No One To Blame But Myself…

These are the crazy things I did (almost always when drunk) so I can’t pin the blame anywhere else.

My days in Grease Part Two: WOW, THAT TEEN ANGEL JUST DROPPED IT LIKE IT WAS HOT!!!

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Earlier, I told you about my antics in a college production of Grease and now I’m back with another helping. After getting slimed by Crista like I was on Double Dare, I wasn’t sure it was safe (or sanitary) for me to ever have a part in Grease again. Despite that, I ended up stepping in to direct the official Fat Camp version of Grease with my friend Rhea after the original director hired had an emergency and couldn’t come to camp.

As we were discussing the play over many drinks at lunch, Rhea convinced a more intoxicated version of my regular self that I should be the Teen Angel. Figuring it would be a blast, I forgot for a second that I can’t sing and immediately agreed to it. Who doesn’t love a Beauty School Dropout and, really, does it matter if it sounds good?

After a few rehearsals, the show started coming together nicely but we felt like my entrance was a bit boring and should have a wow factor (or about as wow as you can get at Fat Camp)…We discussed it and were throwing out ideas about how to spice it up, when her face lit up and she said “Oh My God, the Teen Angel appears to Frencie to offer advice and look out for her, so how funny would it be if he was dressed like a Fairy Godmother in a big frilly dress? Sarcastically, I replied “Why don’t you just hang me from the ceiling like Peter Pan while you’re at it” and as soon as it was out loud, we both knew how funny it could be. I had said it more as a joke, but the more we discussed it, the cooler it sounded to lower me from the back balcony over the audience while I entered singing.

Imagine the looks I got as we went from one woman’s store to the next so I could try on dresses and find the “perfect” one. Tell me which part you think is more embarrassing: A) That I was guy in all these women’s stores trying on dresses or B) That when questioned about what we were doing, Rhea said “What’s so weird about it? It’s for Fat Camp” as if that answer provided any sort of clarity.

It’s always so hard to find the right fit…

Back at camp, we spoke to the maintenance guys and they thought it was hysterical and got to work on creating a swing for my entrance. My vision was of a chariot being lowered from the rafters by professional machinery; their vision was a piece of wood with a rope tied to it. Guess what we got? The latter vision. Obvious red flags should have went up – but I was sober very little that summer and you know how I commit to a role!

On the night of the show, I got into costume and went up in the balcony to wait for my sound cue. As I sat there hunched over, so that no one would see me or realize that I was up there, I couldn’t help but have second thoughts about this whole stupid idea and the scenario that was playing out. I had a bad feeling about my entrance and then became horribly aware of just how awful I looked. Sure, I was a guy in a woman’s dress and floppy wig, but it wasn’t even funny-ugly – it was just an ugly sight. I had frills everywhere and realized a little too late that maybe pink wasn’t my color after all. With my albino white skin and that light pink dress, I looked like a deformed porcelain doll…I was in good shape back then with a full head of hair mind you, but dressed as a woman, I looked like Lady Gaga without the ya ya’s. Who lets a guy with a flat chest wear a dress and forgets about the knockers?

I looked like Lady Gaga without the ya ya’s!

As we were coming up on my cue, the guys holding the ropes couldn’t even look at me without laughing. I was seated on the swing waiting for Frenchie to say “If only I had a guardian angel tell me what to do” and I then I would say “You got your wish sister!” and launch into Beauty School Dropout. That’s what’s was supposed to happen – but as I said “You got your wish sister!” everyone in the audience turned and looked up at me and the music started to play. The guys that were supposed to lower me on the swing over the lip of the balcony and then down to the ground pushed my backside instead of pushing the swing, causing me to fall out of it.

No one screamed louder than me because it almost scared the shit out of me as I was pushed off the swing and grabbed at the ropes to hold on. As I fell, one of the guys holding the rope grabbed my hand and I was dangling there like Sylvester Stallone in Cliffhanger. Needless to say, trying to sing the song through the screams (mostly mine) and hysterical laughter (everyone else’s) was to no avail. The music played on and at first, I still tried to keep singing the song as they were trying to pull me back up into the balcony.

As I was dangling there like a pendulum, I couldn’t help but think a) good thing I wore underwear and b) good thing the pair of underwear I chose wasn’t my festive American Flag G-string and then c) fucking let me go already!

I checked afterwards to make sure, but it’s not actually written in the stage directions on the script to scream “Asshole, let me go” at the crew members during the show but sometimes you have to improvise. I also never learned the old tuck and roll trick either because when I got my wish – and they released me – I dropped the rest of the way down and hit the ground like a rock to even louder laughter and clapping. I wasn’t really mad that not even one person in that audience tried to catch me or tried help me before, during, or even after the fall, and I also wasn’t mad at the piano player who didn’t think to stop playing the song at all during it either. I know what you’re thinking “It could have been worse” but that’s not the end of it.

I didn’t get hurt in the fall unless you count my pride – cause that bitch was a-hurtin’ fo Sure! I also didn’t get hurt by the dangling swing that I fell out of repeatedly smacking me in the face and noggin as I dangled there. All of that might not have been so bad or embarrassing if at the exact moment that I was shifted out of the swing and started to plummet, my dress hadn’t gotten caught on the balcony ledge and started to ceremoniously rip off me layer by layer. After they finally let me go and I fell to my descent, the remaining tattered material just gave way around me. Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark let me tell you something: you are not innovative – I was falling out of the rafters during a show years before you!!!

I did my best to try and keep some parcel of my dignity intact as I did what I could with the performance but imagine how difficult it was to try to get up off the ground and make your way to the stage in boxers and a few strands of taffeta around your neck and chest. God only knows when and where I lost the wig, but I was a mess. I held my head up high, tried to keep from laughing and sing the rest of the song and exited stage right.

After bearing witness to one of the best spectacles she said she has ever seen, my sister Marlene came backstage with her arms overflowing with the multiple pieces of material she had recovered from the wall, floor, and along my trail through the auditorium. With tears in her eyes and trying to hold in her laughter, she said (handing me the pile of material) “I think you forgot this out there…Words cannot even describe…Was it supposed to happen like that?…I thought you might have really gotten hurt there for a second there but…” and then we just burst out laughing. We didn’t even wait until the end of the show, we literally left right then and went to the bar. Not the best tactic if you’re the director of said show, but I had enough and needed alcohol immediately.

I must have been out of my mind to think that it would work in the first place – me and coordination go together like asparagus and a golden shower…Even though it didn’t go as smoothly as I had planned – I was more like Frank the Tank than Frankie Avalon – it was really funny and everyone loved it. You know the old saying: It may not be Broadway, but even at Fat Camp – the show must go on!

I was more like Frank the Tank than Frankie Avalon!

 

My days in Grease Part One: CRISTA – I WISH THAT WOULD HAVE MISSED-A MY FACE!

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Cha Cha from the movie Grease died last week which made me think about when I was younger and still had delusions of grandeur that I was going straight from college to Broadway and then directly to Hollywood. I was in a few productions here and there and (like the ladies said) – I had big parts. More often than not, it was smaller roles and one-liners, but believe it or not – I was also cast in a few musicals. If you know me or have heard my voice on the audio posts  I’ve dropped here, you’re probably just as surprised as I was. I might revisit some of the other productions I was in at another time, but in honor of Annette Charles, this week I’ll tell you about two of my experiences when I was in two dramatically different versions of Grease.

R.I.P. Cha Cha

In my college production I was cast as Vince Fontaine. He’s the smarmy DJ that flirts with Marty at the dance and the director wanted to find me a costume that would be over the top and I knew just where to look. My aunt at the Fat Camp was a little bit of an eccentric when it came to clothing and no one had more “character” or randomly odd pieces in their everyday wardrobe than her. It may seem weird to go through a woman’s closet looking for a man’s costume – but you don’t know my aunt.   

 

After a quick scan through her closest, I immediately honed in on her green, leopard print (almost snakeskin looking) business suit. I know exactly what you’re thinking and I was thinking it too – would it be too hot to wear wool under those bright stage lights? I figured it was better to show her than ask her, so I slipped it on and headed towards the kitchen to find her. Her response was a mixture of two parts disgust and one part confusion that I had chosen a black shoe and not the “appropriately matching brown shoes” because she felt like a brown would work better on me. Other women might be concerned if their nephew came home from college for the weekend and started trying on her clothing, but the only thing my aunt was concerned with was the proper pants-shoes coordination.

 

It’s odd that she would only mention the shoes as her concern because when you remove her big heels and hairpieces, I look like Wilt Chamberlain standing next to her. To say that the suit was a little ill-fitting was an understatement. By ill-fitting, I mean that because of our height difference, her pants were so short on me that they made me look like a lederhosen-clad Hummel figurine.  The short pants were quickly kicked to the curb, but oddly enough the jacket was an almost perfect fit which was strange since my aunt had about forty pounds on me. In my opinion, the jacket’s shoulder pads really did give my build a little definition and needless to say, one look and the director loved it.

 

 

This is about how short her pants were on me...

 

During the school dance scene, the stage directions were for me and Crista (the girl that played Marty) to stand off to the side, towards the edge of the stage, and pretend to make out. Of course, me being the immature ass that I am, I kept lifting the red ruffles on the back of her dress while grabbing for a seat at the same time. She is a really cool girl and didn’t care about it during rehearsals, but come opening night, she said that I couldn’t grab her ass or lift her dress because her parents, grandparents, and whole family would be sitting there in the front row not even three feet from us. She stressed this to let me know that she was serious and I am a gentleman and totally understood where she was coming from, and told her that I wouldn’t do it.

 

I often joke around, but this is actually me from that version of Grease.

 

To me, being a dedicated thespian means truly being “in” the scene, so on opening night, I was “in” the scene. I told her I wouldn’t do it, but I felt like that might be cheating the audience in some way so when it came time, I lifted her dress, grabbed her ass, and then didn’t fake it – I slipped her the tongue! This was not how the rehearsals went, but I thought it might make her reaction to it more authentic if I surprised her and basically, I was immature. I was thinking that I was so funny and that she’d get a kick out of it, but when I slipped her the tongue (And just in case I never said it to you back then: You’re welcome Crista) a not so funny thing happened. Karma!

 

 

 

Her surprised response to my uninvited cat-burglarish tongue being thrust upon her: She gasped and exhaled out through her nose thrusting a disgusting snot loogie right out of her nostril and onto my cheek with the force of a small Jedi Knight. Talk about ruining a moment…I was violated. I mean, call me crazy, but here I was committing to the scene and my character and look what happens; in no version of Grease that you’ve ever seen was there Snot-ilogical warfare…Obviously, I deserved it in some way and was lucky she didn’t pop me right in the chops, but after the assault I missed a part of another scene because I was in the bathroom scrubbing the skin off my face leaving my cheek red as a smacked ass to get that boogie off me. She told me afterwards that she didn’t do it on purpose and I’d like to hope that it wasn’t intentional – I mean what kind of sick individual has boogers locked and loaded as an alarm system in case someone tries to break in, but who knows?

 

I see a bright future on the stage for you my dear...

 

 

The point of this isn’t that I got what I deserved or that justice was served or even that when you do stupid things stupid things happen back to you – The point of this is that Thank God I had a lot of stage makeup on or I’d still be scrubbing that booger off my face. Stage makeup saves lives people!!! Embrace the Theatre!!!

 
As hard as it is to believe that my stupidity would almost disrupt one production of Grease, read later this week about how I ruined another production of Grease outright. A little hint to tide you over until then: No, there’s not a boogie in sight but it does involve stunt work, partial nudity, and yes, of course – Fat Camp!   

 

 

True Confession – I made a senior citizen shit her pants!

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It’s not something I’m extremely proud of, but I once made my 75 year old Aunt Margie shit her pants! Shortly after eating lunch, there was a rumble in the jungle going on in my stomach and like Madonna said – I needed to Express Myself. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one straddled with a quick-hitter after lunch, because while my sphincter was rocking, my Aunt Margie came A-knocking. She was at the bathroom door asking me if I was almost done and her voice was kind of shaky – but at 75 it was always shaky and she never came back so I didn’t give it a second thought. Big mistake on her part.  

This is not a Knock Knock joke

She unfortunately found out that a senior citizen shitting her pants in the hallway and then trying to quietly change out of those soiled undies with the five other people in your small two bedroom apartment not finding out is next to impossible. Of course, as is the case with anything potentially embarrassing or delicate – no one told me what had happened. I came out and didn’t pay it any mind when she rushed past me into the bathroom.

 

I was sitting on the porch with my mother, sister, and grandmother when Aunt Margie finished in there. As a point of reference, my grandmother was not one you would ever describe as a “sugar coater,” so it really was only a matter of time before I found out. We were about to head off to the mall when she suggested that Aunt Margie come along with us and she passed.

 

“Why aren’t you going? You said you had a few things you needed?” my grandmother asked her.

 

No response from my Aunt Margie, but my grandmother was not one to let that be it.

 

My grandmother (nudging her on) “Why don’t you go with them? It’ll be good for you to get out of the house for a while.”

 

Poor Aunt Margie never could catch a break with my grandmother and grunted back “You know that I can’t go out of the house since I had my accident – I can’t go to the store right now!” that shut her right up and dead silence took over because everyone knew what she was talking about except for me.

 

A normal person would have let it go – but this is me we’re talking about. I said “What are you talking about, what happened? What accident? Come with us…” With that, my sister gave me that knowing glance that speaks volumes without the need to utter a sound. As if it was a telepathic message between us, I understood: Aunt Margie shit her pants. The problem was that I was immature and once I realized the context of her “accident”, I burst into an uncontrollable fit of hysterical laughter. When you see something like that in the movies, everyone in the crowd usually joins in on the laughter and the moment passes by…Not that day. Not a word, not a sound – just me laughing as my poor Aunt Margie crept back into the house. My mother actually made me go sit in the car by myself while she followed in to apologize for my behavior (an act she was quite used to, by the way).

 

My Aunt didn’t appreciate my inappropriate laughter that day as much as she didn’t appreciate it the day that she was telling me about her ill-advised lunch trip to McDonald’s. She went with my cousin Tina and proceeded to down a nine piece when she suddenly choked on a nugget, forcing Tina to perform the Heimlich on her. It wouldn’t have been as bad if she hadn’t projectile vomited in the middle of that McDonald’s or brought the rest of the McNuggets home and offered them to me as she told me what had happened. I’m not one to preach – but let’s send a safety message to seniors everywhere: if you have no teeth and insist on getting McNuggets – either cut them or gnaw them with your gums before you try swallowing it whole!          

 

Aunt Margie didn’t hold a grudge about the spilled fudge and we moved past it, but I did feel really bad despite my case of the inappropriate giggles. In my defense, A) I’m immature and someone shitting their pants is funny and B) I was always taught that if it’s an emergency and you gotta go – You keep banging on that door or sit on their lap if they won’t move because when the fuse is lit and it’s gonna go off – Every second counts!  You cannot leave things like that to chance or depend on the kindness of a dipstick seventeen year old ADD moron reading People magazine!

Wanna hear something ironic? Imodium AD actually tried to stage an intervention with me!!!

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Forget about the Government Debt Ceiling Bill or MTV turning 30; I have an update on a dangerous epidemic sweeping the nation that’s going shamefully under-reported by the media: The Imodium Ad shortage of 2011.

 

I first shared my concerns here in June and my wife joked that maybe my mass Imodium consumption had caused a shortage of some sorts and it appears that might be the case. After striking out in my local stores, I branched out.  Three different CVS managers and a Wal-Mart employee plus an employee from a Pennsylvania supermarket have told me that there was a recall on Imodium AD, but I can’t find anything about a recall online, in the farmer’s almanac or with Ask Asa. I doubted them because I figured that of all people, I would know if there was a recall, it’s not like they wouldn’t publicize it or spread the word. Have you ever heard of a secret recall? No – they spread the word like Officer Bird and tell people everywhere if something is wrong! That’s how things get recalled – they let people know.  And don’t tell me to get the store brand – it’s not the same! After scouring three states to no avail, I got strategic and went on the website for Imodium AD and called the Consumer Care Center at the number listed.

Before you even ask – No, I am not a crazy person nor am I a junkie looking for a fix…I’m just a concerned citizen looking for answers. OK, maybe I am a junkie looking for a fix – but this is getting suspicious and don’t judge me!  I can tell you with absolute certainty that I now know what they meant in May with all that Rapture and the world ending talk. If I’m lying in my bed, covered in sweat while trembling in fear and this is only a nightmare – PLEASE WAKE ME UP!!!

Let me just start by saying that the Imodium customer service agent was the absolute coolest and nicest lady ever! She assured me it wasn’t a recall and that it was a shortage of supply to fill the demand. Take that in and let me repeat it – it’s a shortage of supply. She was reassuring me that everything would be OK and we were on the way to becoming besties, when the call suddenly took a wrong turn and veered downhill.

Agent: “Sir, can I get your contact info and we can put you on our mailing list for coupons and then contact you when Imodium AD is available back in your area again?”

 

I proceeded to give her my phone number, address, and then told her my email address.

Agent: “Sir, can you repeat your email address for me?”

Me: “immodiumabuser (at) yahoo.com”

Agent: “Sir, Stop it right now, I don’t believe that. Is that really your email address?”

Me: “Of course it is, why would I ask you to contact me and give you the wrong email address? What kind of person does that? Email me while we’re on the phone and I’ll email you back.”

Agent: “Sir, are you kidding with me?”

Me: “I’m being serious, why would I waste my time to call you if I wasn’t looking for help here? I’m not a lunatic – I just want to know when and where I can get my Imodium.”

 

I then filled her in on how I can’t go anywhere without my Imodium, take it 24/7 if I need to leave the house, how this site is a love letter to Imodium AD, and basically how it saved my life and made me a productive citizen. Needless to say, her end of the line got a lot quieter.

Agent: “Sir, how much Imodium do you take? How many have you taken today?”

Me: “5 pills”

Agent: “Sir – its 11 AM! Why have you already taken 5 pills?”

Me: “Maam, I work almost an hour from home…”

Agent: “Sir, Please don’t take any more today…”

Me: “Maam, I won’t be able to eat lunch if I don’t take anymore.”

Agent: “Sir, How many days have you been taking that many?”

Me: “Days, it’s been since 1994. I never would have been able to go to Woodstock in 1994, or college for that matter…”

Agent: “Sir, that is not OK. We do not recommend that many pills to be taken for that period of time and we don’t test on that dosage. We test on the dosage listed on the back of the box. You can be causing internal damage to your organs and…”

Me: “Maam, I’m sure I don’t even have internal organs anymore between all the Imodium, the alcohol and everything else – I’m convinced that if you were to X-Ray my body, it would go straight from Esophagus to Anus with nothing in between…”

Agent: “Sir, have you taken anything else today?”

Me: “Just some Tylenol, why…”

Agent: “How many of those have you taken and which kind?”

Me: “I took three Tylenol Extra Strength because I had a headache when I woke up.”

Agent: “Sir, Legally I now have to give you the number for Poison Control because you have exceeded the recommended dosage on those products. We also make Tylenol – do you have a pen? 1-800-222-1222. Please repeat it back to me so I know that you wrote it down.”

Me: (laughing) “1-800-222-1222 (which really is the number for the American Association of Poison Control Centers) I got it but I don’t need that number. I don’t care if you tell me that there’s gasoline or pesticide in Imodium and that it’ll kill me by New Year’s Eve – it works and I’m gonna take it either way! I didn’t call to get you nervous and I’m not looking to sue you guys or anything – I just need the Imodium to be available again!”

Agent: “Sir, this is not OK and I am really concerned. Obviously I cannot tell you not to take Imodium AD, but I must caution you that we do not test it in the quantity that you take it in.”

Me: “Listen Maam, I love Imodium AD more than anyone out there and I can guarantee that you will never find anyone more loyal to it than me. It has changed my life and I want to be the spokesperson for you. How can I get my face on the box – can you help me with that?” (we both laughed at this) “My wife wouldn’t let me send in my testimonial. Seriously, I just need it back on the shelves.”

None of these are available? What's going on?

I reassured her that I was fine and just wanted to find the Imodium and she was able to help me find 5 different locations (ShopRite, A & P, Food Emporium and 2 K-Marts) with Imodium AD in stock. Forget the Amber Alert – she had a listing of stores within 30 miles of my house along with their phone numbers so I could confirm before I went. She could tell if they had 6 packs, 12 packs, or 24 packs – unfortunately no one had the 72 packs in stock, but who was I to complain? I don’t know why the White House didn’t have these guys looking for Bin Laden, because with their pin point accuracy and precision – they could have bagged that fool years ago!
She really was a very nice lady and told me that she would go and check out this site when she got home from work that night. I’m sure she probably thought that I was a lunatic, but later that night I did see a small spike in hits… I’m sure they record those calls and will probably play my call at their holiday party so everyone can have a good laugh at my expense.

The best part was that my boss walked into my office while I was on the phone and asked who I was on the phone with and didn’t believe me when I said Imodium. He shook his head and then he looked at me like I was crazy. As he sat down to listen to me, he realized that I really was on the phone with them. He also didn’t expect (and neither did I – to be honest) that I would be on the phone for over forty minutes with them either.  

As if that wasn’t enough, I got a letter and authorization form in the mail a couple of days after the call requesting my medical records. How crazy is that? I just want my Imodium on the shelves and they want to talk with my doctors. They haven’t requested my photo for the box yet, but I’m sure that letter should come any day now. When it does and my picture on the box makes me the international face of Diarrhea – I’ll remember each and every one of you!

Imodium Letter 1

Imodium Letter 2

TALKY TUESDAY Audio Post: If you don’t expect that much from me, I might not let you down

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One of my many Ah-Shit Moments (Literally!) – Part One

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In case you've ever wondered about my office - this is where I write all my posts.

Whenever people tell me “You know what made me think of you the other day…” I always interrupt them because I know where it’s going. I say “I bet you were in the bathroom or it has to do with poop, right?” and you know what, it almost always (like 99.99% of the time) is one of those two scenarios.  Some people might think that’s weird, but I take it as a huge compliment. In the same way that Oprah taught us to understand and share our Aha! moments – I want to give the world a forum for their “Ah-Shit” moments. I’ll start with one of mine.

I’m sure that if you were brave enough to delve deep through the cavernous pile of nonsense in my noggin – this incident might have been one of the driving forces of my Imodium AD addiction.  As I’ve mentioned before, when I was in Elementary School I used to incite the girls that I liked so that they’d chase me around and then beat me up when they caught me. There was a girl in second grade named Jennifer who could run faster than any of the other girls (and most of the boys) in our class. When she eventually caught up to me – and she always did – she would tackle me, take hold of my hand and ankle and then swing me around so fast like a carnival ride…Granted, she would eventually let me go and I’d usually go flying face-first into a chain link fence or a brick wall, but she did hold my hand for those few brief moments…She was crazy but I never minded being the Tina to her Ike.

One day, after a particularly rowdy dose of ass-kicking, Mrs. D (the aide on the playground that afternoon) called me over and made me stand against the Gym wall as punishment for letting the girls beat me up again. “It’s OK though, I like it” I tried to explain to her, but apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Far be it from me to argue, but isn’t it odd to punish the victim? Wasn’t I the one who was tossed into the air like a Frisbee? I wasn’t one to question authority back then so I went and took my place of shame against the dreaded wall. I tried to ask how long I had to stand there, but it was no use – I was shut down with every syllable.
As I stood there thinking about my next flight into orbit courtesy of Jennifer’s private airline, I started to get really bad stomach pains. As an adult, I know those pains oh so well and recognize the significance of them, but as a young lad – I couldn’t begin to understand the tell-tale warning alarms that were going off right then.  It was a Quick-Hitter and time was of the essence.

“Mrs. D, I don’t feel so well…” I muttered. “Don’t pretend to be sick – you’re staying against that wall!” she said as she walked away tooting her whistle at another kid acting up.

My stomach was making some crazy noises and gurgling something fierce and I just knew something was wrong; it was like a wave of warmth came over my body and it just didn’t feel right. It subsided for a second and I thought that I might be OK when I realized (a little too late) that I need to get off that playground and head into higher ground (i.e. get to a bathroom). I took a few gentle steps in the direction of the gym door but after the first step I realized it was a big mistake to rock the applecart. I tried to quicken my pace, but after about five steps, I had to grab onto the wall to steady myself because there was an explosion. It felt like a bullet had pierced my stomach because there was intense pain and then it was as if a flash of lightning shot right through my body. “Oh God” I cried out and braced for impact.

Clenching was futile as this was a force that was just too powerful for my nine year old buttocks – it was like a tornado tearing through a fence. This may sound strange, but as soon as the warmth shot through me (along with everything that I had eaten for lunch) there was a moment of relief that the pain had stopped. Granted, it was a quick moment immediately followed by the realization that I was on a playground full of people covered in shit.

I made a full-on sprint towards the door as fast as I could, but I’m not sure if you realize how difficult it actually is to try and run with a full pair of tightie whities immediately after a gastric explosion. By the time I got to the door, I was covered head to toe and there was shit everywhere. It was running up my body, down my legs, across my back (because my shirt had been tucked in) and falling out my pant legs. I was leaving a trail that Hansel and Gretel couldn’t miss, but I just couldn’t stop running.

I headed straight in the door and right towards the one place that always offered me solace: the nurse’s office. As I was running, I was hoping upon everything holy that there wasn’t a line of kids for lice checks in there. By the time I made it to Ms. O’Donnell’s office I thanked God that it was empty. She took one look at me, jumped up from her desk, and sprung into action. I tried to say “You’re not going to believe what happened to me” but before I could even get half the words out of my mouth, she was at my side. In hindsight, I’m not sure that really I needed to explain it to her as it was fairly obvious what had occurred. It might have been the stench I was trailing through the hallway or the fact that I actually looked like I had been dipped in something, but she could tell immediately what was wrong. “Let’s get you out of these clothes” she said gently as she guided me behind the curtain for privacy.

I stood there limp as she started by peeling my T-shirt off of me. It was now soaked through and stuck to me like everything else that I was wearing. She was so nice and calming, and I started to feel a tiny bit better until she tried to take my sneaker off. “Oh my God, it’s everywhere!” she gasped, as one sneaker slipped off, spilling me all over the floor and she realized that my socks were soaked through as well. She peeled my clothes off one layer at a time and immediately placed them into a giant black garbage bag on the floor next to me. I don’t know why she thought there was any chance in hell that bag was getting on the school bus with me, but she soon changed topics and asked me for the phone number to call my mother to come and bring me some new clothes to put on. I started hysterical crying and had to tell her that my mother started a new job and I didn’t know the number. She offered to call my brother out of his class to see if he knew the number, but that was the absolute last thing I wanted her to do. I was still under the deluded impression that no one would ever find out what just happened to me.

Don't drink that coffee!!!

Since we couldn’t call my mother, she said for me to sit tight and she would go look through the lost and found for something I could change into.You think it’s embarrassing when the school nurse has to wipe your ass? Imagine the embarrassment level when she has to hose you off because you’re covered head to toe with shit! And those paper towels might as well have been sandpaper because they most certainly were not Scott tissue. By this time, she had used about fifty four wet paper towels to clean me off and still hadn’t gotten all the shit removed. I stood there while she went into the back closet to find me something to wear. As if I hadn’t been through enough, I heard the office door open and someone come in. All of a sudden, the curtain swung open and there was Mary, a girl that lived up the street from me, staring with an equal mix of curiosity and disgust in her beady little eyes.

I tried to cover myself as best I could, but it was no use; there was shit all over my body, the room smelled like a cesspool, and my soiled clothes were in a heap on the floor next to me – who was I trying to fool?  All I could do was cry while the nurse shuffled her out of the office and locked the door. As she was escorted out, I could hear Mary asking “Oh My God! What did he eat? Oh My God – Is he OK?” (Years later I actually went to one of my proms with Mary, and I wore a white tuxedo. Believe it or not, I sat down on the seat in the limo directly onto a peppermint patty she had dropped and the chocolate got all over the back of my pants. What are the odds that I would soil the seat of my pants twice in front of the same girl? That must be a record of some sorts!)

I would like to tell you that the story ends there, that Mary was the only one who ever found out about what happened to me, and that I eventually lived that horror down – but it didn’t end there. When the nurse came back from the closet she laid out the clothes for me to put on and I started hysterically crying again. It was a pair of red and white checkered girl’s pants, a tight green V- neck tee shirt with a butterfly on it (also a girls) and a pair of girl’s white sneakers that were a half size too small on me. I had no other choice since I couldn’t call my mother to bring me something to change into and there was nothing else in the lost and found. I was content to wait in her office until the bus came at the end of the day, but she wasn’t having it. I looked at myself in the mirror and the pants ended up being too short for me. The pants legs stopped mid calf and capri pants might be “in” now, but back then a little boy in short pants tended to stand out from the crowd. If the butterfly wasn’t so prominent on the green shirt, it might not have been as obvious that it was a girl’s shirt.

As I went back to class people were asking me where I had been and why I changed. I tried to play dumb, but one girl recognized the shirt and told me she had a very similar shirt and I wanted to tell her that since it was in the lost and found it might actually be her shirt, but I was afraid she would try and take it from me. The only other shirt left in lost and found after this one was pink, so I kept quiet. It’s actually very hard to keep quiet and pretend nothing is up when twenty kids are making fun of you and asking why you’re now wearing girl’s clothing, but I did. Needless to say I was devastated and was out of school for over a week because I got myself so worked up from what had happened I just couldn’t go. It’s funny to think of it now, but that was the longest day of my life and has most definitely played into my neurosis and obsession with Imodium, cleanliness, and butterflies.

The Saddest Thing I Ever Saw!!!

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You think your day sucks? I went to CVS and low & behold I got hit with a ton of bricks:

And you thought you were having a bad day?

They better raise the terror alert to orange because this is some scary stuff right here. People are gonna freak out and start panicking and it could get messy… OK, I’m probably the only one panicking, but something is definitely up here and if I’m not able to get my Imodium it might actually get messy! This is the third CVS I went to over the past few days that didn’t have Imodium AD. One store might be a stocking issue, and two might be a coincidence, but three stores not having it? I’m not trying to get anyone nervous but if you ask me, this seems like the cruel and hurtful things that would be the work of a vast terror network that rhymes with Hal Shmyda.

I know this sounds nutty, but my immediate reaction was that I might be using too much Imodium and they can’t keep up with me…then I came to my senses and got the manager. I asked what was going on and he looked at me like I was crazy, then pointed at the sign and told me to buy the store brand, as if that was the solution. I leaned in close and whispered “Is something else going on here? You can tell me, don’t worry I won’t tell anyone else” and that’s when he really looked at me like I was crazy and walked away. As if other people aren’t getting the manager and asking the same thing – come on.

Before you even suggest that I use the store brand; you wouldn’t use wrapping paper if toilet paper wasn’t available would you? Would you put Crisco into your gas tank instead of going to Shell to fill up? No and you better not! I am not gonna try an untested substitute when I know very well that Imodium is what works andwhat I need. If it’s not the AD – it’s not for me!  As a side note since you mentioned Crisco, I have a friend that actually used to be called Crisco by her family. I was at her house for dinner and asked why her father had just said “Crisco get the ketchup” and she said “You know – fat in the can” and pointed at her backside. You gotta love families,  building self-esteem day by day.   

Speaking of families and gas stations, did I ever tell you about how my brother Angelo got run over by the same guy twice? He was at the gas station walking back to his car after prepaying with the cashier when an old man ran him down the first time. Realizing he had hit something, the old guy immediately backed his car up (once again driving over my brother). All the while, my brother was on the ground screaming for the attendant to give him his money back because he had prepaid for the gas. An ambulance finally showed up and they immediately started attending to the old guy instead of my brother – who was still on the ground writhing in pain. Apparently, the old guy had suffered a stroke a few months back and shouldn’t have been driving anyway. Sure, he really did get hurt and the old guy tore up his leg real bad, but I still can’t think about it without busting out laughing…on the plus side, it gave me a great anecdote for his wedding toast “Marriage is like getting run over twice by the same guy in a Merit Gas Station – sometimes it hurts.”     

I’ll check in with the media outlets and update the progress on my Imodium investigation as I find out more. Before you roll your eyes at me, they say if you see something say something and they don’t just mean that for the people I work with who got suspicious when our Fedex guy’s truck broke down in the parking lot. The poor guy was out there transferring his packages into a rented U-Haul truck so he could finish his deliveries when my two coworkers got nervous and called the Popo. When the police showed up imagine how funny the Fedex guy did not find the situation. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t our regular guy, but he’s here almost every day and now it’s a little bit awkward…some people hold a grudge, I tell ya…

It’s not a Murse – I prefer to call it my Mocketbook!

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If Indy says it's not a murse, who am I to argue?

I came to a realization at work today: My black messenger bag has turned into a full throttle purse. I’m sure that it’s the real intention Kenneth Cole had when he designed the bag, but no one else will admit it. Why do they even call it a messenger bag anyway? Have you ever seen a messenger deliver something with a bag strapped across his chest? Of course not.

While searching for a pen, I had to remove two sets of ipod headphones (an extra in case one break) a tide to go stick, Burt’s bees hand sanitizer, six loose quarters, three dimes and four pennies. That was just in the front pocket. So I looked further and here are the items currently residing in my bag:

-Money clip

-Ipod

-2 granola bars – mind you I don’t even like granola bars

-Pack of tissues (unopened and actually forgotten about)

-11 loose napkins

-Ipod portable speakers

-Extra pair of cuff links

-Small bottle of Purell hand sanitizer

-Napkin note of a website I might one day visit for discount eyeglasses that I know I will never use but can’t throw out, just in case.

-Extra six pack of Imodium AD (do I even need to explain that one?)

-1 package of Sweat blotting forehead strips (sometimes the noggin gets oily midday – sue me)

I can't help it - I glisten!

-Ipod AC power adapter

-Autozone receipt for replacement alternator belt

-Blackberry wall charger

-Chapstick

-1 straw (By the way, I don’t even use straws – there’s nothing masculine about straws anyway! People do not take you seriously as you’re sitting there sucking that plastic for all your worth.)

-2 AA Batteries

-1 red pen

-9 Cross pens – silver

-Receipt for CVS for Easter card for my wife

-1 immodiumabuser.com pen

-Extra key to my office

-Master key for the doors at work

-4 packs of Listerine breath strips

-49 business cards

-6 quarters

-4 dimes

-3 pennies

-Ford Focus shaped jump drive

-A handwritten quote from the crazy facilitator at last month’s training session that says “I like to have my eggs poached really hard” with the word really underlined to stress his inflection.

-Another Tide to go stick

-Pocket pal calendar

-Small leather reporter-style notepad with important notes that I took in August 2010 and forgot about

-Large Leather notebook with important notes I took in September 2010 and forgot about

-Portable mouse pad

–Wireless mouse

-4 White collar stays (in case the current ones give way or get stolen mid-way through the day)

-3 paperclips

-Toilet seat covers (even thought I never shit in public – JUST IN CASE)

-Miniature roll of toilet paper (it’s a small roll but having it in there is a Big relief – you never know)

–GQ Magazine with Zach Galafanakis on the cover

I don’t care for the word “murse” either. I think it’s demeaning and it really doesn’t convey the true value and convenience or the emotional significance that my mocketbook affords me. I can relax and feel comfortable knowing that anything I need is right at my side. It’s my very own relaxation station. Sure, it does get heavy after a while, but I’ll bear that burden if it means that when (not if) I stain my tie at lunch, I can dab it out immediately.

Besides the shoe horn, is this not the best invention ever?

At least I’m not like my wife’s father who actually does carry a purse when he travels. He uses her step-mother’s old Coach bag to carry his stuff through the airport. At the very least, my bag is black, it is NOT a woman’s bag, and is at least functional! He’s carrying a small colorful pocketbook for God’s sake – and how much can that even hold? I have a beer holster strapped to my leg that can carry more than his bag can. I don’t know how he isn’t afraid of purse snatchers… Not to sound sexist, but is it still called a purse snatching when the carrier of the purse is a man?   
 

My wife carries a diaper bag for my son, yet I try to put one or two (or ten) things into it and all of a sudden I’m a bad person. That bag is bigger than the both of us, yet I can’t get a tiny corner for my essentials? It’s not like we can’t take his stuff and mine together in the bag – there’s not a space limit or weight restriction that I don’t know about is there? Why not get a bag with wheels anyway? It’s much more convenient to drag than carry it…

 

While we’re on the subject, I’m not even sure there is a difference between my son’s diaper bag and my mocketbook anyway.  The bottom line is that we both have emergency supplies for cleanup on the off chance one of us shits our pants! Am I wrong? Believe me, if I could fit a change of clothes and toiletries in my bag with all my other shit, I would.      

 

You're telling me there's no room for a few of my things in there?

 

If you’re reading this and thinking that I’m ready for my Hoarders audition, just imagine what my office looks like! This is coming from the same person that keeps an extra bottle of febreze in my car just in case a fart gets trapped in there…

 

I’m all for having something handy in case there’s an emergency, but this is ridiculous – even for me. The bag is heavier than my coffee table and yet I cannot think of one of these things that shouldn’t be in there or that I don’t absolutely need. I realize that I am being obsessive and at this point, excessive, but this shouldn’t count – I need these things.  What’s a guy to do? And guys, what random things are you carrying in your mocketbook?

Hypochondriac or just a High Maniac?

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I have been a hypochondriac for as long as I can remember and that behavior never changed as I have gotten older. True story: When I was born, I actually burst out of the womb in a tiny yellow rain slicker and I immediately started questioning whether the birthmark on my right arm wasn’t actually a malignant melanoma? In grade school I wasn’t allowed in the nurse’s office because I would read the symptom posters on the walls and get convinced I had diabetes or whatever poster was up at the time. High School was worse because I had been gifted with a medical dictionary on my birthday, so my maladies weren’t just limited to the common diseases anymore. When I was in college, it was only a matter of time before I wasn’t allowed in the Health Services Office – but not for the usual reasons…This time it was different. 

In college, I refused to take classes on Mondays or Fridays so that I could have a more flexible schedule and so all of my classes were on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I didn’t really need a flexible schedule for a job or really any specific reason other than laziness, but it was the principle of the matter. During my second sophomore year, my 11:3o class on Tuesdays and Thursdays was Geography of something. Throughout the first two months, I only made it there on time twice which I thought was a pretty good start. The professor was from Africa with a very thick accent and she would constantly hold me after class to tell me that in her country they take education very seriously and would think it was disrespectful to show up late. I would say it was not going to happen again, and then continue with my pattern. She didn’t seem to be a big fan of mine and one day she actually attacked me in front of the whole class about the lateness. Granted, I was waltzing into the room over forty-five minutes after the class had started, so she might have had a point; what can I say, when I’m late – I’m late. My theory was that as long as you showed up before the class was over you weren’t really late, right? She apparently didn’t feel the same way.

In her super thick accent she started yelling at me “What are you doing? You cannot keep doing this!” At first, I didn’t realize she was talking to me and then when I did, I tried to ignore her and pretend as if she wasn’t, but that’s really hard to do when twenty other people are smirking and hanging on her every word. Also, she was yelling at me and no one else was talking so it was really awkward…”You think you’re mad – How do you think my 10 o’ clock teacher feels– I never make it to that one…” Before she could even respond to my sarcastic stupidity, I muttered “I’m sorry, it couldn’t be helped” I figured that would be the end of it and tried to take my seat when she came marching over to me. “This is disruptive and you come late to every single class – Why do you bother showing up at all?”

At this point, a normal person would have thrown themselves to the wolves, admitted they were wrong and apologized – but not me. Very softly I muttered “Listen, I’m really sorry – it couldn’t be helped because I’m sick. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it before because you’re from Africa and all, but I have a little something called Mono and that’s really serious. I feel lucky that I can make it out of bed and get here at all.” In my mind, I was celebrating how quickly that I had thought of that and how smart I was, figuring that she would apologize and see the error in her ways.  Of course, I was delusional and should have realized that she, and everyone else in the class for that matter, could see right through me and tell that I was lying. That’s when she really let me have it and for a second I felt like her strong accent fell right to the wayside so she could yell at me in perfectly clear English.

“Are you kidding me? I’ve been teaching for a long time and do you really think that you’re the first person to try and tell me that they have Mono? Of course I know what Mono is, I’m not an idiot – where’s your Doctor’s note?”

Once again, a normal person would have admitted defeat and let it go at that, but not me. “How dare you! What kind of a person do you think I am? I am so insulted, who would make that kind of thing up? I’m a sick person (ironically, this was the only true statement that I had made all morning) Do you think I’m crazy? Go to Health Services and ask them in there! How dare you question me?” Now as a side note, I was as positive as one of Maury‘s paternity tests that I didn’t have Mono and that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me except for laziness, but if I didn’t at least get defensive she would have immediately known that I was lying.

Sure as can be, she was disgusted with me and dropped it and I got the stink eye from half the class. The other half could have cared less about the scene I was making. The girl who sat next to me was just staring with that look of disgust that usually takes people getting to know me for a few months before it develops and I looked at her and then rubbed my stomach to motion to her that I was sick. She rolled her eyes to motion to me that I was an idiot. 

I got the hell out of there after class and ran down to the Health Services Office. I had actually never been down there before because they don’t prescribe anything besides aspirin and I had learned to self-medicate with my prescription for any malady: Imodium AD and beer.  (It worked every time and if it didn’t work I’d add a joint to the mix and be at 100% in no time.) Actually, that’s still my go-to remedy and you know what? It still works. Your stomach hurts? You take Imodium and you’re OK. You have a headache? Take Imodium, you’re OK. You break your ankle? Yep, you guessed it. Works like a charm.

I didn’t have faith in any of the people working in that Health Services office, but I needed to make sure that if my professor ever did check up on my stupid Mono story, there would be a record of me going there. I went in and really milked it for all I was worth. I was leaning on the counter, moaning, and generally trying to look as sick as I could (that was the only time my naturally albino-pale complexion has been a positive thing in my life) so they would think I had Mono.

The numbskull there had me lie down on the cot and tell her my symptoms so of course I laid it on really thick:

ME: I feel like it’s just too much. I have no energy to go to class and it’s just every day…It’s Mono, I just know it

HER: Are you taking any medications? Drugs? Alcohol?

ME: Not me. No way that I would ever do that. I’m here to study and I just wish that I could get out of bed and make it to class. Can you give me something? I just know it’s Mono

HER: We can’t be sure what’s going on until we run some blood and urine samples, but it’s probably not Mono…

ME: (interrupting) Of course it’s Mono. I know my body.

HER: OK, let’s run the blood and urine and see what’s going on and you can come back in a day or two for the results. It’s too soon to say what it could be or if there’s anything wrong with you at all.

ME: Oh, I know there’s something wrong with me (The only other true statement I uttered that day!)

After the urine sample, she tried to take blood and I got light-headed and had to lie down to recover while she got me a cookie and soda. That was the only real symptom I had the whole time I was in that office and it had nothing to do with Mono – it was because I am a major pussy and I pass out from needles! I left there feeling mighty victorious and went home to celebrate how smart I was.

I went back a couple of days later and as I was waiting for her to go over the results with me, I was laying it on thick again and had her go and fetch me some water just to make it look good. I knew that there was a better chance of her telling me that I was going to be Valedictorian than there was of her telling me that I had Mono, but I had to make it look real. She came in with her associate, shut the door, and pulled their chairs right next to where I was laying on the cot. They didn’t say anything and looked at each other and then finally:

HER: “It’s not Mono…” before she could get any further, I grabbed my chest and said “Oh my God, its Hepatitis isn’t it?” knowing full well that there was no way it was.

HER: “Why would you think you have Hepatitis? Have you been in contact with someone who has it?”

ME: “You never know…”

HER: We know what’s going on here and you know that you don’t have Mono. I think you’re a very depressed person and it’s very serious. We’ve seen it before and it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

ME: (Hysterical laughing) Whoa sister, I’m not depressed. I may not have Mono, but I’m not depressed.

HER: Really, then how do you explain the tiredness, achiness, not going to class, the excessive sleeping, we ran your blood and urine remember? Your triglyceride count was through the roof which means you are drinking so excessively that it’s triple the count of what it should be. And the imaginary symptoms and thinking you have major illnesses is another sign. How do you explain the drugs in your system? This is depression, plain and simple. I know it when I see it.

ME: OK, seriously…I knew that I didn’t have Mono and joking around about Hepatitis is not funny.  I get that, but here’s what happened: I always come late and so I lied to my Geography Professor and told her that I had Mono so I needed a record of me coming here to be treated for it in case she checked because she didn’t believe me. I didn’t think she even knew what Mono was; she’s from Africa for God’s sake. There’s nothing wrong with me – I’m just lazy. I realize just how stupid this sounds as I hear myself say it out loud, but it’s really true.

HER: Really? Do you think we believe that? That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard. What kind of person would do something like that? You’re depressed and you need to talk to someone. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I already called your father and…

ME: WHAT!!!! YOU DID WHAT??? ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? My father is a lunatic and that is the last thing you should have done. What about my privacy? I’m not fucking depressed, I’m pissed off. You’re nuts lady – I’m outta here!!!

Of course she called my father and he is a fucking crazy person to put it mildly: I have already expressed my wishes that he never be near me in a medical crisis and that is especially true when it is a fake medical crisis that I have just made up!!! This is how the call went after she asked for him and introduced herself:

HER: Sir, I’m calling about your son. I think he’s depressed. He came to the Health Services Office pretending to have Mono and we…

HIM: Lady, we’re all depressed, what do you want from me? The Mets are on – and then he hung up on her! Yep, that’s my Father! Good thing I wasn’t on a ledge somewhere…

I tried to go on my merry way and forget any of this had happened, but then I got a call from the Dean’s secretary a few days later to come to her office immediately. I had run-ins with the Dean on numerous occasions and had accidentally told her daughter that I thought she (the Dean, not her daughter) was a Fat Fuck just a few days earlier so I wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted from me.  (I didn’t realize it was her mother until I said “What is that Fat Fuck doing here?” and she said “What Fat Fuck?” And I said “What Fat Fuck? The Dean, who else” and she said “That Fat Fuck happens to be my mother!” and I said “That Fat Fuck is your mother?” and she said “Yes” and I repeated “That Fat Fuck is your mother?” which just made it worse. I don’t know why I thought she would be kidding, but I didn’t believe her. Needless to say, she did not think any part of it was funny. Also, it was in front of about ten people in the lounge, so she really didn’t think it was funny but it wasn’t like I could take it back at that point.
Needless to say, I had to explain the whole situation to the Dean because the hookers from the Health Services Office had gone running to her after my father hung up on her. Those bitches actually tried to block me from being able to register for classes until I went and saw a counselor so she wanted to talk to me and hear my side of the story. Talk about eating humble pie – thank God she knew I was an idiot. She knew that I was telling her the truth and she did threaten to make me go to the counselor out of spite, but did chuckle a little bit at the situation and said “Only you, anyone else and I would never have believed that kind of stupidity…and then we both laughed.

I ended up sweet talking that little African princess and she passed me but it was close. I had to lay on my charm and actually had to show up on time a few times…The lesson we learn here: The problem with health care is not the idiots faking illnesses to get out of something, but the crazy bitches that need to learn how to keep their traps shut!!!

As a postscript to this, a few months later they thought my aunt had Tuberculosis (seriously this time) and I needed a TB test immediately. Obviously I couldn’t go back into that Health Services Office after faking Mono and Hepatitis and tell those nitwits that I needed a TB test so I had to go to the local hospital for it. If you’re thinking of writing in the comments below about the boy who cried wolf – don’t! No one like a smart ass!

Phoenix Schmeenix! It wasn’t breast trip I’ve ever been on!

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In case you can’t read this, the car window says “A WHOLE LOTTA BREASTS UP AHEAD! Who doesn’t love Coachella?

I couldn’t even escape the lunatics at the hotel bar. All of a sudden this random guy sits down cheery as can be because he has had the best sales day of his career. Apparently, he’s a paint salesman and had sold 33,000 gallons that day. He didn’t get my joke when I asked if he had to lug each paint can door to door…and then he proceeded to tell me that he was “The right guy, selling the right paint, to the right people at the right time.” I busted out laughing at that and he got annoyed because I accidentally laughed in his face.  I said “‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh, I just thought you were kidding.” Apparently, the paint industry is very serious.  I couldn’t be that mean either because it was an airport property and there weren’t that many people in the bar. I had very limited conversation choices: it was either talk with him about paint in all it’s glory or talk to the 20ish girl tending bar who said she was trying to get something “heartfelt” for her boyfriend’s graduation at Walmart. She gave me a dirty look when I laughed out loud but I couldn’t tell if he was graduating from Walmart or what she thought might be “heartfelt” there anyway.

Start to finish, this was the worst trip I’ve ever been on. I started out almost knocking myself unconscious in the driveway when I hit my head with the trunk while trying to close it after loading luggage in which resulted in a big red gash on my forehead, I ended up delayed seven hours at various airports, getting bumped from two flights and missing a connecting flight, had a full-on anxiety attack because they didn’t send my luggage with the flight for some reason but still charged me to check the bag, then I found out that I was charged for two airline tickets instead of one and then they proceeded to tell me that it was my fault, the boxes with presentation giveaways for my clients that I had shipped to my hotel didn’t arrive on time, and did I mention the heat and the sweating?

 

That’s not even to talk about the old lady on the security line who was holding everything up because security had to come over. Apparently, she thought it was a good idea to bring two cans of tuna fish, a plastic squeeze bottle of mayonnaise, slices of bread, and a plastic knife in her carry-on bag. She was gonna make a little snack mid-flight. What is wrong with people that they think they can make stinky tuna sandwich on a plane? The stink alone is reason not to do it even if it was allowed – but seriously, where was she planning on draining that tuna? Why wouldn’t you make the sandwich before-hand?

After her I was at my gate (before the first delay and then de-planing) and the lady scanning the boarding passes had to call security on the guy in front of me. After being told his carry on bag was too big, he took all of his clothes out and carried them under his arm and abandoned the suitcase at her counter and tried to walk around her and board the plane with an armful of shirts, boxers, pants, and socks. She was yelling at him not to leave his bag there unattended and he tried to ignore her so she called security. I never did see him get on the plane, so who knows what happened to him after that…

Am I the only one who goes through the airport security line scanning the crowd to see who I would be friends with if we crashed onto an island like Oceanic 815 did on LOST? Obviously, I’m not looking for Kate, Hurley, or Jack, but I give the people a once-over and see who’s gonna be dead-weight if a boar comes charging at us, who’s most likely a fugitive, who has a drug problem…and It helps me realize that as crazy as I may be, there are quite a few more nuts than me!!!

Someone help me – I’m afraid of turning into my father!!!

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Unlike The Incredible Hulk who changed immediately, one of my greatest fears is that fate will sneak up on me and I’ll undergo a slow and painstaking transition into a heightened version of my father. Some people might think this is a compliment, but I’m not sure the world is ready for another one like him. To know my father is to laugh because he is crazy and hysterical (even if it is at and not with him), but for people that don’t know my father, let me explain.

This might as well be my father's Birth Certificate.

To say that my father is one-of-a-kind is to do a disservice to unique glacial formations created to bring beauty to the world. My father was actually created in another era from spontaneous combustion. He was one of ten children and called Baby Boy at the hospital. They literally named him Baby Boy. Every time he presents that birth certificate, there’s an issue. I guess if you have ten kids, who cares what you name them after a while, right? It’s not like you can remember all of those names anyway. We all think it’s funny, but The Department of Motor Vehicles never got as much of a kick out of it as we did.

Patience was never his strong suit either. How being the father of five kids that should have been caged and tranquilized at times didn’t teach him patience, I’ll never know. I don’t know how or why, but one of us always did something that would force him to clasp his hands outward with disgust while chewing on his tongue and chanting “You Kids…” For instance, “You Kids…Always go out of the house with a wet head-you’ll be barking like as dog”, You kids…think it grew legs and walked out on its own? “You kids…Always think I’m supposed to remember to come back and pick you up when I drop you off somewhere…”

I will say that my father unwittingly taught me the best quality that I possess: the uncanny ability to laugh in someone’s face. He didn’t teach me that skill outright, but he put me into situations which instilled in me a sense that it was something that just couldn’t be helped. Don’t even get me started on his car either, because it was crazy. It was a Navy Blue Diesel Mercedes that you had to plug in during the winter nights. Imagine how awkward it was to go over to someone’s house after dusk and have to ask them for an extension cord to plug it the car in with. That car was always a very sore topic with him anyway; Hit one gas pump and then two parked cars in the middle of the night looking for alcohol all in the span of one week and he brands you a bad driver for life…

  

  

Speaking of that car, anyone who knows my father can see where this is going. One day, my sister and I were sitting in it (more than most likely making fun of him) as he was adding more air to the back tire at a gas station. He was always convinced that it was “riding low” whatever that meant. Don’t you know that as her and I were dancing around and being stupid (No, we weren’t young kids – I was twenty and she was seventeen) my father looked away from the inflating tire to peek into the back window and yell at us to stop horsing around. No sooner did he turn back to the tire before it exploded in his face. BOOM!!!  Seconds later, we were immediately laughing hysterically, and then looking at each other with that knowing glance which said that in his version of this story – somehow this was going to be our fault. All of a sudden, this bald head launched up into my window like a jack in the box and screamed “IT BLEW!” as if we wouldn’t have heard the boom. Talk about thanking God for a strong bladder – those are actually the moments Depends were created for. Needless to say, we were steps away from walking home because he didn’t find it half as funny as the two of us did. His response (with hands were clasped outward and chewing on his tongue “You kids…Think everything’s a fucking joke…”      

  

My father always says that things aren’t made the way they used to be and he means it; Proof of this being the pair of brown pants that he has worn to every family function since 1978. When I said earlier that patience wasn’t his strong suit, I meant it. Those brown pants are his strong suit! Birthdays, Christenings, Backyard Barbecues, Anniversaries, or Card Games there hasn’t been one function that those pants haven’t been invited to. The OCD part of me likes a good ritual as much as the next guy, but when it becomes a uniform something is wrong. When actually confronted with this query, my father swears that he’s never worn those pants. Apparently, all the pictures from over twenty family functions in the past three decades while wearing the little brown knickers isn’t what he would refer to as “proof.”

This is actually the very first of many, many pictures of my father in the brown pants...

My wife actually owns the pants now, believe it or not. Two years ago, my family did a Secret Santa Yankee Swap gift exchange and my father (never one to be thought of as funny) really rocked the Yuletide Spirit. Not only was he wearing a new pair of brown pants, but he wrapped the classic brown knickers as his Secret Santa gift. My wife opened that box and did everyone a public service by taking one for the team and retiring their number. Now if only I could get her to stop wearing them when we go out…Apparently her and my father are in a sisterhood of the Jimmy Carter pants!!! Talk about a pair of pants lasting a long time! Hit me with an Internet High-Five below if anyone in your family has clothes that are older than you…  

One thing that my father has never been mistaken for is sentimental. One only needs to ask my brother Angelo to repeat the conversation he had with my father in January to illustrate this.

 Dad: “I don’t know if I told you this, but this year was the best Christmas I’ve ever had. Everything just couldn’t have been better”

Angelo: “Dad, I wasn’t even fucking there! What are you talking about? (Angelo was bedridden at home with the flu when we got together)

Dad: “Either way, it was the best one I can remember in a long time…”

He’s never been one to worry about feelings or to not kick someone when they’re down I guess…

I am omitting the incriminating and obviously embarrassing parts of his insanity for everyone’s benefit. Does anyone need me to tell them about my father’s uncanny ability to fart on command and he will do it no matter where or when it is? Your friends are in the house, there he goes. You’re in the church for a christening – oops, he did it again! You get the point – the less said the better. How about I put the next part this way? I’m not saying that this actually happened, but if it did – this is how I imagine his response to be: If he were to start selling illegal cable boxes (I’m not saying he did, just projecting here) and I asked for one to take with me to college, I imagine that he’d reply “That’s 250 bucks – we’re not doing this to make friends!” Shortly after that, I’d find out that he sold one to my friend Annie for 200 bucks. So much for a family discount!!!

How it doesn’t chafe a testicle I will never understand, but the waistline of my father’s pants rides so high that his belt could actually be mistaken for a choker necklace. Upon first glance, you scratch your head because you can’t tell if his shirt collar is sagging or if he just got an atomic wedgie…It defies explanation and just cannot be comfortable. I guess after all these years it must seem normal to him, but Oh God if it isn’t a conversation starter for the people passing by. My wife and I actually have an unwritten pact that if one day she sees me going to leave the house and my pants are pulled up past my nipples like his always are, she will euthanize me immediately!!! People wonder how I turned out to be so crazy – No need to look any further than the chap in the faded brown pants for the answer to that one…

Remove the glasses and jacket and this is my father!

As a postscript for this post, I promise that I will record an audio version as well because a lot is lost in the text. You need the inflection and overall, the insanity translates much better with audio…

David Sedaris named my baby! Now we’re pregnant again – What’ll it be???

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The Man, The Myth, The Legend: David Sedaris

 

First off, this isn’t an April Fool’s Day joke – this is a true story.  My wife was pregnant with our first baby and we went to see David Sedaris. We didn’t go because she was pregnant and she didn’t get pregnant at the show as far as I know, we just happened to see his show while she was pregnant.  (Some people get confused easily, so I wanted to clear that up right away.) He was reading material from one of his books and just generally showing why he is one of the most hysterical men alive and we waited around for the book signing after the show. He always stays around after he’s done and chit chats with everyone and autographs books, cd’s, small turtles…basically whatever you bring with you for him to sign.

We’ve seen him multiple times, but even I am not narcissistic enough to believe that I’ll stand out among the many tons of people that he meets. We’ve actually trouped all over the Tri-State area and are thinking of forming a support group for other David Sedaris Groupies like us. My wife wasn’t always able to attend with me in the past and so I went with her mother. Don’t get nervous, this isn’t turning into another story about me watching dirty movies with my wife’s mom. She’s a blast and loves Sedaris as much as we always have a great time.

In fact, her mother and I (mother-in-law sounds so old and impersonal which is not her at all so I just call her “Boo”) went to see him in New Jersey once and while waiting on line to meet him after the show, an old lady came up and tried to cut the twenty-something girl in back of me. The old lady tried to casually merge into the line but the girl caught on immediately and called her out on it. She wouldn’t let her cut in front of her and that old lady got so annoyed at the young girl that she actually spit on her. She actually spit on her! I was shocked, but mostly just grossed out and really selfishly thankful that she didn’t spit on me. Had that lady spit on me, that would have been all she wrote because I would have knocked that old bitch out; but the girl was a really good sport about it. No offense to David Sedaris, but you would have thought we were waiting to meet Springsteen or The Rolling Stones by the way that old lady was acting. I haven’t seen spitting like that since the Long Island Game Farm Field Trip in Elementary School when a little boy in my class got a loogie right in the chops was he walked up little too close to the llama cage…

Anyway, the three of us (me, my wife, and Boo) went to see his show and afterwards we went to get our books signed. As we were chit chatting about my wife being pregnant, he asked if we knew what we were having and we said we weren’t finding out. He looked at my wife’s stomach and said “The middle name has to be Danger! It has to be!” and he wrote it in our book. Of course, I never thought she’d go for it, but two months later we welcomed little Danger onto the scene! My favorite part of it was when the priest asked “You want me to say Danger in the church during the Christening?”

I did my part and got us this far; Sedaris - Work your magic!!!

Fast Forward almost two years later: Tonight is his show, my wife is pregnant with our second child (We’re not finding out the sex of the baby again), and David – We need a name! I feel like I might sound a little bit crazier than I normally do, but let me try and convey the importance of this moment to you. This is a person that we revere, and I just fear that he might say a name like Nicaragua (If you’re a fan, then you know exactly how he pronounces it!) or Shortcake (Sedaris pronunciation: short-a-cock-a).

I will revisit this topic after the baby is born and do some explaining about the back-story if we end up with a baby named Boolie Von Coolie!!!!

I Hate Birds Part Three – Are Chickens Birds? If not, then I hate them too!

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After we graduated from college, my wife and I went on an amazing bus tour through Europe to celebrate. There were two different tour options: A Superior Tour which went through Europe for almost two weeks and you stayed in amazing Four Star properties or the second option (the one that we chose) was almost 6 weeks long and you stayed in “economy” facilities.

We really tried not to mind since it enabled us to go away for much longer, but in some cities – my OCD was really put to the test. I will circle back and reminisce about some of the other acts of chaos that ensued at another time, but this is about another instance of fowl fouls attacking me yet again.

When we got to Rome, it was nighttime and pitch black. You couldn’t tell exactly where we were staying as the bus pulled up, but we were met with the unmistakable aroma of shit circling in the air upon arrival. As we were unloaded from the bus, we quickly found out that the place we were about to sleep at was in the middle of a combination campground/animal sanctuary. When I say that we quickly found out, it was because there were loose peacocks strutting around offering people directions and refreshments as we received our rooming assignments. I was freaked out big time and it was like being at The Bronx Zoo, but I was really trying to be a good sport and not make it miserable for my girlfriend.

This is the Welcome Ambasador?

 

As I was trying to get over the sight of the stray peacock and hoping that it wouldn’t charge at me like in one of those When Animals Attack videos, my wife told me to turn around quickly. As I turned, I came face to face with a wire fence and a GIGANTIC ostrich-like bird poking through the fence and making eyes at me literally inches from my face. It gave me a wink and then it whispered at me “the pigeons in London tipped me off that you were coming.” Of course, I freaked out and it started making these guttural, obscene noises at me: UGHHHHHH MUGHHHHHH UGHHHHH and decided that I would sleep on the bus and I was quickly told to grow up (by my girlfriend, not the emu!) I ran away like I had just stolen a television and my heart was racing.

As we were shown to our space, I froze in my tracks and started to have another panic attack. We were, literally, going to be sleeping in a wooden shed. A fucking wooden shed! It wasn’t even like it was a nicely appointed wooden shed either – it was an eight by eight bare room with a door, two single cots, and a window. I knew going into the tour that I would have to suck it up, but this was too much. I may be high-maintenance, but it was all the more shocking because the livestock actually had better appointed accommodations than we did!

That shed was hot as balls so I opened the shutters immediately upon entering and it didn’t help. I started complaining as soon as the first bead of sweat started trickling down my forehead, but my wife hung out the window to look around and said that we made out better than some of the others did. She was trying to see the bright side and noticed that our shed had trees surrounding it thinking that would offer some shade to make it cooler.

As I hung out the window (there were no screens on the windows) to look, I noticed that there were trees along the path to our shed and in those trees were chickens. Lots of chickens! Those crazy birds were hanging out as if they were in a downtown Barber Shop just chillin’ with their Homies. That was an immediate red alert for me, but it was getting late, and they refused to let me sleep on the bus so I really had no choice in the matter and solved it the only way I knew how – I got wasted and collapsed into bed.

I'm more scared of these guys than most street gangs

 

I actually came to find out later that chickens are able to lift themselves off the ground and can get over fences and up into trees, thus the peanut gallery glaring down at me from their branches. The next morning, we were scheduled to go on a walking tour at the crack of dawn, but I knew that unless I was drunk and passed out, there was no way that I was going to be able to sleep there. The ruckus from those animals moaning and doing God only knows what to each other or the stray people that wandered close to their gate was unnerving. I was huddled under my sheet like that little kid in The Sixth Sense that saw dead people. The only thing was that I didn’t have Bruce Willis to protect me. If you are ever outnumbered by chickens twenty to one, you want Bruno on your side in case it gets ugly. Yippee Ki-Yay Mother Clucker!!!   

The next morning rolled around and I was spent! We had gone to bed less than four hours earlier, we were two weeks into the tour, drank every night and most of the every day and I was just exhausted. I had been to Rome multiple times before this trip and although I LOVE Rome to pieces, I had to skip out of the walking-tour for fear that my body would just collapse if I attempted it. My girlfriend left with group to go on the tour and I slipped back into my coma.

If I can, let me try to illustrate the next series of events that unfolded: I was still partially drunk, slipping in and out of consciousness while I was recovering, and just all around minding my business. There I was trying to get over the fact that they mail coffee beans in more elaborate shipping crates than the one that I was currently sleeping in, when I remember dozing off for the last time. When I’m asleep, I don’t move at all – I’m like a dead body after rigamortis has set in. I look like a corpse with my arms crossed across my chest and I absolutely cannot sleep without my blue tempur blinders.

These blinders are so soft it's like sticking your head up a sheep's ass!!! Now that's Soft!

 

I cannot pinpoint the exact cause, but something woke me up abruptly. My face and forehead really hurt and my blinders were off my head completely and strewn across the shed on the floor, which had never happened to me before. Assuming I had been tossing and turning in my drunken slumber, I chalked it up to a hangover and got out of bed. As I grabbed my robe and headed over to the bathroom area, people were staring at me as I walked by and for a split-second I thought I might be accidentally streaking another one of the tour rest stops.

In Nice, I was heading from the showers back towards our room (coincidentally we were once again staying in a shed, but that one was a much nicer shed– it was French after all) and people were whistling, calling to me in foreign tongues and chatting up a storm. I felt like a celebrity for a second and didn’t realize until one of the tour buses actually honked at me and all the passengers were pointing down what they were seeing. I was walking around and my bathrobe was open and trailing behind me like a cape leaving the whole front of my body exposed and showing off my bits and bobs to everyone. The tie for the bathrobe was still in place knotted around my waist, but because it was made of thin red silk, it blew open as I was walking and I didn’t realize it. Needless to say I was pretty popular that night at the bar.

Although I wasn’t streaking this time, a lot of people were staring at me again and I didn’t realize why until I got into the bathroom. I looked into the mirror and almost shit my pants because my whole face was covered in red marks. My forehead, cheeks, nose and chin all had crazy scratches and I thought for sure that I was still drunk or hallucinating so I walked back to the shed to wait for my girlfriend to come back from the tour. I have OCD and my finger and toe nails never even reach the tip of my skin, so there was no way it was me scratching myself. My wife has even shorter finger nails than I do, and then I checked her toe nails just to make sure it wasn’t her. Due to the sheer amount of scratches on my face, it was baffling and then it hit like a tornado as I came back up the path to the shed and saw a chicken on the end of the branch about a foot away from the shutter window to my shed: It was a fucking chicken that scratched my face! No wonder my blinders were off my head and on the floor – I never move when I sleep and they have never come off my head before. And I am such a heavy sleeper that I didn’t even feel it as the chicken was most-likely tea bagging me in my sleep!

As my wife returned she looked at me with shock and a little twinge of disgust mixed in as if to say “what did you do now?” I am clumsy and uncoordinated and consistently hurt myself but even she couldn’t have blamed me for a chicken would have gone all Siegfried and Roy on my face while I was sleeping. Who saw that coming? The lesson I learned that day: Don’t skip the walking tour or a chicken will kick the shed out of you!

More on our European adventures at another time when I revisit our tour and explain about how my wife tried to drug our tour guide while we were in Amsterdam…

Say it ain’t so! You don’t know UFO Joe?

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Throughout my life, I have been very fortunate to have come into contact with a ton of really crazy people. I don’t mean crazy like Wow, she has two different socks on, I mean crazy like Oh my God, she just took off her prosthetic leg and is screaming at me to help find her cigarettes!!! Some might call it a curse, but I have always considered it a gift and I am more than willing to share it with you. I have talked about life at the Fat Camp before here and here, but the absolute best part of living there year-round was that there was always an assorted bunch of lunatics running around to keep me entertained. I will give in and admit that I wasn’t sober for more than eighty percent of the time that I lived there, but still – there were some really crazy peeps out there in the woods.

The whole family went out for my aunt’s birthday dinner and it wasn’t long at all before she actually threw me out of the restaurant. We hadn’t even gotten our appetizers served before the Camp Chef, Joe, started to describe his very first alien abduction. I was obviously caught off-guard by this and immediately started hysterical laughing because it was the first time I was hearing any of this. You would think someone would have prepared me for it because they had already heard these stories multiple times. Naturally I thought he was kidding or, more likely, mentally ill. After a menacing glance, my aunt told me that in case I didn’t know it, it’s very rude to laugh in someone’s face and then she kicked me under the table. That kick really hurt which was misleading because she’s a short and stubby little one but those hooker clogs she was wearing really did a number on my ankle.

I tried to stop laughing, but he kept going on…And on…And on. I know that I’m immature, but come on I thought for one split-second that I might have actually been the one abducted and was sitting with the alien pods because they were hanging on his every word. It was right at that moment when the nickname “UFO Joe” was born and solidified. Maybe it was the alcohol or my natural smart-ass nature that made me do it, but when he was done I proceeded (as serious as I could) to tell him about how my friend Fallon was also abducted by aliens (and not the illegal kind by the way) when she was living in Los Angeles. I was explaining how hard it was for her because her husband Jeff and her father Blake didn’t believe her…when my Aunt hauled off and kicked me under the table again. That bitch could really work a clog if you know what I mean.

The Colby’s

Apparently, she could tell that I was talking about Season Two of the underrated classic The Colby’s but UFO Joe was empathizing and saying how hard it must have been for Fallon…Then (catching on) UFO Joe looked at me like I was the crazy one and said “You don’t believe me? You want to see proof?” Before I could even answer like Whitney Houston and say “Hell to the No”, he unbuttoned his shirt and thrust it open to reveal a huge bloody gash where he had ripped open his skin and dug through it with a paper clip. Right there at the table! Waitress, please cancel the Nachos!

As I was trying not to throw up from the site of it, he was going on about how he was positive that they left a tracing probe implanted in his chest and he wasn’t going to stop looking until he found it and removed it. That gash was so deep and disgusting and gooey that it actually looked like there was a vegetable lasagna platter sitting on his chest; it was obviously infected but he was convinced that the aliens had planted the infection as well. I innocently asked if he thought that using a dirty paper clip to bore through layers of human skin while searching for a tracing probe could possibly cause an unrelated infection to the original alien infection that was placed there – but I got the evil eye. My Aunt threw me out before I could get an answer from him, but at least it wasn’t another kick under the table!

Come on Joe, button your shirt back up!

I am not the type to suffer fools gladly and I am also not a mature person in the presence of crazy people. I couldn’t help but laugh as I sat alone on a stool at the bar next door. I did make a few new friends at the bar and then sang karaoke, but it kind of loses a little something when you’re throwing out an Eric Carmen remix with no one there to see it. All by Myself was my signature song, but it was never truer than that night at the bar. This was the first time that I got a dose of UFO Joe and his insanity, but not the last time.

UFO Joe lived at the local bar that we used to go to every day. There was a barn on the side of the bar and he lived in an apartment above it. He had a small porch and a view of cows in a field that always smelled like shit – but he wouldn’t change it for the world. That is until he moved into the house right next to ours at the camp. The camp had almost 250 acres of open space but where do they put the craziest person in three states: fifty feet from where I sleep naturally.


He was crazy, but harmless for the most part. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. It took them a while, but they finally did convince me that it wasn’t weird to see UFO Joe barbecuing chicken on his outdoor grill while wearing ONLY an apron. I was obviously disgusted by the sight of it, but actually more concerned that there might be a sudden fireball from the barbecue. (Don’t laugh – It actually happened to me; why do you think I won’t barbecue anymore? There was a huge WHOOSH followed by a big ball of flames shooting upwards from the grill, up my body and face, and then up the side of the townhouse and my wife went inside and shut the sliding glass door! Granted I was screaming like a nine year old girl and my arms were flailing around, but I was lit up like a roman candle and not even an “Are you ok?)

It was truly disgusting, but my real concern was that if UFO Joe’s back hair were to spontaneously ignite, he might spread into a literal wildfire and burn the entire camp down. As unbelievable as that thought was, when I told my aunt she said I was crazy. If that doesn’t give you a clear picture of my aunt’s oddball mindset – nothing will. There’s a naked, middle-aged, alien abducted man grilling chicken clad only in a red and white checkered apron steps away from us and I’m the crazy one.

As if UFO Joe being shishka-bare while cooking wasn’t enough, he’d blast his music as loud as his speakers would go and play opera or 70’s Classic Rock all night long. You did kind of get used to the noise after a while and I could never get him to admit it, but after a while, I actually started to think that maybe he was implanted and that through the the music was sending signals back to the mother ship…That’s when I knew that it was time to get out of the woods and leave the Fat Camp for good.

E.T. Phone Joe?

Needless to say, the Fat Camp was a fun place to be if you needed a good laugh and there were always plenty of crazy people around to break up even the darkest days. At least it was never boring…

Girl Scoutstitutes: Brownies of the night – It’s not Samoa-sed to be like this!!!

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I’m concerned here people! In much the same way that vegans are everywhere trying to scare the dickens out of me by pushing their crazy lifestyle, another enemy has started gaining momentum: Girl Scoutstitutes – the cookie pusher in a beret.

Granted, they don’t look at you with disgust because you have the scant odor of Mc Nuggets on your breath, but let me tell you – there are some tough little bitches in those troops.  In the same way that a junkie tries to get you hooked on the dust – these little intimidators are ruthless with the tactics they’ll use to shove those damn Tagalongs down my throat. I actually blame a certain Girl Scout’s mother (who shall remain nameless) for at least ten pounds of my recent weight gain. Don’t you dare tell me about self-control and that no one is forcing me to eat them: this is reaching epidemic proportions across the the country and it’s time we take back the streets! We need to stop these cookie monsters and their peer pressure immediately!  

Maybe it’s always been like this, but it seems to me that lately they’re resorting to guerilla tactics and using any means necessary to peddle those damn cookies? I’m afraid to leave the house on weekends. I went to pick up lunch on Saturday and right there in the strip mall parking lot was a makeshift cookie counter set up. There were about six mothers and ten girls waving flags and they were actually chanting. I couldn’t hear until we drove near them that they were chanting “be patriotic and buy Girl Scout Cookies.” Once again, I was shamed into submission and now they’re using a red scare to make you buy them! For God sakes, I was forced into it or otherwise now I’d be labeled a communist! I like a chilled Thin Mint as much as the next fat guy, but what the hell is patriotic about buying cookies? They’re not a branch of the USO are they? Where’s my right to choose?

Try going to a supermarket and see if you can make it past the barricade at the front door without buying some. Then they try to hit you on the way out – and look at you with a suspicious eye when you say you bought them on the way in. Why we succumb to the pressure and dig through the bags to prove it to this coven of witched is beyond me, but we do. My friend was heading into the market (they’re not always super by the way) with her boyfriend and they were approached too. They explained that they had purchased them from a parent at work when the little psycho went on the attack like a dragon and spit out with fire “You should be supporting your local chapter!” If that was me that she said it to, I would have gone all Jackie Chan on her. I am not afraid to cut a bitch. Sure they have you outnumbered and you don’t realize how tough they actually are until you throw them out of the way so you can meet the First Lady.

 True story, I did throw some Girl Scouts out of the way so I could meet Laura Bush when she was First Lady at a meet and greet. It was a mixture of me being really excited, them looking bored and not appreciating the moment quite the way I thought they should be, and quite frankly, they were in my way so I tossed them. Meeting the First Lady, any sitting First Lady for that matter, is a privilege and an honor and is to be treated as such. Those little gum snappers were acting like it was just another day. I’m not expecting Justin Beiber-like pandemonium, but come on…It’s not one of my proudest moments…OK, who am I kidding? Yes it is – I got to meet the First Lady – screw those Girl Scouts!  

This is what happened to the last guy that wouldn't buy cookies from the Girl Scouts!

 

Also, let’s just address the elephant in the room now. I’m not trying to be weird or offensive, but how are Girl Scouts really that different from prostitutes? No emotions here, let’s just look at the evidence. I’m not saying that your little girl is going straight from the troop to the pole, but here are the facts: They both stand outside storefronts to sell their “stuff.” They both stroll up to random cars with a smile and a “product to sell” and then walk away with cold hard cash in hand. The Girl Scouts have a cookie named Thank U Berry Munch – Do I even need to explain that one? Most importantly of all, they both charge you money to eat their cookies! Ok, that last part was just wrong in oh so many ways and I apologize for that, but is anyone else as disturbed by the Girl Scouts as I am?

I need to say that if you are a Troop Leader or the parent of one of these Girl Scouts that I’m talking about – don’t light up the comment board below with how your kid is different. You’re what we call an enabler. You make your relatives and the people at work feel bad and guilt them into buying them. You post your Facebook status as “It’s that time” and the first thought I have is that it’s that time all right – to avoid you!  You may be reading this and thinking that I am definitely not talking about you, because you’re different, but I am talking right to you sister! Stop pushing those delectable morsels at me! I’ll buy them just the same, but stop the insanity and the mind games. And then, after you agree to buy the cookies, they try and guilt you into getting more to send to the troops. I am all for supporting the troops and think they are making unbelievable sacrifices so that I can rant about Imodium and little cookie trollops safely, but come on. If I was half-way across the world being bombed and shot at every hour and then you sent me a box of cookies – I’d be pissed. That had better be a joke and underneath them in the box would be some Jack Daniels or I’d be beating the shit out of you!!!

Four Star Generals aren't even this decorated...

 

I know volunteering in a non-profit and I totally understand the fundraising aspect of being part of an organization like that – every one of those organizations needs to fund itself. But my Cookie Queens, why is it that you are only selling them at a certain time of year? You’re not causing demand or creating a desire that you can’t always fulfill like they do with the Mc Rib’s limited availability. (It always comes back to the Mc Rib doesn’t it?) If the cookies are being sold to fundraise, then sell them in stores and sell them year-round. You’ll make more money if they’re readily available and you won’t piss people off.  

While I’m up on that soap box again, if anyone can explain to me why the pumpkin muffin (the absolute most deliciousest of any treat in the world) is only available for a limited window in the Fall – please explain it to me. Same principle applies, you’re not causing demand here; You’re pissing me off! They’re not fresh and pulled from the farm right to the counter – they’re made from a packaged powder mix that is probably older than my dog. I’m not complaining at all because that packet produces one of the great pleasures of my life, but come on. Make that shit available all year and stop the nonsense! I need my pumpkin muffin like I need air to breathe. It happens to me every year, but on that day when the drive through attendant tells me they’re no longer available, it just gets me right here (points to chest) and always takes me by surprise.  Then I have to deliver the same argument to the poor window attendant and get into the same fight all over again. I can’t keep doing it, it just hurts too much.

Think Dunkin Donuts is safe? Nah, the girl Scouts got them too. I went to get my bagel on Saturday morning and, low and behold, there’s a cookie fortress set up at the drive thru window. I have never prayed for a flash flood rainstorm like I did right then. They weren’t set up so that they were in the way of your car, but so that they were right next to your driver’s side window as you pulled out of the drive-thru. Very strategic – I’m sure there are drills run and a lot of off-season training done to hone these strategies.

Of course, the Dunkin dimwit at the window had toasted my bagel when I asked him not to. (Another epidemic sweeping the nation at an alarmingly high rate – if someone says don’t toast my bagel, then don’t toast it – how hard is that for people to not toast my bagel and when I say that I want a little butter – I ONLY WANT A LITTLE BUTTER! It’s not a suggestion, it’s a preference. If I say that I want so little butter on my bagel that I will literally start to choke on it because it is that dry, than why are you putting so much butter on there??? Why are they taunting me?) I had to pull up next to the cookie fortress to wait for my replacement bagel and as I put it into park, I pretended not to see all twelve of those tiny kids coming at me like a flock of locusts – one of them even in a cookie costume – when I heard it. “How many boxes can I get you!” Not “Hi, would you like to buy some cookies?” No, it was like here’s my fist where’s your wallet? There was no questioning in her voice whether or not I would buy, it was a statement that I couldn’t say no to – how many are you getting! I didn’t even get to respond because I saw all the kids and their mothers looking down to read the magnetic placard that I have on my driver’s side door:

I really forget it’s on there sometimes and these mothers were giving me the hard core stink eye, so if course, I was shamed into buying more cookies. AGAIN. They were looking at me like I was the scumbag and there was something wrong with me when they were the ones pimpin their little girls to run up to men in cars to get their money. Lizzie Grubman had the right idea when she took control of the situation in a crowd with her car. It wasn’t in the papers, but I’m sure Girl Scouts were somehow involved there too…

I’m not trying to cause a cookie holy war, but enough is enough. This “cookie season” is also the same time as Lent and I don’t think that’s a coincidence. I’m not getting all religious and I’m no saint by any means, but how is it possible that these devilish treats are only around during the time when we are undergoing our spiritual “spring cleaning” and supposed to be fasting or giving up something. For those unfamiliar with Lent, it’s when you see all the fast food advertisements for fish sandwich specials and when you think it’s funny to say to a coworker with ashes on their forehead “I didn’t know you were a smoker.” Ok, I say that to them too, but back to my point: it cannot be a coincidence that these servants of the dark side are only peddling their wares during this period. I don’t have concrete proof, but just wanted to throw that out there to start the discussion…       

I’d like to say that I have boycotted Girl Scout cookies this season and rose above the peer pressure and demands of these terrorists, but I’m not that strong. There’s too many of them and at one restaurant parking lot they had 50’s costumes on chanting into a microphone with a speaker. I’m too weak for all this and have succumbed to the charms of the Thin Mints yet again, like Young Frankenstein to that violin. This time, I have bought too many, ate too many, and then ate some more, but I stand before you with a vow: Next year I will be stronger or I will run one of those little bitches down in a parking lot trying.