Life can be aggravating at times thanks to humans!

In life there are certain daily events and situations that can be quite irritating. Some more than others. Below are some examples for me personally. I’m sure most of you can relate to some of them.

Gum Cackling

Very annoying. It’s even worse when your 78 year old sun weathered waitress named Flo supporting seven grandchildren does it. I understand she works “hard for her money” but stop blowing bubbles and snapping your piece of bazooka in my face as you take my food order. And then proceed to do it again when you drop the check off and say “Thanks doll” in your best smokers cough accent. Stop cackling. Unless you’re Dolly Parton it doesn’t work.

Use of Public Bathrooms

It’s never our first choice but sometimes we need to go. You spend 20 minutes cleaning up what appears to be a sextuplet natural childbirth on the toilet seat and surrounding walls. You finally sit down and get ready to make a deposit and some person sits right next to you. You feel a bit embarrassed and try to be considerate and release your poop quietly and this fat fuck blows a rhinoceros out of their ass. Did you even clean the toilet seat first you animal?

Counter Help

I respect anybody that gets up and goes to work. You should take employment seriously and always do your best. If you happen to be my counter help and I place an order with you, either remember it without question or write it down. Don’t look at me and yes me to death like you have the memory of an elephant only to repeat and ask me what my order was again and again and again. If you are not sure of the order, please use the new invention of  pen and paper. Works every time.

Bicycle Riders

For the most part this isn’t that aggravating. It’s not even the actual riding that bothers me. It’s the uniforms. Don’t get me wrong, some of these men are sexy as hell with bulging calf muscles, nice pectorals and a golden bronze tan. I’m on board with that. That’s hot. It’s the 59 year old accountant that hasn’t lifted a weight since high school football double sessions. He hasn’t seen the sun in 17 years and he looks like a rendition of “Teen Wolf”. Yeah stop that. Hide in your closet until Monday morning when it’s time to get dressed and go back to work.

Public Affection

I don’t know about anybody else but I show my affection to my wife in private. I believe that’s how it should be. Why you all feel the need to show your affection in front of 17 Hasidics, a Mexican soccer team, 24 kids with their pants around their ankles and Chinese tourists with selfie sticks is mind altering. Do you think it’s attractive watching you ride down the mall escalator with your Red Robin greasy ass hands shoved down your girls skin tight Jordache jeans with ju ju bees dangling from your lower lip? Do you think getting to sloppy second with your chick wedged up against the Wetzel Pretzel kiosk is sexy? It’s not. If I tried to squeeze my wife’s ass in public she would crack me over the head with a fire hydrant.

Woman taking public phone call

When you are on a line and the phone rings, hit ignore. That’s why the button is there. I can’t stand when that woman (and you know the type I’m talking about) picks up her phone and her best friend Marsha from Florida is on the other line and they start discussing little Howard’s college tuition. Pick that conversation up after you have paid for your groceries lady. We don’t care if your husband Harold won a toaster oven at Walmart.

Public body exposure

This is terrible. All bodies are different. We are who we are and that’s wonderful. You should love yourself. But please don’t flaunt it if you ain’t got it. If your hips are dragging on the floor please don’t wear a g-string. If you use your belly spare tire as a dinner napkin, please cover up. If your boobies resemble eggplants on steroids, wear a bra. Guys, if your back fat roll is connected to the knee cap, please don’t wear a tank top. Thanks people.

Driving Old Cars

Let’s not get it twisted. I am not referring to restored classic muscle cars. I can watch them drive by all day long. I’m speaking of the 56 foot rusted asbestos Megaladon barreling down the road consuming 1 and a 1/2 miles per gallon polluting Earth. Donate that shit to 1-800-Cars for Kids and get with the times. They don’t even fit in parking spots anymore.

Fake Sun Tans

If you wake up on Christmas morning and you look as if you crawled out of a Volcano something is wrong. If you went on vacation the prior week that’s great. If not, please control how tan you get in January. At least during the summer months you tend to blend in a bit better. Seeing your roasted red pepper facade up against a pile of beautiful white snow is disturbing. Either stop the excessive tanning or walk around wrapped in a garbage bag until June. Thanks in advance.

These are only some of life’s aggravating moments. I’m sure you all have many as well. Would love to here about it. Please share!

Summer camp is over. WTF do we do now?

Summer camp is over. Wtf do we do now??? Whether your child attended sleep away, half day or full day camp, we must now try and fill the hours of the day we so happily paid for to have our children raised by others! This is a challenge on all levels.

For my wife and I it was half day camp. 8:30am to 11:30am. No big deal. Actually it was a very big deal. Three hours per day. Fifteen hours per week. A lifetime of silence when you are a parent. An opportunity to get shit done. Camp, you will be missed dearly.

The hardest part about camp was getting the boys up and out of bed to actually get them there. Let’s face it, it’s 110 degrees outside and these kids have no desire to participate in outdoor dodge ball tournaments orchestrated by a couple of puberty challenged teeny boppers earning $2 per hour. Laying in bed Snap Chatting about a friends “Lit” post is much more exciting for them. Kids are forced into these camps against their will. Sorry young ones. Someday you will become parents and understand these harsh, radical decisions.

Three hours seems like a minimal amount of time. A fraction of the day. It’s not. It’s 180 minutes of relaxation. Stress free. A moment to enjoy peace and quiet. A break from the reality of children demanding food, complaints of boredom, sibling rivalries, constipation issues and anything else that comes along with the daily chaos of parenting.

I took full advantage of the three childless hours I so gracefully forked over my hard earned money for. Often I would send my wife early morning text messages as I’m working stating “Hey, kids are at camp, what’s up?” She would reply “No shit asshole. I dropped them off. I’m sleeping. I’m tired. Go back to work.” That usually put a damper on things for a moment but I was determined to get my “Camp Tuitions” money’s worth. I based my expected return of investment on the current “hooker market value” and figured I would need three solid hours of intimacy with my wife throughout the camp session to break even. So I continued to badger her until she surrendered and threw up her exhausted arms in a fury of disgust “Fine, hurry up. You have five minutes and I’m just gonna lay here and sleep. Do what you like.” I buckled myself in and raced home. Kicked the front door open like John Claud Van Dam auditioning for the Rockettes and shouted “I only need two minutes.” It was a win win for all. I will miss these tender moments between my wife and I. A true romantic bonding experience.

We are all faced with the impossible challenge of filling the time with our children for the remaining days of summer. My wife has supplied me with a list of options and suggestions to close out the summer days with our family. They are as follows. Bronx Zoo. Great Adventure. Museum of Natural History. Dinner five nights per week. Broadway shows. Myrtle Beach. Zip Line. Sky Diving. Cooking classes. Family yoga. Snorkeling. Cruise. Disney world. Disney Land. Shopping. What? Might as well include a trip to Italy and a meet and greet with Justin Timberlake while you’re at it.

Ok babe. Let’s start with Disney World and work our way back. Who the hell does she think I am? I’ll do the Bronx Zoo and Snorkel in my moms pool and call it a day.

We all try and do as much for our kids as possible. Create memories. I understand. Kids just don’t get it. Raising a family in today’s world is a huge (Omg I just sounded like Trump. Shoot me.) financial obstacle. We chose to have a family so we must not complain. We manage.

First day of school is right around the corner. Hang in there Moms & Dads. Eight hours of heaven awaits us all!

Parental Guidance. Are parents at war with social media?


Parental Guidance. Are we at war with social media?

Does any other parent out there sometimes feel like they are raising R2D2?

I do. At times I try and get my boys attention and all I see is the two of them posing for the camera phone only to morph themselves into panting dogs. They constantly distort their photographic appearance to make them appear as if they are becoming a chicken pox infected eggplant. Weird! Why is everything “lit”, “100” and that stupid fire emoji? These kids today are regressing. They communicate through hieroglyphics (it honestly took me 17 tries to spell that word correctly.) I browse through my kids social media news feeds and all I see is images. No words. Are they creating a new language? What is going on here? What do we do? I’m so lost. When I see all this I believe I’m playing a game of Pictionary.

Parenting in the world today is no walk in the park. Parents must be sharp.  Adapt. Become chameleon like. We must try to understand technology and it’s rapid progression. We also must try and interject some of our upbringing and beliefs. We need to create a stable platform to raise a decent human being without offending anybody. And by the way. Please stop being offended. Offensiveness is overrated and I’m tired of reading about a woman who read a Betty Crocker cook book and became offended because it didn’t have enough chocolate morsels in the recipe for a brownie. Take your God given right to be offended and shove it up your ass. If shit bothers you, exclude yourself and walk away. Life is way to short to sweat the small crap. I get offended when the old lady at the Supermarket puts 16 items on the conveyor belt on the 15 and under express checkout line but I keep my mouth shut. I move on. But honestly, that’s fucking aggravating! Count your items lady.

I strongly believe raising children in today’s society is the most difficult it has ever been. The current generation of parents have the task of blending the old techniques of how we were raised with the ever so evolving poison of social media and all of life’s technology plagued advancements. The devil on so many levels. It has become the way of life. Can’t change it. Can’t stop it. We must embrace it!

I believe pre-technology / social media parenting was a cut and dry method. If you misbehaved you were placed over a splinter ridden piano bench and absorbed the lash of your fathers fake leather belt. The wrath of your mothers “wooden spoon.” There was no fear of child abuse reports. Kids did not press charges against parents because their cornflakes were soggy. When you made a childish mistake, you paid the price and you never did it again. All parties hugged it out and kissed on Christmas morning.

I believe the future of parenting will be enforced by robotic nannies and google advice columns. (Which I think is a current practice for some parents.) I get it. Raising children is hard. It’s not for everybody. Some find out the hard way.

I never personally judge other parents on how they discipline and raise their children. Neither should anybody else. All families and situations are different. It’s like a snowflake. No two are ever the same. I have my thoughts on what I think is the correct way. That’s what I instill in my boys. If I see a parent in Shoprite beating their child with a frozen pack of Bubba’s Burgers I just sit back and say “That kid must have done something to deserve that.”  I can’t stand when judgemental people whisper under their bad breath, “Look at that woman,  she shouldn’t be a parent.” Or “Get control of your kid.” Shut up. Just shut the hell up. Until you have the pleasure of dealing with these little unappreciative shits on a daily basis, again shut up. Let us parents raise our miserable kids peacefully while you lonely pricks search Starbucks for an Angle Saxon fella named Kyle with frosted bangs and a hoop earring from Spencer’s decked out in a cashmere orange cardigan who will magically sweep you off your judgemental feet!

Bottom line. Mind your business. Unless a child is in obvious physical danger, (excluding a Bubba Burger beating) let the parents do their thing and move along.  Nature will take its course.

When children are born they don’t come with a set of instructions. There is no App. We learn as we go. Trial and error.

Today we face a greater enemy. Social media. A road block in parenting!

We attempt to raise the next generation to the best of our ability and deal with the influential, mind warping, socially pressured world of social media that has completely consumed our children and way of life. It has managed to take over most of the older generation as well. I think that’s fine as our upbringing is done. We are who we are. Social media shouldn’t determine “Us.” Well for some it just might. Sucks for you I guess.

Social media has the power to influence our youth. Trigger suicide in some heartbreaking situations. It’s powerful and it’s real. It becomes a challenge within parental guidance and direction we as parents work so hard to achieve for our young ones.

I guess in the end we can only hope and pray our children and future generations will prosper & flourish from the fruits of our labor.

Do your best parents. Buckle up. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. It’s not getting any easier.

Teach your children love, respect and to always be humble and kind like the great Tim McGraw says. Hopefully that will guide us all through this shit show called life.

Remember, our children are a reflection of their parents. What they do and how they treat others is a direct line to how they are raised and what they are taught. Who they will become.

Teach them well. Teach them right. “I believe the children are the future, let them lead the way”

-Whitney Houston



Childbirth!! Thank God I’m not a woman!

Child birth. Fascinating. The gift of life. The most beautiful experience on Earth.

Yet there are so many different forms and deliveries of these little miracles throughout the years. So much time. So many changes. So much we just don’t know. All we do know is somehow someway we survived and evolved.

I have a hard time wrapping by brain around childbirth before doctors. Before hospitals and ultra sounds. Before Tri-mesters and Babies R Us!

In today’s world there are so many procedures and precautions. So many tests. Concerns. Which is fine. If we have the technology and resources today for a safe birth of a child, I’m all for it. I’m naturally curious of childbirth before these advancements within our human race.

I’m going back a few years but what transpired when a woman gave birth before doctors and hospitals? They couldn’t send a text message to their husband stating they think their water broke and it’s time! They didn’t have gender revealing parties! The men were out hunting and gathering while the women sat around in a cave and gave birth to children. They dealt with it and figured it out. Cut their own cords. Dealt with pain. No Vicodin. Life went on. Damn that must have been some scene.

Today is much different. My wife gave birth to our twin boys in 2005. There were some complications. Babies were breached. They had to schedule a C-section delivery. What a walk in the park this is compared to natural childbirth. I think!

We set our date. We glided into the hospital at 6am the day of delivery. They put my wife in a wheelchair and strolled her into the maternity ward as we passed 347 labor induced women prancing the hallways looking like they haven’t taken a shit in a month. They were cursing, vomiting, sweating, threatening to kill their husbands and many other situations I can’t mention in this blog because we like to keep it clean around here. 😜

They separated me from my pregnant wife like I had the plague. They rinsed me off. Threw a shower cap on me. Dressed me in a blue smock. Shoved a sour tuna sandwich down my throat. Installed foot booties on me. Forced me to fill out a questionnaire form and instructed me to sit tight and don’t move. I felt like I was in prison for sexually assaulting a squirrel. It was terrible.

They injected 17 ounces of morphine into a woman who catches a buzz from a sip of White Zinfandel.

It was now safe for me to enter.

First thing I saw as I approached was her smiling. Naturally I thought there was complications as a result of her excitement. Turns out all was going according to plan. So I thought. The image of my wife happy, the Hasidic love making sheet that separated my vision of reality, the soothing words of the doctors along with the fact I simply could not see through the oversized old lady shower cap I was wearing gave me a sense of comfort. Things were going to be Ok.

Then the Doctors words echoed “Hey Dad? Do you want to meet your son?” Fuck!!! This meant I had to cross the safety of the sheet and participate. I accepted the challenge. I tip toed towards the action. I turned the corner. I threw the fuck up!!!! Twice. All I saw was a child suspended in the air attached to a bloody slinky. My wife’s heart, pancreas and left nipple were carefully placed on a silver dinner plate and I panicked. I needed to check my wife for assurance she was ok as her liver was pulsating on the floor. She looked at me and gave me the biggest smile and said “I love you babe.” I replied “what the fuck is going on here?”

Keep in mind there’s another little bastard in there. Next thing you know I see two babies suspended in mid air with telephone wires attached to my wife’s stomach and intestines everywhere. It was bad.

We survived. We all made it out alive.
Childbirth has come a long way.

Please tell me about any of your child birth experiences!

Taking a vacation? Here is your “pre vacation stress check list”

Preparing for a family vacation may be one of life’s most challenging obstacles for us parents.

It’s not so much the beginning stages and planning of the trip. It’s the few stressful days leading up to the departure that really get my nuts in a bunch.

I speak of this as I just broke out of a family huddle at 11pm Eastern time on my couch that has left me $1000 poorer, my wife not talking to me and my kids disowning me.

Booking our vacation initially was quite easy. If you happen to be like me you borrow your sister and brother -in-laws Visa mileage credit card. Proceed to book a $5000 vacation to Mexico on a random Tuesday after a night of slamming Tequila Sunrises off your partners dirty belly button. You both have absolutely no idea how in the hell you will pay for this trip. Your only saving grace is the credit cards 30 day payment policy. As stressed out irresponsible parents you collectively throw your balls and tits on the line and hope for the best. Only way it should be!

It always seems to work out. Most of the time.

What just transpired in my household has ultimately left me speechless. Well. Not really. That would be impossible.

It was 10:45 pm and my wife and I along with two curious children gathered around our living room sofas and coffee table for a vacation meeting. I felt trapped and began to sweat uncontrollably. I was embracing for the “pre stress vacation check list” that was about to be dropped on me like Rocky Dennis at childbirth.

Pre-vacation stress list as follows:

1. Confirmed reservation. My wife insists I must call the Resort in Mexico at 11pm the night before arrival to confirm our hotel reservation even after we have received 329 email confirmations in six languages. I asked “what if they say we don’t have a reservation?” She replied “shut the fuck up.” So I dialed the number to confirm only to be put on hold. I patiently waited and listened to a terrible rendition of La Bamba for 86 minutes. The helpful customer service representative who appeared to have been a bottle and a half of tequila deep returns to the phone line walking me through the confirmation process like he’s the best man giving a speech at an El Chapo wedding. I honestly still have no idea if our reservation is confirmed. All I heard was a Mexican man choking on lettuce for 6 minutes.

2. Luggage weight. My wife is so concerned the luggage will weigh more than the allowed amount of 50lbs she placed the luggage on the treadmill trying to shed a few pounds. She walked around the house with this weight testing device measuring and weighing tooth brushes and bars of soap. She has officially lost her mind.

3. Clean house. My wife must have the entire house cleaned before we leave. I explained it’s ok to relax and clean when we get home. Not her. She set up scaffolding to clean the tops of window treatments and ceiling fans. She’s running around the house with 3 different types of vacuums sucking up every type of dust mite to ever be discovered. I walked into the bathroom and her legs were hanging out of the toilet bowl as Pandora radio belted out “I want your sex” by George Michael so I turned around gracefully and went about my business. I returned after she completed her hard work and dropped a “Red Lobster” inspired deuce. I honestly felt horrible. It was either the clean toilet or the micro- suede couch.

4. Man scape. My wife just realized we didn’t man scape me properly in order to take the trip. Now that the bathrooms are cleaned we must now figure out the best option to remove this unwanted fur in order to avoid embarrassment at the Resort. So we run down to the local CVS and purchase 3 gallons of Nair. We then tie me up to a tree and hire Edward Scissor Hands to trim me up. Does it matter? Like I give a frogs fat ass if somebody witnesses a few hair follicles on my shoulder blade in Mexico? The answer is yes. I must look my best for the Mexican cook wandering around the pool with cubic zirconia teeth and a tattoo of Richie Valence on his cheek passing out sun ridden mad cow disease double cheeseburgers. It’s all about image.

5. Pill dispensers. You would think my family travels as a group of four individuals requiring Hospice care at all times. At first glance it appears our immune systems couldn’t defend against a piece of liverwurst. We consume more daily medication than Michael Jackson at a Neverland reunion. I never realized this until tonight. Combined family daily pill intake just north of 37. Should I be concerned?

6. Medical safety. My wife panics and must pack every pill, cream, patch, gauze, tape and any other medical remedy in case any of us trip and scrape our knee caps on the poolside concrete. My wife’s vacation survival kit could most likely save soldiers at war. Ironically, my kids resemble burnt shriveled hot dogs after the first day of vacation as a result of sun poisoning but if they stub their toe, my wife has them covered.

7. Money concerns and excursions. I must be honest. I just dropped $5000 I did not have and my wife wants to know how much cash I’m bringing to an All Inclusive Resort. Seriously? I’m showing up to the airport with enough money to buy a gum ball and a bottle of tequila. I’ll figure the rest out. I hear her mumble under her breath “I hope you bring enough money so we as a family can ride a Mexican Flipper.” I tried to explain to her the Dolphins in Mexico are not like the graceful animals we encounter at Sea World. She believes we will all hop in the water with a friendly Mexican dolphin and it will kiss and wave to us, drive us around the water so we can take cute photos to post on Instagram & Facebook.

I don’t agree. I believe we will
jump into the water with no life jackets as 27 sleep deprived “Montezuma
Revenge” infected dolphins will bite down on our cankles and induce rabies upon us as our mouths begin to foam just in time for our new Instagram profile pic.

8. Let’s make memories.  I get it. I’m on board with this one. It’s important to document these moments. I also need a constant reminder of WTF I actually spent this money on. Problem is this. My wife and I have different interpretations of memories. For instance, my wife will make every attempt to snap a memorable photo of our family eating a cheeseburger. A timeless action family portrait of us all walking on sweltering hot stamped concrete. It’s nice. My interpretation of a vacation memory is slightly different. I believe an iconic vacation moment consists of my wife and I climbing up to the hotels clay Spanish tile roof as our kids sleep below and we toss rocks at the Mexican planes flying above running out of fuel. Then we make triplets on that same roof and come home to tell our friends we gave birth to Mexican children. We then try to negotiate our children’s heritage for free college tuition. Now that’s a memory. My wife wants to buy a poncho and some jumping beans and she believes that’s a memory. Please.

I have many more but I’m tired. I would love to hear all of your “pre vacation stress” rituals and requirements.

It’s vacation. It should be relaxing. Stress free. I get it though. You are leaving the comfort of your own environment so it’s only natural to sometimes stress and worry.

It’s all worth it once we all get to our destination and get a drink in our hand.

Feet up. Relax. It will be over before we know it!





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!