How to cope with a “Demonic Hot Wife”. Your children’s Halloween Party and the family crashing it!

Part 1.

As our children grow they become more active in life and develop the desire to entertain. Trust me they don’t get this important life quality from their mother. It’s all me. I’ll just about throw a party for any event if I’m given the opportunity. My kid scored a 68 on his math quiz & I mailed out 338 “save the date” invitations like this little shit just solved “World Hunger.” Its all about the social gatherings. I could have a good time at a wake.

I once told my wife my parents were stopping by to say hello because we haven’t seen them in 6 months and she had the balls to reply “Ugh, I have no make up on, my boobs are swollen, I have no coffee in the house and I’m tired.” I took three steps back and slapped her across the forehead with a piece of raw bacon. My automatic response was “Really?…Wait your boobs are swollen? Let’s meet in the bedroom!” She then proceeded to slap me with the raw bacon and it became an instant shit show.

Needless to say, she’s not an entertainer.

Until my kids asked if they could have a Halloween party this year.

I was sitting on the couch. 14 1/2 beers deep. New York Yankees just lost their playoff series. She walked in with a tee shirt slightly draped over her shoulder like she just scalped backstage tickets for a “meet & greet” to a Debbie Gibson concert. Her lips began to move. “Babe, the boys want to have a Halloween party this year & invite their friends. What do you think?” Naturally I didn’t give a rats ass. I was just waiting for her boobies to swell so I could knock them around like “Rocky Balboa” in a meat locker. “So you’re ok with it” she quickly shouted. I said “Yeah!”

The following day she hired “Dr Loomis” from the Halloween franchise as the party planner. I wake up for work and the next thing you know I’m sitting down having coffee with “Michael Meyers” & that facially distorted serial killer who wears a hockey mask and hangs out at a lake all day. We all discussed the celebratory event. All of the sudden this “Resting Bitch Face, socially challenged, unfriendly woman I call my wife magically morphs into “Steve Rubell”. She eventually falls in love with Dr. Loomis & lives happily ever after. I always thought my boys looked a bit like Dr. Loomis.


Then the decorating begins. This evil woman sneaks into the local graveyard and starts digging up dead bodies. She then places their remains around my living room like they are some sort of “Party City” prop. Next thing you know my wife is beheading the neighbors in order to create a realistic scene of horrific proportion. She releases black widow spiders, tarantulas & scorpions to add special effects & make the gathering appear more realistic.

When I was asked if my boys wanted to host a Halloween party I assumed it would involve some snickers bars & a few bags of Doritos. Maybe the “Monster Mash” would play in the background as the children dressed up like Barney & watched the iconic “Charlie Brown Great Pumpkin Patch.” I was not prepared for special guest autograph signing appearances by “Charlie Manson” & photographic memorabilia with “Jeffery Dahmer.”

I haven’t spoke to my wife in a week. To be honest, I fear for my life. My children are not safe. The children attending this party are not safe.

As I’m writing this she sends me a text message, “Hey Babe, when are we booking Disney World?” Lol. I choked on my beer and texted back, “You just beheaded your neighbor and dug up dead bodies from the local graveyard and now you want to go play with Mickey Mouse? I think you need help.  Party is cancelled.

Part 2.

A second verse came to life as I was lazy & did not publish the above post written a week ago.  (Glad I procrastinated & allowed the festivities to take a natural course)

The shit I witnessed within four hours of a 12 year old Halloween Party has convinced me our children do not know the difference between “Explicit” & “Clean” versions of a rap song. I had rules. Clean versions only. I tried to let the kids have their space and enjoy the party. Eventually I had to pee. On my way to the bathroom I couldn’t help but absorb the musical lyrics serenading the children in attendance. All I could see is seventeen pre-teens swaying on a brown micro suede couch slow dancing to a song where the artist is discussing hookers and slinging rock on the corner of 188th & 8th. Every child present sang this shit word for word like they were hosting the “Harlem Crack Awards.” Meanwhile, my boys failed English seven times & the only rock they have ever slung was a “pet rock” from Walgreens.

Party wasn’t cancelled. I’m glad I had the opportunity to continue on this topic.

As my children’s guest arrived I hid under the dishwasher praying for this ordeal to end.

Then something magical happened. I was informed Joey D, my sister Gina, Paulie O & my cousin Tara were coming over. I was half asleep but this is my crew and I always rise to the occasion. But my cousin Tara had something on her mind. She was accused of being “angry” & “upset” because allegedly her screen door was damaged at a party she hosted. Let me tell you all something. I’ve known Tara my whole life. She is like a sister. She has raised a family in homes engulfed in “Black Mold.” Her front doors have never worked properly. Her decks have violated every building code known to man. Her wood floors have embedded splinters into her children’s feet for decades. Her laundry hasn’t been washed in years. Her pool has collapsed six times in 6 different locations. Unless Bacardi goes out of business this woman don’t give a rats ass. If you think she gets mad at a screen door being broke you don’t know her. Even I laughed at that.

We instantly cracked three bottles of wine, a bottle of Jameson & my sister Gina started stretching on my pergo floor like “Richard Simmons” at a colonoscopy. Even my wife had a Pilsner of beer. It was exciting. We took over the music. I felt at peace again. Then my cousin Joey D said something inappropriate as always and made the night even better. My brother in law Paul played with his hair for an uncomfortable hour. He made several attempts to lure my sister home. This woman could not be removed from a social gathering if you tied her ass to a dump truck during “bulk pickup.”

In the end the party was a success. I’ll never do it again.

As people left my wife walked around the home with Lysol, a shop vac, spray 9, a power washer, Clorox, Goo Gone & a garden hose like she’s trying out to be the next ghostbuster!

House was clean though!



Newsflash. Your significant other is NOT your best friend!

Why do married couples often refer to their spouse as a “Best Friend?”
Really? I’ve had a few “Best Friends” throughout the years. I don’t recall any of them ever asking me to stop and get a gallon of milk on their way home. Yelling at me to get “out of the bar”. Hmmmm! Asked me to buy them a dishwasher. I don’t recollect any of them attempting to organize an apple picking event in 110 degree weather. Getting hassled to purchase window treatments doesn’t ring a bell. I don’t believe I have ever bought my “Best Friend” a vacuum. When was the last time your “Best Friend” gave you the gift of life? A miracle. A child. In some cases that may have actually happened but you get where I’m going with that.

I believe most couples have become accustomed to saying the oh so popular phrase because it sounds cute. “I married my best friend!!” No you didn’t. Your best friend is doing tequila shots off a Jamaicans ass on top of a swim up bar as you prepare to spend an entire life savings on a wedding that I guarantee serves undercooked prime rib & garlic infused mashed potatoes along with musical entertainment that includes a seven piece ensamble dressed like The Bee Gees caught in a bug zapper. You can always count on a female lead singer who’s chest hair protrudes from her cardigan like a chia pet named Dominick. This special day is never complete unless there’s that  “Joe Dirt” looking bass guitar player who always seems to have a fresh piece of cauliflower nestled comfortably on the corner of his chapped lip. This band member gets so into his musical act he begins to literally contract scoliosis in front of the 330 unwanted guests. After he electrocutes himself, he has the balls to ask if the lady in the white dress with perky boobs, nice makeup & a firm butt is single.

You proceeed to purchase a pre/owned Mini-Van, buy a home you cannot afford and settle for a career that makes you most likely want to vomit! “Best Friends?”… Get the hell out of here. By the time this shit show is over you want to grab your “Best Friend” by the throat and insert them into a sausage grinder. “Best Friends?”. Hahahaha hahahaha. Smarten up delusional beings. Know the difference.

Your significant other is NOT your best friend. Not even close. There is a special bond but if you are not allowing your “Best Friend” to hang out with strippers & drink until they vomit, they are not your best friend. Sorry to to be the “Bearer of bad news..” The “Debbie Downer.” The “Negative Nelly.” Best friends. Lololololol!!!

Marriage is next level bonding. If you are in a good, honest, respectful relationship you are NEVER best friends. Completely different. The two relationships couldn’t be further apart.

Don’t get me wrong. You can laugh, play, fart, shart, play hop scotch and tickle each other’s fancy but ultimately you are not friends. It may resemble a friendship at times but that is only an illusion. This is real world shit. Life is about to punch you in the face. Nobody got time for friendships when you are trying to survive, raise a family and navigate through this crazy world. When was the last time you and your “Best Friend” took a toddler to Preschool and that child threw up on the newly installed carpet and the two of you (Best Friends) took off your shoes, removed your socks in order to wipe up the vomit? I bet never. When was the last time you and your “Best Friend” wiped a child’s butt crack at 3am only to have fecal matter get lodged beneath your finger nail as you maneuver a toothpick to dislodge it? I will go out on a limb and say you and your “Best Friend” have never experienced that. I truly have a hard time remembering the last time I tickled my “Best Friends” fancy. Sounds fun.

Some may disagree. So be it. As long as we are all happy. That’s what truly matters.  If anybody honestly believes they married their “Best Friend” that’s ok. Embrace it. Enjoy it. This is only my opinion. If you want to ride a merry-go-round with your “Best Friend” have fun. Go have a picnic. Ride a bike together. Hold hands while you wait online at McDonald’s for a happy meal. Go take long romantic stroll over hot lava. Whatever works. Just keep it real!

The bond between Soulmates, when it is true, is like no other bond. Then there is the child bond which trumps all other bonds. No stronger connection on Earth.

Decipher my good people.

If you consider your mate a “Best Friend” that’s fine and dandy. Congrats. You made a new friend😜

Raising Children. When is the appropriate time to engage, discipline or simply walk away?

Life has its challenges each and everyday. When you have a family these challenges tend to escalate.

Raising children & balancing a marriage is emotional . It’s an unpredictable roller coaster ride. We all try and do our best as parents. Family situations are never the same. I make it a point to never judge the parental guidance & marital conditions of others. I don’t know what is going on internally within other families. It’s not my business. I will discuss what I know. My own family experiences.

Raising children keeps us parents constantly on our toes. We are forced to make decisions. Again, these results will vary from family to family. I can only speak from what I know, but I have a feeling many can relate.

I would like to discuss the “deciding moments” we as parents must choose in life involving our children. When is the right time to act, make a move, discipline or simply just walk away?

Here are some situations my wife and I have had the pleasure to endure. As first time parental figures, we handled them to the best of our ability. We had no experience. No teachers. There was no instructions. We figured it out and managed. We dealt with it in a way we felt was appropriate. I believe these events exist within all families in one way or another.

1. At what point do you decide to get your child their first haircut? Listen. I know my boys are handsome. Their was a point when they were just a few months old. They resembled the Godsons of Pablo Escobar. They had a greasy wave of hair that crossed over their eyelids and rubbed uncomfortably against the corner of their lip as the puréed peach baby food just collected along their split ends. My wife danced around the kitchen listening to ABBA as she snapped photos of these children and continuously asked “How cute are our babies?” I just couldn’t make the connection. I had an uncontrollable urge to take a steak knife to the quafs of these children that honestly made me believe their father was that dude from “Coming to America”. That “Soul Glow” character Darryl. Thankfully she gave in and finally got the boys haircuts. She threw the crisco oil hair trimmings in a plastic sandwich bag. We made a memory I guess.

2. What should we buy the children for their first Christmas? All these newborns did for the first 6 months of life is shit, throw up, cry & prevent us from fornicating. So I thought some appropriate gifts from the “Jolly Fat Man”  would be baby wipes, a toilet bowl, a pacifier & a baby sitter! She inserted a candy cane into my belly button and said “I’m serious.” Haha. “Me too. “ I replied. So I asked “What do you think we should get for the little ones?” She replied “I was thinking like front row tickets to Barney on Ice, meet & greet with Dora & Diego, a diamond engraved Run-DMC onesie, an autographed diaper by Sheniqua from the Backyardigans and perhaps a trip to Disney World? They would really enjoy that!”. My response was simple. “What?? They still have that black rotten caterpillar belly button leach attached to them and you want to travel to Epcot?? Barney?? Can we possibly go see some other performer besides a 367 pound sexually confused purple dinosaur with a speech impediment?”

3. When do we as parents stop wiping our childrens ass? I wiped my kids assholes once and that’s because my wife was so high on morphine she actually cracked a smile for a half of second. The nurse put me on the spot in front of all the other new dads wearing their “#1 Daddy Tee Shirts” as I’m dressed in yellow sweatpants and a “Sunday Gravy” stained wife beater. This whole experience made me feel like I was part of a “child asswiping intervention” The surrounding proud fathers started to clap and shit in support as I threw the dirty diapers at them as I gravitated to the nearest watering hole. I don’t wipe ass cracks. Sorry. This was a tough habit to crack for my wife. She is a clean freak and just couldn’t let a dirty ass go. At times it was uncomfortable and disturbing for me. My children and my wife had a secret code. My boys would scream at the top of their lungs from the bath quarters “I’m done.” My wife would rise up from an “Intoxicating Poland Spring” hangover like a “Mexican Jumping Bean” on bath salts to wipe these boys ass cracks. Honesty, from 2005-2016 my sons had the cleanest butt on the planet. My wife would rent a power washer to rinse out the turds. She would then install one of those “Vanilla Roma” yellow trees in their hineys.  I must admit, it was very cute at first. When they were like 3-4 years old. Mama cleaning her boys. Mama instinct. Mama doing her finest work. Mama and son bond. Then they turned 11. They yelled, “I’m done.” Wait what! “Where you going babe?” I shouted. “I’m going to wipe my babies butt” she replied! “Babies” I said. These kids are tipping the scales at 150lbs and dropping deuces like Harry from “Dumb & Dumber”. It all came full circle when I was overtaken by curiosity. I had to see what was going on. I busted the bathroom door open and saw my wifes arm 6” deep into my child’s pooper shooter.  I had to put my foot down. I told my wife, “it’s time to let go my love.” She wiped the anal crevice one last time and that was it. Mother and son “shit bond” had been broken. I honestly felt bad for her. It was getting out of hand. I had visions of my sons on their prom night taking a crap and my crazy ass wife hiding behind the soap dispenser jumping out and cleaning their anal crack before they got back on the dance floor to do “The Humpty Dance”

I tried to help her. I offered to take a crap and asked if she would like to wipe my ass. She said it wouldn’t be the same. I understood.

4) When do you finally agree to shut the Air Conditioning off? We are lucky in this department. We both like to be cold during the summer months. We have had an extended month of warmth. There has been some chilly days. I personally felt it was time to shut the AC off and open up the windows for a dose of fresh air. I mentioned this to the “Thermostat  Nazi.” This behavior is disturbing. I went to take a pee the other day and the overspray froze to my shin. She won’t negotiate with me. The children have frostbite and their toes are turning black. I have frozen cows hanging from my ceilings just waiting for Rocky to start pounding on them. She ice skates up and down the hallway like Tanya Harding at a “knee replacement” fundraiser. Our family needs to thaw out.

And people believe I’m the crazy one!


Upgraded Cell Phones & Dead Head Brother-In-Law

Please don’t ever purchase a new cell phone without the consent and approval from your wife and children. WTF???

My personal connection & understanding of technology along with all it has to offer is equivalent to a cell phone provider in Chernobyl. I don’t get it. I don’t care. Just give me service. Period.

I was one of the last homosapiens standing with a flip phone. I had that text messaging down to a science. I have moved on. The only other human I know who still has a flip phone is my brother-in-law Paulie O. This mans sole purpose in life is to make sure his thermostat is set at 72 degrees. He doesn’t care if his family is blown away in a tragic hot air balloon accident. This mushroom head will take the “red eye” home from Antigua to make sure the bathroom night light is turned off. He’s a good man & provider. I’m happy my sister chose this man.

I’ve never actually seen one of those “dead heads” up close and personal until my sister started dating him. It’s a true experience. Very intriguing.

When I first met him we gathered next to the Christmas Tree and he gave me a stuffed mushroom as a peace offering. The fire crackled behind us. It was nice. All of the sudden this tree hugger and I were doing that stupid dance those dead heads perform. I immediately was engulfed in body odor as we both swayed simultaneously on my mothers granite counter top like we just discovered fire. It was epic and I loved him ever since.

Then he started to eat a slice of banana pie. That was another adventure. This creature began to levitate as his stretched out black socks sang Hallelujah! Keep in mind this was our first Christmas Eve together. My mother dropped the calamari on the floor and had no idea why my sisters boyfriend was eating the Christmas tree ornaments. We embraced him. We love him. He is one of us. Honestly, a great dude. Love you O!

Getting back to why I’m actually writing this. Cell phones. Hahahaha. Not sure how this turned the way it did but I fucking love it. Beauty of writing.

Make a long story longer, my phone finally shit the bed. I was desperate. I needed a new phone. Yes I understand the “IPhone 8” is out and available. I’m coming from a “5”. It’s a big jump for me. The “8” was intimidating. So I settled in for the “IPhone 7 Plus”. In other words a 62” flat screen television. What the hell is this device? I like it. It’s great for writing and taking pictures. Phones calls? Challenging.

I come home with my new phone and my kids start complaining, become upset and even shed a tear of disappointment. They want the phone. I said be patient my sons. Christmas is right around the corner and Uncle Paul will be chomping on tinsel and sipping tree water before you know it. My wife jumps into the debate like “Clubber Lang” on crystal meth and tells the children to shut their mouths and be lucky they even have phones. Naturally this turned me on so I tried to play seven minutes in the foyer. She smacked me with her blue M&M slipper directly across my nostril.

She made it clear to the children that Mommy and Daddy are not rich. We as parents work hard for the lifestyle we provide for them. They should be grateful for what they have. Honestly, it was a turning point in our relationship. It became apparent. I married a strong, independent woman who happens to occasionally have gas but that’s ok. We hugged. I gave her some Pepto Bismol and we went on our way.

Then it happened. This once compassionate, understanding mother & wife turned on me like Micheal Jackson at a Kindergarten graduation.

She glanced over at me with her “Resting Bitch Face” face and politely asked, “So when am I getting a new phone you stupid fuck? Who the fuck do you think you are getting an IPhone 7? You can’t even read! If you honestly think you will have the most updated phone in this family you better cut your nuts off and sell them as liverwurst you dumb prick you.”

So yeah. I love her.

Tomorrow I’ll be buying (3) new phones.

Whatever! If it makes them happy! All that matters.

Top (10) things you should never say to your wife!

Top (10) things you should never, ever say to your wife followed by their response!

#10. Hey babe, your boobies seem to be sagging just a bit. “So are your balls assface”

#9. Do you honestly think Johnny Depp and Channing Tatum are good looking? Please. I’m hotter than they are. “No….you’re not!”

#8. If you could do it all over again would you still choose me? “Probably not”

#7. What are you cooking for dinner and what time will it be ready? “What am I your slave?”

#6. Can you please, at the very least, grab my pe@&$! (I’ve come to learn children follow me) “No!”

#5. I don’t wan’t to go to your parents house. “You better if you ever want to get in these Jordaches again”

#4. Yes, I like that dress. When the wife asks “Which dress do you like hun?” Plead the fifth because no matter what you choose she will wear the other one. “You’re lying, I look fat” You said it😜

#3. Where would you like to go to dinner tonight? Anywhere babe” Ok Italian? “Nah”. Chinese? “Not in the mood” Indian? “Eewwww” make up your  fucking mind!

#2. Do you still love me? You are better off not knowing the answer to that one. “I think so”

#1. Would you like to get frisky tonight? First off, they are not cats looking for cat nip. Grab them, beat them over the head with a chicken wing and claim your prize. It’s the only way! “Only if you’re on top. I’m tired!”


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.




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!



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.