CelebriTuesdays: Mueller Said Knock You Out! Forget the Russians – He needs to shift his focus to LL Cool J & investigate why this Dude doesn’t age!

 

mueller said knock you out

 

Everyone’s jabbering on about Cambridge Analytica, Russian election interference and Jeff Daniels’ sister Stormy – but we need to focus and find out what’s going on with the most important cover-up of our time that’s happening right under our noses: Why the eff doesn’t LL Cool J age! I know everyone is up in arms over whether the Russians are rigging our elections, but I’m more concerned with the fact the LL Cool J doesn’t look a day older now than when he was in high school! Ironically enough, Babyface hasn’t looked babyish in fifteen years, yet this guy looks the same as he did when he got his Lerner’s Permit! Mueller needs to prioritize and start investigating what the eff is going on right now! I mean, he’s like a real-life God Damn Benjamin Button! This man is defying logic and nature and we need to open an immediate congressional inquiry to uncover whatever the fuck is going on here!

 

16 year difference

Look at this – if you look at me now compared to sixteen years ago it looks like I’ve swallowed that poor little guy…

 

They’re still looking for Hillary’s mystery emails but I want to see LL’s mystery toiletries. What is in that man’s medicine cabinet? I’m not saying he needs to go to jail or the Russians are interfering with his nutrition like with their Olympic athletes, I’m saying we need to find out EXACTLY what he’s doing or taking so that I can also take whatever the hell he’s on! Nutrition and fitness my eye – he’s like a Russian bot sent here to destroy the self-esteem of every short, fat, and bald guy walking the streets of NYC and I say enough is enough! I’ll have what he’s having and by Thanksgiving – I’m gonna be ready for the runway!

 

LL walking

 

On a daily basis, I’m reminded by both my mirror and my crazy sister that I’m not getting any younger or skinnier, but I kinda roll with it. I make it work like a pimp with a limp, but just when I start feeling good about myself – along comes LL Cool J to mess it all up.

 

Spock you out

 

I’m actually quite a big fan of his and have been known to bring the karaoke house down as “Mama Said Knock You Out” is my #2 go to jam! No disrespect to LL, but my #1 karaoke pick is obviously Eric Carmen’s All By Myself because I rock that mother like a sheer force of nature; I mean, I don’t wanna brag but after hearing my spin on it, DJ’s have been known to retire the song and vow never to play it again!

 

Me and LL 1

 

I was excited to meet him and as he walked over, I just couldn’t help but notice that LL Cool J and I have the same exact physique and I realized that, in the right lighting, we’d be mistaken for twins. It’s downright eerie how similar we are – I mean, if I stood on a chair to be eye level with him, I could probably be his body double. Somebody should probably get CBS casting on the phone and let them know about this in case NCIS: Los Angeles needs me – I can’t be the only one that noticed this, can I? It can’t be just all in my head, can it?

 

It’s funny how when you meet someone you admire, normal people think to themselves Holy Shit…I’m meeting LL Cool J…this is awesome, yet once I saw him in person, my first thought was wow, he could literally kick the shit out of me and not even break a sweat! He’s 6’ 2 and jacked up and I can’t help but look so little and slight next to him and I’m neither a little nor slight person! If that wasn’t bad enough, my sister took one glance at the picture and asked why on earth I was trying to suck it in and puff up my chest to look better. I tried to tell her that when you look like this, you gotten do something when you’re standing next to LL, but she was afraid that if one of my shirt buttons gave out from the pressure, it would take out an eye! I can always count on her to call out my ridiculousness but I guess can’t really be mad at her though, since I do constantly write about when she shit on a cat on a pretty regular basis (too bad she wasn’t pretty regular that day…)

 

 

normal.jpg

On my own, I look normal size – next to him I’m shrunken even further…

 

 

I guess trying to suck in and puff myself up was pretty ridiculous, and he might as well have been seven feet tall standing next to me! I mean come on – even his hands are gigantic! Each palm is the size of my head for God’s sake! I was like “Hey can I get a picture” and I’m sure he was thinking “Dude, you need more than a picture – how about a gym membership? You know I wrote a fitness book right? You read that shit yet Bro?” Ok, so maybe it’s all in my head and he wasn’t really thinking any of that – but until LL tells me differently, I’m going with it!

 

hands

I mean look at the size of his hands! Even they’re jacked up!

 

One summer during Fat Camp, I went to the mall with my crazy cousin. As we were riding up the escalator, I pointed at her and for no particular reason shouted out “Oh my God, is that LL Cool J?” I thought it was hilarious because, full disclosure, my cousin is a fat white girl – obvi not LL, not Cool and certainly not J! If she had one, her Celebrity name would be LL Chubb K, but who am I to throw stones? Needless to say, the ladies riding the escalator opposite us when I screamed weren’t fooled before they scowled at me and said “Is he an asshole or what?” and I’m not actually sure if they were asking me or my cousin, but I’ll concede that it was a fair question…

 

ncis

 

Look, LL Cool J seems like a really awesome guy, but in real life, I could never actually be friends with him. I’d feel like I constantly needed to try and suck in my stomach or stand up taller and I couldn’t dare eat anything in front of him. You think he’s eating mounds of white rice every day like me? I don’t believe that man has eaten a carb since the Clinton Administration! That’s a lot of pressure and this fat body just can’t take that kind of stress or hard work so we’ll keep it just like it is.

 

 

The Legend of Weeva the Diva

Get Well Soon Weeva!

My friend Weeva is recuperating from surgery, so I thought that I’d tell you a little about her so you can send lots of Imodium love her way. As a note to my other friends: Don’t go and get hospitalized so I’ll write about you too! This is a one-time only,  isolated occurrence!

Weeva and I used to work together and we always had a blast. She’s twice as old as me but three times as crazy as and ten times more fun than almost anyone else I have ever worked with. The rearview mirror in her car is about three inches shorter than the Hubble Telescope but can see just as far. She has been known to rock a neck brace for no apparent reason, created her own hands free cell phone with duct tape on her steering wheel, and she’s a Dunkin Junkie that goes there multiple times a day for her fix.

At least she isn't texting while she drives...

When I say multiple times a day, I mean it. She lives in the building across the street and is in there more than some of the employees. She reads her morning paper there and one time a homeless guy took pity on her because he thought she was homeless too when he saw her there in a paint-splattered baseball hat and sweatpants.

If you think remembering the correct lyrics to REM’s “It’s The End of the World As We Know It” is tough – try remembering Weeva’s coffee order. She gets this humungous jug filled with half coffee, a quarter espresso, one part wolf tears, two parts parsnip, a half ounce of Columbian sugar cane, two hits of patchouli extract and a drop of kerosene. That isn’t the exact combo she orders, but it’s fairly close.

I am not a coffee drinker (need I remind you of my stomach and the reason this site is called Immodiumabuser? Me drinking coffee is like someone pulling the pin off a grenade!) so I’d get tea or Diet Pepsi. One time I went and forgot my note with her secret formula scratched on it and was about to turn around and go back when I randomly thought to ask the cashier. “On the off chance, do you know how to make the weird mixture for the crazy lady I work with…?” “You mean Weeva? Of course I know what she gets” and then she made it correctly. That was when I realized exactly how much time she spends in there.

Should be required reading for any movie lover!

Our local movie theatre was showing The Graduate and having a talk and signing with the writer Mark Harris, who was there to present his brilliant book Pictures at a Revolution: Five Movies and the Birth of a New Hollywood after the screening. It was a great book (If you’re a movie lover – this is a must read!) about the back stories of the five Best Picture nominees from the 1968 Academy Awards (of which The Graduate was one) and we both love The Graduate, so it was a no brainer. Mid-way through the question and answer section, a look of realization comes over her and Weeva nudge me and says (A little bit too loudly) “Oh my God, these people here probably think I’m your Ms. Robinson!” Picture me crying with laughter.

I'm all for trying a new look Weeva, but this is ridiculous!

 

One day she came in with a new short do and everyone was complimenting, but I knew. The next day, her hair was three times as long and more compliments. It made me realize that I work with the most polite people in the world or the most oblivious. After Weeva walked by, I looked over and said to Christine “You know that she’s wearing a weave, right? “What makes you think that?” she replied. “Are you kidding, her hair was shorter than mine yesterday and today it’s hanging past her ass…that’s not a sign?” “Really? Are you sure?”

My favorite Weeva story happened one day while they were renovating our building. They got us pink and blue hardhats embossed with the company logo for our client appointments during the construction and no one loved their pink hardhat more than Weeva. All of the Spanish guys on the crew used to always point and giggle as she pranced around because she rocked that plastic lid like a mini Donald Trump surveying the land.

As I was sitting at my desk in my god-awful cubicle, Weeva walked up and was standing next to me as I turned around. She had on slacks and a blazer and we were chatting as Renee walked up and said “Weeva, what’s that hanging out of the back of your pants?” Weeva turned to look and there it was – half a roll of toilet paper overflowing out the back of her pants and hanging well past her knees. She ran to the restroom grabbing at the mounds of paper and it actually took a few tries before she got it all out – while we were rolling on the floor hysterical laughing.

She came out of the bathroom laughing harder than any of us were and she was mortified, but not from us seeing it. “Oh my god, I haven’t been in the bathroom for over two hours – how long has that been like that? I had a client appointment and I went to Dunkin Donuts like that! No wonder all the guys on the construction team were laughing and pointing – this time it wasn’t the hardhat!” I can still see all that paper flying by me like a tail as she ran off…

This is similar to how much paper was hanging out the back.

Weeva – you rock it like no one else can and your weave always look good! Keep it up! If Scheherazade had 1,000 tales, you are my Supreme Princess of a thousand hairpieces, get better soon and remember CYA! Always cover your ass – you never know what’s hanging out of it!

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

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…