Ain’t no cure for the Summertime Blues!

Summer is finally upon us. We have waited all year for this season of sweltering heat. The uncontrollable swamp ass like conditions. The end of the school year. Time to relax.


Bullshit. Summer can only mean one thing. Unless you are 21 years of age with flat abs and a golden tan which most of us are not, summer is misery. Here is why.


If you are lucky enough to have been blessed with these little inconsiderate bastards pay attention.

Our children attend school throughout the year. Pay their dues. Grace us parents with homework assignments Albert Einstein would need extra help in order to complete. It’s a difficult task for all.

We manage.

There is hope. It’s called summer! A time to relax. Kick our feet up. Enjoy.

Not for children today.

These ungrateful humps walk around our houses, breath our air, use our water, drain our electricity, eat our food, use our wifi & have the audacity to complain about boredom. Wait until they get married and they will really know the meaning of boredom.

Kids today have no idea what it was like growing up in our time. I’m 42. A spring chicken compared to some old timers who have really experienced the harsh reality of growing up under the rules and regulations of parenting before google.

Today parents are confused and don’t know how to deal with little Billy climbing on the couch. Cute little Sarah eating the futon. So they turn to google for answers and guidance.

Back in our day our parents had google as well. My Dad would scroll down his hairy belly button and press the enter button (belt buckle.) He would then proceed to download his leather belt. My siblings and I always prayed the wifi signal was weak but it was a crap shoot. That signal was always strong for some reason.

Once completed, my Dad transferred his belt buckle app onto our software white asses and hacked our butts only to download a shitload of viruses. In other words, he whacked our heinie so hard Donkey Kong sent us get well flowers.

He sent a “text message” across our anal cracks. “Behave or be beat.” Simple.

Our children today cling. They hang around us. They are needy. Get away. We love you but you must go play in traffic or jump in a lake. Leave us parents alone.

When kids cling today we think it’s cute. We pet them. Buy them gift cards. Put them on our laps. Buy them bomb pops. Things of that nature.

Back in the day if I tried to cling to my Dad, first and foremost I got a severe case of rug burn from the abundance of chest hair I contended with. Second, my Dad would ash his Viceroy cigarette directly into my eyeball. He viewed me as an ashtray. Period. Last, when he attempted to show affection towards me after breaking me down he would sing “Frosty the Snowman” into my face as all I could do was embrace the onslaught of severe cigarette infused halitosis breath as bits and pieces of Maxwell House coffee beans shot out of his mouth and bounced repeatedly off my forehead.

There was nothing I could do. This was my clinging and bonding experience with my dad.

Kids are lucky today.

My wife and Mother in law protect these two little shits as if they are the “Princes of Egypt.”

Once I tried to give my son a hug because he got a 68 on his Math test and my crazy ass mother in law sliced off my left man boob.

It was an interesting day.

Children seem so protected today and lack the ability to deal with day to day daily struggles of life.

We must continue to do our best and raise our family in a time we are unfamiliar with as life changes everyday.

Go with the flow! Adapt. Embrace. Evolve.



Guidos. Guidettes. Fake ID’s & Alcohol Abuse!



I was wondering  just how much this liquid lifesaver actually affects most of us. I’m also very curious to why so many of us have different reactions as a result of alcohol consumption. I don’t know the answer to this but I must admit, watching a 120 LB man with a flea infested mullet, bad sunburn and three teeth actually believe he can beat up six police officers armed with tasers on an episode of Cops is very entertaining. I can’t lie.

It is obvious alcoholism is a serious disease and should not be taken lightly. Although I enjoy my drink, I never completely understood the whole concept of what actually drives an individual to the point of alcohol abuse. I know this is a struggle for many and reasons are different for all. Perhaps anybody struggling with this can educate me.

I had my first taste of alcohol at the ripe age of 15. When I say taste, I mean a sip of my Uncles Sambuca. A gulp of my Grandmothers red wine. A swig of my Aunts beer. Testing the waters. Never seemed to acquire a taste for the spirits until a bit later in life.

I had my first “I’ll never drink a drop of alcohol again as long as I live” experience at 17. I’ll never forget that day.

The summer day began as usual with a work shift at a local pizzeria. I worked amongst family and friends. It was honestly one of the best jobs I ever had. We laughed, cried, worked hard & partied even harder.

This was the late 80’s into the early 90’s. So naturally we were all in full Guido mode. We planned our nite as we showered in 89 gallons of Drakkar Noir. TKA serenaded us gracefully through the “kicker speakers” in our Ford Mustang 5.0’s & Iroc-Z’s. Our signature “Vanilla Roma” air fresheners and “Italian Horns” dangled from our rearview mirrors.


We fastened our black velcro reeboks, tucked our yellow sparkling bum equipment shirts into our Sergio Tacchinis, sprayed spearmint binaca into our mouth until our teeth fell out as we prepared to make our entrance.

Proper Guido etiquette was in order. We were now ready to pay a $40.00 cover charge to ultimately wind up grinding some acid wash Jordache jean wearing Guidette on the carpeted dance floor with an aqua net infused tidal wave hair due chewing a piece of grape hubba bubba as a 14k gold name plate dangled around her neck spelling out the words “Joeys Girl Forever” as her boyfriend was named Frank.

Fake ID’s were a staple of the times and was a “must have” in order to get into the local clubs. You obtained these by driving down to NYC and meeting a man on the corner of 55th & 2nd that resembled Paul Bunyan on crystal meth. You negotiated. A few details were required to finalize the process like your name & address. For some strange reason we always gave the most complicated information which turned out to be impossible to remember. For instance, Mr Bunyan asked me what name and address I would like. My response. I would like to be Franco Dominicano Balentini Farusigato from 111767 Apt #175 East, Forgettaboutit Way, Florence, Italy. Zip Code 912675.

I now realize John Smith from New Jersey would have been much easier to remember. Who knew until you experienced your first fake ID quiz by the door man.

Somehow it always seemed to work. Except the one time my cousin Dennis lost his Fake ID. We had to improvise. We called my Uncle Chet and all was good. We picked up his legitimate ID which I believe stated he was 27 years of age at the time.

We were on our way. Until we actually got to the door. The crew of 6 or 7 strong submitted our fake ID’s and we entered the club ready to party. Then it was finally Dennis’s turn. He presented his ID stating he was Uncle Chet, 6’3, 220 lbs, brown hair and brown eyes. Only problem Dennis was actually 5’4, 135 lbs, black hair and blue eyes with a face full of freckles.

Yeah. We didn’t think this one entirely through.

Needless to say, the doorman chuckled “wow you lost some weight and appear to have shrunk a bit!” He then proceeded to let him in.

I bellied up to the bar and ordered a 142 oz “sex on the beach” filled plastic fishbowl laced with hepatitis C and began sucking this drink down like a “Desert Arab Man” at a water park. I drank 3 more.

I woke up the next day with a naked “Desert Arab Man” in my bed, a half eaten cheeseburger on my chest, a tattoo of the Italy boot on my shin as I was French kissing my toilet seat that wasn’t cleaned in a month. I couldn’t move as traces of yellow stomach bile hardened within my eyebrows.

I said, and I quote, “I will never drink again as long as I live.”

Hahahaha hahahaha.

I went to work the next day. Delivered pizzas as I threw up 17 consecutive times. I even left a Sicilian pizza on the roof of the delivery truck as it blew off and landed on the vehicle behind me.

It’s was a bad day. By 5pm I felt great and had a “sex on the beach” in my hand ready to do it all over again.

Obviously when we are young our decisions are based on stupidity and inexperience. We have all been there.

I can honestly say, I enjoy my drink. I also respect alcohol and what it can do. I know my limits as an adult.

I never understood the connection where someone drinks enough alcohol to the point they feel the need to eat their mother or become so emotional they lay down in the middle of a four lane highway and weep because their pet parakeet lost a feather. It’s actually amazing to watch.

We all drink our drink for different reasons. Some to socialize. Some to cope with the stress of daily life. Some because they can’t make it through the day without.

Whatever your reason is, try and be responsible. If you can’t handle the affects you should not be drinking it. If you are drinking alcohol to get through the day, get help.

I am not a preacher and don’t judge anybody. Do whatever you all need to do. Just my opinion. Drinking should be fun. It should make you happy. Enjoy it.

Happy Sunday. Cheers my friends!

When that horrific perfect image turns inspirational

So there is this image my wife sends me last night and insisted I write about it. I tried to explain  I just can’t look at a picture and create a blog about it. Then it hit me, I think just maybe I can.

Honestly, if I have to look at this photo another minute I’m gonna run my eyeballs through a cheese grater so I’m gonna keep this sweet, short and simple.

First and foremost, is this a man or woman? Second, are the corneas, retinas & pupils of this individual functioning properly? Does this pleasantly plump 6ft gender bending chia pet not happen to look in the mirror before making a conscious decision to go out in public? How? How is it possible this thing left the protective cover and safety of a home and actually walked around in a public area where other humans with camera phones at every turn lurk. I honestly don’t need to insert any words to describe what is going on here. But I will of course.

If I had to take an educated guess of who the creators of this Wooly Mammoth just may be and how it went down, I would say Brad Pitt in “Legends of the Fall” had three way unprotected anal sex with George the Animal Steele & Larry the Cable Guy in the back of a convertible purple Yugo nestled in a White Castle parking lot. As a result, this was born. Just a guess. I could be wrong. Rosie O’Donnell could have played a role in this somehow. Who knows. Anything is possible here.

I have so many questions. Here are just a few that are on the top of my mind.

-What are you actually shopping for? I really need to know. And don’t say razors & tee-shirts because I will assassinate myself on live television.

-Do you go and get a haircut like that? If so, is there ever a discussion between you and the barber about what’s transpiring here? Has your hair stylist ever intervened and offered constructive criticism to maybe help with this situation? Like suggestions? If so, how did you handle it? Clearly you believe walking around a supermarket at 8am on a Sunday morning looking like Fabio wearing a dirty brown shag throw rug is hot, so no need to answer this one. I get it.

-What happens to your back when you are driving a vehicle in the dead of summer with sweltering hot black leather seats? By the looks of things I’ll assume your means of transportation does not currently have working air conditioning.

-You are a complete mess from head to toe but somehow manage to maintain a pretty nice ass all things considered. What’s your secret?

-Why couldn’t you purchase overalls just a few sizes larger to cover that shifting earthquake fault line running across your backside? Just a thought. Do you believe looking like a hairy snowman dressed like Halloweens Michael Meyers on Spring Break at Daytona Beach is the next fashion trend?

-Considering you are one chromosome away from a Yeti,
why do you lack hair behind your neck? Was that a childhood accident? What gives? My OCD friends were just curious.

-Listen. This is your style. You own it. I applaud your confidence but do you honestly think you are bringing sexy back by leaving those little flaps dangling from the sides of your overalls as they are lodged up against your 18 wheeler hairy spare tire? Or you just can’t button them?

-If you were to join a dating site, how would you describe your physical appearance? And be honest. If you get stuck with this I would be glad to assist with helping you create a profile. Free of charge.

-Lastly, do you do children’s parties? My boys are turning twelve this year and my wife and I always throw them a backyard swimming party. If you are available, I would love to hire you as an entertainer. All you would be required to do is walk around the event dressed exactly like this photo, take some selfies with guests, stuff like that. I’ll take care of the rest.

I told my wife to please not send me photos like this anymore. I have enough shit in my head.

Husband Vs. Wife. Home renovation battles. It will lead to divorce!

I’ve recently done some research in order to determine the leading cause of divorce within the United States.

It has been an unfortunate reality for so many of my friends. It’s truly sad. I wish I could say the same for my family but for some strange reason nobody in my family has ever been divorced. Yet.

Married couples within my family tree have done things to each other even the Grim Reaper won’t get involved in. That tall cloak looking bastard who holds a stick with long arthritis skinny fingers knows better to mind his own fucking business and not get involved in my family members marital disputes. There’s a time and place. For now, brush your teeth Reaper & go show Scrooge & Tiny Tim what they have missed out on during the Christmas holiday.

When and if one of my dear family members take the plunge into the world of marriage separation, trust me, I will be the first to update you all and write about it and that’s probably why they stick together. Sit tight. It’s bound to happen.

My initial first guess was Facebook or infidelity to be the guilty culprit leading up to divorce. I was wrong. It happens to be lack of communication. Don’t quote me on that. I googled it.

Then it hit me. Makes total sense.

This has inspired me to talk about what I believe is another major contributing factor which involves minimal communication between married couples calling it quits after taking an oath and hosting a very expensive party where they both so solemnly agreed for better or for worse.

Home renovation projects. These epic battles between husband and wife has entertained me for years.

I know of this first hand as I have been in the home improvement business for 20 years. The shit I have seen my married clients argue about would absolutely amaze you.

We all start with a plan as all newly married couples starting a life together do. We date. Get engaged. Plan a luxurious dream wedding. Buy a home. Start a family.

But you never think about renovating the piece of junk home you purchased that was previously owned by three Rastafarian dudes who haven’t showered since their Baptism.

You decide to buy the home as you both over extend yourselves like some hillbilly purchasing swampland gator infested real estate on QVC from Ponch at 3am on a Tuesday.

There is a pre-determined system once you finally buy a home together. The husband is the Banker and the wife is the Coordinator / Designer. Simple. Or at least that’s how it should be unless your husband wears a romper and a man bun as he sings Gloria Gaynor tunes in the hot tub. I’m not saying we as husbands shouldn’t have an opinion. Give it a go. Hopefully your wife will consider it and you will discuss options like adults. Unlikely. My point is shut the hell up and deal with her disgusting decision of zebra wallpaper in the foyer. That is if you want to stay married of course.

It gets interesting when the roles become reversed and the wife threatens to get a job waiting tables to fund the $100,000 kitchen remodel as the color blind husband who doesn’t have the time to be constipated attempts to pick teal green cabinetry and pink granite counter tops.

Here are a few tips from a fellow contractor. Take them as you may.

1. A bathroom renovation does not cost $4995. Even if that Spanish contractor in your local newspaper says it does. It doesn’t. If you are looking for 87 Spanish men blowing up your toilet system for two weeks straight then these are the contractors for you.

2. Have an idea of what you want done before your contractor arrives for the first consultation. We can help you with ideas but it’s nice if we have some guidelines of what you actually want. There’s nothing worse when the first thing clients ask us “so what do you think?” “What should we do?” We have no idea. We all have wives at home asking us the same shit on projects we started at our own homes and have not completed. Have your shit in order and we can help you from there.

3. Please don’t ask if “bigger is better.” It’s uncomfortable as your husbands patiently await our answer. You know the answer to that question.

4. Your contractor is not your therapist. We build shit. We are not there to figure out why little Johnny is taking dumps on your couch or why your dog licks your husbands inner thy more than he licks yours. You need to figure that out. Just give us a set of plans. Let us build.

5. When we call you for a follow up after meeting with you and acting as your therapist and spend hours with you, just be honest. Simply say you and your husband are fighting over this and contemplating divorce and getting another estimate to solidify your separation.

6. Please have all your finances in order. We don’t  want to hear you have to transfer money from another account. You knew we were starting the job a month ago and pay is in CASH!!!!!!!!

There’s so much more but I won’t get into it.

Don’t stress it guys. You are married. You have a home. Enjoy. Embrace. Make it your own.

There are plenty of other reasons to get divorced. Kitchen cabinets should not be one of them.

Happy Renovations!

You want 50 Years of happiness? Listen up!

Here is my 10 top “50 Years of marriage” survival tips based on what has worked for my parents. I think. I don’t really know. But it’s fun!

My parents are about to celebrate 50 years together. Wow.


This advice is based entirely on what I believe has worked for them from my own personal interpretation and experience of what I have witnessed from my 42 years as being their child. My parents have neither confirmed or denied any and all information in this post.

#10. Forget about working out. Muscles mean nothing. My dad was 87lbs soaking wet when he swept my mom off her feet. For 50 years to be exact. Maybe more. He resembled a hairy string bean but his mal-nourished physique kept my mom interested for 50+years. I’ve known guys who eat corn starch with lats, triceps, pecs and anal muscles who couldn’t hold a woman for a week. 50 years Lou Ferrigno!

#9. Smoke as many cigarettes as possible and ash wherever you feel like. My dad has been smoking cigarettes since his kindergarten graduation. Every single photo in circulation of my Dad features a burning cigarette. This man smokes in the shower. This man jack knifes off his diving board and smokes a full cigarette before he hits the water. I’ve seen him put his cigarette butt out on the poor Shoprite cart boys forehead. 50 years. It works.

#8. Grow hair everywhere. I’ve seen old photos of my Dad. In the early years his hair was concentrated in one area. Right above his ass crack. As time went on and updated photos surfaced, this guy looked like a chia pet in a forest fire. He had hair growing out of his temple. 50 years. Don’t shave. Let it grow! When it sprouts from your knuckle, embrace it.

#7. Whistle through your nose. I know. Sounds odd. My dad has a built in trumpet within his nasal cavity. I can deal with that as long as it plays normal songs on today’s top 40 hits. Somehow, someway his nostrils tends to whistle “Frosty The Snowman” on a hot August day. It’s a miracle. I want to slice his Italian horn off with a butter knife but he has been married for 50 years. I must respect this odd harmonic practice. My mom moonwalks down the hallway as she prepares Sunday dinner while my dad blows out Silent Night from his snot hole at 8am on Palm Sunday! It’s a marriage miracle.

#6. Always drive a vehicle that couldn’t pass a routine inspection in Ghana. Ever since I can remember, my brothers, sisters and I always knew my Dad was pulling in the driveway of our home as it sounded like a derailed WD-40 deprived rusty train on fire. It was a mesmerizing. 50 years. My Mom loved that sound I guess.

#5. Cook. Cook. Cook. I don’t care if the sun explodes. Make a pot roast with mash potatoes and your marriage will last 50 years. Keep cooking. Shove pork chops down your husbands throat like you are packing to go to London! Feed. Feed. Feed. 50 Years.

#4. Always ask your husband how many pounds of pasta you should make when the family is coming over to eat on Sunday. My Dad is so deaf he has no idea what the hell my Mom is asking but he just answers “6” pounds Paula. This makes her feel special. 50 years. Incredible. Say any number. It won’t matter. There will always be leftovers.

#3. This is important and should be #1 but I don’t feel like changing it. Always remember to fuck up your wife’s Christmas gift. For 50 years we have all witnessed my Dad purchase the wrong item for my Mom. Every Christmas morning it’s the same shit. My Dad presents his gift to my mom as his $3 pair of reading glasses are slightly tilting to the left of his clogged nose. As he sits helplessly in his broken recliner dressed in his stained Bacon, Egg and Cheese wife beater , we all gather around the tree. My Mom opens my Dads poorly wrapped gift in disgust and puts on that fake ass smile as a piece of tinsel always seems to dangle from her lip. It’s honestly the most uncomfortable feeling in the world. He’s been screwing her gift up for 50 fucking years and she’s still here. He’s onto something.

#2. Put your feet up on a broken recliner and watch WW2 reruns. My Dad is infatuated with WW2 and Hitler. Not that he supports Hitler, he is just intrigued by the whole war and what took place. He will sit on his recliner and eat Doritos as the crumbs accumulate on his dense chest hair like a fire ant colony and will piss my Mom off to the point where she will throw lentil beans and asparagus directly into his eyeball. He’s been doing this for 50 years. It works. I’m gonna vomit saying this but I think this is foreplay!

#1. When invited to a wedding wear a suit 26 times to big for you. My parents were invited to a wedding and my Dad wore a suit that made him look like he was a jumpy castle. Guests started to pounce on him like he was a Sponge Bob Macy’s Day Parade float. It was terrible. Again 50 years. Amazing.

Trust me. These tips are enough to ruin any marriage within a millisecond. For my parents it has worked.

I do hope any of you suffering within your marriage can maybe take some of this advice. Hopefully it will help. But probably not.

50 Years! God Bless!

How to survive a block party hosted by a “Britney Spears Imposter, Mind Reader & Supporting Neighbors”

How to survive a block party hosted by a Britney Spears imposter and a woman who reads tarot cards and aligns the galaxy on a random Tuesday and knows exactly the last time you picked your nose as their crazy ass neighbors gather around them in support like they are rooting for Jenny Craig at a Twinkie eating contest.

It’s not everyday you have the honor of being invited to a block party. But this event is something I like to call a small festive miracle. It takes a major group effort that comes around every 15,000 years or so.

Not sure about everybody else but the block I grew up on involved crazy neighbors plowing over youngsters riding hot wheels, alcoholic Indian fathers beating the piss out of their Umichis (Indian Mother in Laws) with a dirty slipper as my brother and I shot poison tipped pellet darts at poor Umichi trying to retreat into our property line dividing maple bush. We had Germans across the street launching scud missles at neighborhood students at the local bus stop. We had chicken and roosters eliminated execution gang style because they simply “cock-a-cock-a-doodled” a minute before their schedule time. Shit was harsh on my block.

The simple thought of my neighbors getting together once a year on the block setting up tents, breaking bread and drinking Sangria while we consumed burnt hot dogs around a plastic table as some strange DJ played “We Are The World” was just not a possibility. Not in these parts.

I must give credit where credit is due. You “block people” are special. Great job.

This “party” block is ran by two ring leaders “Gina” my sister, and Lauren “The Mind Reader”. These two fucking wackos party when a lightning bug passes away. A dandelion sprouted up one day and these two humps sent out 400 invites and booked the “Gin Blossoms” to perform and celebrate the event. It’s spectacular to see. Mesmerizing really.

What is more impressive is every other neighbor on the block falls between the ages of 35-55, own kids that drive them insane as they drink wine from a garden hose. It’s true community bond like nothing I have ever seen and I think it’s wonderful.

Until you are officially invited into their community for a block party of course.

Here are some helpful tips to remember if you ever happen to be invited to one of these functions:

-Don’t go. I’ll keep it simple. Just say you have plans. You’re busy. You lost a leg. You have gout. You were beheaded. Anything to get you out of this. But if you must attend please follow these rules below.

-Clear your schedule the next day. Even breathing. Make sure you disconnect the water line to the fridge and directly hook it up to your mouth and place 13 rolls of 6 ply toilet paper beside the bed and set The Pandora station to “REO Speed Wagons greatest hits.” Trust me it helps with regurgitation. Nothing more soothing than
blowing chunks to “Keep On Loving You.” Its inspirational.

-Do not trust the “mind reading” shot girl walking around with those colorful Jell-O shots. They are colorful and cute but after swallowing three of them you will most likely be a guest on “Judge Judy” and will be shitting rainbows for a week. Then the “psychic” shot girl will proceed to whisper in your ear you have the beginning stages of Polio and informs you your wife has recently slept with 3 out of four individuals sitting at your table. Not true for me Haha (I hope) but I’m sure it stands true for a few within surrounding tables.

-Don’t purchase the 50/50 drawing tickets. This shit is rigged. I bought an arms lengths that after I measured was the size of pinky toe. The deceased grandma always seems to win the main prize. It’s amazing.

-If you have to take a dump make sure you know someone that can get you VIP courtesy bathroom use. Last thing you want to do is squat down on some shiny blue vinyl melted toilet seat with 3500 gallons of taco laced guacamole infused swamp water beneath you with no place to possibly go on a 97 degree Global warmed June sunny day.

-Enter and understand if you have children and bring them to this event anything goes. We all have rules at home as far food and sugar consumption is concerned. That is now irrelevant. The children in attendance have been known to sink their teeth into raw femur Buffalo bones, nibble on dirty chicken feet, shove macaroni salad in their slides and use ketchup as toothpaste. I caught one of my twin boys trying to eat the Candyland game board as the other child was trying to mash up Mr Potato head and twice bake him in an easy-bake oven.  I am being subtle when I discuss the children and food experiences. It is actually much worse but I fear all the parents residing on this block will lose custody of their youngsters.

Honestly this is not true. I know each and all of the parents on this epic block and it is an amazing collaboration of young,
vibrant, loving, responsible, alcoholic parents! Hahaha. Just kidding.

Not all kids act like the offspring of “The Walking Dead.” We were blessed to watch my friend and his five year old boy join the local  rock band NASH as they jammed out to “Keep on Rocking in the Free World” as every other child within a three mile radius stared in awe at this kid like he discovered fire because the device in his hand was not connected to Wifi. It was an amazing sight. This was the highlight of the night for me. I wish more kids did this. Loved it!

You are all great. I am
jealous of your unique block living life style as all I do toss grenades at my neighbors on Christmas morning.

Can’t wait for next year!!!

Much respect.

Please Children. Stop growing up so fast!

Damn our kids seem to grow up so fast.

Where does the time go? Seems like yesterday my twin boys were addicted to “The BackYardigan” re runs as they latched on to my wife’s inflated boob like an Arab man sucking on a garden hose on a hot desert morning. I miss those days.

Time needs to slow down. Please.

Nothing seems to make me realize my boys are becoming young men more than when we go out to dinner as a family. These bastards have been weened off the kids menu. It is a drastic leap. One day these little shits are eating mac and cheese for $3.95 which includes a soda and desert. Next week they are ordering escargot, surf and turf and a vodka and tonic. I complain like all fathers do and my wife says “Stop babe. We are making memories. They are growing boys. Enjoy this time with our family.” So I pay the bill as I slam three bottles of red wine and accept it for what it is.

Memories? I can’t pay the mortgage. My car was repossessed in the restaurants parking lot. My homes water supply has been disconnected but we have 37 lbs of calamari on the table and and fancy bottle filled with tap water. Life is good.

Memories. Sure. Let’s keep building these magical moments my love.

Next reality check that my children are growing up way to fast is the use of deodorant. My boys arm pit stench could put a family of elephants to sleep. They are approaching 12 years of age but smell like “King Kong Bundy” in a spin class hosted by Richard Simmons. Before my boys realized they had some odor issues my wife and I would throw cough medicine and tic tacs at them when they woke up to try and deplete the smell. We felt gasoline would work best but we were a bit concerned about future potential health issues and possible jail time.

My boys think I’m dumb but I have picked up on something. Naturally as they grow older they are becoming more curious about life and girls. They use my wife, their mom, as target practice. They are kissing her on the lips, laying on her boobies, giving her massages, holding her hand and playing seven minutes in heaven in our coat closet. You know, all the shit I use to do with her before they arrived and fucked it all up. My wife thinks it’s cute but I know they are just using her and she will eventually come back to me. I’m waiting it out. If she only had three boobs we would all be happy!

Last is how much I actually depend on my children for shit. As they get older, I rely more and more on them for daily information. Kids are like little books of knowledge. Our own personal assistants. They retain and remember. As we get older we tend to forget things like our wives birthdays, anniversaries, turning off the stove burner while cooking, you know things of that nature. My kids, as they grow and mature have a ability to educate me and keep me in the loop. For that I love them but it’s a constant reminder they are not our babies anymore. I see the growth and maturity each and everyday.

I honestly miss the days of uncontrollable diaper rash cries for help and the true meaning of what it was like when my children actually relied on my wife and I to wipe their butts and shove cheerios down their throat.

Each passing day seems to separate that innocent child dependence as they gain a bit more life confidence and independence.

I hope each memory we make as a family is cherished and my babies never forget. Life moves fast. Ride it. Enjoy it. Embrace it. Love it. Make it your own as you only got one shot at this!

Now I’m gonna go try and make another baby.




Men Fashion Trends. Are we losing our masculinity or our minds?

Ok. Let’s talk about the current fashion statements of men today. Long sigh… as I throw up in my mouth! Twice!

Are men losing their masculinity? Is this latest craze a cry for help? What the hell is happening here? Is it even real? I’m just confused.

When I discuss these “apparent” new styles of men, I must honestly admit I have never actually seen a male specimen dressed in any of this speculated disgusting fashion apparel in public as of yet. Except one. This hideous and repulsive style has only been advertised and portrayed throughout social media. As far as I know. In all honesty, if I did happen to witness this publicly, I would most likely sever the knee cap and shoulder blade of any brave male willing to strut through  the local Mall in any of these creative outfits specifically designed for a 3 year old female child, female prostitute or a 37 year old transgender with 19 split personalities hosting “The Gong Show”.

But I am not one to judge. Never. Not me. I never do that. It’s not in my nature. Except when it comes to this topic of course. I am going to be the most judgmental, racist, bully fueled, unaccepting, unfair, politically incorrect, Simon Cowell Esq, non supportive son of a bitch human being possible in order to analyze this current men’s fashion movement. As Biggie Smalls once said, hopefully “It was all a dream.” Or a fucking nightmare in this case.

I actually don’t believe these current men fashion “fads” are real but recent “photo evidence” has flooded my newsfeed and I have had numerous requests to speak on this and you never have to ask me twice. Let’s begin.

#1. The Romper:

Ok. First things first. What person on Earth has ever worn this besides 2 year old girls on Easter Sunday? Even gay men are like “what the fuck is this crap bitch?” Besides the Debbie Gibson and Tiffany era that lasted a minute the answer is nobody. So why the hell would a full grown man with hairy elbows and man tits start to embrace this attire? Unless you were born without a torso and attempted to enter “It’s a Small World” in a “Romper” at Disney World I believe you will only contribute to our already delusional and screwed up world. Put your khakis and Puma sweatpants on and call it a day. Rompers are strictly for conjugal visits involving male prisoners imprisoned for two life sentences who mate with that one lonely friend we all have on Facebook who’s daily social activity involves sucking on a dirty water hot dog and floods out our news feed with Bi-Polar Bear images and pictures of malnourished dandelions. Don’t ever, ever wear this guys. Ever. I repeat. Ever. Just to be very clear. If my dad, male cousins, male friends, gay friends or any other person with a set of nuts ever showed up in my presence in a romper I will personally insert you into a wood chipper and use you for chicken feed.

#2. See through laced shorts:

This image above make my toe nails curl as my lint infested belly button swells up like a grapefruit. Why, I repeat, why would any of us men want anybody to see our hairy ass nuts while we shop for groceries and pump our gas? In all honesty, if I see a fellow male within 3 miles of me in this attire I will stuff  you down the nearest manhole I can find. This fashion statement reminds me of my grandmothers table cloth. If I ever thought of putting her dining room table covering around my crotch she would hack me up like a cannoli. I do not believe this style exists! Impossible. Just stop. No. Please.

The man stockings:

I know our male legs are gross but I refuse to wear leggings and I hope my fellow mates feel the same way. We are hairy, unattractive beings but dressing in lightning bolt silk cotton stockings just makes us that much more fucking disgusting. All kidding aside. If I walked into my bedroom wearing a pigeon Inspired romper, mushroom themed leggings, see through pink laced shorts and attempted to lure my wife into any sexual situation my head would be instantly detached from my body as my pink laced shorts would be stuffed down my detached throat as my kids would gather around to sing “Kumbaya My Lord”. Period. Unacceptable. I will believe this tragic fashion epic fail when I see it. Again. No. Please.

#4. The Man Bun.

Last but not least. This is the only current male fashion disgrace that I have personally witnessed. It’s terrible but is reality. I’m naturally jealous because if I had enough hair I would wear this man bun as much as I could. But I can’t so I will degrade and critique those men that do. Honestly, you are not a Cinnabon. Let your hair flow like others before you. No need to wrap it up like Cindy Crawford on her period. If you choose to grow the locks out let it go. This advice comes from a guy with three hair follicles and a broken down flowbee!

I can’t help but think what the generations before us would think. What would our hairy ancestors do as they hunted Wooly Mammoths in their pin stripped rompers, teal green pantyhose and man buns? Could you imagine hopping on a Saber Tooth Tiger in a leotard? Yeah me neither.

Now that would be a great reality show.

Get your masculinity back guys. This is embarrassing. Cut the shit. What’s next? Rose petals in our ears and tampons in our butts????

I don’t want to ever have this conversation again.




Facebook. Unity is power. Division is death!

Facebook: A place where individuals can argue political views copied and pasted from non credible websites. A place to pretend we are all gourmet chefs. A place to portray happy marriages. A place where everybody knows our Birthdays. (Which I happen to really enjoy because I was born on Xmas Eve. I got screwed growing up.) A place to DM indecent photos to Grandmothers wearing Anaconda skinned thongs in their profile pics. A place to spread love, hate, racism, truth, lies, burnt hot dogs and most of all, Bullshit.

That’s all this is. Really.
Although I do believe there is a lot of positive to come out of social media at times. So many people suffer from depression or other conditions. I’ve personally witnessed outcries on social media feeds. It’s sad. These posts seem somewhat therapeutic for some who appear to be reaching out for help. The feedback and encouragement from friends was overwhelming.  Without this social media outlet I wonder where some of these people may be today. Like anything else, there is negatives and positives. Take it with a grain of salt.

It’s  just that.

Be happy people are actually listening and responding to whatever we throw out there. Good, bad or indifferent. I certainly am. I’m a social media whore. I love this shit. Most of you are as well. Then there is always the stalkers and trolls who lurk within our feeds. You bastards! You know everything but never speak of it until we see you at the local diner with a BLT hanging from our pie hole at 6am on a Tuesday.

It could be worse. My poor dad has been staring at my Mother for 50 fucking years sitting across a table drinking coffee as he inhales a hand rolled cigarette containing guinea pig droppings and rustoleum paint chips. Her only response to date has been “when are you cutting the grass JR?” This poor man hobbles around the house like Steven Hawkins at ballet class. That generation is hopeless.

What the hell would we all be doing without Facebook and other social media sites? I’m not supposed to know any of you people after High School yet I receive email notifications regarding what time Becky Sue from art class who now resides in Arkansas got her appendix  removed!

Who would see our kids hit  home runs? Who would know our children made the honor roll or when our flea infested  dog named Fluffy took a dump on our pillow? Who would know we enjoy gluten free pizza? How would anyone be able to connect and gather important information like when we changed the oil in our vehicles? Most important is sporting event score updates. Like I don’t have eyeballs and a fucking TV to watch the games Al fucking Michaels.  Cut that shit out please.

We have the ability as a result of this social connection to actually make a difference. If we all just put aside our differences and figured it out we could possibly make a change for the better. We are stronger than any leadership. Unity is power. Division is death!

That’s all I got. I now call on the intellectual beings to take it from here and keep me updated. You can email or text me at your earliest convenience. Thank you in advance.

In the end the battle is not for us, it’s for our children and the next generation. God help them.

Have a good weekend all!