My final post. Brain off. Reality on. Thanks to all for the support!

My final post.

Hard for me to do. I found a passion. An inner inspirational outlet to connect with all of you. A somewhat consolation prize for the direction in life I had always dreamed of. Studied the art. Performed the art. Rode the dream wave as long as I possibly could.

A little thing called “life” creeped up. Then some strange other life altering event consumed me. I fell in love. Got married. Started a family.

The days of driving down to NYC auditioning, vehicle towed, booking extra feature rolls in Mariah Carey videos were over. I shit you not. I was casted as a “featured extra” in Mariah’s music video & hit song “Fantasy.” It was filmed at Rye Playland, NY. The contract agreement & monetary compensation was as followed. $75.00. No hourly rate. No SAG eligible rates. I jumped on board. This was my big shot. I sat on a wooden picnic table for 49 hours straight as my ass became infected with splinters. They were nice enough to provide the starving artists with water & some pretzels. Hour 50 arrived. I plucked the wood dowels from my buttocks and I was ready to perform. My role was pretty simple. Strap into the “Dragon Coaster.” Act happy. Hands up. Pretend I was having fun. Easy enough. We road the coaster as Mariah Carey’s hair was blowing off her head and landing in my teeth. I didn’t mind. I was a “Method” actor 😂😂.

Finally our scene came to an end. Some bitch with headphones & a walkie talkie like she was producing “Avatar” approached. She cut my check. After taxes I walked away with $9.00. Honestly I did not care. I was in a fucking music video. Shit was big time.

I’ll never forget the next day in school. I’m bragging. Signing autographs and shit. Making out with cheerleaders in Study Hall.

The video was released a week later. I let everybody know. We gathered at a friends house for the big video premier. Bowls of Doritos & cheese doodles. 12 pack of ice cold Bud Ice. My celebrity debut.

MTV builds up the anticipation. Chicks are giving me hand jobs and such. Video starts. A whole bunch of dancing to open up. Then my big scene had arrived. Everybody was cheering. I was one minute from having to change my Batman underoos. The coaster began rolling. Up. Down. Flying around at a top speed of 67 MPH. I would say a good minute or so went by and I couldn’t find my character. I knew this shit was ending soon. I began to sweat. Coaster came to a screeching halt. The room went silent. People were throwing cheez-itz at me. Booing. The cheerleaders threw my dick in the trash can. I was asked to leave. Ashamed. Disappointed. Embarrassed. The thought of facing my fellow students the following day had haunted me. I couldn’t sleep as I still had one rogue strand of Mariah Carey’s hair wedged between my wisdom teeth.

Woke up the next day. Said “I don’t give a fuck.” I was there. I road the coaster. They cut my ass out. Oh well. There’s always the next video. If you pricks don’t want to talk to me or give me future hand jobs so be it. Call me a fraud. A liar. A wannabe.

I didn’t give a flying fuck.

I’ve lived my life with that attitude & approach ever since. Pursued the dream for 10 years after. Booked some small jobs. Did some theater. Plugged along. Studied performing arts at a NYC college. Well, drank fishbowls full of Vodka at the local watering hole mostly. Occasionally made it to a required class called “Theater Dance.” I show up dressed like “Danny Zucco” as 89 gay men are twirling around in “short shorts”to the greatest hits of “Boy George.” I entered. Did the running man to “wake me up before you go go” for a minute or two and realized “Theater Dance” just wasn’t the career choice I had in mind.

Turned 28. Fell in love. Got married. Had twin boys. Picked up a fucking hammer and haven’t put it down ever since. Well to be honest, I’ve held that hammer since I was 15. Only thing I was really ever good at.

Started a construction company and here I am. It pays the bills.

I was late to the Facebook party. I was always against what it stood for and how it controlled people’s lives. 2015 I cracked. Opened a FB page. Began posting some shit on my mind. Mainly issues within my daily life & surroundings. Discussions always seemed to have a comedic twist. Not that I thought they were humorous. I was simply feeding off the energy & engagements of others who followed my page. Then there was always those individuals who couldn’t understand my humor. Thought I was more idiotic than comedic. Guess what? I didn’t give a fuck then, and don’t give a fuck now. 3200 followers inspired me to continue on the path of humor. 3 sat back creeping my page waiting for my posts to simply say “dude you aren’t funny” hahahahah. “Dude fuck you” This Is not political. Your minority vote is irrelevant.

Didn’t matter. I enjoyed making people laugh. Can’t please them all.

Fast forward to January 2016. I decide to make it official. My blog site “Termine Talks” is born. To be honest, should have named it “Termine Don’t Shut The Fuck Up.”

I write. Write. Keep writing. 150 published post later. Still writing. Can’t stop. Can’t control the inspiration. There is no “kill switch.”

I have been consumed. Addicted to the chuckles and laughter of those who have followed my posts. You have been the inspirational fuel. The reason I write. I appreciate the support immensely. You have no idea how much I’ve enjoyed this.

Perhaps a little too much.

I’m 2 1/2 years in. Writing as often I can. Whenever I can. That being said, I’m emotionally drained. Brain has been in overdrive since day 1. Has not stopped. Can’t stop. It must stop.

Every word, thought & story are my own. Only way I would ever do this. It’s created within. I lay it out each & every post for all of you in hopes it brightens your day. Brings a smile to your face. Perhaps helps you escape a bit and allows you to get lost within my chaotic world for a bit.

My ultimate goal has always been to make people “lol.”

The blog post comments, engagements through social media sites & my favorite of course, the real life personal interaction has given me a sense of self worth. A purpose. A connection to a life long passion of mine. A gateway to expand my mind. Be creative. Make a difference in someone’s life perhaps. Waking up to a DM message from a follower expressing the impact of my writing and how the post helped them through a rough day, week or year. It’s humbling. A main reason I have continued.

Unfortunately, I have burnt out. When I do anything in life, it’s to the max. I don’t hold back and I never give a fuck. Always been like that.

This blog has taken over me. In every aspect of my life. Every facet. Movement. Way of life. Breath of air. Doesn’t matter where I am. Where I go. Who I’m with. Makes no difference. I can create a story. My train of thought has no brakes. No reverse. No neutral. Transmission is slipping.

I don’t write this blog for a living. As a matter of fact, it’s a hobby. I write for entertainment purpose only. Don’t get me wrong, If I was given the opportunity to trade in my hammer for the pen I’d do it any day of the week if it would pay the bills and support my family.

In all honesty, I know a few who have some influence in the world of writing / blogging. Get me in front of a bigger audience and I’ll make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. That’s a promise.

For now the pen is down. Brain is off. You are all now safe.

Need to focus on life and my responsibilities. I truly enjoyed making you all laugh but it has come to an end..

Next time you read any of my material you better fucking believe I have junked the work truck and tools. Complete focus on inspirational thoughts.

Until then, thank you all that have followed my blog & your support. Honestly, would have never even made it this far without you.

Perhaps now I can simply enjoy a party, holiday celebration or a simple trip to the store without creating a story. We shall see!

Brain off. 🤪

Getting a “like” on Facebook. Who deserves them. Who actually gets them!

We all post on Social media. I would like to think most of us post to have fun or perhaps discuss a serious issue at hand as opposed to simply searching for that “thumbs up.” We all enjoy that 👍.

Here are a few situational posts I have noticed over the years that has confused me as far as how much attention they receive compared to what they actually should get.

1. A chipper happy well toned gentleman posts a picture shirtless at the beach while the sun shines ever so gently against his golden sun browned skin as crystal clear blue waves crash upon. Clams, mermaids and other sea creatures emerge for a once in a lifetime photo-op. Custom fabricated 180 foot hand carved Egyptian inspired sand castles create a surreal picture perfect magical photographic background

7-10 FB Likes

Some chick with a purple polka dot swim suit half eaten by a sexually deprived elephant seal stumbles across the same beach with an oyster biting her nipple posts the same photo. Her caption “Hey guys I’m finally single. Woo hoo!”

380-689 FB Likes

2. A man happens to catch a photo of himself eating a gourmet Italian combo from the most prestige Italian deli that has ever existed. Posts the photo.

50-75 FB Likes

A 69 year old lady huffing & puffing on a 9” Virginia Slim takes an eggplant parm and wedges it between her deflated shin bone bound boobs as nine grandchildren sit on her lap & winds up using this image she believes is a fantastic family photo for her yearly Christmas card.

690-1200 FB Likes

3. A male finally lets the social media world know he is single.

0-1 FB Like

A female makes that drastic mistake and let’s FB know she is considering the single life. Facebook creeper mother fuckers start doing internet backflips and shit. These “Jefferey Dahmer” pancreas eating lingering internet predators who couldn’t secure a date with SIRI are sending images of their sun dried portobello mushroom head shriveled hairy genitalia to these potential future mates. Dudes looking to sacrifice their Grandmas & shit to get the opportunity to score a romantic escapade with these soon to be single ladies!

2800-7000 FB Likes

4. A true hero sacrifices their life so we can live ours as we do. Something I believe truly most of you ungrateful humps really don’t comprehend.

100-200 FB likes

One of the Kardashian “shit for brains” rescue a kitten named “snuggles” or announce a break-up with some ex NBA player who overdosed at a whore house.

700k-Million FB likes (along with well wishes for the ex-boyfriends well being & a speedy recovery)

5. People who actually take the time to create an original post. Well thought out. Perhaps a comedic or honest depiction. Whatever it is, it’s their own words. Heart felt. Truthful.

75-100 FB likes

A random individual wakes up everyday searching for a creative meme or FB page that can arm them with a creative post that is not their own. Post it. People are so dumb they actually believe these imposters are creating this shit hahahah. Even go as far as “Omg you are soooooo funny” No they aren’t. If you want to give them credit for finding the funniest material from creative others that’s cool. Don’t put them in the category of creativity. It’s an insult. It’s embarrassing. They are as original & creative as the oversized bunion that resides at the base of my big toe.

300-500 FB likes (be creative or original when it comes to trying to make people escape and laugh. Otherwise stick to posting pictures of your pets chomping on cat nip or perhaps the salad you consumed at lunch)

6. Some couple posts an honest image of their normal life. Broke. Miserable. Managing. Trying to figure it all out. Real life shit.

100-150 FB likes

Other couples post happy shit. Like these fuckers have a perfect marriage. Shits all “little house on the prairie” like. Husbands out all day & night. Drinking. Cheating. Doing everything but loving their wife & children. Being a man. Dude walks in on a Monday evening stumbling drunk. Happens to accidentally trip over one of his children. Wife was waiting prepared with her camera phone to capture the “happy family moment.” Posts on FB strategically captioning “Daddys little girl. I love my husband. He’s the best father. We would be lost without you. Thank you for all you do for your family.” Hahahahah. You delusional fuck ass. Here’s a reality check. Everybody knows how fucked up your life really is. You aren’t fooling anybody although you always seem to be smiling in the “internet world.”

200-300 FB likes for your dishonest & false presentation. Don’t worry. As long as you believe it then it’s ok. 😉

7. Someone who’s not so “internet famous” can post a video of their father being eaten by a 59 foot rogue Megalodon on his summer vacation while he boogy boards in the Bahamas as his family looks on in panic. Although he appears to be crushed up like a Swedish meatball, he beats all odds & survives. It’s a huge story but nobody cares much because he is not a recognized father figure. Just another Dad consumed by an extinct prehistoric animal. No big deal.

100-110 FB likes (few thought & prayer bullshit recognition comments at best)

Somebody shares a video related to one of those extremely popular reality shows such as “teen mom” or “my 989 pound wife who always seems to be romantically linked to some 45 pound red neck named Harold sporting a mullet as she requires a crane to lift her up to take a piss or eat a stack of flapjacks” happens to be bitten by a carpenter ant or perhaps they share a video of somebody popping a pimple with a wingspan of 6 1/2 feet, followers go nuts. This father was bitten in half on a family vacation but some mother who got knocked up by a boy in a Subaru at the age of 16 is a topic these fools always gravitate towards.

25k-50k FB likes

8. A happy mom & dad post a video of their child hitting a heart felt home run. His very first. He plays the game for fun. Pride. Innocence. Genuine. Always a real moment. A memory.

200-300 FB likes

Some professional ball player fueled by greedy contracts & performance enhancement drugs knocks a few balls out of the park & people get excited. The fans spend their hard earned money to root & support these professional “icons” who won’t even run out a ground ball. It’s not just baseball, it’s all sports. Once these “professional” athletes reach the major league level it becomes a business. Part of this I understand. This is how these individuals earn a living. Support their families. Have some heart. You make 38 million a year. Run out your ground balls for the fans that spend $19 for a beer. $11 for a soggy hot dog served by some guy with no safety gloves as he spits all over it screaming “hot dog. Get your hot dog here. Hot dog here.” I have an idea. “Put on your board of health required rubber gloves” here. “Stop drooling on my dirty water dog” here. “Stop charging us $300 for a box of “Cracker Jacks” & a bottle of “Poland Spring” here.

2000-3000 FB likes (hustle for the fans who ultimately pay your salary you lazy shit. We don’t care much for your “Noxzema” endorsed commercials or the “Chunky soup” advertisements featuring your mother spanking your butt advising you to sip on sodium infused soup. Hit the ball and fucking run. Period.)

9. Some normal person posts a self inspired meal they created. Shit involves ingredients such as hand raised crayfish. Poisonous puffer fish toxins. Bread crumbs imported from Bangladesh. Hard boiled eggs laid by an Ostrich. Like real authentic chef shit. Well thought out & inspirational

56-86 FB likes at best.

Somebody shares a Paula Dean inspired macaroni & cheese recipe containing 27,000 grams of salt per serving, the churning of 11 sticks of butter and enough saturated fat to stop the heart of a 2 ton black rhino in 3 seconds.

9k-10k FB likes (god for bid that Emeril Lasagna character throws down 6 pounds of garlic & says “bam” those likes jump an easy 8k-10k. I’ll take my chances with the hand raised crayfish.

10. Trump followers.


Obama or the Democratic followers.


Not sure if those “like” numbers are accurate but they should be. As most know I’m not political but come on now. How much longer are you going to disagree, bicker & argue your political nonsense? Listen, I’m not the smartest guy in the room. When you start arguing your political point throwing out statistical numbers from 35 years ago when you are 32 years of age it’s a problem. First, you weren’t alive to give any credibility to your debate. Second, any info you spew out of your pie hole has been twisted so many times before it comes out of your mouth. I have a solution. Have your belief. Opinions. Keep it to yourself because it’s irrelevant & insignificant. Especially through a social media debate. Can’t believe how many countless seconds, minutes, hours & days you ass hats waste arguing your political belief knowing it’s a dead end. Understand this. He is your president if you live in the US whether you like it or not. Only way to change that is to relocate to another Country. He is not getting impeached. So forget that. Fighting on Facebook everyday about how great and decent Obama was and what a disgrace “YOUR” current president is has honestly made me want to set you all on fire. What makes it worse is that so many of you are so intelligent but when it comes to this issue, no offense, you are a “box of rocks.”

Shut the fuck up already. It’s boring. It’s repetitive. Your debate is as worthy as the the hair follicles on my earlobe.

I stand neutral on all of this. I ultimately support what is best for our Country, future of my children and our well being. Period. So you ass knots go out and vote. Want to make a difference? Support your party. Spend all the time you waste on FB daily & apply that same energy trying to make a difference. The leader of our great nation is determined by its people. Focus on the ones who are on your side. Build your political battle within. Please stop the political banter you honestly know nothing about. The “copy & paste” debate fueled by bias news channels is as credible as Billy Clinton professing his innocence “I did not have sexual relations with that woman” while he was stuffing cigars in her bearded clam in the Oval Office.

Wake the fuck up!

“When the children cry, let them know we’ve tried”

“When the Children Cry”

A ballad by a band called “White Lion” released in 1987. Thirty two years ahead of its time.

If you have never listened to the song please take a moment to soak up the lyrics. The message. I was thirteen years of age when these incredible lyrics were written during a time I don’t recall would inspire a musician to create such a powerful message. A cry out from the children of that era? A plea for their future?

I started writing this blog a few years back. My stories tend to have a comedic twist or at least I hope they do. If you are in search of a laugh I’m sorry, not today.

I have been very fortunate in finding the ability to create & bring to life over 150 posts to date. Every word my own. Self inspired. This song accidentally made it across my Pandora station. I believe I had an 80’s hair band station downloaded. Regardless, it altered my normal train of thought. I was preparing to discuss & share the conversation I had with my Mother-in law tonight after her & I drank a case of beer together as we complained about our significant others. I swear if we cracked one more beer we were going to dim the lights, burn a peppermint scented candle, pop in a “Boys 2 Men” cassette tape, hop on my cheap ass glass coffee table purchased at Bob’s Furniture eighteen years ago, start a game of naked twister as my wife walked up and down the hallway with a shop-vac clearly suffering from a severe case of plumbers crack preparing herself to bubble scrub the urine laced toilet bowl

The year was 1987.

I honestly don’t remember how bad things were for us children during those years. Besides the obvious struggles of youth, seemed pretty normal. Somewhat innocent. Baseball bats, gloves & rubber bases until the sun went down. BMX bikes. Skateboards. Kissing cute girls attempting to run our fingers through their 13 foot aqua net infused heads. Normal shit or at least what appeared normal at that time.

Here is what I do know. We never woke up and went to school fearing in the back of our minds we may get shot today. Thoughts of who will “like” our social media feed, what’s trending & how the Kardasians are doing wasn’t a part of life back then. Can’t argue the simple fact the world & everything in it has changed. I get it.

Here’s what hasn’t changed. Parenting. Raising our children. Passing on what we have learned and absorbed from our upbringing. Hopefully most of us were raised up within a decent household. If you weren’t I would like to believe you would want the best for your children as you provide them with a better environment growing up that perhaps you did not have. Either way, parents should do their best considering we took on a life altering challenge. Creating life. We chose to bring children into this world. It’s our responsibility to guide them as we seem fit. No rules. I never judge. My wife and I are on the same page in how we raise our boys. It works for us and what we believe in. It’s a challenge for any parent. We try and teach them “life” until they will eventually learn on their own. They will make mistakes. Grow from that point. Learn everyday.

Kids in 1987 raised themselves. We were never home. Our parents had the nerve racking task of screaming at the top of their lungs to call us in from the local ball field for dinner. We gobbled up our meal. Said dinner was great to our parents and thank you. Ran so fast back to play another game before the sunset. There were no cellphones. No communication. No tracking devices. We lived. We had fun. We survived. As long as we had a roof over our head, bed to sleep in, toilet to take a shit and a few meals, we got by.

Fast forward to 2019. What the fuck is going on man? I honestly don’t believe what I’m seeing at times. Children latch on. Go away. I didn’t see my parents sometimes for weeks. “Where’s mom? Dad where’s mom? Dad, dad? Dad where’s mom?”……”she’s getting her nails done you little shit!” The world has shifted. Technology has prevailed. Communication skills are slowly becoming extinct. I still get a kick every time I see my sons group of friends in a social media post like Instagram as 17 children sit on a couch staring into their phones texting each other. Dude you are right next to each other. I’m just curious how these children will make out with each other. In our day we jumped into a closet for 7 minutes or spun some old sticky soda bottle which determined who we would swap spit with. What are the young ones doing today? Who ever can text the quickest or create the best meme gets to kiss little Sally on a Facebook live feed? Confusing.

Have our morals changed?

Let’s please just call it as we see it. Our children are bi-products of their environment. From the moment they take the first breath until the moment they enter “the real world” or whatever that is, they look upon parents for direction. Guidance. Answer to their dumb questions. We are the direct link to their journey through this disgusting fucking world. Starts with the parents. The rest is on them on hopes we did the best we could. It’s never a guarantee a child will make the right choices in life. Once they taste freedom and independence, peer pressure & the mind warping reality of social media, anything is possible.

If a child has a thought of arming themselves with a gun, take it to school with a well thought out plan of how they will murder fellow students in cold blooded murder, guess what, you failed as a parent. These lost souls are just that and it’s because of you. The parents who don’t pay attention. Take the time to speak to them. You are too busy with your monetary obsession along with your social status bullshit you do not have the ability to recognize your child is crying out for your help. These children that carry out these unspeakable acts of horror are all exactly the same. Every single one of them. Same story. Same result. Innocent lives robbed of a precious life. Child being bullied? It happens. That’s another factor I believe fuels the rage. You as a parent should be aware of what is happening within your child’s life. Deal with it.

Example. My son had a little bully issue a few years back. He came to my wife and I. Spoke to us about it Want to know why? Because we are his parents and he can talk to us about anything. As should yours. I wrote one letter. The school did nothing as I suspected. Wrote another letter to the parents. Luckily they were understanding and responsible and we figured it out. Spoke to our children. It was over. Simple.

Two things. First, if you think your child is going to bully my child or a family / friends child and get away with it you are sadly mistaken. I will always take the high road. We are adults. We have to set an example. We should always try and figure out our differences in a peaceful but stern manner. Second, if you can’t get your child under control and have the ability to explain to them what is wrong with how they are treating others, I’m gonna come to your door step and smack the fuck out of you. Then I’m gonna have my boy smack the fuck out of that little shit before he picks up a gun and makes a bad decision.

The children are crying. Pay attention. My heart breaks and I cry for those poor parents who must find the strength to bury a child.

I will never write a post like this again. Tears are falling. Anger has consumed me. I’m out of my element. 😥

My brother Jeffy turned 50!!!!

Last night we celebrated the life of Jeffrey. My oldest brother. 50 years young. His wife Deborah threw a fantastic party. I feel like I have been derailed on this crazy train!

Although the night was a bit foggy as a direct result of vodka infused gummy bears and bourbon, some events I do believe took place but honestly, I’m not entirely sure.

Ten situations I think went down during the birthday celebration.

10. My brother Jeff is so addicted to cereal consumption that we celebrated his 50th year on earth by placing his face on a box of Frosted Flakes. Before you know it this fucker is gonna grace the cover of a Wheaties box.

9. I’m pretty sure my father had an erection after this photo.

8. My mother pulled Scott Curtis aside .Scott is a self proclaimed landscaping guru. Fuckers been spreading mulch and clipping grass since he was 3. My mother whispers in his ear “I have a tree I need to get rid of. Do you think you can take care of it for me?” as she backs him into a corner like she’s planning a mob hit. This woman is trying to sell rotting trees to this man. His answer was classic in the politest way possible “Sorry Paula. I don’t believe there is a market for people searching for dead trees.” Mom, are things that bad you are trying to sell bushes from your property to make ends meet?

7. I’m not sure if this one is true but fuck I hope it is. I think I got to sloppy second with J Spad. She’s a friend of mine that usually shows up to family events like baptisms and communions dressed like, well normally she doesn’t have a top on. She was overdressed for the occasion. I remember hugging her. Then she jumped into my arms like we were doing some shit from Dirty Dancing. Her left boob grazed the side of my mouth. I pre-maturely ejaculated as my wife was ok with all of this. Her husband then walked up, gave me a wet nap and I just ran. This fucker is like 6’ 8” with a wing span of 13 feet and was about to slap the piss out of me.

6. As the night went on, I never realized my cousin Joe Kennedy actually looks like a catfish from Chernobyl. This is a man I see almost every day. I’ve never noticed before but he has these offensive gray whiskers that curl around his upper lip. All prickly and shit with evident signs of blue cheese residue. Shits disgusting.

5. I think I arranged a wipe swap with my nephew Nick. He gets my 44 year old wife and I get his 25 year old girlfriend. I think this works in my favor. 😂

4. Some 14 year old asked me to get him a cigar. I told the young man I’d get him a vodka & tonic but I don’t condone smoking. I also told him he needs to grow some hair on his nuts before he puffs on a stogie. Hit puberty, pop that pimple on your cheek then come talk to me. Kids!

3. I’m pretty sure I was about to take this attractive bald headed gentleman to bed. We connected and shit. His wife was busting his balls. My wife naturally believes I belong in Rikers. The band played a monster ballad by Air Supply. We turned to each other. Had a moment. I pre-maturely ejaculated again. I had a pretty good night sexually to be honest.

2. I went for the hat trick. Three times a charm. Thank god I had some extra undies with me.

1. We tried. We tried hard. All I wanted was one thing. In honor of my brother Jeffy turning 50, I had this urge to pick his ass up. Invert him as he does a keg stand. Then place him back down gently. Naturally we would need some man power to make this happen. Jeff began to twitch and Tourette’s kicked in. He started to panic and the look of anger overcame his cute chunky face. He turned red. Began to sweat. Called the police on me and shit. Things were becoming dangerous as Lance and I were calling our Chloroform dealer to try and knock this fucker out so we could complete the task. I apologized and dropped a box of Corn Pops on the floor and said let’s try this again. This guy started doing backflips like Chris Farley at the Special Olympics. I understood. He was concerned about his belly exposed when we raised him up. I figured at that point we just place Saran Wrap around him. I had a plan. It never happened. Oh well. There is always his 60th.

Happy Birthday brother. Good times as always. Great job Deb. Love you guys.

Until the next episode.

Supermarket Encounters!

Ten individuals you will most likely encounter during your supermarket experience.

I don’t care who you are. Where you shop. How your weekly food store excursion begins or ends. These real life situations and characters are part of our food shopping routine.

10. The “old lady selecting corn on the cob.” I get it. Choosing the proper corn to consume is imperative. Why must these older ladies pick up the corn, stroke it, caress it, lick it and make me feel like I’m watching “grannies gone wild?” I’m aware you most likely have not had a nice “cob” in 70 years but can you please remove the husk before you wrap your dentures around it? Thanks.

9. The woman or man searching for true love. Dude, I don’t know who started this rumor about meeting your soulmate in a supermarket. Not true. It’s uncomfortable when we are trying to locate frozen pizza as you emerge from the freezer with polished white teeth and a rose bush trying to seduce us. We want to make a purchase and go home. If you are that desperate to stroll up and down the pop tart aisle at Acme in search of true love its time for you to run yourself through a meat grinder.

8. The Eskimo butcher employees. These fuckers act like they just captured a polar bear, skinned it, butchered it and put the meat out for our shopping pleasure. Dude, it’s hamburger helper. You are not a butcher. Take the ear muffs off. Stop walking around the store like you reside in Alaska. It’s 89 degrees in there. The smeared ketchup on your white painters smock is embarrassing. Clean your shit up.

7. The ingredient & health conscious fucker. These bastards will hold up supermarket traffic to read the health information on a can of spaghettios like they are studying for their open heart surgery final exam. Put on reading glasses and shit. Call their in-laws to explain the whole ingredient list. Puzzled by the 2000 % daily intake of B-9 yellow. Go fetch a Brussel sprout you healthy fuck nut.

6. The deli counter help. This shit can go one or two ways. You pick a number from that machine from 1956. Look around guessing the order of things. Your number is called. It’s always 120? Then 158? Where the hell did the other 38 humps go? You approach the counter. There are two types of deli counter help employees. The ones who think Swiss cheese grows on their nuts and the others who can sell you that bologna with green olives in it. Those deli meat salesman are good. Sharp. This dude once wearing a turban and sunglasses sold me 3 pounds of expired liverwurst. This guy was talented.

5. The cashier that can’t sell you beer. I hate this. You put your items up. They scan it. Next thing you know they make a scene and call for help. Everybody in the store looks at you like you are attempting to buy crack. Feds show up and shit. Then some ShopRite manager with a special badge around her neck made of macaroni & cheese appears. She’s 21 and a half and looks you up and down while she questions your true age as you suck on a rescue inhaler bound to your wheel chair pissing in a diaper. Then has the balls to say “sorry sir, we have to ID everybody. It’s policy” as your hospice nurse wipes the drool from your mouth. Haha.

4. The politician standing outside before you enter. Dude, all I want is some pasta and tuna fish. I’m not here to make a decision on who should be the next director of asphalt. Personally I don’t give a fuck. Fix the potholes and I’ll vote for your ass. It doesn’t end there. God for bid you entertain these relentless bastards. Give them an email and a phone number and next thing you know these hack nuts are breaking bread with you on Easter morning arranging “Egg Hunts” involving plastic eggs labeled “Vote Tom if you want to make a difference.” Tom the kids are three. Please stop it now and go home to your family and enjoy the holiday.

3. The parking spot enthusiast. They will battle to the end. Determined for that one spot without the blue handicap-cap spray painted line. No matter what. Next thing you know you are involved in a game of “bumper cars to the death” with some great great grandmother who has nothing to lose. She is 98 and you are 32 with a whole life ahead of you. There are nine spots directly in front but you must have that spot. Its a matter of walking an additional 9 feet but that’s irrelevant at that point. It’s worth the risk. Game on.

2. Broccoli selector. I don’t know what it is about broccoli but people are very detailed about the head of broccoli they choose. Not me. I grab the first head and shove it in the bag. Never fits. It’s a struggle. I’ve noticed people fondle their broccoli before they purchase it like they are baptizing that shit. Stick their fingers in it like they are gonna sexually turn on the broccoli and expect the broccoli to reciprocate. Like the broccoli is gonna orgasmically go down on them. Just them and a head of broccoli going at it in produce. Do us all a favor, please put your broccoli in a bag and go home. Please masturbate with your broccoli in private. Thanks in advance.

1. The produce returner. This is a real thing. You wouldn’t know it unless you are like me and cash in change at the coin star machine and have to wait on this line of terror to redeem your cash. This line is a nightmare. It’s usually me, a lady complaining about her cigarettes not containing enough nicotine, the butcher filing a complaint he is suffering from chicken juice exposure and some woman cashing a lotto ticket worth 9 cents. It’s an experience to say the least. Anyway, there is always a person looking to return a rotten tomato purchased in 2016. The clerk usually gives up and refunds them the dollar or so. Did you just let the tomato rot for two years and then decide it’s time to return it? You couldn’t make one salad within a two year period? A BLT?

True story. This shit happens.

Potty training our children. The struggle is real.

Potty training our children. What can I say. There are no rules. There is no instruction manual. Every child has a unique process of learning to shit on a toilet. I can only speak of my own personal experience on all of this along with how my wife and I have dealt and managed.

I never judge. We all handle our situations differently. There is absolutely no correct way to raise our young ones in this tough world although there will always be those individuals that will point fingers like they are the matriarchs of asshole cleansing. Make us feel like we are raising our children and wiping their anal cavities incorrectly.

To be honest, this mostly comes directly from rich women who’s husbands work their asses off while they spend the day drinking mimosas, filling their lips with cancer causing chemicals and critique everybody else while some illegal immigrant raises their own children. I blame the dumb ass husbands for this. Get some balls guys. You are all fools.

These judgmental bitches have never wiped an asshole besides their own so do me a favor, shut the fuck up.

This post goes out to the parents who have been in the trenches involving their index finger so far up their children’s butthole during potty training exercises they pulled out “George the Animal Steel” as they truly understand what it entails to finally get our young ones to crap politically correct. I’m talking crap landing on your lip type of shit.

The struggle is real.

I can only speak of how my wife and I have trained our boys in this department. And trust me, this shit is not easy. Blood sweat & tears.

I knew we were in for a huge challenge when I was forced to change my boys first diaper. While my wife was in the hospital room with our other son, I had the honor of changing one sons diaper who unfortunately was placed in the ICU. We had twins if you hadn’t noticed. The nurse looked directly at me and smirked, “Dad you ready?” I said “ready for what?” Nurse replied “to change your sons diaper.” What was I going to say? No? I was put on the spot and had to man up. I said “yes nurse. I’m ready. Bring that shit on.” The nurse turned my boy over and removed his diaper. If I’m being honest the scene was something out of “Saving Private Ryan.” The substance this child released from his heiny was not of human origin. It resembled hot bubbling tar that produced an odor that disintegrated my eyebrows & caused severe breathing issues. I had to be a man. A father. Step up and be tough in front of the nurses. So I reluctantly stuck my hand in. Got that shit on my pinky and froze. My lower lip began to quiver uncontrollably. My throat swelled up. I panicked. The nurse gave me CPR. A shot of Narcan. The Heimlich maneuver. Burped and swaddled me. I came around eventually.

I wondered how my wife and I would ever train our children to release these deadly toxins into a toilet bowl in a controlled fashion.

When it was time we figured bribery was our best option. We bribed them with “Jelly Bellies.” Jelly beans. Every time they had a poop brewing and gave us a sign we would pick them up and place them on the toilet bowl. They would crack a smile. Laugh. Drop a pebble in the bowl and we would reward them with a popcorn flavored jelly bean. If they dropped a rather larger poop we would give them like two of those espresso flavored beans. Things seem to be working well until it was time to teach them to wipe their cracks.

This was the challenging part in all of this. My wife and I had different training methods. I believed in letting them wipe. As they left residue in the butt this would create discomfort and will teach them a lesson to wipe better next time. Creatures of habit. She disagreed.

She believed our boys should always have clean assholes. Although I agreed a clean butt is nice, I strongly felt they had to learn maintaining a clean crack should ultimately be obtained as a result of failure. That was just me.

In the end she won. Her potty training method prevailed. I went with her. It’s a fight I could never win considering she was home with them and would be the one mainly monitoring the children’s ass ordeals.

They were two years of age. We got them on the bowl. Bribed by the sweetness of Jelly Bellies. Time to wipe. They tried. My wife walked in behind them. Finished up. Wiped them clean. It was cute. Three. Four. Five years of age. My boys began a pattern. They would crap and say “I’m done!” My wife would jump up ready for battle. Hazmat suit and all. Safety goggles & nose plugs. As they got older it got a bit weird & uncomfortable. Nine years old. “Im done!” My wife would run into the bathroom like she’s saving some kitten stuck in a tree. Twelve years of age. “I’m done” they would cry from the local mall bathroom and here comes my wife driving a tank with B.A. Baracus and the A-Team ready to wipe dirty ass. JR Ball “I’m done!” She descended from a hot air balloon into the gymnasium with a hand full of wet naps & cinnamon scented candles as she bent my boys over and wiped their cracks.

I didn’t know how or when this would end. What was the cutoff point? College graduation? “I’m done” as she ran up to the podium and shoved the valedictorian aside, lifted their graduation gown and power washed their anus? I was getting nervous.

I had to finally put an end to all of this. Shit was getting out of hand. She finally let go. The kids were now 35 and on their own and had to find their own way within the world of proper ass wiping.

They figured it out.

My point is this. We all have our own ways. There is no correct way. No right or wrong. Do whatever you feel is right and works for you.

Fuck everybody else!

First warm day of the year and here they come. Get ready!

Situations that transpire when the weather finally reaches 68 degrees for the first time after a brutal winter.

#10. People that run!

I don’t get it. Next thing I know I’m driving down the highway doing 85 MPH on a nice day and to my right I spot Apollo Creed sporting red gym shorts sprinting winning the race by a car length or so. Then I see the underdog Rocky in my rear view mirror huffing, puffing, drooling and slurring his words like he’s sucking on a dozen choco-tacos. Adrienne cheers this halfwit on from some guardrail or whatever. Silhouettes of Mickey form within the clouds “You can’t win Rock. Clubber Lang pops up in my backseat and begins to pummel the piss out of me. I really enjoy running in beautiful spring weather. 😂😂😂 The only place I’m running to is the fridge for an ice cold beer.

#9. Landscapers.

It’s as if they sit around with leaf blower backpacks harnessed to themselves through the cold winter months in anticipation of that first unexpected beautiful spring like day. 89 gallons of fresh gasoline stored in their pantries. The impatient lawn manicurists can no longer fight the urge as they grab hold of their turtle waxed lawn rakes they unwrapped on Christmas morning and prepare for the restoration of local properties. Restore order within the community. Get shit green again. Plant flowers. Battle the weeds. I get it. March 19th. Sunny and 68. Way above the climate average. 6am. These fuckers roll down the street like they are going to war. 6 lawn mowers. Tanks. Rocket propelled grenades. Chemical warfare. Bro it’s a few weeds and some leftover leaves from the winter months. You are not invading Pakistan. Please put the “Scud” rocket away. They are all so ambitious. It’s nice to see they want to get back to work and all. Next day we have a Nor’easter that drops 9 feet of snow and these humps must fall back and retreat. Depression sets in naturally. Until the next warm day guys. I’m rooting for you.

#8. The car washers.

Holy shit. I just want to know how these car wash establishments prepare so quickly. Place is shut down for months. First warm day you better believe they are open for business. 69 workers. All systems a go. Water flowing. Soap bubbles. I need to know how they find so many employees willing to dry a vehicle on such short notice. Is there like a “vehicle drying union?” . It’s amazing. Again, next day it snows heavily and seems to defeat the purpose of all of this. We are an impatient species.

#7. The Tan individual.

Ok. You are not fooling anybody. These individuals roast in microwaves and “Easy Bake Ovens” all winter waiting to emerge. One warm day these oil slicked greasy bastards strut amongst us. Lean against their cars and pump gas and believe we are staring at them because they are naturally golden tan. We all want to know their secret. In all honesty, you look as if you have caught fire from the overflow of diesel fuel as you try with all your god given strength to fight the discomfort you are experiencing. One question. How is it even possible to tan the whites of your eyeballs?

#6. Convertible lovers.

You do understand that the temperature at the hottest point of the day is 68 degrees but with the wind chill in the month of March it feels like 38 and you are flying down the road at 70. You are stopped at a red light glancing over at me suffering from hyperthermia as icicles dangle from your left nostril. You make every attempt to keep your composure realizing you made a major mistake. As soon as we pull up to the next red light it’s quite apparent you are 6 minutes from death as you shiver uncontrollably like you are trying to save Rose from the Titanic. Rescue choppers drop down to hoist you up and airlift your dumbass to the nearest hospital to thaw the frozen body out. People, please cover yourself within your means of transportation until the groundhog sees his shadow. Thanks.

#5. Sexual Humans.

I’m guilty as fuck in this category. I wake up. Smell the warmth. The crisp air seeps through the bedroom window and I attempt to flip my wife around at 4:30 AM like a stack of all you can eat “Flap Jacks” from IHOP. The reaction and response is exactly the same as if it was 2 degrees. 30 degrees. 60 degrees. 89 degrees. She reaches over and grabs her night stand and cracks me over the fucking head with it. As I lay besides her bleeding rapidly, she belts out in anger “Are you fucking kidding me. What are you doing?” I reply “Get up babe, it’s warm. Doesn’t this weather make you horny?” She calls the police and I ultimately serve the day in jail for domestic violence. Guys, don’t let the weather fool you. At least wait until 6AM to make a move.

#4. People in parks.

Can you please give the community a chance to clean up the piles of wild geese shit that litter the park grounds? These prissy little bastards slide into matching rose petal embroidered half jeans that roll up just below the knee cap, swaddle up their 9 year old infant named Tatiano, pack a kale frittata and baste in the geese shit soaked sun as the father flys a Batman kite while mommy snaps pics for Instagram like these two geese shit stains are enjoying this day. Get lost. Clean the park up and wait until its ready for your enjoyment.

#3. Police encounters.

Be careful. The officers get impatient when it gets warm. I’ve learned this first hand. They have to lug around 50 pounds of gear. They sweat. It becomes irritating for them. God forbid you forget to turn that blinker on heading into the local gas station and the pursing officer behind you has a severe case of swamp ass. That fucker is throwing his lights on and you have some explaining to do. You can always detect how aggravated they are along with the severity of the swamp ass conditions they are dealing with from how fogged up their sunglasses are. It’s as if the swamp ass energy backs up within them and has seeped out of their eyelids. I’m convinced they simply want our license & registration to dry the soiled asscrack. We must comply. Respect & love always to those that risk their lives each & everyday to keep us safe. Thank you all! Much appreciated.

#2. The construction flag man.

This fuck thinks he’s modeling for Gucci. Dude, you have an excessive amount of hot lethal asphalt soot embedded into your chest. You’re waiving a flag totally off key dancing around on the streets squinting your eyes that are actually glued shut from rogue hot molten rock trying to pick up women passing by in their cars and I’m like “that dude with the backwards Jets construction hat is melting. Should I give him the Heimlich maneuver?” Mad respect for all your hard work man. I can promise you one thing. I’m pretty certain in the history of mankind and men chasing ladies, there has never been a case on record where an attractive woman jumped out of her vehicle, grabbed a flag man suffering from 7th degree asphalt burn in need of immediate medical attention and fell head over heels. Lived happily ever after. Just a hunch.

#1. People on Facebook on that warm day.

We all know how nice it is outside. Your confirmation of this simply clogs up our news feed with useless information. Old news. Open your windows. Breath it all in. Enjoy it. Don’t waste your precious time letting the one friend that actually pays attention to your post know about it. Please don’t be that person. It’s almost as bad as the person who posts those score updates of the the local sporting events taking place that day. I have ESPN 1,2,3,4 & 98. Internet. iPhone. Lab tops. Fire stick. Boomer & Geo. Smart televisions in every establishment known to man. An uncle that’s 6 steps ahead of you. I know the Giants are beating the Bills by 7. Thanks ass knot!

Here we go again. Aggravating humans!

There are certain people who reside on our beautiful planet with personalities & character traits that seem debatable. Sometimes the occupational positions they pursue must be questioned. Sometimes they have no choice as they must pay the bills. Sometimes it seems their sole self worth & existence on Earth is to simply complain. They seem to have been sucked in & trapped within the world of “somebody has to do it role.” Desperate times call for desperate measures. Sometimes that shit annoys the fuck out of us. Nothing we can do honestly unless you are me who writes his own blog and can discuss whatever the hell he wants to discuss. My opinion usually makes no difference & has little influence on others if I’m being honest. Hell I try though.

Pretty sure I have spoken on this topic in a prior post. There are so many walks of life we can talk about it a tad bit more I guess. Here are a few examples.

#10. The coffee complainer.

These fucks believe they are entitled to endless amounts of coffee whenever and wherever. I understand the way it works and how these people are mislead. Go to a local diner for breakfast. Order coffee and here comes the 79 year old vocally challenged waitress named Flo who smokes 3 packs of Virginia Slims before noon and nine busboys dressed in tuxedos made out of construction paper shove free coffee down your throat like you are the CEO of Maxwell House. Then the establishment wonders why they must place signs in the bathrooms begging patrons to please refrain from flushing napkins down the toilets. Dude stop pouring coffee down our throats like we have 3 assholes. God for bid these humps have to pay for a cup of joe outside of a diner. They start splitting one cup amongst a party of 9 and have the balls to request extra splenda. They demand cream and extra spoons. Please just cough up the two bucks and shut the fuck up you cheap bastards. Flow is not your waitress and you are at a Steakhouse you hump. The porterhouse you just ate was $109. Cut the shit.

#9. Guy begging outside of a convenient mart.

I have no problem helping people in time of need. I really don’t. A line must be drawn. Please don’t dance in front of me in your peanut butter & jelly stained jump suit at 8am begging for a quarter as you grab your nut sack and extend your hand out for a donation. If you want a cup of coffee I’ll get it for you. I’ll buy you a Snapple or a bag of chips. I’m not reaching into my pocket and giving you money and risking contact with your hand that has been rubbing against your dirty nuts on a hot July morning for eleven hours straight. Just not doing it. Get a hat or a change bucket to collect donations and we can talk. And please take some of the cash you collect to purchase some mouthwash. Your breath could disintegrate China in three seconds.

#8. The phone scammer.

This one is great. I receive dozens of calls per day. I usually ignore these calls but this time I decided to pick up. My phone detects the caller ID as “Scam Likely” on most occasions. I pick up and greet the individual. I say “hello.” This dude is so shocked I picked up the call he begins to stutter and shouts “hello sir. My name is Sinbad. How are you?” I reply “great Sin, how are you. What’s up man?” He gets down to business and informs me of the purpose of the call. “Well sir I’m here to inform you your identity has been stolen and I’m here to help.” I reply “well whoever stole my identity has now inherited a $300,000 debt, will be arrested within minutes, has a warrant out for their arrest & married to a Spanish woman who will cut your dick off with the heel of her shoe. So good luck Sid.” He never called back again.

#7. The weather man.

Why are these individuals here? Employed? What is the purpose of their occupational existence? The weather is the one thing that is never consistent. Predictable. Why do I need some sexually confused young gentleman with beautiful teeth and a superb hair due dancing around in front of me pointing towards a map projecting rain drops? Potential snow fall? What does he know? You must stop being so confident in your delivery. I would have so much more respect for the weatherman who stands in front of us and simply says “the weather for tomorrow is as unpredictable as my sexual orientation. Could snow. Rain. Hail. Typhoon perhaps. Could be 103 degrees. May be 38 degrees. Who the fuck knows.” Now that would be an honest & accurate forecast.

#6. Home Depot or Lowe’s employees.

Why are these people even there? What is their job title? How did they secure their positions? What are the job requirements for employment? I don’t get it. I walk in and everyone says “hello sir, how can I help you today?” It’s always a good initial start and the service always seems so polite and on point. So I answer, “hi, I’m looking for a paint brush. Can you help me?” The employee begins to shake nervously and must call for backup. They start paging other employees over the intercom system. Managers arrive. Dudes on forklifts show up as co-workers guide them and shut down the store for safety purposes like these fuckers are guiding a commercial airliner for takeoff. Finally the one dedicated knowledgeable employee shows up. He was born into this world for one purpose and one purpose only. Become that “Rain man” Home Depot director of items. This employee can tell you exactly where to find a 2″ galvanized screw. Ear muffs. 9 volt batteries & goo gone. This employee is rare and a breath of fresh air. Then his colleague arrives on the scene with an apron wrapped around their knee cap as they dance down the electrical isle. “Yo what up. I got you, What you need bro?” They mumble. Really dude. You were half asleep on the pile of insulation 6 minutes ago. Comb your hair, brush your choppers and get your shit together. Pull up your apron. You look like a homeless Betty Crocker.

#5. Car wash vehicle dryer employees.

I have absolutely no idea what these people do. Your car comes out of the car wash contraption. Never fails. Always seems to be 17 people armed with spray bottles & rags like they are prepared to re-create a scene from “Red Dawn” or some shit. They attack your car. Spanish women surfing on top of the cleansed vehicle like “Mikey J Fox” from “Teen Wolf” trying to fornicate with “Boof.” Not sure what this car drying army actually does but I always enter my vehicle when they are done and I feel like I’m in a swamp. My console is filled with windex. My dash board appears to have been smeared with White Castle burger residue. To make matters worse, these hard workers walk away proud from the “fruits of their labor” smiling in honor and shit showing off a new gold tooth like they just robbed the tomb of “King Tut.” Dude, take your towel and dry something. Stop dancing. Smiling. Rocking back and fourth. Get your head phones off. Dry something. You have one job. Soak up water. Don’t look at me for gratuity until shit is dry..

#4. The movie theatre security flash light individual.

What exactly is the purpose of this? They enter the theatre usually about 20-30 minutes into the film. They walk up the isle. Shine a light in our eyes during an important moment of the film. Turn around and leave. What are you looking for exactly? What tends to happen when you discover a teenage couple sliding into second base? Or somebody sneaking in illegal popcorn? Perhaps a leg up on the back of a chair? What is the protocol? What are you searching for? What are the repercussions? The penalties? I never understood the purpose of what you are doing. Seems like such a waste of batteries.

#3. Anybody handing out a flyer.

This just seems so old school. People still do this? Apparently yes. Has anybody ever actually took the time to read a flyer you received on the street? Like did you ever read the information on it that informed you Tito was now cutting hair at the local salon? If you book Tito before Saturday you would get a free lollipop courtesy of Tito? Did you ever stop what you were doing at that very moment and call Tito? No. You ripped that shit up an threw it in the garbage can. Tito is always shit out of luck. Seems like such a waste of ink. If anybody has ever actually contacted Tito and booked an appointment as a direct result of Tito’s flyer, please come forward.

#2. The temporary business mascot character.

For anybody desperate enough to dress up like a hot dog or Gumby god bless you. Shit must be real bad for you. But I get it. You are out hustling and trying to make some extra cash. Props to you. It’s the owners of the business I don’t understand. Do you honestly believe hiring a person and dressing them in a ridiculous costume while they jump around like “Toy Story” on a busy intersection will drive new business towards your establishment? Maybe it works. I don’t know. All I know is this. When I see your costumed employee humping a “no turn on red” sign I kinda don’t want to be a part of what you are selling. No offense. Nothing says come purchase some Jewelry from your shop like a stoned teenager in a “Fraggle Rock” costume swinging on a lamp post like that “Bacon” kid in “Footloose.” Makes we want to call his mother and hold an intervention if I’m being completely honest.

#1. Clothing store dressing room director.

Like I need someone chomping on watermelon trident with a bee hive decked out in shit brown dungarees showing me the way to the dressing room. I know what the “male” symbol looks like. I think hahahaha. In the world today who knows. Maybe we need direction. Women are men. Men are women. People have multiple penile attachments. Women have fu-Manchus. Children can now choose their gender. We can’t say “man.” Everything is offensive. So this occupation may actually be of some importance and a bit of a challenge in the future. Bathrooms and these rooms should simply say “person.” Good luck determining in the future what dressing room the 6’ 9” hairy legged individual in a floral sundress with construction boots, a handy manny g-string, cowboy hat, cigar, herpes, double d tits, Donald Trump “tramp stamp” & roller skates belongs in. That job title will require a masters degree. Good luck.

19% Irish. Honoring the iconic St. Paddy’s Day! Perhaps a little Jewish?

My family and I are 19% of Irish descent according to the results my brother Jeffery had recently received from his inquiry. That could only mean one thing. Host a St. Paddy’s day festive event of epic proportions. I’m talking a home gathering of individuals involving bag pipes, shamrock nipple tattoos, custom fabricated drinking cups designed & engineered by German scientists that will inject alcohol into your blood stream 32 times faster than your standard drinking glass. Midgets for hire dressed like perverted sexually deprived leprechauns. 9 different types of corn beef paired up with a colossal amount of cabbage to entice your asshole to blow green clam chowder out of your rectum for a month straight. Things of that nature.

It’s what we do. We like to party. We take advantage of any and all holidays. Show our appreciation. We dedicate & commit. All in. Always.

Like that one time my sister in law Debbie and my brother Jeffery hosted Passover. As if we don’t have enough Catholic holidays to observe, we found the need to infiltrate the Jewish community and their holiday. It was a hostile takeover to say the least but I do believe we made every attempt to represent the traditions and beliefs of the Jewish iconic festive event.

We don’t hold back. My family jumps in and gives all they got. This Jewish spectacle was special considering we have an abundance of Jewish friends. We invited Rabbis. Hired Jewish Grandmothers to knit Torah’s. Inflated life sized Hanukkah Harry blow up lawn decorations. Potato latkes were the dish I was assigned to make. All the Jewish women had asked me what my secret ingredient was saying “these were the best potato pancakes they have ever had.” I said “salt” ladies. I’m pretty sure this dish was not Kosher. We had Matzah. And that’s all we had. Maybe some raw fish. That was it. If I’m being completely honest as I always am, the Jewish culture has the worst food on the planet. Hard to satisfy an appetite. Then they expected us to fast and shit. Like wait to eat. Yeah no. That part of the tradition we could not honor. No disrespect. We tried. We fasted for like 6 minutes while a nice dedicated Jewish boy began reciting a prayer within his faith to represent the holiday . It was nice and all except this child did not stop praying. People were attempting to record the event as phone data storage quickly filled. Phone batteries were dying at an alarming rate. I-phone screens began to crack. The child was beginning to make up shit and all the Catholic people were staring at the Matzah ball soup in agony licking their lips anticipating the grand finale of the prayer. Eventually we had to remove the boy in a tasteful manner and relocate him to a local Synagogue so he could complete his 7 hour prayer. The non-jews in attendance were not quite sure what he was praying for but if it didn’t include winning power ball, a 187 foot yacht, a sexual encounter with seven hot Brazilian women & an all inclusive round trip to the moon we didn’t understand what was taking so long. Only so many ways you can thank God for crackers that leave you with a severe case of cotton mouth. Moments later we boiled pasta. Made a sauce. Rolled meatballs. Fried some calamari. Put together some linguine & clam sauce and we were off! They always said Jews & Italians were very similar. The Jews did not complain.

Back to St. Paddy’s day. There was only one authentic Irish couple in the group. They were genuine. Requested Irish songs and shit. Everything they wore was green. Hunter green lipstick. Teal green Eyeliner. Tighty green whiteys! Green ass teeth. They were committed. Guinness and shit. Everyone else in attendance had a last name that ended in a vowel with a New York accent that sounded as if their mother gave birth to them on a fire hydrant in the Bronx. Make no mistake, alcohol consumption was on point and on pace with expectations of the Irish.

My brother Jeffery who bears a strong authentic Irish name, was in charge of cutting up the corn beef. He had a brilliant idea to make some Ruebens. He needed sauerkraut. He asked his wife Deb where the ingredient was. She let him know in a soft and somewhat embarrassed tone, “oh I’m sorry Jeff it’s still in the freezer.” My brother Jeffery acted as if his wife ran a train with 69 halitosis ridden Illegal immigrants from Guam. He began to twitch and nervously shake like he invented Tourette’s. This woman put together 18 different flavored corn beefs, arranged cheese platters, ran around all day shopping in order to get ready for the festive event and my inconsiderate impatient brother had the audacity to question why she “forgot” to remove the sauerkraut from the freezer so he could make a sandwich. I honestly wanted to stick his head directly into the pot of cabbage but it was a holiday celebration so I restrained. It took all of 38 seconds to defrost the kraut and he was able to make his dish. I believe he overreacted. I’ve never seen a mans shoulder vibrate so violently in panic as a result of frozen sauerkraut. Here is a man who will offer 100k above asking price on a home in a down market. Throw 200k into it. He will be completely upside financially and will refuse to nervously twitch. God for bid his sauerkraut happens to be frozen and this fucker starts rocking back & fourth like an “8-ball” induced seizure plagued “Beetle Juice.”

Then the music. I don’t give a flying rats ass who you are. Irish music will make you do one of two things. Commit suicide or drink enough ethanol to overdose from alcohol poisoning. Those are your options. Not up for discussion . The end result is death either way. We played a few tunes to honor the tradition. Didn’t take long until an Italian party guest took control of the music. Before you knew it, TKA & John Secada serenaded us all. The festive environment went from St. Patrick to St. Tito Puente in a matter of minutes. The women began dry humping one another as their children looked on like they were performing a “reverse cowboy” on a beach in Daytona with “Pauly Shore” while they rub & tugged that “Situation” character from the “Jersey Shore.” I had a hard time making the Irish connection to be honest.

I’d say over all it was a success. Ended like every other party. No matter what the occasion. Nine and half people sitting around a table uncontrollably drooling simply staring at each other speaking an unfamiliar language trying to sing along with Ozzy Osborne who doesn’t even know what “he” is singing. By the time the party guest sing the version Ozzy is attempting to sing we typically end up sounding like 9 and a half hyenas with a severe case of gout eaten by a 32 foot rabid salt water crocodile with stage fright.

It was a success.

Next party. Flag day.

Two hour school delay. The adults must play!

It’s a two hour school delay. The adults must play.

I’m not quite sure what it is about our children having a delayed start time to the school day due to inclement weather. Can’t exactly put my finger on it but I was fortunate enough to witness this miraculous event first hand yesterday.

As far as I see it, the delay actually hampers our daily schedule. Forces us to rearrange our routine to accommodate the new order of things on that particular day to get our children to school two hours later than normal.

That may be true for most. Certainly not the crew of adult friends I had the pleasure of spending my Sunday Funday afternoon with.

The fact I was out on a Sunday drinking alcoholic beverages as my wife was by my side was a miracle in itself. This is a woman who generally orders tap water on the rocks. She normally consumes shots of chocolate almond milk. She’s not a big drinker. Except when she gets together with her friends. Shit changes. All the sudden she morphs into “Buger” from “Revenge of the Nerds.” Slams grain alcohol doing cartwheels down 5th avenue like she’s the birth child of “Randy Macho Man Savage” & “Mary Lou Retton.” That’s ok. She has fun.

The day started nice. Lunch with the children. I suggested we go out for a few drinks. She concurred so I jumped all over that shit. We bellied up to a cozy fire place. Saw some friends and bullshitted a bit. An hour or so passed as a few more friends walked in. It was nice. Relaxing. Until one fucking snowflake happen to fall from the sky. Moods changed. Attitudes adjusted. Devious looks began to overtake the crew we were hanging out with. The two hour delay was in play.

Snow suddenly began to fall at a rapid rate. The mood went from a few Sunday relaxing cocktails to a complete potential shit show. Then it happened. The first phone rang. It was the school district informing there was going to be a two hour delay. Nobody believed it was true until they got the call personally. And then there was poor Shal. She was the only one who had not received the phone call. Visually upset, her friends comforted her. Gave her tissues and shit. The 13 other phone calls taken by the surrounding party wasn’t enough to convince her school was actually delayed. Her phone eventually rang. Confirmed. She was so happy she was now part of everybody knowing we had a two hour delay. It was a touching Hallmark moment.

The entire mood and mindset shifted. The energy was fascinating all because our children will start school at 10:30am as opposed to 8:30am.

It all started with my buddy Lance. “Like a Virgin” by Madonna creeped up on the radio. This man. All by himself. Alone, at the bar proceeded to violently rip off his cardigan as he lip sang and kept winking at me. Wrapped the sweater around his waist like one of those Williams tennis sisters. He began to dance like an electric eel was wedged up his asscrack and began making out with the micro brew glucose tap system. All because his child will now go to school at 10:30. Brian starts ordering shots of Johnny Blue as his wife began to fondle my wife’s nipple. The owner of the establishment starts moonwalking and his child is only one. Someone brings out a cookie cake. Sparklers and shit. After parties with stripper poles were discussed.

I’m not joking. Well ok, I’m not sure if Lance had a cardigan but this is how it went down. All because our children go to school two hours later than normal.

School was eventually canceled! Thank God 😉