I was raised Catholic. Growing up I attended CCD once a week. I know the basics of the Catholic Church and I can perform a mean genuflect. I know the first verse of “Our Father” and when it comes to the “Hail Mary” I lip sing this iconic religious hymn like Milli Vanilli at the Grammy Awards!
I never understood the connection between our Catholic holidays with the way we celebrate them. I’m still trying to make sense of how the birth of Jesus and a 573LB man with an extremely high cholesterol condition and the personal hygiene of a homeless fella who resides in Manhattan and drives a sleigh guided by 8 reindeer gets his fat ass down our chimney that most of us don’t have and consumes our whole milk and Christmas cookies? It’s a mystery. We play along because making sense of this is nothing short of an invitation to a three year olds birthday party hosted by Charles Manson.
Easter is around the corner. The resurrection of Jesus. As our children patiently await a six foot alcoholic bunny rabbit who breaks and enters our home to leave a basket of jelly beans submerged in green plastic grass that causes cancer in the state of California and Cadbury Eggs really explains how Jesus rose from the dead. It’s a powerful connection.
The fact we use poisonous food coloring solutions to dye our eggs and arrange hunts as our children search for them filled with quarters and marshmallow sticky ass yellow birds coated with diabetes most definitely sheds light on how Jesus overcame unbelievable odds to resurrect and define our religion.
This year for Easter my children are asking for IPhone accessories, a gallon of Elmers glue to make slime, and glitter so I feel we are taking a step in the proper direction to help them understand the meaning of this holiday.
I have decided to change it up this year. We will wake our children up this upcoming Easter morning and we are driving to the local cemetery to dig up Grandpa and he will resurrect.
Organizing a Super Bowl party can be very stressful. Especially when you think a certain family member is hosting but decides at the last minute it will not be taking place. The projected guests hear the news via group text and start to scramble like a Hasidic man filing a building permit.
Kim, my sister in law, had every intention to host the party as planned but my brother was to busy hunting rabid black squirrel & ordering the assassination of an innocent ground hog who just wanted to see his shadow.
Within minutes we had the situation under control as my sister in law grabbed my brother by his cow murdering nuts and said “we are hosting Super Bowl so start making macaroni dumbass!”
We all had a sense of relief. Now came the argument of a what time the festivities should begin. Suggestions of the start time varied amongst the anxious guests. My cousin Tara, who has hosted more parties than Steve Rubell, suggested we begin at the crack of dawn with Tequila Sunrises in hand. Not a bad idea and I was on board but Super Bowl is a long day. My sister Gina agreed to that start time like a Chinese man at a Blackjack table. My wife fought hard for the party to only last an hour so she could get home and catch up on episodes of “Teen Mom” and drink ice water with lemon. After 395 group text messages, we settled for a 3pm start time. Tara was naturally pissed but understood and made it clear she will be arriving at 11am regardless driving her fully stocked roll up bar.
Next challenge was the menu. Joe Dirocco, my cousin, offered to make 17 types of chicken wings. Only problem is this genius doesn’t own a deep fryer. I offered to make a chili and strongly recommended all attending to wear depends and buy stock in baby wipes. My sister in law Debbie offered to construct 37 fucking snicker doodle desert platters as her husband Jeffery Michael complained about the lack of Cocoa Puffs in the pantry and depletion of whole milk in the refrigerator. Either way we figured it out and all is set for this iconic day in sports.
The biggest surprise of the entire conversation was nobody even knew who was playing in the Super Bowl or what time it actually started. My wife Alana interjected and said “Pats vs. Falcons 6:30pm” morons. We all froze solid like the victims of the Titanic. Her response was “I googled it”. Brilliant. Who would have thought of that. She’s so smart.
Can’t wait. Gonna be fun as always. I have the best family. The Super Bowl blog should be interesting.
Today I relaxed at home as we honored Mr King and what he stood for. I laid frozen on my couch as my drool accumulated on my pillow and doritos were lodged in my chest hair. I was startled by a sound not heard in recent years.
It was the sound of children at play in my backyard. As I rose from my deep crusted eyeball hungover trance I was in disbelief. I looked out my unwashed cracked rear sliding door with broken window treatments and saw what I believed to be youngsters enjoying the outdoors and simply having fun.
I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation at first. I called the local fire department and they said unless a child is on fire there was nothing they could do. Next was a call to the police and they said unless one of the little bastards were committing a crime, there was nothing they could do. Next I called the director of “Children of the Corn” and asked for Malachi. He instructed me he was on his way to slice my pinky toe off and feed it to his chickens. So naturally I was spooked.
So my wife finally got through the stressful year known as 2016 and made her first gym appearance of 2017 tonight.
She was so excited and anxious to get back to her routine and work on her fitness as I sat on the couch and chomped on doritos, watched football, drank beer and dipped three sleeves of oreo cookies into my milk freshly squeezed from locally grown cow udders.
When she finally walked in after her hard and thorough workout I made sure her lemon ice water was prepared perfectly for her.
As she opened the door and pounced on each step and rose to the top of the hallway I wanted to let her know I was concerned and politely asked “how was the gym babe”? Her reply was “it smelled like dirty dick”.
So I chuckled and regurgitated a bit of my dorito and then began to absorb her comment. I’ve been with this woman for 22 years. Since she was 21. How many “dirty dicks” has she ran into??
So now I jumped into the shower with my tube socks, construction boots, tape measure and fruit of the loom speedos like Mike Holmes in a Potato sack race.
The old saying goes “happy wife” “happy life”. Well did you ever hear the old saying “hangry wife” “awful life”. Or “hangry kids” you are better off with “SIDS”.
God for bid my wife has a little tummy rumble she expects me to rise like I just accepted a challenge from Bobby Flay and shove multiple cheese burger deluxes down her throat at 2am like an Ethiopian at his “First Supper”.
Then my two boys wander around the house saying “we are hungry” after they just wolfed down three boxes of Coco Puffs and six pounds of pirate bootys.
I decided to come home early from work yesterday and these three bastards were at the top of the steps demanding shrimp portofino and asparagus as if I have deveined shrimp lingering in my ass crack. The nerve.
To make matters worse, the three of them team up on me like I’m “Jaba The Hut”in spin class.