What to do when your family turns on you?

What happens when the entire family turns against you? In horror fashion that is.

When I mention this I’m referring to scare tactics. Halloween is right around the corner and we all
enjoy a good spook. That’s great. I’m on board for that. It’s one day a year. Lets all scare the piss out of each other. That’s awesome. Hooray.

I don’t believe this should be conducted on a daily basis as it seems to be in my home. It’s dangerous. I believe these violent actions may be illegal and has me three seconds away from cardiac arrest.

Christmas and Easter mornings are not the appropriate moments to scare your family members to death. That’s just my opinion. I shouldn’t have to wake up on Veterans Day and have my goddamn offspring and soulmate hide in sink base cabinets or behind radiators to eventually arise horrifically as they are dressed like that dude from “Jeepers Creepers” with a nine foot wing span sporting halitosis and a worn out leather trench coat resembling the appearance of a deceased “Allman Brother” as I routinely walk around to start my day. It’s just fucking wrong. I have ulcers and continuously piss blood as a result of these daily disturbing events I must endure.

For some strange reason my wife believes her step father is Steven King. She also had a confirmed love affair with the legendary Halloween serial killer Michael Myers. I got that shit on tape. I swear. It was either the real Mike Myers or Mike “The Situation” in a rubber mask. I’m supporting her affair with Myers. That dude is a legend. He walks slower than a leg amputee but somehow catches Usain Bolt to drive a pitchfork through him so if my wife wants to sleep with him I’m cool with that. That’s hot. If she so much has touched that greasy ass Jersey shore roasted pepper I’m filing for separation. Who has he killed???? Besides life??? Please….

Shit. Now I’m confused because this supposedly “Mikey Myers” banging my girl had TKA blasting in the background and a tongue ring. Hmmmmmmmm. OMG. She banged the “Situation”.. I was ok with Mike Myers. That dude’s a legend. Shit. My kids kinda look like the “Situation”… I’m fucked.

If my wife was given a choice to fornicate with Johnny Depp or Freddy Krueger this horny horror film hoe would jump on the dream diminishing burnt serial killer like kids at a Bronx hopscotch tournament.

I’m ok with all of this. It’s when she involves my children that I begin to become concerned. Leave the innocent youth out of it my love. This could damage the children’s future.

My kids are cute. They have rosy red cheeks. They contract strep throat three times per week. They excel at math. They have never had a cavity. Their hair styles haven’t changed since they were extracted from their Mommy’s womb. They are perfect.

Until they attempt to scare their father.

When most men finish the work day, they look forward to coming home to their family. They look to take their shoes off, put their feet up and relax.

Not me. When I come home from work I need to turn on my ghost detector devices, eat garlic and enter my home with three gallons of holy water and retain the protective services from that Corey Feldman character sporting the red bandana from “Lost Boys.”

I must walk into my loving & embracing home with a flame thrower strapped to my back, a grenade launcher as I drive a tank through the front entrance for self defense from these fucking animals. I thought we were family. It’s an adventure. My home is “Night of the living dead” as Michael Jackson serenades the room with “Thriller”. My wife dances around the house doing that dumb “Thriller” dance where the arms bounce side to side. It will make any human vomit on any given day.

Again, I seem to find this erotic death dance freaking sexy because I could find sexiness within a scientific dissection of a toad.

So I begin to bounce with her in unison. She regurgitates. Whatever. I entertain this disruption of life! I live for this shit. I swear I have a problem. I can find sex appeal in running tap water. So I proceed to try and touch her boobie during this offensive dance motion and my fingers are severed by a mouse trap carefully placed on her nipple.

Again I was set up. WTF!

My wife and her satanic children wait for me. They spend the whole day devising a plan to scare the bejesus out of me. And it works! Every single time.

On a normal day, I’ll enter my home and my wife will jump out of a frying pan to startle me. My sons will hide behind a door. Simple scare tactics. Nothing crazy. I adjust. I adapt.

Then they decided to take this shit to the next level. Unbeknown to me.

They went against all scare etiquette. They used physical contact. That’s a no no! Scare but never touch. That’s the rule.

I came home yesterday. I was tired. I wanted to relax. I sat on my couch. I cracked a beer and I laid my head back. All of a sudden a chicken finger greasy ass hand infested with middle school diseases grabbed my mouth and nostrils as he hooked my lip like a grouper and screamed “Boo.” I jumped up like a white man at a crack den and screamed like a newborn trying to locate her Mommas titty!

My wife and two boys laughed at me like I invented Rocky Dennis and gave birth to the creators of The Sharknado franchise. It was embarrassing. I have never been so humiliated.

This child of mine crossed the line and my stupid ass wife was in on it as she chuckled trying to hide her amusement. Humus infused belches and periodic gas extractions should have tipped me off. I wasn’t paying attention. She’s a slob. A hot slob but a fucking slob regardless. Not gonna lie. It was sexy.

Holidays are coming. These little fuckers will all have anticipated Christmas lists. I can’t wait. I will simply lay motionless with hospice by my side wiping the baby food from my cheek as a result of the previous nine months of torture I was subjected to. I will no longer have movement in my spine because my cute son with his cavity less teeth decided to wrap his motherly demonic inspired paws around my neck while I brought home Dominos for these malnutrition unappreciative little humps.

The balls on them.

I tell my wife each and everyday as she kicks open the bathroom door as I’m taking a crap, STOP!!! I’m worth much more alive than I am dead.

Dumbass!

 

 

Family Sleepovers, Peaches in the Eye, No Boundaries!

Boundaries for writing a blog are limitless. They don’t exist. No rules. My way or the highway. I guess that’s why I immensely enjoy telling my tales.

For me personally, two stories are never the same. Each day, minute or any given second can spark a post and turn on the inspirational jet burners and boom, I am off. Once I start, I can’t stop. I kinda like it that way. I hold nothing back. I lay it on the line each and every post. I pour everything into what I write. Some may agree, disagree, be offended, laugh, cry, regurgitate, block me and I personally don’t give a shit. It’s my style. My way. It’s how I do it. I stay true. If anyone doesn’t enjoy what I write, go subscribe to a recipe blog and learn how to make fruit cake.

I try to consistently write a  post twice per week if possible. I won’t force it if it’s not there. Sometimes I swear I will not entertain writing on a particular day. It could simply be I just recently wrote a post or need to take a break. Regardless, it’s beyond my control. Once you are in the blogging game, it’s just not possible to contain life’s valuable moments of blog worthy material. My brain has been set in motion the day I decided to do this and the wheels are always turning. There are no timeouts. The power never goes out. 24/7. I obtain. Absorb. Retain. Portray. Present. Regret 😜!

Last week I posted a blog that happened to be one of my longer posts. I had diarrhea of the mouth. (Or index finger.) Today I said to myself, lose focus. Don’t pay attention to your surroundings. Tune out. Relax. Hahahahaha. The constant search for precious moments has gotten the best of me. Just not possible. Damn! If a field mouse drops a shit pellet on my kitchen floor it turns into a 1789 character blog post. I have been hooked, lined and sunk. Oh well. I embrace it. Enjoy it. It has become an addiction. A passion.

Then it happened. When you least expect it. That moment you realize you wrote a blog in your head within 37 seconds. Magic. Bloggers dream.

Let me set the scene.

As most of you know I come from a large family who excessively parties. My family never knows the appropriate time to end an event. Termination of festivities for my family usually must result in death. Yes death. If somebody doesn’t keel over and croak our parties refuse to end. We are still celebrating my Communion from 35 years ago. I receive bank savings bonds periodically. It’s amazing. People just aren’t dying so my family presses on. We are ambitious, what can I say! Normal parties end when there’s no more food or drink. People pass out. Not us. We will start cooking pasta at 2am and use our toilet bowls to make illegal booze in order to keep the party going. Family members who are foaming lasagna at the mouth passed out on micro suede couches 8 times the legal limit will miraculously rise up like Jesus on Easter morning because their favorite song has come on as they defy all ramifications of alcohol poisoning. Now we have 33 family members with a second wind drinking toilet water twerking to Biggy Smalls. A true sight to be seen.

Unfortunately, our offspring are following in our footsteps. Ambitious they are. They have this constant need to “sleepover.” I get it . I was young once. For the most part, we all go with the flow and let the youngsters enjoy family time with their cousins & friends. It’s cute.

My boys Jake & Hunter devised a plan to have their cousins Frankie & Nicky sleepover along with their friend Bella. I don’t give a rats ass. I tell my boys all the time, “don’t ask me.” I’m an automatic yes. I don’t care if a crackhead with 17 fingers and a severe case of halitosis spends the night, just leave me alone. It’s your mother you have to convince. For the most part my wife is cool. Lol. When I say cool I mean temperature wise. She’s about as cool as High School Detention. It’s that one or two times per month she comes home in a mood that makes Jeffrey Dahmer look like an alter boy.

If my boys and I sense these wicked vibes, we hide under end tables and seat cushions until the air clears. We ride it out. A container of garlic infused Humus and some crackers usually does the trick in calming her down. Never guaranteed. Sometimes we have to resort to plan B. $3000 in cash and a Michael Myers film. My boys and I will do whatever is necessary to get this beast under control. Trust me. She’s all smiles and happy on Facebook and shit. You drop a fucking crum on her couch when she’s in a bad mood you might as well light your ankle on fire and handcuff your nipple to battery acid. She’s vicious. Violent. Very sexy. Of course I find the sexiness in all of this. She’s waving a 16″ rusty bread knife at me and has a bag of Anthrax waiting to be disbursed all over my face and I’m over here trying to make babies with her. I’m dumb. I grabbed her boob once (maybe twice) trying to spark up a sensual moment during all of this and she cut my chin off with a meat cleaver. It was dangerous.

Today was good. Mostly because we just didn’t tell her the game plan. Element of surprise. We set a trap. She walked in and saw all the kids playing nicely together. If my wife said no to a sleepover at this point, she would be right up there with “Mommy Dearest” and the mother of “Honey Boo Boo.”

These three little ladies entered my home for a sleepover. Granted they were 2 hours late, the entrance was nothing short of epic and has ultimately inspired me to talk about it.

When I was a child, we walked into our relatives home peacefully. We kissed everybody. Walked out of the home and didn’t see the adults again until sundown or we were arrested.

Upon arrival they all congregated at the front door. Had a quick meeting through FaceTime. Plan was in motion.

Before I could say hello and conduct a proper greeting, they had $275.00 worth of Sushi and Alaskan King Crab set up for delivery.

Nicky, who is destined to be a super model, walks in first scratching her arm pit like she’s infested with fleas as she belched like “Booger” from Revenge of the Nerds. This little deceiving beauty “sharted” as she took each step towards me for that awkward embrace I was about to embark in. I was taken back but intrigued. I was impressed with her internal gas skills. I told her to wipe her ass asap.

Next was the gymnast turned DEA Frankie. This one walks in serving me a violation notice. Informs me I am in contempt of court. She proceeds to strong arm me. Explains I am in violation of the “Promise Act.” I guess the last time she slept over I must have made a “promise” to take her to Dunkin Donuts. I denied all allegations. Then she pulled out a tape recorder that clearly had damaging evidence against me. I cooperated.

Last was Bella. This young Red Headed Beauty moonwalks in. Violently stubs her toe. The top of her foot begins to experience stigmata like conditions. She apparently is injury prone and I begin to panic. I give her a napkin and an ice cube and explain this is the extent of my medical training. Where do we go from here?

They go outside. Im happy. A moment of peace. But then I panic again because these children have never walked on grass or inhaled life’s natural air. They may be allergic to life. I eventually got a grip and let nature take its course. I whole heartedly enjoyed the sounds of children attempting to communicate. It was a challenge for them but they did there best.

They somehow locate a peach tree. Thats great if you live in Georgia. We are in New York. The only thing that grows healthy around here is “swamp ass” and “air pollution.” Magically, it was a peach tree. And then it happened. A magical peach mysteriously fell off the peach tree that shouldn’t even be here in the first place and cracked poor Bella in her eye. What are the odds? It happened.

She walked in crying. I was besides myself.

A fucking peach!

 

Surviving the first day of school. Where do we go from here?

First day of school. What an emotional event this always seems to be. Different levels depending on the age of the children.

When my boys first went to pre-school I expressed a few fake tears so I could make my wife believe I gave a shit and maybe she would put out later that night. They even had a graduating ceremony as my kids were literally releasing diarrhea in their pants. They had those little head caps with tassels as my wife sobbed like they were going to fight a war in Iraq. It was nice.  Regardless, it had the both of us doing keg stands at 4pm in our kitchen followed by shots of Jameson as if we invented the four leaf clover!

It was classic. First they “graduated” then my wife pulled their pants down and shoveled 13 lbs of shit from their diapers and doused them in baby powder. House smelled like a latrine in the middle of August for months. But they were graduates!

As parents, we treat this day as a time to reflect. Absorb. Realize our babies are growing up each and every year right before our eyes. Thanks to social media, so does everybody else. It’s nice. Let’s please exclude our ugly asses from the pictures. Although I always enjoy seeing the children, there’s no need to see you. The baggy ass eyeballs with the coffee stained wife beater and a piece of French toast nestled perfectly in the corner of your cotton mouth lips we can all do without. Not attractive. Let’s stick to cute little scoliosis bound Billy with a 468 pound backpack strapped to his larynx. A herniated disc is inevitable. Thanks in advance.

My boys are entering the 7th grade. So naturally we as parents are not new to the “first day of school” jitters. Honestly, this shit is stressful but manageable. Every aspect from the bus stop to the cafeteria menu has us all discombobulated. Not so much myself. It’s more my wife. Truthfully, I thought my kids were freshman in college. I’m clueless.

My issue is this. When you are married to a Puerto Rican wife with “Resting bitch face syndrome” the school system better have their shit together. I don’t need a surprise like the standard school supply material list forgot an important item. That mistake could result in my shoulder blade being removed. I’d rather run my knee caps through a cheese grater than have my wife trample through the house in fury like she is auditioning for the “El Chapo” version of the Rockettes.

Never the less, the system fucked up again. It should be a simple material list. A few pencils. Some binders. A compass and a few erasers. We as parents comply with the list we are given. The kids come home and all of the sudden we are required to purchase Bose Headphones, Air Jordan’s, Light Bright & paint brushes signed by Bob Ross. WTF is that? Have you ever asked a woman who hasn’t smiled since Good Friday of 82′ to obtained these items after she worked all day? It’s not easy. You are better off carefully inserting your pecker into a wood chipper on Gate Night. Twice.

We do what we have to do. My wife eventually tosses the kids in the car and retrieves all items required by the school curriculum. She runs to the nearest staples and waits on a 3/4 mile line and texts me she wants coffee. She also makes me aware she is hungry. What the fuck do you want me to do babe? Whip up a quick BLT and brew a coffee and deliver it to Staples? Stop at a fucking DD’s on the way home. Get a coffee. Wolf down a slice of pizza and stop busting my balls. Jeez! The more I argue with her the worse it gets. I need to shut up and comply. It’s not worth the strike she will go on that will result in me pulling my pud like Hacksaw Jim Dugan at a 2 x 4 factory.

I act and talk all tough until my wife actually arrives home. I hear that door unlock and I hide behind the couch cushion like Rocky Dennis at a beauty contest. It’s a scary experience. If I don’t have espresso beans shooting out of my ass when she gets home along with a dry aged steak and mashed potatoes she begins to toss Hepatitis C at me like Doc Gooden at a crack den.

In my opinion, the first day of school should be a joyous event. A time of happiness. A time for us parents to send our children off into another chapter of their educational adventure. Nope. The stress level of this iconic day is nothing short of the anticipation of having the Urologist stick his 8″ girth sausage finger up your uncomfortably cold lubed butthole. Then he hands you a coarse “Quicker Picker Upper” paper towel so you can wipe off the remaining finger juice from the anus. You pull your undies up and no matter how many times you wipe there is always that drop of lube that adheres to the bottom of your nuts and just lingers as you feel extremely violated. These doctors have some gig. Wedging their finger up dirty ass cracks all day. So yeah. The comparison to the first day of school has many similarities to that event.

I just wish everything didn’t have to be so stressful. Back in the day, my parents took me to Bradlees. If we were well behaved that week they would consider a trip to Caldors. We hung around the clearance rack at all times. The children of Ethiopia wouldn’t be caught dead in the shit we wore to school. We stole a few items naturally. Purchased a few pairs of white socks with the colored stripes. A bunch of pre-owned tighty whiteys. Three pocket tees made out of lead and a leather belt that gave us Aids! I was about as hip as piece of liverwurst.

Today it’s much different. My kids have Nike kicks. Seventeen different colors. A shirt signed by “The Rock” to get to school. They do a wardrobe change after lunch. They call Uber to get them home. Then a quick google session completes their homework assignments as we as parents must complete the daily grind to keep up with the children’s luxurious lifestyles. They have no idea.

When I came home from school in my day I wouldn’t dare ask my parents for answers to my daily homework load. Just like the parents of today, they just didn’t know the answers. When my kids ask me: “What’s 4 + 4?” and I respond “8” and they say “wrong.” I begin to question my very existence. They respond “it’s 4 + 8 – 9 -90 – 67 + 347 = 8.” Like I said Einstein, “8”. If you knew the answer why did you even ask me in the first place asshats. Now I find myself arguing with a pair of hungry twelve year old “know it alls” and a wife who can’t count to ten. Don’t get me wrong, my wife is very smart but when it comes to Math she’s about as current as a payphone. When it comes to all of them being fed they morph into a sexually deprived Emiril Lagase.  Bam!

If I went fishing for knowledge and advice from my Dad growing up,  there was only two questions I could possibly ask. #1. What type of cigarettes should I begin to smoke? #2. At what age do I need to start trimming up this unwanted body hair that is growing out of my elbow and on my ankle? He could answer those questions faster than a pimple faced boy on prom night. There was never a definitive answer. We figured it out. We dealt with it. We adapted. We survived.

This is why we are in trouble in the world today.

My thought is this. I believe our generation is damaged. Almost beyond repair. The only hope will maybe be the next generation. The youth of today need to educate themselves and survive this surge of technology that has virtually eliminated “real” communication. Maybe they can adapt and co-exist peacefully and find a permanent solution to the problems we are all subjected to. If what I see daily on various social media accounts is any indication of what the future holds for our young ones, there is no future.

It whole heartedly is a sad time for all of us.  Our country and the entire world is in disarray and the uncertainty of exactly what direction we are heading in as a nation, and in life, has many of us questioning our purpose, existence, the future and ones self worth. The division. The setbacks. The misleading media. The addiction to Social Media and it’s ever so powerful grip it has over all of us. Guilty as charged. Difference is this. I lived 35 years of my life before I jumped on the social media technological wave. I learned how to communicate. Deal with life. Our children will never know what it means to truly exist as we knew it. Can’t blame them. It is what it is and I will not be the parent who holds them back. They must all grow with the times. We must sit back and let the chips fall where they may. We are entitled to our beliefs, differences and opinions. Our fate has already been determined. God help us.

I hold my breath and pray for them. I always try and teach my sons the importance of morals, value for all life form and respect. Treat others as you would like to be treated. Period. One day I can only hope they can take a piece of those lessons and apply it towards their path in life. A simple guide. A road map through mountains of doubt and unforeseen terrain.

My breath has been held. Good luck!

 

 

Top 10 Questions in life.

Life. We all have questions, concerns and reasonable doubts. These inquisitive curious thoughts I have are common but never certain from one person to another.

I have compiled a “Top 10” list of questions that I have in life. Hopefully some of you can relate. Don’t get it twisted, I believe I know the answers to all of my deranged thoughts. But there’s this strange confused energy within that compels me to share this with all of you.

All I ask is that each and every one of you keep an open mind as you scroll through this list. Also take note I wrote this in 7 minutes at 4:05 am  simply for the sake of these thoughts constantly haunting me. I do hope to find answers and some clarity as we take this journey together. Please, If you have some feedback and direction, chime in! We don’t judge around here.

Question # 10:

Why do we “Park” in a “Driveway” and “Drive” on a “Parkway?” This one has been driving (I mean parking)  me nuts for years. I will assume it’s just another sad excuse for the morons in charge of properly naming the simple items in life that would make our lives just a bit easier.

Question #9:

How on God’s green earth did the band “Nickelback” ever get a record label to sign them? Probably one of the worst bands to ever assemble lead by a frontman who’s father was a Clydesdale and sings about being a “Rockstar”. Dude, You are a “Rockstar”.
Dumbass. An ugly one but none the less. Please get a permanent case of strep throat. Thank you in advance.

Question #8:

Who let the dogs out? Did we ever figure that one out?

Question #7:

Why is every person employed at a gas station from Bangladesh or Pakistan? I get it. The whole oil thing. Last American I saw working at a gas station had four eyeballs, an elongated neck and a tattoo of his pet hermit crab on his shin. Don’t get me wrong, these employees are the most polite beings on earth. “Hello Sir”. “Thank you sir” “Have a good weekend sir” “Do you need ice sir?” I find it weird Americans never work at gas stations. Maybe they just aren’t friendly enough!

Question #6:

Why do we feel like we just committed murder when a police vehicle pulls up behind us? Most of us have never had so much as a traffic infraction. We begin to sweat. Automatically start looking for our registration which is an impossible task to begin with.  We do the whole “10 & 2” driving routine. Never fails. Its always in a school zone. Officers, do you have any idea how hard it is to drive 15MPH? These protectors of the law tailgate so close you can see the frosting residue on their lip from the sack of munchkins they just consumed. Stressful I tell ya. But thank you for all you do in keeping us safe.  Much appreciated.

Question #5:

How come every single time we get out of the shower we have to crap? We have every opportunity to take a poo poo before we engage in the cleansing process. Why? Just why? The worst.

Question #4:

To all my fellow white people. Why do we become black when we encounter a black friend? It’s undeniable. Im not referring to the black guy that was pictured next to you in the high school yearbook. I mean the black friend you have history with. You know, the guy you hid behind on the football field. The guy you always threw the ball to on the basketball court. The guy in the gym shower that made you question your manhood. That guy. For some reason when I bump into my friends of color I automatically become black. We do the notorious handshake. I start break dancing and begin using terminology familiar within the black community. It’s truly amazing.

Question #3:

What’s up? What are you doing? Nothing. What are you doing? Nothing. What is this? 98% of all our conversations. So I decided to start being honest. From now on when I receive a call my answer will be as follows. Friend: “What’s up Ant, what are you doing?” Ant: “Not much man. Just scratching my nuts. About to take a dump. Can’t pay my bills. My breath smells like ass crack and I’m contemplating suicide. What’s up
with you?” Honesty is always the best policy.

Question #2:

Why must ordering Chinese food be such a stressful ordeal? I just want some dumplings pal. From the minute you walk in it’s an extreme energetic whirlwind cluster fuck experience. Before you can even review the menu with 1786 items on it, the Chinese woman dressed in a snow suit in the middle of August puts the ordering pressure on. So you unwillingly order house special chow fun and except your fate. The cooks receive the order. They start bickering and screaming at the top of their lungs like they just won a Pai Gow tournament. Then it’s on to the reading material as you wait for your unknown animal ingredient to simmer. You really should be going to the Chinese take out joint to buy a boat or a piece of Real Estate in the Catskills.

Question #1:

Husband: “Hey babe, do you want to grab a bite to eat tonight?” Wife: “Sure hun.” Husband: “Where would you like to eat?” Wife: “Anywhere you want. Doesn’t matter to me.” Husband: “Red Lobster?” Wife: “No, not in the mood for that.” Husband: “Ok. Italian?” Wife: “Nah” Husband: “Sushi?” Wife: “Isn’t that raw?” Husband: “Fuck it. Now its White Castle!” Wife: “Oh that’s good!”
SMH!!!!

Questions. Answers. Possibilities. Concerns. Life.

Deal with it!