Going to the bathroom. Whether it’s a quick pee pee or a toilet clogging event, its a part of all of us each and everyday. I don’t care who you are. At some point in your lifetime, you should be able to relate to this extremely uncomfortable situation. Most take comfort in handling this necessary business in their own personal bathroom space whenever they can.
Sometimes, unfortunately, we need to make a game time decision as our butt cracks start to part like “The Red Sea” and a 14 inch stale chocolate covered peanut chew on steroids begins to peak its head out of our anal crevice as we search for the nearest restroom in desperation.
This can be one of the hardest decisions a human being may have to make in a lifetime. It’s right up there with choosing a life partner.
When it’s time to go you simply have to go. We begin to explore all options as oversized beads of sweat roll down the eyebrow and accumulate in the corner of the eyelid. We attempt to clinch stressed out ass cheeks and magically encounter every red traffic light and 15 MPH school zone as the chief of police tailgates our vehicle sipping on his Columbian roasted coffee as a Boston creme donut stains his regulated cheesy police fashion statement mustache.
Bathroom options in these situations are usually as follows:
1. The random construction site “Porter John” that has been baking in heatwave temps just north of 98 degrees under an August sun after a 375lb sweaty flag man with the Zika Virus and a mouth full of fried Twinkies just spent his lunch break depositing last nights Zuppa Di Pesce over rigatoni.
2. Some local convenient store with a broken down restroom. The bathroom door has disintegrated from extreme moisture damage. Location is strategically placed in the rear of store right behind the cases of Doritos. The fancy bathroom interior decor consists of high end asbestos tile and a magazine rack full of Pakistan Porno reading material from the “Babes of Gulf War” edition.
3. Some fancy restaurant that makes us feel obligated to order $300 worth of “food to go” we will eventually throw out after we jamb up the plumbing system. We feel this is fair compensation for the use of their facilities and embarrassment future clientele will endure.
4. Then there is Home Depot. My personal favorite. Don’t get me wrong. I have been known to drop my draws in desperate times and release a deuce on the front steps of a local Church during a Live Christmas Nativity Event as one of the Camels looked at me like I just gave birth to
Baby Jesus at a wake!
I really had to go that particular time.
I feel Home Depot doesn’t judge. We walk in pretending to shop in the plumbing aisle as we hopelessly look up and search for the restroom directional sign.
The destination is finally reached. We now enter an environment I can only describe as a multi-racial rave with a bunch of constipated individuals suffering from Tourette’s syndrome and under developed frontal lobes.
There are normally three doors to choose from.
Door # one which has leftover wet toilet paper residue attached to the bowl and 18 wheeler skid marks stretched out across the tile floor up to the recessed ceiling lights.
Door # two which is built out of 15 giant Lincoln logs stacked up like a log cabin in foreclosure. There’s three dirty toothpicks on the toilet seat and a lit cigarette burning on the floor as a Hasidic child cries for his mother as she left him on the bathroom changing table in order to take advantage of a “one day only” sale of heavy duty plastic construction garbage bags.
Door # three. The money door as I like to call it. The one stall which appears clean because the previous occupant wiped the seat of his own urine and provided a courtesy flush. Although this space is infected with Hepatitis C and Herpes, it’s the best overall choice.
No matter what our fate may be, it’s time to take care of business. As we try and crap in piece we cant help but embrace the sounds of the person in the adjacent stall struggling as if they are giving birth to a Hyena. These vocal outbursts mimick a 500lb elementary school lunch lady with asthma running the 40 yard dash.
All this and we are trying to be courteous with our own personal poop and try and slowly let it crawl its way to the water beneath because we don’t want to offend the pregnant rhino or sub par Hasidic parent next to us.
We actually become so frightened that when we exit the Home Depot stall we will be greeted by three Mexican landscapers with black onyx wisdom teeth, an employee who works in the garden area and a Chinese man who just squeezed out rabbit droppings critiquing our bathroom performance!
Let’s not forget the unidentified person belting out Andre Bocelli’s greatest hits from his asscrack in stall # one!
Lastly. The shoes of our stall mates. Not sure about you guys but first thing I do is check out my neighboring crappers shoe apparel.
That determines my bathroom etiquette. If the individual in the next stall is wearing greasy gray new balance sneakers with freshly cut grass blades embedded into his shoe laces signed by the owner of Taco Bell, I will personally take a dump on the tongue of his shoe.
If you happen to have nice dress shoes on I will attempt to shrivel my anal opening as long as I can out of respect even though I will time my poop so we don’t have that awkward “post poo sink encounter” to identify who sounded like a rusted crop duster piloted by Barry Manilow with Laryngitis as we fight for a smelly brown cardboard paper towel to dry our hands.
I wonder what the cavemen did when they had to poop and didn’t want to offend others!!!!!
Preparation for summertime can be very stressful. The arrival of summer waits for nobody no matter what type of human you are or situation you may currently be in.
Whether you are first time parents, teeny boppers, the people riding ten speeds dressed in spandex and fluffy leotards, guidos, guidettes, experienced family members or just that lonely 58 year old dude with frosted tips smothered by that extremely painful leftover December barn red tan and overgrown # two pencil eraser looking nipples as he strolls down the Jersey Shore coast all summer long tripping over deceased jelly fish and hermit crab shells, the struggle is real!
Beating a child today is much different than child beatings many years ago.
I can only speak of beatings I received from 1974-1994. Everything else is speculation and stories I have heard.
I remember the beating I received as a child. It was honestly only one. It was quick and to the point. Although my Dad was mostly a peaceful creature back in the day, when you pissed this hairy Italian off it was time to hide in the medicine cabinet or else.
My brothers, sister and I would drive my mom crazy all day. She would threaten us with the “wooden spoon” and daily phrases like “wait until your father comes home”. We all laughed.
Until one day this man actually came home. I’ll never forget that moment my dad walked into the house. He was dressed in his coffee stained white tee shirt, back-up cigarettes in both ears, construction boots covered in horse manure, black curly pubic hair protruding out off the back of his v-neck and a fake leather belt six sizes to small which would eventually become the weapon of choice to beat the piss out of us.
Back then there was no cell phones, no text messages or warnings. Our ringtone was my Dads broken down work truck with three wheels and a muffler scraping on the pavement as he pulled into the driveway.
It was beat first ask questions later.
My mother with all of her threats still did not want to see her children pummeled. It was too late. My dad took 37 1/2 minutes and smoked a pack of Viceroys trying to yank his Mustang belt off as he ate too much pasta the night before but he finally managed.
We lined up in a single file in front of our extremely out of tune broken cigarette ash stained piano and pulled our flannel plaid pajamas down and exposed our white butts and prepared for our beatings. My brother Jefferey started to cry like that “Cindy Lou Hoo” chick from Hooville as that Grinch stole her Christmas. So naturally he was beaten first. The rest of us took our licks like champs. Even my little sister was beat down like a butternut squash at Thanksgiving Dinner.
After that, we were never beat again. It was a one time deal. I like to think all the stress of my Dads current employment status of selling broken down vacuum cleaners door to door in Spring Valley, NY after clearing .87 cents per week after taxes had something to do with it. I understood.
Make no mistake. My Dad is a great man. He just had an off week and if Jefferey didn’t cry like the daughter of Mommy Dearest getting whacked with a wire hanger we probably could have talked our way out of it.
Today I have my own kids. A beating is very hard to come by. I proceed to threaten to no satisfaction.
The other day my boys were throwing chicken nuggets at each other and I said in my toughest voice ” cut the crap guys or I’m gonna spank you.” They googled the word “spank”, laughed at me and said “go ahead Dad”, spank us. Our lawyer is on standby.
They had their Instagram, Musically, Snapchat and any other social media account ready to film my ass smacking the crap out of them. Next thing you know some Hilary Clinton looking specimen with a dark blue suit and a mullet would be at my door looking to lock me up. I thought better of the situation and refrained.
As soon as Hilary left, I beat them with the only thing I could. Their cellphone. That is the confiscation of it. These two started to cry just like Jefferey did so many years ago.
And that’s how we beat our children today. Take away their precious social media. The phones, the YouTube & Facebook. Don’t get me wrong. We need to knock them around a bit to keep them honest. Just be smart about it!
I wonder if they would prefer a quick whack to the ass cheek??? Hmmm
I would love to hear how the rest of you were beat as kids and how you currently beat your children!!
I enjoy my beer and drink. I always have since the ripe age of 15. Well not so much.
I remember going to a club at 15 and drinking pitchers of “Sex on The Beach.” The next day the only sex I had on a beach was in my cast iron rusted soaking tub French kissing my Kohler elongated toilet bowl as my upper lip was glued to my floor tile bonded by stomach bile.
Over the years I learned to adapt.
Today I am a husband and father of two. I still enjoy my drink but I try and do it with responsibility.
My issue today is my wife and kids.
Some families and situations frown upon drinking and understandably so. So many people abuse this great legal privilege. We as a family celebrate.
My family of first cousins, 2nd, 3rd, 4rth, inbreds and the honorary members can throw a celebration involving alcohol for just about anything. One of our children scores a 37 on their math quiz we throw a $300 per head bash at Ciprianis on a Saturday night. One of our kids sprains an ankle we call in the Beastie Boys for the live entertainment and order 4 Budweiser trucks and 17 cases of Pinot Grigio in celebration. God for bid a real reason to celebrate rolls around. This usually results in stomachs pumped at the local hospital, multiple DWI’s and child protective services confiscating 40% of our kids. My family is the best!
Alcohol has a reverse affect on me. One sip of beer and I turn into Mother Theresa! One shot of vodka and I’m looking to start a “Go Fund Me” page for wild turkeys. It’s insane and my family takes full advantage of this weakness and kindness of mine.
When I walk into my home with a 12 pack of beer my wife and kids start “Dancing on the Ceiling” like Lionel Ritchie at the Nicole Ritchie adoption process. It’s magical.
For me, drinking a beer after work takes the edge off of the stressful day. It also loosens me up so my wife can hit me up for the weekly “deli cold cut” money and my kids can get me to agree to reduce their cell phone confiscation sentence. They have me all figured out. I’m an easy target.
My issue is this. Sometimes my liver and kidneys begin to lip sing internally “I Hate Everything About You” by Ugly Kid Joe. But I must ignore this warning and keep my family happy as I proceed to drink a case of beer and release more piss than a camel. I still to this day don’t understand the connection to camels and pissing. These fuckers are so dehydrated from carrying Arabs through the desert all day I just never understood the comparison.
I sat my family down and explained to them I am worth a lot more alive than dead so I can’t drink a case of beer every night. I mean I wish I could but….
They all respond in unison “yes you can.” I value their opinion so I do. Just kidding. It’s a case of beer every other night.
I find it amazing to see how alcohol affects different people. You have the “socially sober retarded” people who take their first sip of alcohol and morph into Oprah Winfrey. Then you see the 5ft nothing dude with a severe napoleon complex that slams a shot of Tequila and becomes “The Incredible Mini Hulk.” Let’s not forget the women who consume a glass of Chardonnay and turn into Beyoncé headlining at a strip club. Finally, and we have all been there, the people who drink a bottle of JD and hug the bowl for 3 hours as they rest their face on the cold ceramic tile floor the following morning to only swear off drinking forever and begin to pound Alabama Slammers that same day at happy hour and use their bras or tighty whiteys as hammocks before 8pm!
Alcohol is funny and affects us all in different ways. I thank god everyday for it. Prohibition must have been a bitch.
Drink up my fellow men and women. Just don’t be an idiot about it. Would love to hear some of your drinking experiences and what type of drinker you may be?
I tried my hardest to avoid writing a blog post with Easter as the main topic. I wanted to take the weekend off from writing and pick it back up next week. But then the unexpected happened. My wife assembled the kids Easter baskets and asked me to participate. I declined as hockey and basketball playoffs were far more important than jelly beans. So I thought.
As a supportive husband and father I told my wife in my sexiest “Barry White” voice, “baby, call me in when the baskets are assembled and we can take a photo and make a memory sugar!” She proceed to regurgitate and filed for divorce at that very moment.
I glanced at the dining room table for a moment and thought I was looking at gift baskets custom designed for Adele at the Grammys along with a Bob Ross “pretty little tree” children’s charity event painting. I could not believe what was in front of me.
All I could do was compare these modern day Easter baskets to what I as a child experienced.
First and foremost let’s talk about the meaning of Easter. I believe, and don’t quote me on this, Easter is the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus. So what in the Whoopi Goldberg butt crack does supplying our children with plastic cancer causing baskets filled with fake grass and yellow sugar marshmallow bunnies and a hollow chocolate rabbit with eyeballs made out of chalk have to do with Easter?
Next, why do we convince our children a 6ft unemployed bunny on food stamps magically breaks into our home to leave Cadburys as we spend countless hours dying hard boiled eggs?
Im pretty sure the first thing on Jesus’s to do list was to gather a bunch of children and hunt hidden plastic eggs after he carried a 1400lb wooden cross for 8 miles and had his hands and feet nailed to it left to die. I mean that would be my first choice!
WTF does this have to do with Easter? Please tell me.
Getting back to my wife’s interpretation of the proper Easter basket etiquette, I was in complete awe of the contents in the kids baskets.
For starters, there was a gallon of Elmers glue. A freakin gallon of glue!! Behind that obvious historical religious symbol of the holiday was three “Brett Michaels” tee shirts which explains Easter like Osama Bin Laden explaining world peace. Get the hell out of here.
After sifting through the baskets I finally found a piece of Easter history and something I could relate to. A black licorice jelly bean. The definition of Easter!”
Growing up my Easter baskets were constructed of leftover Chinese food containers stuffed with last years chocolate bunnies from the local Exxon gas station and if you were lucky you got a “peep” that didn’t break your wisdom teeth as you chomped down on it.
Today these kids are getting “all inclusive” vacations to the “Atlantis” and “Starbucks” gift certificates as a result of Jesus resurrecting.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure if Jesus could come back to us riding on a dolphin in the Caribbean sun with a tall “Carmel Latte” in his nail spiked hand he would choose so and call that Easter!!!!!
I get the whole fat man stuffing himself down our fireplace as he consumes our Christmas cookies and showers us with gifts. I can make that work.
Take your bunny and those marshmallow diabetes laced peeps and shove them up April the giraffes rectum!
Happy Easter all!
Has the human race officially put animals before our own species? I ask myself and all of you this question as recent events have convinced me this may just be the case.
We all love animals. They are cute. They are cuddly. They comfort us when we are down. They love us unconditionally. They never judge our decisions. Sounds like perfect human qualities?
Animals are basically equipped with many characteristics that human beings have a hard time expressing. Not all but most. I believe this is what attracts us to the Animal Kingdom.
I must address the most recent animal & human interaction that has taken the world & internet by storm. This giraffe. I know nothing about giraffes except it has a long neck and had a lead role in the Madagascar franchise films. The giraffe acted besides Ben Stiller and was portrayed by one of the actors from “Friends”. I think. Pretty sure it wasn’t the Italian guy who hung out with the ape or the one addicted to painkillers. The other one!!
I’m sure most of you are aware of April! The pregnant giraffe who was suppose to give birth at Woodstock while Jimmy Hendrix played but her contractions are irregular and the Dad giraffe allegedly took off to find a better life in Detroit. This has left April in distress and has complicated the delivery of her child. Which is fine. Nature will decide this. Except there has been a live feed into Aprils personal home allowing the world to watch this animal walk around her pen and lick her ass for two months. Each day it’s “Today is the day. April will deliver”. Bullshit. I been watching this crap develop since this bitch got knocked up behind the Zoo’s haystack by some horny bastard 18 months ago.
I have personally taken off work for three damn months and have put my marriage in serious turmoil. I have been glued to my social media streams eating my stale white cheddar popcorn and sipping my Busch Lights waiting for the arrival of this mucus covered newborn. I have even declined an invitation to my brothers wedding as I thought I might miss this epic birth. I must now endure the challenge and face him at Easter Dinner to explain why I missed his iconic wedding day. I must convince him and his wife a 40lb slimy spotted horse spewing out of a giraffes vagina on Facebook that never actually happened was more important than their wedding day. I’m not going to Easter. There is no explanation for this.
Remember back in the day? Friday nights. You got dressed. You went to the bar or club. You had a great time. The only giraffe you saw was some ugly girl you brought home with an elongated neck covered in poison ivy. For the ladies it was a guy with a severe case of rug burn and a neck brace signed by his football team!
April is a small potato in the grand scheme of things.
Today I went to a clients home to look at a job. I rang the bell and a 325lb black bear jumped on me and buried her snout in my nuts and what I could only explain to be a cross breed between a Bulldog and Hyena pranced down the hallway wearing a diamond plated Gucci diaper slowly approached and began to eat my shoelace. It was cute but I noticed her diaper less child was sprawled out amongst the cat litter teething on a bloody cow femur! I felt the clients priorities were not in the proper order. Who am I to judge.
The icing on the cake for me was when I went to Wendy’s for lunch. A women entered the establishment with a poodle named “Fee Fee” strapped in a baby stroller swaddled in a “Cujo” fur blanket sucking on a “Pigs Ear” lolly pop listening to “Who Let The Dogs Out” digital remake on its custom designed sub-woofer as her human child of nine months crawled on the floor behind the two of them dressed in tinfoil and a coat designed from attic insulation.
I began to question.
We love our pets. Animals. Whatever. I can see how many of us put them before humans. To be honest, I don’t disagree with it on most occasions.
I’m still watching this fucking giraffe!
The warm weather is upon us and that can only mean one thing. Endless fighting over climate control in the household.
Being in a relationship always has its challenges. There is no greater obstacle in any partnership I believe than determining when is the appropriate time to turn on the air conditioning.
This debate, in my opinion has led to more divorces than “Screw My Wife.Com.”
For me personally, this argument is not much of an issue. I like to be cold. My wife likes to be cold and my kids have no choice. So when it’s time for AC there is no discussion in my home. My wife basically looks at me and says “We are putting the AC on or you will be sleeping on the futon watching The Golden Girls for a month”.
Naturally I jump up and throw the AC on like a sexually fustrated James Van Der Beek !
I am a softy. I give in.
Its the stories I hear of my sister and her husband and their epic battles of AC control that inspires me to speak about this. My sister gets hot when a light bulb is turned on. If a firefly gets to close to her she begins to sweat like Richard Simmons at a blow job seminar.
The best part of this is my brother in law. He’s a great guy. I personally love this guy. He’s one of those Grateful Dead dudes. I never understood that whole scene but when this guy comes over on Christmas morning he stares at the lights on the tree as if he is rediscovering fire. A “Very Gerry Christmas” album is always playing in this mans head. It’s amazing!
All kidding aside he’s a great dad, awesome provider for his family and an overall fantastic lad. If He has said three words in the 15 years I’ve known him it would be a lot. This bastard is so frugal his asshole redeems coupons each time he takes a crap. So naturally turning on an expensive piece of machinery like the AC unit is a tough decision for him.
The first sign of a rising sun my sis requests the AC to be turned on. The battle between these two begins. She always wins. Like all women, they always get their way. My brother in law makes every attempt to hijack the thermostat but my sister dressed in all black and sweat beads dripping from her temples gets her way. Women always do.
The problem is this. There is no Spring anymore. One week there is a blizzard. Next week it’s 83 degrees. We must learn to adapt. Times are changing. I just find it amazing how we all debate and argue over the appropriate time to turn the AC on!
My advice is this. When boobies begin to sweat and gonads start sticking together like silly putty it’s time to turn the AC on. It may only be for a day. Maybe two. It’s all about being comfortable.
In the end guys, just turn it on and keep your women happy. By denying our better halves this luxury of crisp, clean, cold air, you are now risking any and all opportunities for sexual relations with these beautiful
creatures and will only create a very uncomfortable situation for your sweaty nuts which will only stick to the inner thigh as you argue a losing battle.
Tell me about your personal AC experience!
Although my recent posts have been heartfelt and sentimental along with some wishy washy shit, make no mistake, that was just a phase as I was getting my period.
I will get personal again with my posts when I feel the time is right. Now I feel like talking about the restaurant industry. More importantly, how we are taken care of as customers.
My family and I have been hitting up restaurants since my boys were infants. My wife and I way before that. We love food and I always thought it was important to expose our children to the restaurant atmosphere and acclimate them at a very young age.
True story. My son Jake took a bite of his ravioli at the ripe age of 4 at a local restaurant and sent that shit back. He said the cheese was sour. The Spanish cook came to the table with his brass tooth and a Boston Redsox backwards hat and asked us in Spanish, “what’s the problemo Ming?” My son replied, the ravioli is sour. The chef replied, “no ming!” So I proceeded to grab this prick and shoved the rotten ravioli down his throat and he smiled and said, “yeah ming, no good.” No shit Don Juan.
That’s just the tip of the iceberg. Not only do we have to experience a bad meal, we must now have the pleasure of watching our gourmet Lydia Italian chef Paco Gonzalez shimmy on over towards the restroom as he pinches his ass crack like he is passing a kidney stone through his belly button.
Don’t get me wrong, we all must use the bathroom at times. I’m sure you are all aware of my families bathroom and gas habits by now but that’s another post.
Do me a favor, if the establishment you work at does not have a personal employee restroom, take your smelly ass outback behind the dumpster with a five gallon empty chicken wing bucket and a handful of wet naps and conduct your business. It’s simple. I don’t need to be chomping on my steak as you walk out of the restroom that is strategically located next to my table that you have selfishly occupied for 87 minutes with a shit eating grin on your face like you just gave birth to Selena. Cook my dinner and I never want to see you. Ever!
Another thing that aggravates the shit out of me is when the waiters or waitresses have an issue pronouncing the daily specials. If you decide to take the plunge and invest in the restaurant business, please hire a staff that can communicate with us. That’s all we ask. The other day the very nice waiter, and he was sweet, announced the specials. First on the special menu was Hooooomas. What the fuck is that? You mean “Humus”. Oh yes sir. Humus. Next was “greys feed Val”..haha..what? Do you mean “grass fed veal”. Oh yes sir. “Last we have a delistast sir Lon sake wit mush pititos an sitike moshbrooms an a homey glize sas”. So I just gave the fuck up at the point. I ordered a cheeseburger and called it a night.
My point is this. You are in the hospitality business. We as customers walk into your establishments willing to spend money we don’t have. The least you can do is provide us with a server who can communicate with us. Next, please, please and please again don’t ever let the cook walk into the general seating area with his 3ft white chef hat decorated in yellow Mardi Gras beads paired with his stylish orange New Balance sweatpants that has not been washed since Jesus was a baby. That shit is unattractive.
We all enjoy getting out once in a while and visiting your restaurants. Remember, If we spend $150 for chicken and rissoto and you charge us for a seltzer and a coffee, you will never see us again! 😁 Or at least me!
Tell me about your restaurant experiences and your thoughts! Would love to hear!
What the fuck is “moshbrooms?”