Summer is coming to an end. Let’s reflect on the top (10) beach goers we’ve encountered while people watching!

Summer is coming to an end. Sad. Always seems to pass us by in the blink of an eye.

Magical time of year. Most of us make memories. Take a vacation. If you’re a teacher it’s a time for freedom & relaxation. A much needed break. If you happen to be my sister you duct tape yourself to the air conditioner for two months. That’s fantastic but her husband keeps the AC locked at 83 degrees. She attempts to turn it up when he leaves but he’s no dummy. This fucker set a booby trap and had an electric dog fence secretly installed around the thermostat. He connected the device to her earnings and each time she attempts to adjust the thermostat she gets blasted with 74,000 volts of electric current. I was curious how much voltage that was because I didn’t want to see my sister get a burn or a scar or anything. I googled it. Turns out that voltage level could kill a full grown healthy 60 ft sperm whale in 9 seconds. He’s not fucking around. He sent a message. He has a back up plan. Obviously I needed to speak with him about this. I wasn’t sure how to approach him considering he’s a hippie and all. I had a plan. We dropped two hits of acid, chomped on a bag of shrooms, played some “Dead” on Pandora and drank 17 disgusting stouts from Belgium. Once I felt he was comfortable to open up about this, I told him to adjust the electrical current to 70,000 volts. He has back up. If the fence fails or deactivates, he cut out a trap door from his oak wood flooring in the hallway just beneath the air control device. When she presses “on” the floor opens and my sister falls three floors into the heated locked basement as sewer rats and earth worms begin to nibble on her sweaty shins. She hasn’t touched the thermostat in nine years.

That’s great and all but I believe the fondest moments for the majority of us are the beach experiences. Soft sand beneath our toes. Sounds of the ocean waves crashing. Complete relaxation with the exception of the rogue alcoholic seagulls who fly above dropping shit bombs on our hair like the winged bandit is chasing “Maverick” from “Top Gun” as he attempts to heist your bottle of ice cold twisted tea when nobody is looking. It’s not like he simply snatches the alcoholic beverage. This prick lands, pulls three ice cubes from your cooler, cracks the bottle open with his beak & pours it into a red solo cup. He sends his loud mouth seagull chick “on the rag” out to distract us as it pauses mid flight, directly above, hovering & chirping uncontrollably. Women 😂!

My point. With the exception of a few sun scorched swamp ass inspirational 189 degree humidity indexed days, summer and trips to the beach are what it’s all about. There’s a catch.

Going to the beach means only one thing. Other people will be there sharing the glory with you. I have no problem with that. I think it would be creepy if it was just me on a beach battling the onslaught of bird turd as I fiercely guard my beverages from hungover seagulls. Something about being surrounded by other people tends to make it exciting, extremely curious & most of all interesting. Our natural desire & attraction towards people watching kicks into high gear. I haven’t had a chance to get to the beach much this year. Luckily my wife & children along with some of her friends found some much deserved relaxing time over the past few weeks to inhale the beach and all it has to offer.

I have been a bit busy lately. Finding time to channel a creative outlet has been a challenge lately. That being said, I haven’t posted a Blog in a while. I asked my wife for some suggestions. Her first response, “how about top (10) people at a beach.” I was intrigued as I went with her request instantly understanding the beach population was fresh on her mind. Thank you my love. She gave a few, I added a few of my own. Here we go!

Top (10) people almost all of us have seen at a beach

#10. The extreme hairy man of epic proportion.

Personally, I like a little hair on a man. I think its sexy. I’m sure some women agree. Perhaps I’m a bit bias considering my hairy physique is similar to the gentleman above. Some may strongly disagree. That’s ok. Everybody has their own thoughts and opinions. On a side note, I’m not speaking of the dudes walking around with grandmothers 1947 hand knitted sweater sewed directly onto them. Those men are moderately hairy. There’s just something not quite right about a 59 year old adult male walking around with one 6” green chest hair sprouting from each nipple that concerns me. To me they resemble a six foot child about to jump on a slip & slide in his Barney underoos. I’m referring to the men who stroll past us on the beach like “Chewbacca” on “Bay Watch.” Fuckers who are so hairy they require a fire extinguisher present at all times because the lifeguard passionately feels these fury objects may catch fire from the direct heat of the sun. As if a beach forest fire may break out at any given moment. I get it. It’s the hand you were dealt. Trim that shit bro. When we can’t tell where your ass hair begins and eyebrows are positioned on your face, it’s time for a man-scape consultation. Either that or visit a farmer. Hop on that table with the lambs and sheer that shit. If it takes you 7 hours to “dry off naturally” in a sweltering 106 degree summer sunny day, its a problem. Sometimes I can’t decipher if I’m sunbathing next to a hairy man or perhaps some beach patron who planted a fully mature radiation induced chia pet.

#9. Old topless ladies covered in blistering sunburn to the 5th degree.

This proves you can worship the sun your entire life and still live a healthy happy life. True, if you enjoy seeing yourself in the mirror daily looking like you’ve been showering in cinnamon raisin oatmeal for 6 decades. The set of boobs attached to your body are literally held together by dental floss. The g-string bottom covering your overcooked fudge cookie brownie I assume is now used as a protective shield for your life alert button. If I had to guess, I would say your mother gave birth to you in a tanning bed. Only way a human can withstand the destruction of the sun for 80 years. To make matters worse, you have a “three pack a day” Virginia Slim cigarette addiction. It’s not like normal average size tobacco products like Marlboro are harmful enough. You must feel the need to suck and puff on a 13″ Lincoln log cigarette that burns continuous for several hours. I had an Aunt who use to smoke such a cancer stick. She would light her first cig at breakfast. Shit would still be burning during coffee & cake. Simply amazing.

#8. The narcoleptic.

I don’t give a damn what time of the day it happens to be. What beach you’re at or what time of the year it is. There’s always that one individual who finds a comfortable sandy beach area, lays their towel down and hibernates. This specimen can sleep & survive pretty much through any beach situation. Sand storms & viscous attacks from multiple colonies of sand fleas. Typhoons will pick these extremely tired people up from their original beach resting place at The Jersey Shore and deposit them on a beach in Maryland like it never happened. They will sleep like a baby during the entire ordeal. Meanwhile, I drink seven jars of extra strength NyQuil only to get one hour of sleep. I’ve seen sleeping beach patrons run over by off road speeding police vehicles. 9 ton rusted sand swipers simply crush them. Buried in sand by playful children. Heck, I once witnessed an avid shark fisherman run out of bait and chum. He grabbed the exhausted being and inserted a 9” hook into this bastards shoulder blade and casted him out into the frigid ocean water in hopes of snagging a 4000 ton 18 foot Great White. Luckily, he didn’t get any bites that day.

#7. The human floatation device a mile off shore

Life guards have basically have simply given up on this individual. Their whistles & warning go unnoticed. Before you know it all you can see is a sparkling toe and a shower cap down the surface of the ocean water. Dolphins emerge in curiosity from the surrounding waters. Families of sardines will nibble at there ass cheeks. Seagulls will use them as landing pads for a short rest. Last but not least, don’t these fucking wanna be mermaids understand there are dangerous man eating predators lurking below? I know they must feel at peace and connected to the ocean but come on now. I won’t even mention the fact you our navigating through the ocean saturated population of poisonous jelly fish. I firmly believe you can find a better way to spend your Sunday. I must admit, your sea floating skills are tight.

#6. Romantic beach couple.

Never fails. You walk on a beach. Find a nice comfortable relaxing spot. Settle down. Get your shit in order. You naturally begin to people watch because that’s just what we do as a human race. I once seen three ladies of Africa people watching some other hard working African lady balancing 80 pounds of laundry and a buffalo carcass on her head. These bitches were critiquing her style and approach as buffalo guts seeped into her eyeballs as a pride of Lions chewed on her ankles. Basically we are intrigued with all the different walks of life around us. We must judge. It’s natural. Then it happens. Our attention is instantly drawn to Romeo & fucking Juliet sexually sprawled out across a dandelion embroidered beach towel next to a filthy garbage can full of vomit & grannies flaking burnt skin residue. It’s pretty intense. Public ocean affection at its finest. Ok. They are in love. Maybe a bit passionate for a public beach but hey, there is nothing more romantic than seagull shit and sand fleas in your belly buttons. You look the other way as you become jealous and wish your relationship is that arousing. You figure a few kisses, a hug or two and these love birds will take dip in the water. You decide to cool off for a moment. Dry and prepare to relax. These two horny bastards are still kissing as if they are bobbing for apples. Now Tiki torches surround the couple. Remains of cherry stems and bottles of curdled whip cream liter the area. Rusted yellow planes dangerously low on fuel fly above with banners in tow stating “Johnny & Marie forever.” Meanwhile they met in the Boardwalk bathroom a few hours back. Micheal Bolton’s greatest hits serenade the entire beach. Meanwhile, these two humps haven’t rounded first base. They been swapping spit for 3 hours in the sweltering sun. I become jealous as I haven’t kissed my wife passionately since our wedding rehearsal dinner. I’m all about romantic encounters mostly with Pornhub but the beach is not the place in my honest opinion.

#5. The drunk girl.

This scene is almost always bound to occur when you spend the day at the beach. Time is never a factor. These events can happen anytime of the day. 6am. Don’t matter & it’s always a girl. I particularly enjoy when the police arrive as this intoxicated figure attempts to explain her point of view. She trips over sand castles pleading her innocence. Proceeds to regurgitate on her boobs. The “Richie Valence” tramp stamp she had tattooed above her ass crack the prior evening appears severely infected. Officers always allow the situation to continue for a bit for comic relief. Once she gets cuffed it becomes serious. She morphs into a severely arthritic double jointed “Rhonda Rousey” on crystal meth. Anger turns into rage. Vomits again violently as one boob covered in seaweed emerges. Either that or a half eaten funnel cake will drop from her panties as she’s hauled away to the slammer. Then it happens. Her beach posse dressed in ponchos & sombreros will arrive on the scene driving a beach wagon full of “Mikes Hard Lemonade” pleading their friend is not drunk and this is a form of police brutality. Eventually they all get arrested. Never fails.

#4. The Amish Family

Listen. The beach is public. All are welcome and I think that’s wonderful. It’s everybody’s right to enjoy a day at the beach. I believe that certain cultures simply don’t belong at the beach. Not because I’m discriminating. I feel the lifestyles they lead & follow don’t gel well with the beach environment. That’s all. I don’t believe I gel well with the Indian culture. I like Indians. They are nice people. Everything about their culture turns my asshole into a volcanic eruption. One whiff of curry has me flame throwing lava out of my butt. Everything the Amish believe in & the ocean seem so polar opposite. Historically, beaches are a time to put on a swimsuit, jump on a boogie board, drink a beer and show a nice body off. These families stroll the beach dressed like they are picking corn & planting fig trees. Suspenders & dress pants. Wooden shoes and flowered head gear. Fuckers pull up in a horse & carriage. Coolers made of hand carved cherry wood & copper water canteens. It’s truly a site to see. They walk to the waters edge. Look around as women with giant fake tits and male speedo induced sausages rub up against their 29 layers of clothing. They quickly realize they are not at the local stream hunting crayfish & gathering fresh water. There’s is nothing more satisfying than watching a young Amish lad stare at a half naked woman on the beach as his Wife smacks him in the back of the head with a pressure treated 2 x 4. Gets me every time.

#3. The Puerto Rican family beach party.

Here’s what I know. When this crew gets together it’s a party. They treat this experience passionately. Every family member attends this event. Great grandmothers. Uncles & Aunts. Cousins. Infants born that morning. Doesn’t matter. If you are somehow related you must attend this gathering. Personally I love it. Most of the time I’m tempted to send my family home so I can party with them. I’ll take an Uber home or crash in one of their vehicles. They do it right. No doubt. 7:30 am it’s on. Spanish music pumping. Pigs roasting and shit. Family disputes begin immediately. Mostly revolves around who’s the father of the infant born that morning. The women are tough. They usually get the situation under control. If that doesn’t work the Grandmother gets up. The party stops. Music miraculously fades. Even the ocean water calms the fuck down to hear this shit. A Puerto Rican grandmother is equivalent to a mafia boss. She grabs the men by their thin trimmed mustaches. Slaps them around a bit. It ends there. 119 additional cousins show up and now it’s a party. There’s no sand castles. No beach chairs or umbrellas. No sun tan lotion or towels. It’s 378 family members dancing together in a 9 foot radius even though they have 378 miles of open beach. They keep it close. Even the life guard blows the whistle occasionally. The Grandma stands up and this fucker apologizes. I’ve never seen so many people salsa on a beach in my life. Even the infant born 3 hours ago was busting a move (or was simply hungry.) They know how to throw a party on a beach.

#2. My wife.

This woman loves the ocean. Doesn’t get to go often. When she gets the opportunity she embellishes. Reads a book. Passes out and doesn’t give a crap. Could probably put her in the narcoleptic category I guess. At home she hears every sound. Extremely alert of her homes surroundings. I drop a grain of salt and she yells “what was that?” She hits the beach and gets in the zone. She’s out. I’ll bounce sour bologna sandwiches off her cheek in hopes to disturb her. I’ll shoot spit balls at her lip. Spread seagull poop in between her toes. Nothing. She has the ability to shut out the world while she lies on the beach. Nothing wrong with that until a rogue wave comes rolling in one day. Honestly don’t have much to say about her in this post ironically. Just love picture to be honest.

#1. My mother in law.

Ok. She is actually that Puerto Rican grandmother I was referring to. I am tempting fate and the very own safety of my life writing this. Pretty much gonna finish this up and get the fuck out of dodge. Kiss my family goodbye while they are all asleep & hop on a train. Most likely my last post. This woman will be at my door tomorrow morning with Spanish voodoo, evil smudge equipment, a meat cleaver, Goya beans, a Tito Puente cassette, tray of Flan, El Chapo and the director of Scarface. If I leave now I have a chance. This is my last goodbye. I love you all. But first, let’s talk about my YaYa at the beach. Last time this woman was so close to an ocean front she was riding a Cuban refugee boat taking on deadly amounts of sea water as she crashed into the shores Miami. She doesn’t seem to fit the normal Puerto Rican woman profile on a hot summer day at the beach. She appears more prepared for a day of ice fishing in Alaska. Either way, she enjoyed herself with her family. I can’t say too much about her as I may want to one day reconcile with my family.

I was warned and I ignored the warning. What else is new. I Live on the edge I guess.

Red lights mean stop. That also means we can survey our surroundings. Top (10) individuals we encounter while we wait!

If you own a license to operate a vehicle you have most definitely encountered these characters who become stranded at a red traffic light besides you.

Normally when I obey the laws of the road, I attempt to keep to myself. Sometimes my patience runs thin. I begin to actually believe the traffic light sequence is malfunctioning. I contemplate blowing through the red light & take my chances. Then I think better of the situation. I relax. Take a deep breath. Look around and inhale all the other motorists on the road to understand exactly what they are experiencing as well. I try to relate and identify. I become one. Then I process. Then this shit becomes saturated in my brain and I have to share it with all of you.

Here is a list of the top (10) individuals we encounter while we have the privilege to wait patiently for our traffic light to turn green.

#10. The Nose Picker. These fuckers jamb their index finger so far up their nostril while listening to Barry Manilow it becomes uncomfortable. Then they have the balls to glance over at you like you didn’t witness this tragic event and flick the 32oz snot ball directly onto your passenger rear view mirror. There is nothing you can do at this point. You pass it off as wild geese shit and carry on with your day.

#9. Mario Andretti. This fucker rolls up with a racing helmet, leather gloves & a trunk full of Nitrous. Some chick jumps out of his car half naked with a flag sponsored by Red Bull. She hops in front of your vehicles to start the race. Meanwhile, you are in a school zone driving a Ford Escort with 278k miles unprepared for such a race. The appropriate response is to alert the local police there is a man driving a US Navy fighter jet on a local highway but you feel the need to challenge this fucker but you can’t get past the size of the woman’s hooters initiating the race. Escort blows up. This dude flies away like that motorcycle dreamy man with a British accent in Grease 2.

#8. The Celine Dion. This artist approaches the red light singing “My heart will go on” at the top of their lungs. Windows down. Local birds just fall from the sky as a result of such earth shattering vocal disappointment. Eventually they turn to you for vocal back up. Like they actually expect you to audition, harmonize, form a band & sign contracts in the middle of a highway. All you can hope for is carbon monoxide poisoning at this point.

#7. The Vapor. First instinct is to call the local Fire department. You can’t initially see anything. Just a huge cloud of smoke engulfs the entire area. As the smoke clears you begin to collect your thoughts to make sense of the situation. Never fails. There’s always some 19 year old dude with a face full of noxzema emerging with a backwards “Mountain Dew” hat with three hairs dangling from his chin. He smiles. “What’s up bro” will roll off their lips 99.9% of these encounters. Suddenly, 9 more dudes pop up in the back seat like a pack of adolescent hyenas. It’s truly a sobering experience.

#6. The Police Officer. Doesn’t matter how innocent you may be. You see that law enforcement patrol car roll up next to you a certain panic ensues. It’s great when they are ahead of you. You have some control. You always stay a cars length behind. Problems occur when they come up behind you. You try and remember where you placed your registration. Is there a brake light out? If they test me is my Blood Alcohol Content still within the legal limit from last nights festivities? All of the sudden you become the most alert & responsible motorist on the planet. 10 & 2. Turn the radio down. Clean off your dashboard. You can’t wait until they give up and bang a left or right behind you.

#5. James Dean. These guys pull up. Time their cigarette inhalation. Exhale the second hand smoke in your direction as their eyes squint like a constipated Clint Eastwood. Are we suppose to ask for an autograph? I don’t get it. Do they honestly believe this looks cool? Dude you are not Danny Zucco or any T-Bird for that matter. You are driving a pink Sunbird with a major oil leak & rusted ball joints. Take the oil out of your hair and apply it to your vehicles ball bearings. Thanks.

#4. The Dog. My personal favorite. Car approaches and there’s a dog taking in the comfort of the wind. Appears to be smiling. Drooling all over the window. Can’t make this encounter funny. I truly enjoy these moments each and every time. Problem arises when I can’t tell who is the dog and who is driving the car.

#3. Garbage truck. It’s not so much the actual garbage truck itself. It’s the two Mexican men hanging off the back of it holding on for their dear illegal immigrant lives. This garbage contraption barrels down the highway at 67 miles per hour. These trash enthusiastic amigos are cracking a smile while dirty tampons & rotten salmon bounce off their chin at 3:37am. They take pride in what they do. Red lights seem to be a time to gather their composure and wipe their cheeks clear of dirty diaper residue & rotten banana peels.

#2. The rice burner. Never fails. We all come across that couple rolling up next to us with those weird ninja face protectors. They look like Skeletor. Meanwhile, every cicada bug on the east coast happens to land on their helmet. We become nervous. The guy driving the motorcycle always seems to have biceps the size of grapefruits accompanied by legs from “Popeyes.” The chick on the back is a show piece. The wind always plays a factor. The shirt they wear blows uncontrollably exposing a tattoo on their back resembling the Jersey Shore rendition of “The Last Supper.” When they finally arrive to a rolling stop beside us, the woman passenger picks a wedgie so big the Mexican man from the garbage truck emerges from her anal crevice smiling like he just won the Mexican pick 4 mid day lottery number. I can’t wrap my head around all the excitement. It’s truly a joyous event.

#1. The bicyclist. All of the sudden this figure emerges like he’s touring France. His spandex are so tight his nuts require an intravenous hydration drip. He looks at you. Then you look at him as you develop a plan in your head to run this dude and his team off the road into a ditch. They have these hand signals like they are Navy Seals. Vocal outbursts along with inconsiderate hand gestures towards the motorists on the road are inevitable. There’s always that one out of shape unconditioned bicycle pack member who slows the flow of the mission. They can’t peddle properly. Coyotes & turkey vultures lurk in the wings waiting for these humps to hit a pebble and drop. Get off the road guys. You have nice asses. I’ll give you that. Stop with the hand signals. Nobody understands what the fuck you are doing.

Ladies. Here is what lurks ahead within the internet dating scene. (10) eligible male bachelors!

Often people wonder how such a pretty woman like my wife could fall for a guy like me. I don’t have that answer. I do believe perhaps this post will help some get a better understanding.

The reality is this. I’ve known my wife since high school. We began dating over 20 years ago. We have hardcore time invested in our relationship. It’s a special situation. Many ups and downs as we have worked towards where we are today. It’s never easy. All relationships are unique in their own way. I will confidently admit this. A committed healthy partnership is a result of the effort & dedication put in by both involved. That’s all I got. I’m not a relationship expert. I only speak on the experience of my own situation.

Here is what I have learned.

I recently had a great conversation with a single friend of mine in her 40-50’s. I won’t spill the beans on her actual age because she will hunt me down & run me through a meat grinder. I know this because I recently did some home improvement renovations for her. One of her kitchen pendant lights were off level by a fraction of an inch as she began to shake uncontrollably. It was terrifying. I wouldn’t dare to talk about her age. I will however discuss this. She is single. Seeks a relationship with a gentleman. Like other women, it sometimes presents a challenge. She made it clear settling is not an option and I couldn’t agree more. She has thrown herself out there into the land of internet dating and all it has to offer. I don’t know much about it and hope I never have to swim in this pool of horse shit. And that’s exactly what it is. But that appears to be the road one must travel these days to find that lifelong love connection. Who has time to go out and actually meet people? That shit doesn’t happen. And don’t believe that old wives tale about supermarkets. I walked the lanes of Shoprite (Shopwrong) for eleven hours on a Sunday putting this “urban legend” to the test. I pranced around striking up numerous conversations with shoppers. As a result, I was beaten with eggplant, tossed into the frozen shrimp ice bin & asked to leave by a bag lady. This is not the atmosphere for a love connection. People want their garlic & ice cream and be on their way. There was one lady who expressed some interest in me. She fell and couldn’t get up as she laid motionless in the personal hygiene aisle. I was frantically pressing her life alert button and performed CPR. She was a spunky chick. Full of surprises. I eventually brought her back to life. She was approaching 103 years of age. The young lady whispered under her romantically flirtatious fossilized breath, “excuse me young man, could you tell me where I can purchase a bra enhancer, new dentures and a motorized wheel chair?” I was taken back by her kinky devious sexual thoughts. She had my attention. We struck up some conversation as I re-attached her hip. I felt some attraction & chemistry. In the end I just couldn’t commit. I felt the age difference would be a factor at some point in our relationship. In my opinion, the supermarket is more of a place to make funeral arrangements.

So my buddy happens to be “bat shit crazy” in a good way which she already knows. That’s a great quality in my opinion. Normal is boring. She wants what she wants and would never settle. I don’t blame her. She suffers from OCD. I explained you should not date people like yourself. I firmly believe opposites attract. It keeps everything fresh and on edge. Imagine two OCD individuals dating? What transpires? Do you both walk around the home holding hands on a Saturday evening adjusting pictures on the wall as you argue over proper toilet paper placement? That’s no fun. My wife and I are polar opposites. I walk around the house tracking mud throughout as she opens up her vacuum collection and cleans directly behind me. She’s not happy about it naturally but it creates conversation and controversy. I leave my underwear on the kitchen table and she removes it with protective gloves & safety goggles as she’s decked out in a hazmat suit. It just works. Not sure why. That’s only my opinion. She most likely hates me and wants to shove the vacuum attachment up my pee hole. Let me believe we are happy. Thanks.

As we dug a bit deeper into the world of the mid life dating scene she found it necessary to share some pictures of a few potential life partners. People in search of soulmates who expressed interest in her online dating profile. Turns out her sister is a member as well so I had the privilege to soak in both of their personal experiences. It was a life altering event for me. I was not aware of what actually takes place within this strange world.

Warning* May contain some inappropriate images. Some may find this disturbingly offensive. My apologies in advance.

Here are examples of (10) men currently registered on dating sites. These are actual photographs submitted by registered male members in hopes of making a first impression on females longing for a romantic match. Here we go. Buckle the fuck up. Thanks for the inspiration. You know who you are.


This man has sexy written all over his physique. I’m having a difficult time pinpointing exactly what room of the home this epic photo was taken in where a background consists of a roll of paper towels, a dirty fish tank & a “tweety bird” comforter on the floor? And a “My pillow?” My second guess was he snapped a selfie in the waiting area of a dentist office. What should a woman expect when she goes home with you for some romance after a nice date? Why is there a slit across the front of your undies? Is that suppose to be some sort of sexual technique that excites, seduces & teases a lady? Sew that shit up and get dressed. Why are you snapping selfies with a 55″ flat screen TV? Is this what your potential soulmate has to look forward to? I won’t even elaborate on the golden painted walls. What’s with the bracelet cutting off all circulation on the right forearm? Turn off the fish tank light. It will make you much more appealing. If that’s even possible.


I’m pretty positive most women can’t wait to hop on top of this Greek god. What exactly happened to your right nipple? Is that a gravity issue? If I was a middle aged woman searching for a long term serious relationship, you are exactly what I would have in mind. That is the biggest dog tag I have ever seen. Your disturbing smirk would inspire any woman to call law enforcement immediately. Good luck with your future love endeavors. You have most certainly brought sexy back in a trailer park twenty five to life sort of way. Good work.


Look at this tulip. He’s 44 ladies. If he’s 44 I’m Barack Obama. He may have been born in ’44. Is this man serious. I give him credit for keeping his clothes on. He’s one step ahead of our previous male sex figures patiently awaiting future connections to the single females. Ernest, although your hairstyle resembles a beautiful orchid blossoming flower with props to the “Pink Floyd” poster, you must accept the fact you are on the wrong dating site. You belong as a registered gold member to the site properly named “Grannie In Search of Old Flannel Boy Toy.” If I was a woman and had to guess what you did for a living it would be this. You are the voice of “Dora the Explorer”


This man is my favorite of the bunch. He looks honest and sincere. Again, if he’s 46 I’m 12. He’s mysterious in a sexual predator sort of way. Not sure what happened to his left ear. I’ll assume a police dog bit it off while he sold ice cream to minors. Just a hunch. This man has potential. Ladies save this slice of pure relationship heaven to your favorites.


Why is he sleeping in the shower watering his junk listening to “My heart must go on” by Celine Deon? I’m trying to determine exactly what is reflecting on the shower head. He seems to be a hoarder. I’m sure most women dream of bringing this being home to meet grandmother on Christmas Eve. Why am I selecting you to be my life long partner? Do you honestly believe this is sexy? What is wrong with these men and their decorating selections? The backgrounds seem to be extremely boring and distasteful. I’ve never seen such a physically fit man with such a bloated flabby stomach. You are exactly what women want. Wake up ass knot. You’re gonna drown.


This man was smart about his profile presentation. Nicely toned body. Excluded his face because he most likely was burned in a forest fire as he grabs his package. What does this accomplish? So if we happen to date you we have the pleasure of walking around the mall with you as you latch on to your erect private parts? I’m just confused. The downward spiraling chest hair footprint is quite fascinating. It leaves much to be desired such as if Professor Dumbledore is a part of your family tree perhaps. The intriguing chest hair design reminds me of some sort of human torturing device from the 1500’s. That or a character from “Fraggle Rock.” Hmm. Again, the background wall paint color is atrocious. Did all these men get a group rate & take their photos in the same home?


The flash dance rendition of internet dating. I almost want to throw my phone into a fire pit right now. What is going on here? I have so many questions. Who took the photo? Why is the right side of your body so hairy? Is that rain or snow? Does your profile dating site interests state “hairy man enjoys traveling naked to caves in Afghanistan during a monsoon?” I’d love to hear about your entrepreneurial adventure. School of law? Lol. You sir will most certainly convince a man like myself to question my sexual identity. It’s beautiful male creatures like yourself that make straight men like me curious. Hit me up and let’s drop that black lantern you are holding over your penis. That shits hot.


The good news is there is only 1/1 pictures available for our viewing pleasure. At least he has some decorative art in the background. I will give him that. But then I must take notice of the 32 day old rotten banana peel he is using as a sexual prop. Yeah great strategy man. You are trying to lure in women who haven’t been laid in months as you are passionately gripping a rotten banana peel. To make matters worse, your facial expression leads me to believe you haven’t taken a shit in weeks. Maybe months. It screams constipation. The Warhol picture confirms you will most definitely fed ex your earlobe to me after we get to sloppy second. You are creepy AF. Exactly what scorned women who can’t seem to figure out exactly what they want romantically in life. You my friend are the answer to all the prayers of our desperately seeking women. I wish I had the opportunity to witness this brute sexual presence back when I was growing up. I would have purchased a poster of you and thumb tacked you to the back of my door right beside Cindy Crawford and the teal green Lamborghini. Heck, I most likely would have ironed this iconic photograph of sex appeal directly across the back of my jean jacket. Keep it up bro. Nothing sells sex more than a bald man suffering from “resting bitch face syndrome” while his hand is wrapped around a rotten banana peel. Damn!!!


Jesus Christ. Why did I have to see this? I have enough crap in my brain. He unfortunately happens to be the most attractive in the bunch. If you find the courage to look past his toes that remind me of a gecko of course. Like this dude should be selling insurance. Again, who snapped the photo? His mom perhaps? I can’t make out the bottle between his legs. Is this suppose to leave women in suspense? You may not be lying about your age but you are sprawled out naked in a black tub with no water and a plastic bottle between your legs. There are flowers behind you along with a device I believe is a suspended weight scale. This whole scenario is troubling. I can tell you this for a fact. If I was a woman on the dating scene you are it. My everything. My “1980’s Black whirlpool tub prince with inflated toes.” You are smiling. You must be a jolly man. What the fuck are you doing guy? Please tell me your buddy hacked your account and photo shopped this. What are you glancing at BTW & the right nipple is sort of sexy. I must be honest. You should simply post a blown up exaggerated version of that. Only positive feature within this cluster fuck of internet dating failed photography. And to think you are an “Assistant Vice President” to anything but a gay internet porn discreet dating site is mind boggling. Good work. All you are missing is a yellow rubber ducky & some water.


A fucking legend in my book. He is what I imagine the bi-product of a one night stand accidental pregnancy involving “Wolverine, Fred Mercury & Hacksaw Jim Dugan” would look like. Give this bastard a 2 x 4 and he will crack his date right across the her fucking temple. No questions asked. He has the integrity and honest approach. Simple. Respond to my profile and express interest and I will eat your pancreas. The fact this man has the hairy nuts (and I’ll assume those fuckers are “Yetti” like hairy) to select this image as his profile picture is brilliant. He makes his point obvious. No messing around with this beast. His profile description must be as follows. “Date me. I will throw you in the shower after we consume 5 rib eyes with 9 sides. Once we get past the fact my hair will eventually clog the shower drain, I will chomp on the fungus of your foot while “Barry Manilow” Pandora softly plays amongst us. I will proceed to eat your pet goldfish. Here is my promise to you. I will continue to wear these grease stained leather overalls, for better or worse. Thick & thin. Even to your families Thanksgiving Day feast. I can’t wait to meet your Dad and share a life with you.” This dude nails it. The ideal match. The fact he has a plug-in smoke & carbon detector in his bathroom leads me to believe he has all intentions of spicing up a potential long term commitment. The wall paper ensures us he is the next Jeff Dahmer. Good luck with this gem ladies. He is special.

So there you have it. These are just a few eligible bachelors available to all you middle aged ladies looking for love. Here’s my advice, stay fucking single.

For everyone who questions why such a pretty gal like my wife is in love with a guy like me, this should answer it. Although I can totally see my wife leaving me as I’m forced to enter the dating internet world. I would most likely take a profile picture of myself buck naked at “White Castle” holding a rabid armadillo. I would be no better than these members.

Good luck ladies.

Life can be stressful at times. These are some situations that stress my wife out!

Life can be stressful. I get it. I try to live it one day at a time. Accept daily challenges with open arms as I navigate through the unpredictable path of our very own existence.

I don’t care how “together” you think your life is, shit happens. You can try to organize and plan your course. Chart your way. Attempt to figure it all out. Unfortunately, that’s just not possible. There is no rule in life. No guideline. No handbook & certainly no instructions.

As a human race, we all encounter stressful daily situations. Doesn’t matter who or where you are within our planet. We all deal with these “hick-ups” in life at one point or another.

Marriage & children tend to escalate our level of stress. It’s normal. Some handle these situations differently. Again, there is no correct way to deal with the curveballs we face in life.

However, I do have the day in and day out opportunity to witness exactly how my wife processes and deals with stressful life events.

Here are a few recent stressful explosions my wife has experienced. I try and understand her and why she feels the way she does. Personally, I don’t sweat the small shit. If my family is happy and healthy, I’m good. Everything else is irrelevant.

The child’s bed broke.

I’m not sure where my wife grew up as a child but I broke so many beds as a kid my Dad began making bedroom sets for the family. And this bastard didn’t even take the time to sand down the plywood. He nailed the shit together with rusty nails, threw a sheet on it and said “sleep!” I would get out of bed and a 3” splinter would be lodged between my infected toes. My eyeballs would swell up like a puffer fish as a result of an allergic reaction from dangerous wood chemicals. Last night my son walked in and informed us his bed had broke. Granted we recently purchased the bed in November, I wasn’t happy. I know it is covered under warranty. I will deal with it tomorrow. Not my wife. Her left eye teared up like she ate 9 red onions. She began to shake. She pouted and ran down the hallway. Stomped her feet and yelled “this is fucking bullshit!” I froze and feared for my life. I let her be. She mustered up so much adrenaline she cleaned the bathrooms, changed the AC filters, baked a cake & actually attempted to make a sexual advancement towards me. Then she realized what was happening and made me call the hotline to file a complaint at 11pm. Like I’m suppose to argue with some furniture sales associate from Wisconsin at that hour about a broken bed frame. She was so pissed. I didn’t understand it at all. Shit happens. Beds break. We move on. If I don’t get a new bed first thing Monday morning, I’ll be the one stressing.

I need to get my hair done. I have grays.

She makes it seem like she’s Mrs. Claus or some shit. She has like one strand of gray hair buried under all her other brown hair. She ran into the living room. Grabbed her hair and parted it like the Red Sea to show me. “Look babe, look at all my grays.!” All I saw was a scalp. And hair. She insisted she could not go out in public like that. People would have to literally grab her head, run their fingers through her head with a spotlight to locate her one strand of gray. I don’t argue. Women are bat shit crazy when it comes to crap like that. I try not to overthink or understand it. Here is $80. Have fun.

There’s no more Extra Cheddar Goldfish!

God for bid we have no more Extra Cheddar Goldfish in the home. As soon as my boys chomp on the last fish cracker, before the crumbs can hit the floor, my wife hops on her 1200 CC Kawasaki Ninja and pulls a wheelie straight into the cracker aisle at Shoprite. I try to explain to her that the “cheddar fish” can wait but she fights me tooth & nail. She insists, “we must have fishies for our boys babe.” I get it.

We need gas.

Me personally, I take the gas to the limit. I know my gas tank and it’s capabilities. I’ll drive that shit on fumes for a week. Not my wife. That fuel level drops below a quarter tank and this woman calls Triple A. It’s aggravating but that’s who she is. I must abide by her ways if I want to stay married I guess. I haven’t filled up a gas tank since I purchased my new vehicle with a full tank of gas. We were driving home from vacation and the gas mileage to empty was 146 miles and she was sweating like a fag eating a hot dog. It became uncomfortable actually.

We are taking a vacation. We need extra cash.

Yes. We all want to take our vacation in comfort. Stress free. Not us. Off the bat my wife begins to stress about the amount of money we will be taking with us. She asks, “how much you bringing babe?” I reply “$8000.00.” She says, “is that enough?” I respond, “we are going to the Jersey Shore for the night, yeah it’s enough!” Her lower lip begins to shake rapidly as she whispers, “I just want to be prepared. Just in case ya know.” I say “Prepared? Prepared for what? $8000 should be enough to cover my bail & funeral arrangements!”

Our boys are getting so old.

This one hits home for her and I believe stresses my wife out the most. It’s hard to accept. Our boys are growing fast. Becoming young men. Moving on in life. My wife refuses to allow that to happen. Our boys will attend a Bat Mitsvah. All dressed up and ready to party. She will drop them off, jump on her Ninja and race home. Grab her recorder and begin to play videos of when our boys were babies. She will watch this footage for hours. She will cry & laugh. Reminisce. I must admit, it’s nice, sad, depressing, happy and confusing all in one. Although I cherish those moments, I am one to move on and think about the future and what lies ahead for our family. My wife would rather recreate the first time her babies shit on her hand and keep that memory forever.

What’s for dinner? Where’s my food?

You would think this woman has never been fed. Food is most definitely important to her. Leftovers are my wife’s lifeline. She will hide her remains of last nights dinner like she’s hiding Hoffa. She sets her alarm for 4:48am so she can be the first to rise and eat her leftover salmon. She will bark and hiss at you if you get to close to her plate of food. She invented “Hangry.”

Dirty Car.

It’s actually annoying. We recently took a seven hour road trip. For seven hours straight she waited for pieces of lint to land on the dashboard so she could wipe it off. She had three vacuums, a sham wow, a plunger and a case of windex. What the fuck are you cleaning? Let some shit build up first wacko!

Stress sucks!

Vacation has ended. That can only mean one thing. Top 10 people of Virginia!

This past week I had the pleasure to embark on a family adventure to the beaches of Virginia.

I’m not entirely sure why we chose this destination. Well actually I am pretty sure. It was the cheapest seven days I could find on TripAdvisor. Considering we are taking the plunge towards the “Disney World Disaster” in October, I figured we sneak in a quick relaxing getaway. Cheaper is not always better is a rule I have always lived my life by and the past seven vacation days has confirmed why I believe in this.

As a child, my parents took my family to Virginia Beach. It was a memory that always seemed to be embedded in my mind. I was young. My memories were foggy. I thought it would be a fantastic opportunity to reconnect some past experiences of old with my wife & children of today. Again, I honestly forgot what this state was all about. Don’t get me wrong, I love diversity, different cultures and interesting walks of life. This state is bat shit crazy in every way possible.

As I traveled through the family vacationed week, I observed, absorbed, interacted & to be honest, could not wait to get the fuck home and start writing this post. From the moment I parked the vehicle at our hotel as we arrived until the minute I packed the car up to get the hell out of there, I was surrounded by the daily chaotic ways of Virginian life. I have nothing against the wildlife of Virginia and it’s occupants. I’m from New York. The South happens to be a much slower & different pace of life compared to NY. I attempted to adjust. Tried to make the best of all situations & encounters. Unfortunately, each and every time I turned around and ordered coffee or an egg sandwich it was just another situation that had my head on a swivel. I remained calm and respectful. Collected my thoughts and kept my mouth shut until now.

Top 10 People of Virginia

#10. Women of Virginia. I could not help but notice this obvious trait within the native female Virginian community. They love to smoke. Like a chimney. Burning a child with a cigarette was not a concern for these women. I’ve never in my life seen a mother hold her newborn in one hand, a banana daiquiri in the other and play a round of corn hole as she breast fed her triplets decked out in mud stained overalls. It was truly amazing. The baby’s daddy’s just lied motionless passed out under a bar stool as these women actually placed their children next to daddy for a photo op. Like this was going to be a Christmas photo or some shit. Weird.

#9. Women of Virginia. Leg Tattoos. While we are still on the topic of women of Virginia, I must address the leg tattoo phenomenon. My wife and I kept an open mind on this. We couldn’t figure it out. We walked the boardwalk. Women strutted down the way with massive tattoos of “I have no fucking idea” to be honest. Literally. The trend was this. A black tattooed work of art that began at their inner hairy thigh & stretched out to the top of their disproportionate knee cap. It resembled a black mass of diarrhea. That’s the only way we can explain it. Maybe it was a gang symbol or some shit. Either way, when they are 80 it will appear the anus has leaked upon their thighs.

#8. “Interracial Couple Capital” of the world. I have no issue with this. At all. If two people fall in love, color, race, religion or anything else should not make a difference. I’m cool with that. I thought it was great. Children from black & white parents are truly beautiful. I’ve never seen so many albino white children with a sunburn sporting dreadlocks in my lifetime. They were mesmerizing. Honestly. I think that mix is great. The problem is the Virginians try to get creative within their relationship pairing. That’s cool but in my opinion maybe some relationships should not happen. I shouldn’t judge but I have a big mouth along with a big opinion so fuck it. Love is Love and I respect that. Always. I just have questions. In Virginia it seems love has no boundaries. Connections will be made no matter what. I questioned the “Love Connection” ethics in Virginia when I happened to notice a 7’3” Chinese man strolling down the boardwalk holding hands with a female midget. Again, I have nothing against this. Problem was their child trailing behind them. This kid was confused. He was attempting to do a karate chop but his limbs were just too short to complete the move. It was a challenge. Next was the love connection we witnessed involving the Italian hairy man from Bensonhurst and the whitest female on the planet. He walked down the boardwalk with a salami stuffed in his shorts as his wife was clearly roasting in the sun as their son trailed behind them looking like an over cooked “biscotti cookie” on St Paddy’s Day. Very confusing. I respected the diversity. I was puzzled by some of the relationship decisions.

#7. The Virginian Staff. Did not matter where we went. SO SLOW. Maybe that’s just the South and I’m use to the faster pace of New York. Either way, people run businesses. I don’t care where you own a business, the ultimate goal is to maximize profits. Productive employees. Shouldn’t make a difference what part of the world you reside in. Right? Not Virginia. These fuckers are basically asleep. They are paid to catch up on some zzzzz’s and stand behind a counter to aggravate the shit out of tourists. I tried so hard to keep my composure. Until we went to Chick-Fila or whatever it’s called. We walked in at 10:28 AM. I asked if they served lunch yet. She said “sorry sir, we don’t serve lunch until 10:30 AM. Would you like to take a seat and wait?” Ok. That sounds great you dumbass. You expect me to walk to my seat, sit down, then get up a minute later and place my order with you? I wanted to shove my sons sun drenched asscrack directly into her pie hole but I was the better person. She had the balls to smile as I approached a minute later and said “How can I help you today sir?” Hahahaha.

#6. The Dancers of Virginia. I don’t care what tune comes on, these Virginian fuckers will sway to any ballad playing on the radio or live performance. My wife and I were on our way to dinner. We heard a band. We paused. Took in the musical festivities. Buckled our knees a tad but that was the extent of it. A Bruno Mars cover began to play and all of the sudden we had an 87 year old grandmother bumping and grinding all up on some hillbilly with 2 teeth with a BAC content seventeen times the legal limit. The human bonding was fascinating. This young hillbilly glanced upon this ambitious grandma with two weeks to live like she was “Cindy Crawford in Heat!” Love has no limits in VA!

#5. The Virginian Parking Attendant. This threw me for a loop. The most easy going fine lad I encountered on the entire trip. I wasn’t sure if he was still tripping on acid from a “Dead Show” or he was just confused, but he was accommodating for sure. I’m from NY. If the sign says $25 to park your vehicle it’s $25 to park. I don’t give a rats ass if you park for 5 minutes. I pulled into the Virginian lot. This parking lot kid had hair he did not wash in a decade and teeth that have not been attended to for a few months. He had the nuts to smile and say “Hey Man”. I proceeded to hit the record button on my phone. Once his lips freed themselves from his plaque infused gums we began to negotiate. I said “how much?” He laughed and said “$25.00 man.” I said “I’ll only be here 10-15 minutes.” He replied, “cool, just give me $5 man.” I crapped in my pants because I never won a negotiation battle with anybody. I tried to get cute. I said “I will only be here for 5 minutes. I’ll give you $3 bucks.” He replied, “That’s cool man.” I froze, panicked and gave him $25.00 anyway.

#4. The Virginian mans midnight glowing toenails. This was intriguing. This may be hard to accept or believe. I am only stating this based on personal experience. Alcohol was involved and vision may have been impaired. I’m not sure exactly what I was witnessing. Here’s what I do know. I was on my balcony. I glanced over onto the boardwalk. It was dark. I noticed a man under the shadowing lamp post light who began to wash his feet off from the sandy grains of the beach. Three seconds later his middle toenail began to illuminate. Like ET was trying to phone home or some shit. It could have been the reflection of the lighthouse or spilled yellow mustard. Either way that shit was glowing.

#3. The Virginian Animal Enthusiasts. Along our adventure we encountered some aquariums & live animal shows. Some events were hosted by ambitious personnel. They took their job very serious. I think it’s great a person could be so passionate about the animals they are discussing. Wish I could find employees like this. Educating & enlightening us all. I have a question. Where did they find the girl who speaks to us about the Otters? This chick was born to explain the daily routine of Otters and why they eat lettuce and fish and shit. How did they recruit such a fine, detailed, articulate Otter specialist? It’s as if she was one with the Otter. This chick was so good at her job when the Otter took a diarrhea on top of a rock and pissed all over it’s webbed feet in front of 38 fatigued spectators she actually had the ability to make us all laugh. It was magical. This employee basically ate, breathed and shit everything Otter. When she asked if anybody had any questions about the life of an Otter and nobody raised their hands she literary had an “Emitt Otter” Christmas breakdown. Next was the “Horse Shoe Crab Historian.” I curiously stroked the tail of this crab and it raised its ass like a kitten and I was reprimanded. This horse shoe crab officer with a face full of black heads and a Justin Bieber mouth retainer yelled at me. He said they were sensitive in that area. I shouldn’t touch them there. This fucking crab species has been around for 600 million years and he’s worried about me touching his backside because it tickles? Wait what?

#2. The Virginian Toll Collector. I’m not sure what they feed the toll collectors in Virginia but these fuckers are chipper as fuck. We pull up to pay a .35 cent toll at 3am and this woman is line dancing to Rascal Flatts. She has a shit eating grin across her face and had the balls to ask “what are y’all doing? Where y’all heading? Sleeping you shit stain. I’m heading to Mexico to drink a Dos Equis and purchase a sombrero. What the fuck you think I’m doing? I’m driving!

#1. The Virginian who just doesn’t give a shit. This is common. My wife and I along with the children often found ourselves bewildered by our local surroundings. People just don’t give a fuck in Virginia. It’s as if they wake up, throw on a piece of liverwurst for a shirt, pull up a pair of cut off bright yellow frayed dungarees, brush their teeth with synthetic oil & saddle up on a beach. Their knee caps & shins are always severely bruised. Miraculously, seven children with humidity plagued mullets emerge from a suitcase and start building sand castles. Dude, it’s a free beach. Please put the 40 Oz down along with the bag of Fritos and get with the program. Your children need air and a haircut.

Until the the next adventure!

Preparing for our family vacation. Reminiscing about old times!

The time is now 1:12 AM. I am patiently waiting as I consume a case of beer while my wife attempts to finish packing for our summer vacation. We depart tomorrow. She insists we pack the car tonight. Like that makes a damn difference. Can any living human being on Earth please explain to me why spending 9 minutes at 2 AM or spending 9 minutes at 8 AM packing the vehicle saves time, aggravation or the miserable reality we must drive to our destination?

That’s correct. We are driving. That can only mean one thing. We are not spending our vacation this year on an Island consisting of swim up bars, sexual encounters with cancer causing plastic necklaces and body rubs by an Avatar who calls himself Jean Jacque. Sorry. Wasn’t in the budget this year.

We are heading to Virginia Beach. Why you ask? I have no fucking idea. I went there as a kid. It was my first vacation I took with my family. Except that one time my Dad rented a handicap family bus to transport his family to Wildwood, NJ. We pulled up. First out of the bus was my mother Paula, who hasn’t been in ocean water past her ankles. Ever. Next is my Dad, 125lb Italian man named Vito with 7” curly spiral macaroni chest hairs who has smoked so many cigarettes “Smokey the Bear” just gave the fuck up. My Dad abolished the “Surgeon General.” Then there was our oldest sibling named Jeffy who started a fashion trend involving a ripped peanut butter & jelly stained Ozzy shirt with his middle school orange Gym shorts pulled over his greasy ass sweat pants. His yellow striped tube socks finished off the failed fashion statement. All this and he had the balls to place a bandana over his pubic hair infused mullet to flatten his mane. Like that made a difference. Next, my brother Joey walks out. This interracial being became a family conversation piece for years. All immediate family members through three generations had a tendency to sunburn uncontrollably under any contact with the sun and this guy darkens up like an eggplant. The winter months rolled around and his skin pigment balanced out. Once June pulled up, this dude was a stunt double for Denzel Washington. Then there was me & my brother Jim. I popped out with golden blond hair that I no longer have. My brother Jim was this skinny little boy who loved potatoes. The last sibling arrived. This was my sister Gina. The only girl in the bunch. She blossomed into a beautiful woman. Her younger years not so much. This chick was so hairy she had yarn sprouting from her calf. We couldn’t figure it out. The hair eventually would fall off and all was good. One Easter morning we snapped a family photo with the local Bunny at the mall & it was as if our family adopted a pre-teen female Yeti & Willis from “Different Strokes.” The Easter Bunny took the fuck off after that photo. He could not wrap his head around how these five children could actually be siblings.

So yeah. That’s how we rolled into our family vacations.

We were a confused bunch. My mother must have had many affairs with many different men to form this loving family unit. My brother Joey would take me to the mall. An “alleged” colored man holding a little white angle Saxon boy’s hand in the Mall in 1982 was confusing. My brother was apprehended three times per week during the sun sweltering summer months and charged with child kidnapping. My brother loved me and his skin color should not have mattered. I loved him for who he was. Black, white or Tito Puente-ish! I don’t see color, I see the good in people. Treat me with respect & love and you will get it right back. Period. I break bread with genuine & real people. Take your bullshit and false pretense somewhere else. Shit don’t fly with me!

What can I say, my mother never judged. She was involved in free love. My poor Dad was so hairy and constantly blinded by his cigarette smoke, this poor bastard had no idea. The fact my Mom convinced my Dad these children were his own was astonishing. My Dad bucked up, was a man, took care of his questionable offspring.

Our family pictures made no sense. We looked like a human rescue facility. We were the poster family for “We Are The World!” Michael Jackson & Kenny Logins type of shit.

So glad I had the time to reminisce as my wife is still packing.

Virginia here we come. Only reason we are going is because it was the cheapest destination under a 6 hour commute. My first option was Pennsylvania. I found a nice hotel with no electricity. A place the family could make furniture and grow beards and shit. My wife wasn’t into it. Oh well.

So now packing is done. 19 suitcase later. My car is pulling a wheely in the driveway. My wife just asked if I could go to the supermarket at 2:48 am to pick up raspberry seltzer and bottled water for the car ride down. This woman is bat shit crazy. Yeah babe. I’ll text the Shoprite manager now to see if he could open up so I can grab some carbonated water you fucking lunatic!

Love your family. Love your friends. Cherish the moments. These moments will come to an end, sometimes abruptly. Never be the one left holding the “bag of regret & guilt.” Not worth it. Whatever the differences may be, it can always be worked out.

Whether these are my real brothers & sisters or not, it doesn’t matter at this point. I will never know and I don’t care. We grew up together. Some seasonly darker skinned than others. Some producing hair follicles of epic proportions at an alarming rate. Some chemically dependent on starch. Some dressed like a failing gym class student with an insulting ratty ass stink bug infused mullet protruding through his backwards bright white semi-glossed paint stained “New Balance” hat playing hooky in order to attend a Black Sabbath concert as he attempts to actually approach and impress females.

I will not elaborate on the pure simple fact my brother Jeffy purchased and drove around in a nationally sponsored Russian Volleyball “Yugo.” Yes a “Yugo” that had a volleyball net decal embedded into it. This stupid prick and his friend Vinny D would cruise through town with their plexi-glass windows down blasting “Beth” from kiss and truly believed some young lady would find this display of male dominance attractive. Problem was this. I would be in town as well with my friends skateboarding making out with some chick behind a dumpster with rusted braces, a chin that overflowed with acne & mustache like I was sucking face with “Rollie Fingers.”

He would excitedly beep.

“Who was that?” Oh fuck. “That’s my brother Jeffy. Yes that’s a volleyball net on the side of his car. It’s a long story!”

It’s all about memories. I’m glad I have the opportunity to remember all this. Hopefully I am creating memories for my children as well. We joke, we laugh, and in the end, we love!

School is officially over. That can only mean two things. The kids are bored & hungry!

Now that the school year has officially ended it can only mean two things. Our kids are bored & hungry. I don’t get it.

My children woke up every single day for nine months of the year to attend school and receive an education. They were reluctant daily. Extremely resistant. There were some mornings I had to grab the both of them by their matching “Incredibles 2” undies and drag them down the hallway as I tossed the pair into the hot shower in order to provide some school inspiration. Occasionally the anger would become so apparent I would quiz them on the Mexican war at 6:30am just to piss them off. Simply put, they did not want to spend their day learning math problems where 4 + 4 = 397 – 298 + 9 + 19 = 8. Personally, I would think that was boring. What do I know.

Never fails. Last day of school. Summer is finally here. The children who worked so hard all year as they complained repeatedly each and everyday are finally free. Sleeping late is now a reality. Lounge. Relax. Hang with friends. No homework assignments. Engage in sport activities. Do nothing. Whatever they choose. Stress free for a few months. Or at least that’s how it seems. Perhaps our youth need a path or proper guidance to stimulate them these days.

But no. My kids sluggishly walked off the bus and the first words spewed from their mouth was “I’m Bored. There’s nothing to do! We are sooooooo bored. God. You don’t understand Dad!” I literally had a vision of driving my boys back to school and register them both for “sleep away summer school camp.” Are you kidding me? For nine months you dreaded the thought of anything pertaining to school. You have the pre adolescent hairless balls to open my car door with a frown on your face and tell me you’re bored? Get back on the bus kid!

I was taken back. I didn’t think it was appropriate to douse them with the quart of sweltered curdled boiling milk in my car that was baking in the ruthless sun for three days.

Today you must be careful how you reprimand the youth. They both had their phones locked and loaded on “video record mode” waiting to catch me inappropriately correcting them. Within minutes I would have been the featured story on the local news with video evidence of me beating my offspring with curdled milk & melted snicker bars. I kept my cool. Took a deep breath. Asked cautiously, “what would you like to do guys?” They responded, “we are freaking hungry!”

I felt like I could handle this situation now and had it under control. I politely asked, “what would you young men like to eat?” They answered simultaneously, “we don’t know, there’s nothing in the house to eat. This sucks!” Now I was at the point of pulling over to the side of the road and cracking them over the ass cheeks with my ice scraper as I fed them the rotting deer carcass mangled along the shoulder of the highway.

First off, we weren’t even home yet so how could they possibly know there was nothing to eat. Second, their mother just went food shopping and had so much food in the house you would think we were living underground in Chernobyl. Again I was confused. For nine months they were subjected to eating microwaved cafeteria hamburgers, mini hot dogs that resembled a moldy green severed fungus infested hairy big toe of a homeless individual & a six piece of pizza nuggets that tasted like soiled ear wax. My wife fried homemade chicken cutlets the prior night. I slaved over the stove & made homemade pasta & meatballs and these two mini “Guy Fieri” little shits are complaining?

Growing up if I pulled that shit my father would have instantly extinguished a Viceroy cigarette directly into my eyeball and calmly say, “now eat that you miserable little prick.”

Today kids are spoiled. Steak dinners. Bacon, egg and cheese breakfast sandwiches. Hibachi performances where some chef with a ginsu knife throws shrimp at you like you are the stunt double for “flipper.” They proceed to spray this chemical in your mouth from a questionable ketchup bottle that most likely has not been approved by the FDA. Everyone smiles, we laugh. We have a good time. Clap & shit. That’s ultimately what it’s all about. Kids today don’t seem to appreciate the experience. I mean, they say thank you but I’m not sure if they honestly realize just how hard we as parents work to provide them with the things we do. Then you get the bill. That’s a whole other post.

Sometimes I wish I could take my children back in time to the days when I grew up. Experience what my childhood was like. I take nothing away from my parents. They had five children. Worked extremely hard. Did their best to raise my brothers & sister properly. They did a good job. Except for me of course. I had veered off course and have been a major disappointment. Oh well. There’s always that one in the bunch.

Growing up when my family went out to dinner there was no reservations. Chefs didn’t throw high end shell fish at us as a form of amusement. My Dad would have “stopped, dropped & rolled” to retrieve that shrimp like he was auditioning for “Backdraft.” For us dining out was simple. We packed up some plastic cancer causing forks and walked out of the rear rusted non-functioning shattered glass sliding door. We sat together as a family unit on a deteriorated red lead infused picnic table with an abundant amount of cigarette burns infused into it. Termite farms were the only form of support keeping our dinner table and benches from collapsing. We were always one ambitious woodpecker away from eating our family meal off the surrounding dirt mound beneath us we called the “outdoor luxurious deck.” The ambiance was second to none. As we waited patiently for my dad to set our hotdogs ablaze, my family members took a minute to inhale the aroma of dog shit courtesy of a 187 pound German Shepard named Boe. At one point, this became our outdoor family entertainment. True family bonding. This feline was locked in a cage nine feet away from our social gathering. My dad grilled a total of three and a half hot dogs for seven famished family members who’s last meal was a “one third of a pop-tart” to start our day. The wieners were always so charred the circling starving vultures above “flew south for the summer.” My Mom did her best to provide the growing family with the proper amount of starch required for sufficient child growth so she scrounged up the remaining stale Shoprite brand potato chips for a gourmet side. The choice of beverage was always interesting. Supporting a family of seven was rough. My mother was forced to find the best deals on food & beverage. I didn’t understand this back then. Having a family of my own, I understand this now.

My mother would find these “flavored soda” specials. Sometimes we recognized the taste. Like “perky pineapple” or “gang green grape.” Other times the flavoring was confusing and unfamiliar. My Mom once placed a 9 gallon bottle of soda labeled “black birch battery acid” on the table containing 7890 grams of sugar & 673 grams of sodium topped off with 6 ounces of ethanol. Shit was .09 cents to the gallon. My mother was a bargain shopper that’s for sure.

Here’s my point. I understand times have changed. I get it. These kids today need to find ways to occupy their time for the summer. Complaining to your parents that you are bored will accomplish nothing. There’s nothing we can do. Be a kid. Get off your communication devices. Get off Social Media for a minute. Grab a bat and a ball. Go kiss a girl on a park bench. Get in trouble. (Not too much 😜.) Walk your block. Engage with your surrounding neighbors. Open your eyes. There’s a lot life can offer if you broaden your horizons young ones.

Life and summer has so much to offer. Enjoy the few months of freedom because before you know it, it’s complicated math problems and soggy pizza again. Don’t turn to your parents for advice to occupy the time you have labeled as “boring & food deprived.”

Our generation figured it out. Hopefully you all will as well.

We jumped off that bus on the last day of school and our parents didn’t see us until the first day of school.

Good luck to the next generation. I’m pulling for you. I truly am. You will certainly need it.

Once she said “I do” life changed as I knew it. Situations changed.

Our lives change dramatically once we find our soulmate and throw ourselves into the realm of reality. Reality that may not be so realistic. This “reality” of our existence has been pounded into our minds as the path we “should” follow. Romantic etiquette. Marriage. Starting a family. Motions, expectations along with “plan of life” according to the Hallmark Channel, CVS & those “hole in the wall” flower shops ran by Chinese individuals that will not hesitate to arrange a bunch of poisonous poinsettia foliage that will have your great granny pole dancing to the musical inspiration of William Hung in her 1958 deteriorated spider web infused fish net stockings on her 87th birthday! Shits powerful.

I’ve been married for almost 14 years. I’ve noticed things. My wife has changed. Handles shit differently. There are certain situations that have come to my attention. I tend to keep more to myself as my wife is a bit more vocal & emotional. This is simply growing pains.

Here are a few situations we have dealt with over the past 14 years of marriage. Some we expected. Some came as a surprise. My wife and I were a newly married couple. We were blessed with the news of twins. It was exciting. It was nerve racking. It was unpredictable.

Ass Wiping of our children

This was interesting. Obviously newborns need our assistance in changing their soiled panties. They cry. We hold our breath and change their dirty diapers as a green avocado like substance always seems to lodge itself below our index finger nail. We curiously take a sniff and somewhat find the aroma quite satisfying. As parents we attempt to “potty train”. It takes time & patience. I sat back and let my wife do her thing. I didn’t want to interfere. Then it became uncomfortable. My wife wanted my boys to have a clean ass. I get it. There must be limits. Age restrictions. Age 3,4,5 it was cute. Wipe. Kids would giggle. It was a memory. We would high five and crack a smile. One day I heard my son scream out “I’m done”! My wife sprung up off the couch, stretched and proceeded to sprint down the hallway into the bathroom like she was making up High School gym classes in order to graduate. She hurdled the kitchen island like Bo Jackson. She kicked the bathroom door open like the “A-Teams” B.A Baracus and wiped this poor kids ass like he shit out a sleeve of melted “Girl Scout Thin Mints“. Make no mistake. My kids ass crack was spotless. I was impressed. My wife is a fantastic asshole cleanser. My concern is when she pops up out of a toilet bowl at my boys prom with a bottle of windex and a scrub pad attempting to wipe their butts as they take a poop. To be continued….

Our children’s hair style

My wife had this crap on lockdown. Drive the kids to the local barber. Toss a cereal bowl on their heads. Trim. Get the hell out. Simple. One day my boys wanted their own hairstyle. My wife began to fidget & sweat. She reluctantly agreed as our boys are approaching teenage hood. Next thing you know my one kid walked out looking like the lead singer of the 80’s one hit wonder band “Flock of Seagulls” and my other boy resembled “Milli Vanili Jr.” It was bad. Put the bowl back on their heads and move on.

My wife’s husband expectations

I will go out on a limb with complete confidence & say my wife had envisioned her life & the course it has taken quite differently. I’m pretty sure when she reluctantly whispered the words “Yes I’ll be your wife” & “I do” she never expected the outcome she has endured. Besides our beautiful twin blessings of life, she has to deal with me. I walk into our home each & everyday after work covered in asbestos, drywall dust & famished termites. There’s always a toilet paper trail dangling from the back of my caulk stained dungarees. Simply adhered to me. My boots smell like a latrine. I track mud throughout our home like I’m “Secretariat.” She accepts me for me. I appreciate that. Then she asks if I have money for the bills and I must be honest & say “No!” Now shit gets ugly. She wonders why I am in the condition I’m in but have no cash. I say “it’s complicated.” My wife is gorgeous. She could easily marry some suit with a ton of dough tomorrow. I’m trying to figure her out. Does she enjoy the stench of dirty boots or the dirty TP stuck to the bottom of it? Either way I adore her and thank my lucky stars she tolerates me.

-Our son has a girlfriend

This shit is challenging. For me it’s great. A monumental event. As a Dad we love this. Our boys first girlfriend. It’s exciting. We high five each other and all. Not my wife. She hears the news and starts beating surrounding family members with wire hangers like she’s the grandmother of “Mommy Dearest.” Next she proceeds to bust out home videos of our son from the archives when he was a toddler. She begins to weep like this kid went off to war. I have to put my arm around her & console her and crap. Then the questions begin. Who is she? Where is she from? What’s her name? Nationality? Address? Does she own a horse? What’s her sign? So I crack a beer and remind her they are 12. They speak through Instagram & I confirm she is fucking insane. My wife wants to have a “sit down” with this girls “Great Grandma.” I’m really looking forward to the day my boys get married!!!!!!

-Romantic Getaways

This is actually funny. Our lives are so busy. We try so hard to keep that spark in the relationship. It’s pretty much an epic fail. Before marriage & kids it was Aruba. Bahamas. Doing shots out of the earlobe of the Jamaican fella next to you bellied up at the swim up bar. Whatever. Didn’t matter. It was just the two of you doing your thing. Things change. Now you have responsibility. A family. Career. Real life shit. Understanding this, you both make an attempt. Now a “Romantic Getaway” consists of running to Chili’s. Slamming six rounds of “two for ones.” Sneaking into your own home so the children don’t hear you. Lock the bedroom door. Your wife accidentally lights the night stand on fire thinking it’s a candle to set the romantic ambiance. You simultaneously agree to turn off every illumination device because you both resemble the mother of “Honey Boo Boo” before she had surgery. You grab your IPad. Throw on a “Billy Ocean” tune and before you know it, there is a knock on the bedroom door. It’s your children demanding chocolate chip pancakes. You and your wife are intertwined like “King Kong Bundy” & “A gay Shaquille O’Neal” playing a naked game of family twister. It now takes you 32 minutes to untangle. You both laugh and agree to try next week. What a great “Romantic Getaway!” Laughs & memories. That’s what’s important.

-Amount of money for a party gift

I never thought this would be an issue. This shit is serious. Before marriage I would drop 2-300 in an envelope for a friend celebrating his scrotum surgery. Wouldn’t think twice about it. Get married and have a family this debate with your spouse is monumental. The “what did they give us or your child for their celebration” is extremely important. You must keep good records. If there is no evidence of what you have received as gift from them you now start breaking down where the event is taking place. You both begin to figure out a “per head” formula. Start considering the day of the week the party is taking place. Start time. Is it a holiday weekend? Open bar? DJ or band? So much to think about. Honestly, one of the most stressful situations we encounter. I’m usually a bit more generous than my wife. It doesn’t matter to her. You could be getting married on top of the “Golden Gate Bridge” as Morgan Freeman descends from a helicopter to justify the peace on a Saturday night and my wife will insist on giving a construction paper themed homemade card stuffed with a $2 scratch-off & a gift certificate to Wendy’s!

Don’t invite us to your events. You will lose money. I believe the “Morgan Freeman” pre-sexual allegation appearance deserved minimum $50 in the homemade card.

Meaningless employment positions Part 2!

In life we all must encounter employees. Drivers of the work force. Individuals who are hired to perform a job & task at hand. Each & everyone of them have a responsibility. Take their job seriously. Treat their customers respectfully. Hold employment positions in the highest regard. Perform daily to the best of their ability. Make the boss proud. Do the best they can.

I wrote a post about this topic a while back so consider this a sort of “Part 2!” These meaningless occupations are all around us. Again, these are only my opinions. Some may agree. Some may disagree. There are jobs & positions for everybody. Somebody must take on the grind of performing these duties whether they are pointless or not.

I often wonder how such figures of employment have secured their positions. It’s mind boggling at times. We must press on & look past a few of these major employment mistakes we encounter.

Here is a list of employment positions I have personally crossed paths with on a daily basis. I scratch my head. I am baffled. I must carry on. Perhaps some of you have encountered similar situations. I’d love to hear about it some time.

-Grocery Bagger

Why are you in the store? What is your purpose? There are 19 cashier lines (four are actually open) and one of you. You always appear extremely fatigued asking if I want paper or plastic. You bag one onion and vanish. Your dreadlocks haven’t been cleansed in decades. When you finally get around to bagging my products, there is one item per bag. Pack that shit up. Stop putting one clove of garlic in a plastic bag capable of carrying a 37 pound turkey dumb ass. This is also not a social club. Stop hitting on the depressed cashier sporting a teal green “Princess Leia” hairnet with a tattoo of a pet snail on her wrist. Please stop it. Bag my shit & earn your keep. I don’t give a rats ass about paper or plastic. Secure that shit and I’ll be on my way. See you next week.

-School Crossing Guards

(This is honestly not pointless but I need to discuss)

I have children. Thanks for attempting to keep our youth safe. Here’s the issue. Most of you are 89 years of age with a severe case of scoliosis. It appears our children are actually walking you across the street. It’s a great gig you all got going on. On a side note, please stop driving your 90k Mercedes Benz to work. You illegally park it on the side roads of our streets and patiently wait for students to take you for a walk. Please stop waiving at every vehicle that drives past you as if they donated their liver to you. It’s not that exciting. Nobody is that friendly. This ain’t a friendly neighborhood. These crazy ass New City, NY women will run you over like a flea ridden “Phil the Groundhog” who has not seen his spring anticipated shadow. These bitches are so pissed they now have to wait 6 more weeks to work on their dried out cranberry complexion they will run you and the flock of road crossing students over so stop being so polite. Give them the finger and launch bottle rockets at them. On a serious note, thank you all for keeping our children safe as they cross the road like a herd of confused dehydrated wild turkey. 😜

-Home Depot & Lowe’s workforce

Again, I may have mentioned this topic in a prior post but this shit never gets old. I’m dying to know the qualifications & stipulations for employment at these establishments. I am in the construction business. I know my shit. Occasionally I need some guidance. For example, I may need some direction of where an item is located. An aisle number perhaps. Just put me on the proper path. I don’t ask for much. I am the customer. I am entering your establishment. I am here to spend my money on your product. I expect quality service. Capable employees. I don’t think that’s much to ask. I walked into Lowe’s the other day. I politely asked an employee if they knew where an item may be located. This worker who was hired by this company who represents their brand and reputation was break dancing on top of a pile of lumber. He was surrounded by 3 other employees from the plumbing department hovering around him like he was “Dancing with the Construction Stars.” I asked again for some assistance and he turned & smiled towards me as his set of 24k Platinum teeth sparkled beneath the lighting fixtures like he was the MC at “Studio 54! Meanwhile I haven’t been to the dentist in seven years. My teeth are so green I was considering stealing Christmas this year. He replied, “Whats up son. I got you. You gotta go down to the customer service desk. They will help you.” I’m thinking to myself what the fuck is this employees daily job responsibility? The first thing you read before you enter the store is “If you do drugs, do not apply.” If this employee with fingerless vented black leather gloves doing a head spin on top of the Sheetrock as nine fellow colleagues gather around him cheering him on like he’s fucking Ozone from “Breaking Two Electric Boogaloo” is sober, bless him. He has great energy. Frustrated customers wait patiently for his assistance. If he is not indulging in illegal narcotic activity, I will toss Serena Williams salad on a humid afternoon in the Sahara Desert.

-Toll Collectors

This may be the best job in the world. They put their headphones on. Collect our money. Nothing physical. What I don’t get is this. Why do they protect themselves and appear to be preparing for the apocalypse. The other day I approached a toll. I rolled up. Handed my money off to the collector. This woman was dressed in a hazmat suit. She had her own security crew & a shotgun hanging from her plexi-glass window. I understand their are some nasty ass sick people out there but come on. She looked like a cross between an Eskimo & a diabetic Rambo. Lady I’m here to pay my 35 cents & move on. I’m not here for war. Meanwhile her headphones were blasting “Little Wayne” so loud I could have shoved a “Roman Candle” up her ass and she wouldn’t have noticed. Enjoy your position. Won’t be long before you will be helping me at Lowe’s. Toll collectors are on the brink of extinction I believe.

-Mall Security

This one has my nuts in a bunch. These bastards take their job serious. Please don’t ever spill a drop of your “Baskin Robbins” rocky road ice cream on the mall floor or a 457 pound mullet infused mall officer with extreme halitosis will have you in a choke hold. He will attempt to call in back-up and the only help to arrive will be the Middle Eastern man selling plastic nuclear airplanes. What exactly do you do mall cops? What are you securing? A potential “Wetzel Pretzel” robbery? Why are you wearing a cowboy hat? How does one become Mall security? Let’s be honest, your sole purpose is to jump on a potential perp. Hold them down and wait for proper law enforcement to arrive and deal with the current situation. Unfortunately, all you have is Mohammed at the moment. I’m in construction. I watch Bob Villa and shit to get inspired. I pay special attention to “Robert Vanwinkle AKA Vanilla Ice” & I study all of his brilliant home renovation tactics. He’s is a role model of mine. Without his professional guidance I wouldn’t be where I am today. I also would never have learned how to do the “wap.” Does a mall cop watch “Paul Blart” & find the necessary tools & inspiration to perform their job? Protect & serve the little fat kids walking around with cheeseburgers dangling from their chins? Do they restrain the crazy ass Chinese kiosk owners selling poisonous slinky’s? How do you keep Santa & the Easter Bunny safe during the challenging holiday months? The role you all play is ironically significant. Cherish what you do. Wear your pride consisting of that plastic gold star known to cause cancer in the state of California from the clearance rack of Spencer’s on your chest proudly. Why are you driving up and down the parking lots in your Prius? I could outrun you in the snow with tennis rackets & cement blocks attached to my feet. Speed up. Stop cruising around like you’re gonna make a difference. If I lose my keys I’ll be in touch. Thanks for your service.

-Bathroom Servant

(I’ve mentioned this occupation in the prior post but it’s a legendary position within the workforce. It must be brought back to life once again)

Dude go home. Not sure how you got this position. Did you attend college in order to earn a degree in observing people piss and crap themselves & follow up with a Masters in “how to sell them orange tic tacs? I want to take a dump, wash my hands and move on. I don’t need pomegranate scented wet naps and rosary beads to complete my transaction. Although there is never a “price tag” on your bathroom items available for our pleasure, there’s always a catch. We abide by the honor system. Gratuity is inevitable. It’s protocol. We get it. I don’t mind tipping. I usually tip anybody who performs a service for me. I understand. I try and help those who work hard no matter what their employment position happens to be. Here’s the deal. I’d rather walk into the bathroom and have you wipe my asscrack. Now that’s service. I will compensate you handsomely. I promise. I would grasp the sense I was getting my money’s worth. I’m not interested in purchasing a stale pack of juicy fruit or a cubic zirconia shoe horn signed by John Candy. It’s awkwardly painful as you anxiously gawk waiting for me to finish tinkling. I understand your intentions are good in assisting me in the cleansing of my soiled hands. I’ve been doing this shit for 43 years. I don’t need an illegal immigrant with three rotten teeth dressed in a pink tuxedo to participate in the process. I’m good. Here’s a buck. Douse me with a shot of Stetson & please, I beg you, please don’t ever try to sell me a watch & a cashmere cardigan in the bathroom of a strip club. Thank you in advance.

-The salesman hired off the street dressed as a character with absolutely no connection to the product being sold.

These employees crack me up. The employers of these new establishments equally amuse me. To be honest, I find this fine tuned well oiled sales pitch marketing machine targeting mainly motorists traveling through busy intersections quite fascinating. A new business opens up. They are excited. They want to promote their new adventure & product. Naturally the most intelligent approach to this is simple. First, the employer must locate a 16 year old teenager addicted to Red Bull & “Call of Duty.” They discuss terms and negotiate compensation rates. Next, they require the young employee to suit up and transform. His role has been set. He now is instructed to jump up and down like his asshole caught fire waiving his character extremities uncontrollably to the local traffic. Keep in mind he is wearing a “Tickle Me Elmo” costume & performing the “Dougie” on a curb while attempting to sell a Martha Stewart inspired “Anal Leakage Prevention Cream” to potential consumers who are late for work and haven’t had their coffee yet at 9:30 am. Who is responsible for the PR here? Does the management of these companies actually gather around and host staff meetings to discuss this genius approach to luring business towards their location? I have so many questions. Please tell me when any of us have actually driven down the road at 55 MPH & caught a glance of some individual dressed like “Beaker” from the muppets hopping around like he’s at a “Rave” only to slam on the brakes, hook a u-turn determined to visit this new, mysterious & much anticipated grand opening? I never seem to make the connection. On a positive note, this marketing technique has opened many job opportunities for our confused youth.

Regardless of what your job title may be or how useless it appears, always remember this. Perform your daily tasks to the best of your ability. Make your employers proud. Do the best you can. Just because I believe the position you hold is irrelevant, you must continue to strive. Don’t listen to me. Make your Momma’s proud. Stay focused. Treat all ass cracks that happen to cross the path of the dirty stalls you monitor equally. Always keep the trident fresh. Service with a smile is important. We as customers expect great attention. If you actually had the balls to interview for a job that requires you to sell deodorant & rubbers to men after they piss & shit all over themselves, you are cool in my book.

Not sure you actually want to be part of that book but hey, it’s my book.

Good luck to all no matter what your occupation may be. You are all special!

How life seems to change once we get married & start a family. It’s magical.

I have been happily married for almost 14 years. I think. I enjoy my life & time with my wife & our two beautiful boys. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I am human. I have feelings. I also have a memory. I can’t help from time to time to reminisce about how things were before marriage & children. I’m sure I’m not alone on this. It’s not a bad thing. I believe it’s a natural emotion most experience during their time together with their significant others. Some may fantasize about how their lives were before marriage. Some may have buckled under the pressure of commitment. Some may wonder what life would be if they never ventured down the path they are on. My path has been paved and it’s perfect for me. But, I’ve always had the urge to compare the life I lived before & during my marital journey.

I have compiled a small list of life situations that I’ve experienced throughout the years. Before those two little beautiful creatures my wife & I created took complete control of every facet of our existence. Literally. I would have it no other way.


Before I took the plunge & tied the knot it was Spring Break. Friends. Sexy ladies in bikinis. Oily dudes with muscles popping out of their ears. Sun soaked beaches. Not a concern in the world. It was simple. Then I met the love of my life. Fell head over heels. Cautiously committed. Produced some offspring. Vacations & time off now consist of over priced visits to a park hosted by a mouse. Pennsylvania is now a hot destination. Hershey kiss chocolate theme parks with six foot Reese’s peanut butter cups wondering around aimlessly. A Crayola Crayon factory is the most exciting shit possible when your children are toddlers. You suddenly transitioned from college girls with perky boobies doing shots off your belly button to entering a coloring book contest as your partner in the event, a 16 month old kid, drools uncontrollably onto the coloring book. You become aggravated because naturally we are competitive. As the parent and role model, we try and keep our composure. Set a good example for our little ones. Your child continues to leak saliva all over the joint while every other kid is sitting upright. Well behaved. Great posture. Lips are dry as a bone and you have to try & participate in a civil manner. Biting your tongue. The drive home is a battle with your spouse trying to figure out who’s side of the family is responsible for passing down the child’s drool condition. All this for a fucking crayon.


Ok I get it. Marriage. Careers. Children. Life. It’s exhausting. It’s hard to find that right moment to romantically engage but let’s get serious for a minute. I didn’t plan on marrying Mary Fucking Poppins. I knew things would slow down a bit but WTF. Romance before marriage was great. Taco Bell restrooms. Cruising down the highway. She would jump right on top. I couldn’t see shit and I didn’t care. At the dinner table in my Moms house on Christmas morning. It was fun & exciting times. That all changed in a flash. Those two little bastards came and I suddenly drifted to some of those peep shows on 42nd street on Friday nights. It cost me 5 cents to watch some 900 pound woman do a strip tease to Ricky Martin’s “Livin La Vida Loca” in a termite infested private booth. The only thing separating the two of us was a filthy piece of Saran Wrap. I found myself needing to make appointments with my wife to fornicate. Seriously. We hired a secretary to field our calls and arrange our intimacy sessions. An overweight retired lunch lady named Flow sat at my kitchen table & booked our reservations & requests for future love making sessions. My wife was always booked at least three months out. I felt like I was making an appointment for a colonoscopy. Finally, I just grabbed her at our child’s spring school concert and set that shit straight. Things have been great since then. I’m lying! She has served me with divorce papers. Or at least she wants to.


Again. So hard. We are all extremely busy. Before marriage we tried hard to impress. Look our best. Things change. My wife comes home from work and gallops into our bedroom. She strips of her daily work attire. She returns with a devious smile performing that “Risky Business” slide across our hardwood floors wearing a pair of my faded blue boxers handed down from my Dad and a coffee stained T-shirt she’s been wearing since her Christening. Shit doesn’t fit. It’s just chaos. But she’s comfortable. Then I come home. Strip naked in front of her mother and plop down on the couch next to her. Crack a beer and start shooting the shit with the entire family. Nobody even blinks an eye. This is marriage. My kids sit butt naked at the kitchen table eating their spaghetti & meatballs FaceTiming their friends and not one goddamn individual in this entire situation finds anything wrong with this. So I just run with it. Who needs to look sexy anymore I guess. It’s all about being comfortable. If I happen to come home one day and see my mother in law sitting on my velour couch in a g-string, my level of concern will rise. Until then, I’m running with this shit.

Vehicle Purchases

We went from GTO’s, Mustangs, El Caminos & Thunderbirds to purchasing a transportation contraption that resembles a space shuttle without wings. To make matters worse we install that ridiculous stick figure family portrait on our rear window and proudly wear a bumper sticker that admits you are a PTA participant. We do what’s best for our family financially & most importantly, safely. I believe this is one of the hardest adjustments for us men. Selling our baby. Our prize possession. Our badass car. The same vehicle that has been the gateway to our female encounters. We must part ways if we want to stay married. Simple. I know it’s a struggle and one of the most challenging decisions we as men will ever have to make. On the right is your beautiful restored Mustang. Perfection. The fruit of all your childhood labor. Your first true love. To the left is your wife. She is holding a steak knife to your larynx. Sell the vehicle or you are dead. It’s simple guys. Happy wife, happy life. No words have ever been spoken with more truth. I’m gonna tattoo this statement across my ass cheeks as a reminder.

Letting Lose

Almost an impossible task once you settle down and start a family. I won’t even try and explain why. If you are married with children, you already know exactly what I’m talking about. I can’t help but remember the good old days. Worry free. No responsibility. Just my girl and I. Having fun. Here is a prime example. My future wife and I went to a local Chinese food hotspot that made the most glorious Mai Tais. We engaged. We laughed. We drank. We eventually both fell back off our bar stools and landed on the disgusting Chinese carpet in front of 569 people but we didn’t care. We were in love. I still wasn’t sure if she was the one I would spend the rest of my days with. That moment was magical. A bit foggy & blurry but I recollect. All I can remember was kissing her goodnight. I took a second glance. I glanced three more times. I rubbed my eyes with Tabasco sauce to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. That defining moment. My future wife walked up to her parents door. No shirt on & rang the door bell at 3am. Being the gentleman I was, I waited until someone opened the front door then I got the fuck out of dodge. My soon to be wife stood awkwardly as her Mother opened the storm door. One of her breast just swayed nervously in the wind. My woman entered the home & leashed up the family Rottweiler with her other breast and took the animal for a walk. Her mother looked at this and felt this was a normal event. That’s when I knew I wanted to be a part of this family. Next day I bought her a ring and here we are. I haven’t seen her boobs since.


Before marriage fights were juicy. Exciting. Fight worthy. You actually looked forward to a good lovers quarrel every now & again so you could have make up sex on your Grandmothers plastic covered furniture. Jealousy was always a great instigator. Not anymore. Today’s fights are not the same. Post marriage & children of course. One of our “epic” brawls since we’ve been married revolved around the fact I brought home a wilted head of lettuce. She was in the mood for a salad. I made a mistake. I’m not a lettuce enthusiast. I was fucked. This women tossed meat cleavers at me. She kicked me out. Locked the doors. Took the kids to her parents and shit. I couldn’t reach her for days. All because the head of her lettuce had some brown shit on it. I thought make up sex would be superb. She eventually forgave me and we made up. Our “make up session” consisted of me attending a sleep away camp to educate myself on how to select the proper produce at a grocery store. After two weeks I finally came home. She let me back in. All was forgiven. I walked in like Dr Phil on viagra. In my mind I was going to passionately throw her down on a bed of lettuce & carrots on top of our poorly constructed Formica counter tops. She had a different approach. She rubbed a radish on my nipple as a form of foreplay. Spanked me with an artichoke and proceeded to send me to my room to think about my actions. Damn I miss our “Pre-Marital” fights.

Public Affection

Don’t get it twisted. I am not a wishy washy little bitch looking to be cradled in the arms of my woman. That’s a far cry. But. I would appreciate the fact that I may possibly exist within the path and relationship I have been apart of. I think. Before marriage, my woman had that shoe box full of memories. Our daily memories. All documented. Saved & protected. We went for ice cream, she saved the receipt. Movie tickets, saved. We even purchased one of those genetic makeover photos of what our child would look like in the future if we ever produced one. That was the exact moment we should have parted ways. Dave & Busters. Her & I in the photo booth. Laughing. Having fun. Technology was on the rise. The image arrived. I wasn’t exactly sure how this machine concocted this human creation but I was puzzled. It almost convinced me to never have children. All my future wife & I use to talk about was how “cute” our children would be and here comes a photographic image of a child who appeared to be 29 years old from Guam. His teeth were 6” long. He had a 3” congregated freckle nestled above his lip. His eyes were purple. He had a gang related tattoo on his neck & spoke eight languages. None of them English. I looked at my love and said, “he’s cute.” She looked at me & shoved a cheese steak in my retina. Regardless, we took our chances & married. We started a beautiful family. There was one issue. I couldn’t find myself anywhere in our family archives. And I still can’t to this day. There’s no evidence I am the father of these children or the husband of my wife. There’s no pictures of me anywhere. It’s just my wife, my two kids and my Mother in law. It’s like she simply hid the evidence. I checked her Facebook and there’s one photo where I think it’s my knee cap but I can’t be sure. She threw our wedding album & video out for bulk pick-up the following Monday after we were married. I’m starting to question if I even exist. I walk in my home and up my steps in hopes I will see a photo of myself. All I see is her Mom hugging my children. She’s smiling and shit. I asked my wife, “How come I’m not in any picture, ever?” She replied, “Shut up babe, you know we don’t do that!”. “Do what?” I frantically replied. She has 1896 photos on her Facebook page and I’m not in one of them. Her relationship status says “married to a guy.”

Bottom Line

In the end this honestly should not matter. Our lives change when we get married and start a family. You must adjust. Adapt & compromise. Grow. Connect. That’s what makes a relationship strong. This is a major decision. A choice. It’s a challenge & will be different for all. There are no rules. No guidelines. No instructions. Not one relationship will ever be the same. Don’t compare. Focus on you & what you are involved in. Nothing else should matter. Work hard. It’s not easy.

Although I wrote this post about “before & after” my life of marriage, I always stand by this. I know I made the right decision as far as sharing my life with my soulmate. Beautiful Mother of my children. Our family rock. The woman I chose to be with over any other. We have our ups. We have our downs. We wind up sideways at times. We face the many daily stressful battles of keeping a marriage alive & fresh. We never quit. We figure it out. It makes us stronger.

She will most likely divorce me in the morning. 😜