusts intensified the storm as snow was blown in every direction.

Before we attempted any type of snow removal, some roasting of veggies was in order. My wife thought it was a terrific idea to insert some healthy diet into the families food intake. I agreed as I ate brownies and bacon. What I forgot was the affect a healthy dose of green roasted veggies had on a human beings control of gas releases from their rear ends. I was soon reminded.

My wife and I bundled up like a couple of Jamaicans preparing for a bob sledding contest coached by John Candy. I put on my velour slippers with a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. She wrapped herself in a teal green bath robe accompanied by a Madonna “Like a Virgin” scarf. We shoveled for a minute and a half. Cracked a beer. Hired the local kids in the neighborhood to finish up the remaining shoveling details. This shit was for the birds and my toes were beginning to feel like frozen corn.

After signing a detailed contract supplied by the lawyer of the children, I agreed reluctantly and the driveway snow removal began. These children, the future of America, displayed the work ethic & enthusiasm of Flavor Flav at an arraignment. Each time I glanced out my window to check on the progress of my investment, the entire work force was sitting down on a snow bank discussing the latest Kerry Perry album and the most trendy latte from Starbucks. It was a sad day.

Back in my day we would knock on a neighbors door. Beg to shovel the driveway. Agree to a $10 dollar fee. Get it done and move on to the next driveway. Unfortunately the youth today would rather “watch me whip and watch me nay nay” as they film themselves on Snapchat looking like wild animals singing a Freddy Wap tune as balloons descend in the background.

As the day winded down and these little lawyered up entrepreneurs with the experience of an elementary first place field day team knocked on my door demanding payment for a sub par snow removal job, I handed over the cash in fear of my home being financially leaned and the inconvenience of future court appearances.

I finally found comfort on the couch and it was time to check out the social media accounts. My entire feed consisted of chicken soup, every type of beer brewed since prohibition, portraits of children suffering from extreme frost bite and those assholes rubbing their 85 degree weather in our frozen faces who have moved out of the area and now reside in Florida. Fuck off!

The family enjoyed hearty plates of roasted green veggies and within minutes ass cracks were belting out Metallica’s greatest hits and my house began to smell like a Mexican Port-a-John on Cinco Di Mayo.

We decided to end the days festivities watching my wife’s favorite TV show “This Is Us”. I personally have never watched this but each week I witnessed my wife walking into the bedroom sobbing like a girl who has just lost her dog, cat, goldfish, first cabbage patch kid and her virginity in the same hour. I was curious of what all the crying was about. I have been known to shed a tear as a result of a David Hasselhoff Hallmark Christmas movie so it peaked my interest. This episode did not bring a tear to my wife’s eye until the very last moment. Personally I believe re-runs of the Cosby show would have been much more emotional. Just saying.

It is all about memories in the end. I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to be home with my family today. I am even more excited to be able to write about these unexpected events and share them all with you. I hope everyone who was stuck home as a result of the blizzard had as much fun as I did. I look forward to the next natural disaster.

A Day off from work is more work!

Here in New York today we had a little precipitation. I would say 1/4″ at best.

I run a construction company and I will make any excuse to avoid my daily work load. If the wind is blowing 3 MPH it’s a tornado in my mind. If a single rain drop falls from the sky I consider this flash flooding. If it gets above 68 degrees we are in a heat wave and are dealing with a serious drought. If it drops below 32 degrees you might as well move to Alaska as far as I’m concerned.


I hate my job. I will do everything and anything not to show up. But I have a family that depends on me so I have to be a responsible supportive family man. I do what I have to do.


As I mentioned earlier, we had three snow flakes and one drop of hail so naturally I cancelled the days schedule.  This meant I was home for the day. I could kick back. Lay in bed. Watch Anderson Cooper and shit. Nah. No such luck. Turns out my wife took the day off from work as well and my boys ironically had the day off from school. This was a recipe for disaster.

So there I was, lying in bed, fruit of the loom undies and all, contemplating if I had made the correct decision. And then I got the text from my wife who was snuggled up besides me. “We are hungry.” I personally would rather receive a text message stating my asshole fell out in Mexico and Dr Jose will be re-installing my rectal cavity over a corona and a plate of nachos.

When it comes to food in my household its eat or be killed. Those are the rules. No exceptions. Only the strongest and hungriest will live to see another day.

My wife installed electric fences around our refrigerator to keep family members from eating her leftovers. The kids and I must walk around the home with collars around our necks whenever we order takeout as we get zapped with 480 volts of electricity if we go near her leftover bow tie rigatoni in a mushroom cream sauce.

So I propped my extremely out of shape hairy physique from my sleeping quarters and jumped right in. I figured if I get up and feed these needy bastards it would buy me some time and I could relax and enjoy the rest of my day off I definitely did not deserve.

I concocted a masterpiece of a breakfast. Eggs, bacon, ham, toast and OJ. Everything was going according to plan. My wife even gave me a sexy sensual look like she would stroke my funny bone. I have to admit, it was exciting.

As these three shits ate their food and dished out steady complaints of how the eggs weren’t runny enough, the toast was burnt, the OJ was warm and the ham tasted like Ajax, I put a safe distance between them and myself. Piece and quiet finally.

As I slept for a minute and enjoyed wet dreams consisting of a mĂ©nages a trois with Martha Stewart and Opera, I heard a familiar voice as I slowly awoke. “Dad, Dad we are hungry. What’s for lunch?” Didn’t I just feed these animals?

So again I rose to the occasion and performed my role as a stand up dad and whipped up a lunch and fed these people. Everybody was happy again.

Now it was noon and it was time to crack a beer. Figured this would help and deal with what the remainder of the day had in store for me. A few hours passed and I thought I was home free. Legs were up. Beer in hand. Then it was dinner time. Now my wife gets involved with the dinner menu requests. “Babe can you make roasted duck with a French style glaze sauce? Oh and can you make those potatoes Au Gratin with that creamy lobster sauce? Oh and for a simple little side can you fry up some scallops ($17.99 per half pound) for like an appetizer? You know what you have to do to wet our pallets and get us started!”

Before you knew it I was like a “Celebrity Chef” in my own home mincing onions and chopping carrots like an hibachi like figure on bath salts.

The family had three square meals for the day. Everyone was happy. I figured I did the right thing and hopefully impressed my wife and maybe she would rub my ankle or stroke my calf but that never happened. She consumed her meal and hit me up for $100 so she could go summer clothes shopping for the boys while there’s three feet of snow piling up outside as plow trucks rumble down the roads.

As the day was winding down I began to weigh my options. I should have went to work and made a days pay and avoided being the families personal chef. I also spent $200 on food ingredients and $100 on shorts that most likely will not fit my boys in the month of July.

The sexual vibes with my wife was nothing short of the sinking of the Titanic and I was that poor boy at the end who kept that greedy bitch warm as my ass froze up like a snow cone as I sank to the bottom of the sea while being consumed by hammer head sharks and plankton. This was my exact feeling today.

Needless to say, it was an enjoyable day home with my family and I
honestly wish we could do it more often. Today we laughed and made memories and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Marital issues involving Oreo cookies!


Marriages are challenging on every level. Couples work day in and day out striving to be a successful duo trying to reach that final destination of inevitable dementia along with the collective milestone of holding on to three toes amongst the two of you. A set of rubber teeth seems to be the only means of foreplay at this point.

I believe as parents the main goal in life is to attend our grandkids first grade winter concert without the support of “hospice” and roll up in a custom wheelchair designed by Xzibit from “Pimp My Ride”


My point is, we all want that perfect fairytale life. I hate to be a negative nelly but I honestly believe that does not exist. Perhaps it does. Who I am I to say. I’m pretty sure there is an old couple with a rare case of chicken pox living on some West Nile infested pond with man eating alligators holding hands on some dry rotted deck saying “Yeah Mel. We lived the life.” And that’s great and God bless you.

Some couples will argue that surviving a family trip to Disney World without ending in divorce or avoiding a beheading of your spouse after the trip constitutes a positive step in your marital direction. Nothing wrong with that. It’s a different situation in all marriages involving that whirlwind hurricane typhoon tornado avalanche phase of life called love and family.

The one common denominator in all relationships is arguments and fights. I don’t care who you are. If you are in a relationship you have disagreements. No way around that one.

I love my wife so much and I try to avoid conflict at all costs. She’s half Puerto Rican so altercations with this lady usually involves switchblades, rusty forks, beans & rice and a souped up tinted-out Honda Accord covered in scratch & sniff pickle stickers.

The other day something came over me that could not be explained. I started a fight with this woman over Oreos. Yes, Oreos. As in the cookie. It was not intentional but I suddenly found myself acting like the worst husband since Ike at Tina’s bridal shower.

It was National Oreo Day (And this is a real day) so I felt the need to celebrate and asked my wife to purchase the iconic cookie for me on her way home. I love Oreos and ice cold milk. I never took into consideration (because I’m an inconsiderate asshole male specimen) my wife was suffering from a sore back, the responsibilities of taking care of our children and all of her other daily motherhood tasks. I just wanted my cookies and I wasn’t taking no for an answer. I threw a hissy fit tantrum and pouted like a three year old with a turd wedged between his diaper and rash laced inner thigh.

I honestly bow down and praise all of the mothers out there that have the patience and the life skills to raise our children and ultimately sacrifice everything to do what you do. Much respect. I just wanted my fucking Oreos.

My wife quickly put me in my place as I attempted to rub her shoulder and play with her bangs. As always, she smacked me with a pair of Lularoe panties and a metal clothes hanger.

Life is too short to fight over Oreo cookies. Chips Ahoy? Now that’s another story!

Our precious children. They grow up so fast!


Marrying my wife and starting a family has been the best decision I have ever made.

Of course we have faced obstacles and challenges along the way leading up to this part of our lives. Who hasn’t.

I must honestly say, watching our children transform and grow from an x-ray photograph that resembles a deformed chicken to young boys about to enter their teenage years has been an incredible adventure.

Everyday is a new beginning and although there has been many days I’ve wanted to yank their pants down and smack their milky white heinie with a hockey stick, I wouldn’t trade these moments and memories for anything in the world.


It all seemed to happen so fast for my wife and I. Except for the dating part. I needed to test drive the love of my life for ten years before I made a lifelong commitment. This method is still not a guarantee your life and marriage will work out as planned. Shit happens in life. I was lucky enough she waited around for my lazy ass. I finally built up the courage and bank account to ask the woman of my dreams to be my wife. She said yes and then threw a piece of calamari at my forehead and shouted “it’s about time asshole”.

We set a date to be married a year later. Our wedding was amazing. My wife always said as a little girl her dream was to get married at the Surf Club in New Rochelle. Thanks to my amazing mother and father in-law, her dream came true. We went on our honeymoon and both agreed upon returning we wanted children right away as the ripe age of 30 was upon us.

From what I have heard, two mating individuals must connect and fornicate in order to reproduce. I believe history has proven this. I was the exception to this rule of reproduction. One day I happened to be walking down our hallway and I accidentally rubbed against my wife’s knee cap and a week later she was pregnant with twins. I was hoping for a few practice sessions before we finalized the deal but God had a different plan for us.

Some women have a hard time with pregnancy. Not my wife. This lady blew up like a Thanksgiving Macy’s Day Parade Float and inhaled “Cinnamon Toast Crunch” and “Dill Sandwich Pickles” like Fat Albert at Chicken Pot Pie eating contest! Man this girl could eat.

Nine months came and went and before you knew it the boys were here. Then shit got real. I’ll never forget the night the two of them
were crying uncontrollably as we were trying to get them on a schedule for the first time. My wife was sprawled out sobbing on the newly waxed hallway hardwood floor with a beer in hand like a leper on crack.

Eventually all parents figure it out. Well most do. Years come and go and before you know it your little deformed chickens are in middle school. That’s where my wife and I sit on this crazy roller coaster ride called life!

If there was one thing I believe we did wrong in raising our children up to this point was this. Wiping their ass cracks after they took a dump. My wife always had an issue with them not fully wiping themselves clean. I get it but you have to let them learn on their own. I believed eventually they would figure it out as itchy and smelly ass cracks would become quite annoying.

She had other plans. My boys were nine and she would line up behind them as my offspring crouched down like an offensive football lineman. She armed herself with a power washer, a shop vac, a leaf blower, wood chipper, seven ply toilet paper, gas mask and wetnaps. She would wipe these 118lb boys asses who shit turds the size of small children like the CEO of Hagaan Daz. One day some poop got wedged under her newly French manicured nail and I believe that was her breaking point.  That was the deciding moment she would never wipe a butt crack again.

Tonight I attended a fundraiser for a friend. Not that my boys are at the dating age yet but I saw one of my sons interacting with a girl and I said to myself, wow he is growing up so fast.

Enjoy your family and children every opportunity you get. This is a crazy world we live in. Time rapidly passes by all of us as we are consumed by our daily busy lives. Continue reading “Our precious children. They grow up so fast!”