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!

 

 

The Bronx Zoo. These poor animals just want to go extinct!

The Bronx Zoo. An iconic landmark. A place to see all the animals of the world subjected to the air pollution of New York City. A place where the wildlife has the opportunity to enjoy the refreshing & thirst quenching water of the East River.

I would like to take this moment to rename this staple in our community “The Bronx Narcolepsy Zoo!” I swear to Christ every animal was sound asleep from the infamous lions to the house rat. Even the notorious gazelle who hops 87 mph was passed out on a fake plastic scenery rock. I wasn’t sure how to react. My children asked if the animals have all died and I responded “I think so.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love animals. I love nature. I have no problem paying my way for this once in a lifetime experience. But when the tigers are suffering from emphysema and the alligators have a severe case of gout, I’m a bit concerned.

The problem is this. The most exciting moment of the whole day was watching a rabid ordinary chipmunk jump on my boys leg as we all tried to determined if he was Alvin, Theodore or Simon. Believe it or not, these little rodents started singing Frankie Valli tunes for loose change! People started to clap as I started to vomit. I mean come on. There’s a 300 pound lion snoring 100 yards away from us. A spotted hyena was coma toast and all we cared about was a singing wild chipmunk. God for bid a duck passed by. The only wildlife awake during this excursion was the non captive bastards we see everyday. Squirrels and birds were plentiful and awake. Elephants and Zebras were passed out like NYC crackheads on New Years Eve. Even the Zoo parking attendant was sound asleep.

The only moment I felt any life in the establishment was when we entered the Land of Gorillas. Let me tell you something. This shit was life altering. These silver back bastards are a 1/2 of chromosome away from being human and if anybody thinks God created us, go spend 4 minutes in a captive Gorilla enclosure at the zoo. Somehow, someway, we humans received that one extra intelligent link. That is the difference maker. Watching these animals interact within their environment along with their mannerisms was a true sight to see. I was so intrigued. Baffled. Confused. Mind boggled. And then it happened. A true sign of human behavior. A similarity that had me second guessing who was the more intelligent species.

A mother Silverback ape. Sitting propped up carelessly against a rock as her four children played irresponsibly and she didn’t give a shit. A minute into the encounter the mama ape pounded her belly and regurgitated in her mouth. She then ate her throw up proudly. Scratched her breast. Licked her palm of all nipple juice. Picked her nose. Ate it. Moved on. Yes it’s disgusting but don’t tell me none of you mothers out there have never done that? Yeah I know. I’m sure it was done privately but this poor ape lives in the Bronx Zoo! Can’t hide that shit. She was open and honest and didn’t give a fuck! I respected that. Except when she stuck her finger in her asshole and licked it. I didn’t respect that. At all. That was disgusting.

Most animals at the Zoo accepted their fate. The lions said “fuck it.” Let our balls hang out in NY and get fed hunks of beef from Arthur Ave? Sign me up. The sea lions swam gracefully through the pool with no threats of great white sharks. In all fairness they risk death by pollution but they will take that chance. It was those Mongolian horses that had a bone to pick with their captive environment. They are basically extinct but these last 7 unlucky beautiful creatures got stuck in the Bronx. All they want to do is smoke Chinese cigarettes, play Pai Gow and take a Tai Kwon Doe class. But no. They run around the Bronx like A Chinese Sea Biscuit.

We closed the day out on a nice peaceful ride on the Monorail. Well
not so peaceful. The road rage on the rides line was aggressive. The fella Vinny behind us began to scream “move up the line you stupid motherf:;()$:(“…Let’s go. My family was nervous but I told them to relax. I will eventually make a fool out of him.

Then there was the Monorail conductor. The pilot. The captain. The leader. I’ll tell you this. You only get this job if you are selected by Earth. You are a chosen one. You need to lose your hair by the age of four and know everything about everything there is to know about cow dung. They are nice people until you break a rule and stand up. Then they yell at you like Mommy Dearest at a wire hanger convention. It’s bad.

Obey the rules.

 

 

Solar Eclipse! Glad that shit’s over!

Ok. The Solar Eclipse has come and went. Thank God this shit only happens every 99 years or so.

If I was able to find a positive in all of this, it was the simple fact this event took our attention away from all the other surrounding bullshit in world today. It was a break from reality I presume.

In all fairness, if I listened or read about one more intelligent human being (allegedly) ask about eye damage caused by gazing at the sun for 30 seconds, I was going to weed wack my ear drums and dip my eyeballs in Mercury. What????? I’d rather discuss Nazis & Confederate statue removal than have to explain to our human race the sun is not your friend. You can’t stare at it like a hairy naked fat woman eating a chocolate covered slinky cruising down the rusty escalator at the local mall. Focus people.

Yes it was interesting. Yes we should pay attention. Yes we should cherish this opportunity to view such beauty. No we should never be allowed to reproduce again. After what I witnessed today, our race is about as intelligent as a pack of expired fun dip. Come on people.

Another concern I have is this. How will all of our necks feel in the morning? Let’s face it, we never really look up. Unless we are at a fireworks display, riding a camel or simply giving Andre the Giant a hum dinger,  our heads are mostly in a level position throughout the day. A lot of stiff necks tomorrow would be my educated guess.

People scrambled to protect their corneas. Things got so desperate we emptied our boxes of 3 year old Corn Flakes to create a safe viewing device. Many looked up and did some kind of yoga shit with their fingers to create a little window between their crusty ass knuckles and bitten dirty fingernails. Grandmothers walked around with welding helmets and Camel cigarettes dangling from their mouth to catch a glimpse. I personally believe the asshole dressed like an alien on CNN that banged out of worked for this 20 second event should be thrown into the sun, but that is none of my business. The overall scene was truly amazing.

In the end it was a disappointment. At least for us in New York. We New Yorkers expected total darkness for an hour. Fireballs to shoot from the sky. Tornados. The first day of the school year to be delayed a month. We wanted chaos. All we got was a weather cloud, three old ladies smoking Virginia Slims and a community filled of Stevie Wonder wannabes. Terrible.

The Eclipse brought us all closer for a minute. We put our differences aside for a day. We came together as a nation. We were determined to figure out where to get “Solar Glasses” and just how long we could stare directly at the sun before our eyelids caught fire. It was a true bonding experience amongst mankind.

Until the next Eclipse!!!!!

 

 

 

My last three lovers quarrels and Lionel Richie is one of them!

Had a fight with the wife. Actually had a few discrepancies. She was mad I didn’t take her to the Lionel Richie concert tonight at MSG that she just heard about 6 hours ago. Like I have a Lionel Richie concert tracker App installed on my phone. As if I wake up everyday wondering where Lionel Richie will be serenading us next. WTF! Last I remember, Lionel was molesting some blind chic on MTV.

Below is the last three lovers quarrels I have participated in. On a positive note, if this is what couples always fought about, we would all be ok.

# 1 Lionel Richie Fight:

A) I thought Lionel Richie was dead.

B) I’m not gonna try and scalp last minute “Lionel Richie” tickets. God for bid I didn’t succeed. I would be damaged for life.

C) What would I wear to a Lionel Richie concert? I donated all my “turtle necks” years ago. How do I react as an audience member when “Dancing on the Ceiling” comes on? Suicide would be my first option. What does one do? Hopefully that song would never be performed and I could simply just bump and grind my wife to “Easy like Sunday morning”. Who the hell knows!

D) Are the Commodores gonna be there? If so I will consider this.

E) “Hello” A classic. Only song I would actually want to hear.

F) Asked my wife to look up another Lionel Richie concert coming to town in the near future. She replied “Really, he will never play again”

G) Duh! My point exactly!

My wife sat pouting on a chair all night as I asked “Alexa” to play all the greatest hits of Mr Richie.

#2 Where’s my Pizza?

I slaved in the kitchen all day yesterday to make everybody’s favorite dish, eggplant parmesan. My wife went to work today. I figured she would bring a slab of eggplant to satisfy her hunger. We went to a friends house. I ordered some Dominos pizza for the children. My boys and their friends wolfed down every slice like Hannibal Lecter at a liver transplant convention. It was truly a sight to see.

My wife walks in demanding a slice of Dominos pizza as if she’s “Vlad the Impaler.” She drilled me for a fucking hour about how I didn’t have the respect, honor and audacity to save her a slice. “It’s $5.99 you hump!!! I’ll order you a fucking pie if you want!” I defensively mumbled under my scared shitless breath. She said “forget it asshole.” I said “Ok.” So that was that. Pizza would have gave her the shits anyway.

#3 I’m tired! Let’s go!

This woman could fall asleep at a coffee bean factory. She passed out at our wedding during the Venetian hour. I was trying to drink another beer and buy some time as my wife was drooling on our friends cashmere couch. She made it clear. She was ready to go. So I played a Lionel Ritchie song to close out the night and shoved a pacifier in her mouth and carried her out to the car. When she gets tired, watch out. That “resting bitch face syndrome” turns into the “Walking Dead” version of “Bert and Ernie.” Its bad. I complied.

We all have our fights. Most of the time in our relationships, it’s petty shit. Lionel Richie and Dominos??? Hahaha. When she starts breaking my balls about lack of performance in the sack and paying the bills, then I’ll start to sweat a bit. Until then, I will keep on “Dancing on the Ceiling.”

Until the next quarrel!

 

 

 

 

Writers block. The struggle is real!

Writers block. The struggle is real. Not sure what that actually is but I think I have it. I may just be constipated but I seem to be a bit foggy lately.

Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not a writer. I have never read a book. I misspelled my name on my high school SAT’s. If it wasn’t for google and spell check I would be nothing more than a New York City crackhead romance novelist. I am NOT a writer. But I like to write!

Regardless, I feel a sense of blockage. I’m trying to be creative and muster up a story in my traditional fashion and all I keep coming up with is a stupid story about my wife’s anus. It’s boring. I’m 29 seconds away from shoving an
M-80 between her eyebrows in order to create some new material. I’m committed. I’ll do whatever it takes.

When I started this blog, I never really thought it through. I figured I would jot down a few stories and you would all forget about me. My wife would eventually cut off my wiener and shove it down my throat. We would all live happily ever after.

Well, my wiener is still in tact. For now. I’m addicted to writing this blog and I just can’t find anymore stories about my wife’s butthole so I’m at a crossroad.

I guess now I will start to discuss my mother in laws butthole. Probably not a good idea. That’s a Puerto Rican anus. A Spanish anus is serious. They need to be featured in “The Museum of Natural Spanish Anuses”. These fuckers are fluent in 7 languages. Give them a kidney bean and their asshole craps out Justin Beiber along with the club version of Despacito!  Better judgement is to stay away. That shit talks back. Rapidly. Yaya will kick my ass but I’m desperate. She would not hesitate for a minute to cut me up with a taco supreme while listening to Tito Puente! I’m in trouble for this one!

I have a big mouth. My brain is filled with chaos. That being said, I’m jammed up. I am sorry. Never thought I would experience this but I have. No worries. I will take a trip to Walmart and troll Facebook. The “material well” will be filled once again.

The reality is this. Life around my house has been boring the past week or so. There hasn’t been any inspirational moments. The family is catching on to me. My wife installed a silencer on her ass and my kids avoid confrontation with me at all costs. So I’m fucked. I need to create atmosphere. I need motivation. I need drama.

I will start by taking a crap on my wife’s frontal lobe while she is asleep. Hopefully this action will stir up the pot a bit. I will then proceed to light my children’s cell phones on fire during the Kids Choice Awards. I will pour a bottle of A1 steak sauce into my eyeball. If I can’t get a rise out of these people after this I’m moving to North Korea.

I’m taking up gymnastics!

I’ll keep you all posted!

This is not my last post 😜

Critical survival tips for a healthy relationship & marriage!

To all my married guys and gals. I’m not Dr Phil although our hair styles are very similar. Please stop going to therapy. Stop attending marriage counseling and taking advice from a professsional certified divorcee! Just please stop that. This is my free consultation to you. It’s simple and true and I rarely tell the truth so pay attention.

To be completely honest though, I needed Air Supply Pandora Radio to get through this post. That shit is inspirational.

1) If your significant other says they are going out for a gallon of milk and you believe they are en route to bang the bus boy / girl at Denny’s, it’s not gonna work. No trust, no relationship. I’ll just get that one out of the way now. It’s the key component to any healthy relationship. Guys, stop reading this post right now if you believe your child could be fathered by the waiter from Dennys! Ladies, if you honestly think your husband is capable of bedding a 22 year old woman at this point in his life, you are giving him way to much credit. He can’t last 3 minutes with you. A 22 year old would make his pee pee disintegrate.

2) If one of you thinks another person is attractive (celebrity or normal human) and you take that personal, run. It’s normal. Who gives a shit. There are more attractive people than you. That’s a fact! Embrace, move on! My wife still thinks Flavor Flav is hot. How do you think that makes me feel? I respect her feelings.

3) If you don’t look at your partner and think they are just as beautiful as the day you met, it’s not gonna work. As a matter of fact, your partner should become more attractive to you each and every day. Personally, my wife gets prettier each day. I still get a chubby when she grazes by me with a mouth full of tortilla chips as her boobs drag along the hallway floor. Mother of my children. Puts up with my shit. This chick is a freakin super model in my eyes.

4) If you are only having sex on your birthday or when your partner is 6 seconds from an accidental overdose, they are banging somebody else. Period. You must do it twice per week, no exceptions. It’s important! I don’t want to hear about you being tired. We are all tired. Pull your panties down. It only takes most of us a minute or two. However, make sure you have that crazy kind of love making from time to time. You know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, get out of your relationship. Now.

5) R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Do I really have to get into this? I hope not. If I have to explain to any of you how to respect your life partner, you not only will fail in the relationship, you will fail in life. Respect everybody and all life. Most importantly the person you chose to spend the rest of your life with. For most of us, the parent of your children. That bond alone demands a lifetime of commitment and respect.

6) I love you. The three most important words that are the building blocks of any relationship. Hard to say at first. I get it. Once you feel it, you must say it. Then continue to say it each and everyday. It makes us all feel important. It’s essential.

There are so many other factors that contribute to a healthy, lasting relationship. To me it’s simple. I love my wife with all my heart. My kids are my world. I respect and cherish what I have. I count my blessings each day.

Stop going to therapy. If you can’t follow these simple guidelines, the relationship you are in is not right for you!