It’s Bubbe’s Berfday

It’s a holiday kids! I don’t mean Tito Puente eating paste al dente or the one that starts with sparklers and ends with a bang: It’s Bubbe’s Berf Day!

Unlike a parent that can’t admit that he likes one of his kids more than the others – I wanna wish a very Happy Birthday to my Number One fan: Bubbe!

There are so many reasons she’s awesome – but isn’t the fact that she loves this site more than life itself reason enough! She’s obviously smart, funny, and has great taste!

While other peeps frown on all things piling up on the outer regions of the “internets,” she’s blazing a trail and making her way to bring happiness to the masses!

Me and Bubbe making cream puffs!

Also, did I mention her cream puffs? Obviously that isn’t meant as dirty as it sounds, but homegirl can cook too!

We might just do a Vlog with us cooking up some treats one day which is sure to wow the masses! We’re a match made in heaven: she’s sweet, witty, and caring and I’m just funny to look at!

Please google “Annie smack that Fannie” right now!

In all seriousness, one moment doesn’t define someone’s lifetime, but for all intents and purposes – Bubbe literally broke the mold when she hatched Annie-Smack-That-Fannie! Yes folks, the awesomeness carried over when she birthed the holiest of all pigeon-pooping-people and has raised a smart, funny, caring, Immodiumabuser obsessed woman in her image! Take it from me when I say that the internet is forever grateful for that and one only needs to google “Annie smack that Fannie” to see why!

The apple didn’t fall far from the tree…and the poop didn’t fall far from the pigeon!

For all these and many more reasons – I celebrate you today and always! You’re truly a special lady and I hope you have a great day!

Also, did I mention those cream puffs?

And for your birthday – here’s a shot of me and Darryl Strawberry, right before our dance off.

Ok one more. Here’s one of me and Hal Prince to make you feel young again – you look like a teen next to him!

He’s 91 years old and has ten times the energy I do!

Work life balance or how I learned to use my keyboard instead of my belt

work life

If there’s one quote I’ll like to be known for – it’s that “I write so that I don’t strangle anyone.” I was fortunate enough to realize early on in my career that it’s always a better idea to use your keyboard instead of your belt with bosses and coworkers. Many a blog post or a late-night journal entry has kept me in check and enabled me to keep things in perspective as opposed to the stress forcing me into a full-on cage match in my cubicle.

cagematch

 

As a general rule, most people will drive you crazy if you carpool with them – so don’t let them in. There’s always going to be traffic, there’s always going to be work meetings, there’s always going to be people texting and not paying attention, there’s always going to be family commitments that you don’t have enough time for, and you’re very rarely (if ever) going to be appreciated at work! Get control over it or it will overtake you!

 

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The key to happiness isn’t a big revelation people, the key is to be able to identify and create a little, protected zone where you have something that’s just for you; it’s that simple. Even if it’s just for a few minutes here and there, those little escapes will maintain order and sanity in your life. When I enter my zone and get pulled into a favorite book, am able to grab some wine with my beautiful wife, or just sit and play Star Wars with my sons – I get a sense of calm and meaning that the rest of the day can’t give me.

Star Wars

 

I write a humor blog not because I’m so funny and I just need to show everyone – one glance at my face tells them that. I write because it gives me a sense of meaning and accomplishment and I take a lot of pride in what I write. It’s an escape where I can take a few minutes and get into some deep keyboard action where no one else exists except for me and that keyboard. It’s my party and I’ll type if I want to!

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Once I post something I’ve written, there’s a great feeling of accomplishment that’s hard to duplicate. It’s sending a little piece of me into the vast internet galaxy and hoping that someone out there seeking a new experience and few good chuckles will find my message in a bottle.

luke warm

 

This isn’t something I get paid to do, but I love it more than anything in my work career. It fulfills me in a way that defies explanation. I know what you’re thinking: When I’m already so busy, who wants added work to write something, edit the piece, find a couple of silly pictures to accompany it, post it, and then start anew? It isn’t work to me – it’s a labor of love. Sure, I have lazy times when I can’t be bothered with it because life has gotten in the way and overloaded me, but like a devoted pup or an aging bottle of scotch, it’s always there waiting when I need it.

start writing

 

If someone reads something that I’ve written and laughs or likes and shares it with their friends, that’s a feeling you can’t describe. I write to create something and hope that people like it and as a byproduct of that it resonates with someone. Being funny is all in perspective and my sense of humor might not be for everyone, but sometimes you strike a cord and people just connect with your words.

 

editor

 

Truth be told, some of my friends and some members of my family don’t even bother to read it, but I take solace in the fact that there are a bunch of strangers that follow me and look forward to things I write. They like it and they share it and they comment on it and they follow me and they encourage me. There are days at work when I literally wanna place my junk into a metal fan because it’s so bad, but when I write – it immediately takes me to another place which makes up for the worst day in my office anytime!

hell meme

 

I start writing something and it transports me away and then I go back to it later on or move onto another topic, but it’s that escape that keeps me coming back. It’s the feeling of satisfaction that fills a need and makes everything a little better. I’m like everyone else, I dream of walking into work one day and saying “screw this, it isn’t what I love and I won’t do it one more day!” but of course I don’t really do that – that’s what dreams are for. They let you imagine a world of your own creation where you’re in control and life is what you make of it. I’m extremely lucky to have this positive outlet, when I see so many people bogged down and struggling to get through the day to day.

 

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The issue of course becomes how do I maintain a blog about embarrassing shitting stories and experiences where I come off like the combination of equal parts George Costanza and Larry David with a hint of Woody Allen mixed in without sacrificing my professional reputation at work? Simple, I use a pen name – Immodium Abuser. It’s my super hero secret identity and protects my career while giving me the freedom to write honestly and put it out there without having to worry if people see it. The insecurity and fear doesn’t rule me the way it would if I published under my real name. Can you imagine if I had to explain to my boss why in the world I tormented my brother’s girlfriend with a life-size, plastic Baby Jesus, why people from Imodium AD tried to stage an intervention with me or tell him about my sister shitting on a cat? Some things are just better left out of the office…

 

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The Help is making me yelp: I’m a hurtin’ cause she cut my curtain and now the water is squirtin!

thehelp change poster

I’m sure you can relate when I say that it’s hard to get good help these days. I know that might sound a little bit pretentious, but I’m having some issues with my housekeeper. I’m not to the manor born and living la vida loca all up in here, but we make sacrifices so that we can have the important things in life…If times get tough and we need to cut back – we won’t get the kids diapers or I won’t let my pregnant wife eat expensive organic food or any of those other wasteful splurges – I’ll make her get cheap store brand hot dogs or chips and soda so that we can direct our resources where it’s important – to the housekeeper. Just kidding guys, she doesn’t drink soda.

 

This is a portion of my wife's supplyof cloth diapers for the kids and I'M THE HOARDER???

This is a portion of my wife’s supply of cloth diapers for the kids and I’M THE HOARDER???

Any guesses on what this picture below is? No? It’s the shower curtain from my bathroom which is randomly missing a huge clump! How in the world does this happen? I saw The Help and this wouldn’t have happened if Abelene was here. Minnie, maybe, but not Abelene! Now let me explain how I works in our house. There are three bathrooms and for everyone’s sanity and safety, I have my own, my wife and kids share one and everyone else uses the third one. Not a stray ass ever touches my toilet or enters my shower, so imagine my surprise when something is amiss there.

Shower Curtain 2

Of course, I was worked up and in a tizzy, but you wanna guess what my wife’s response to this was? “Are you sure it wasn’t like that? How do you really know she did it” as if I just didn’t happen to notice that I have been missing half of the god damn shower curtain! It’s not as if they sell shower curtains with a bite taken out of them in the store or I that have showered three times a day with this French door of shower curtain and never happened to notice the water gushing out onto the bathroom floor…Even without my contacts when I can’t see a thing, I’d still notice that.

 

 

 

 

I love our housekeeper to death. She is a cute little pickle, but sometimes even a cute little pickle tastes sour… One day she randomly told me that her son’s “pee pee was coming out black.” Take that in and remember who is writing this. A) how dos that come up in random conversation and b) I wouldn’t tell that to my sister, nonetheless the person paying me. I, of course, wasn’t mature enough to handle and told her to forget about cleaning the house and get that kid to a doctor right immediately. She said he was OK to wait til later on, but that’s not fair to that poor kid and that’s really not fair to my poor couch that he was sitting on either…Of course, when I told my wife, she asked if I was sure that’s what she meant as if there were some hidden subtext I might not have deciphered from the message. His pee pee was coming out black – pretty straight forward Honey! “Why would she tell you something so personal? I guess she feels comfortable with you…” She said that to me as if I asked the housekeeper to confide something like that in me (of all people); I never want anyone to feel that comfortable with me! It was similar to the time a guy at work that I don’t really know at all felt compelled to share a traumatic story of almost having his testicles ripped off his body in a random toilet seat accident. Apparently, he had to “use the facilities” in his hotel room and the toilet seat wasn’t attached so he slid right off the bowl and you can guess the rest of this story without me getting graphic or showing a visual aid…I never knew Holiday Inn’s could be that dangerous.

why the fuck

Exactly honey; It’s not personal, it’s disgusting and why would anyone tell me something like that? What could I have possibly done that would ever make someone feel that comfortable with me? Everything turned out OK with her son and my coworkers sack and I never mentioned it again to either of them for obvious reasons. I also never sat on that couch again for obvious reasons. It’s not that I didn’t bring it up again because I’m not a considerate person, but because I never want anyone to ever talk to me about something like that again!

 

 

 

I’m making out that she’s not a really nice person and that isn’t the case at all. She is such a sweet and wonderful woman and she’s been working with us for almost ten years. The unfortunate part of developing a nice relationship with her is the gifting aspect of it. We give her money for the holidays because we really like her and we want to take care of her. She unfortunately is the nicest person ever and likes to return the favor. Not with money or a free session, but with an actual, unwrap-what-I-bought present. One Christmas she gave us a brass napkin holder in the shape of a rooster. A rooster! You can’t even get brass like that anymore in most stores and something brass shaped like a rooster is even more rare. Forget holding the napkins – I wish I was carrying that thing when I got jumped by those three street thugs on Wellwood Avenue all those years ago and I wouldn’t have gotten such an ass-kicking. These types of weapons should be used by people walking alone in dark alleys because if you hit someone with it – there’s no way they’re only getting a little cock a doodle bruise if you know what I mean! There’s some serious damage to be done with it. My dislike for it isn’t because I hate birds, it’s because I hate ugly shit in my house…We had that stupid thing in the house for a long time before my wife finally let me throw it away because she was afraid of offending her. Don’t offend her, but let’s have our friends that come over think we’re crazy gypsies with that crazy thing. At least I always felt secure that if there was a break in I could grab that first as it would do more damage than a handgun could. Believe it or not, we finally got rid of that crazy thing and she got us another one for Christmas that year. Seriously, not a brass one, but a replacement rooster napkin holder! I’m bringing it to the next wedding we go to and am giving that as my present! There is no way she’s shopping at a store that has a third one…

This is the second napkin holder she got us...

This is the second napkin holder she got us…

 

So where does that leave me? Right, heading to the store for a new shower curtain and my wife not letting me ask her about it. There might be a logical reason for why you’d cut my shower curtain in half and not mention it, but for the life of me I can’t imagine what it is. And if anyone is looking for their very own brass rooster napkin holder I’m not allowed to ask where she got it, but, I did find a similar one listed on ebay so enjoy…

St. Patrick Swayze Day: To all my pasty white brothas and sistas – It’s our time!!!

Goonies

St pats day banner

Like the Goonies said “It’s our time down here!” Today is the day that we unite and stand up; This is the one moment out of 365 long ass days in a year when our pasty white, ghost-like, pale complexions won’t get random stares and snickered at. You think you can go out in jeans and a sweatshirt today? Sweet Brown told ya people “Ain’t nobody got time for that!” This is the day where tacky doesn’t exist: Plastic bowler hat – Check. Green adhesive handlebar moustache – testify! Kelly green spandex booty shorts – Guilty as charged! In case you’re not familiar with the rules of fashion, the general rule of thumb with picking the right booty shorts for guys is to find the size that makes the indentation of your lucky charms so tight that you’ll need to lube yourself up with olive oil to get into them and then grab the next size down. Sure you’re risking cutting off circulation, but it’s not the pain that matters today…

sweet brown

Don’t scratch your head and look puzzled – you all hear me and know what I’m talking about. My people may be quiet and easily knocked down every other day, but our silent suffering and cries will not be heard today…If you’re like me and can’t go out of your house between April and October without an umbrella or a woman’s wide-brimmed hat to protect you from the sun – I’m talking about you. If the pallor of your skin only knows two shades: Albino pale and red-as-a-Smacked-Ass with nothing in-between – I’m talking to you brother! Dare I mention the most ridiculed and tortured of all God’s creatures on this planet – the Gingers? I hear your cries loudest of all my misunderstood flock of Red Robins! Stand up my brethren and let us tear some shit up out there! Until the break of midnight signals a brand new day, we will be the ghetto fabulous green gangstas out and about today.

sunburn from flash

If you’re interested in finding me today, I’m back from Chicago where they dyed the river last weekend and the whole city opened their arms and embraced my pale complexion like I was a rock star. Well, everyone except that homeless guy outside my hotel that called me crazy; but in his defense when a man sitting on a cardboard box living on the street calls YOU crazy – some serious self-reflection might be in order….

dyeing the river

Maybe I’ll see you out there tonight, I’ve pre-scheduled this post and am probably face down, ass up at my local watering hole right this very minute…You think I’m kidding? Here are some of my other shenanigans from my St. Patrick’s Day highlights reel…

CLICK HERE

AND

CLICK HERE

St pats day banner

How have I not had the shit kicked out of me yet?

The fact that I can mosey along through life in my delusional bubble and still haven’t gotten and ass-woopin’ reaffirms my conviction that I’m either so funny and charming that it makes me irresistible or I’m so cheeseball crazy that people just assume most of what I’m saying is nonsense and ignore it…
Thoughts?

 

www.immodiumabuser.com

As hard as it is to believe for anyone that knows me, I have never actually been in a fist fight in my life. Many, many, many, many times, I really should have had the stuffing knocked out of me, but by some grace of God – I have eluded the fisticuffs (although there have been a few scuffles). I never got to throw even one punch in any of them, but that’s not really the point I guess. Not even when I went up to that girl in The Dark Horse Tavern and told her that her face looked like diarrhea because I thought I was helping her out, not even a slap. Of course, I was drunk and slurring my speech when that happened, but she got my meaning and just as an FYI: if someone is trying to help you, I think you should at least hear them out! 

In Elementary School, I used to incite the…

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I was DOA when my Imodium went MIA

My recurring travelling nightmare...

My recurring travelling nightmare…

Last week I was in Chicago for a work trip and I lost my stash of Imodium AD. My Imodium Ad stash isn’t like the pimp-stache I used to rock above my lip back in college that was nicknamed the tickler; this is one has a serious job to do. It’s not a fancy monogrammed tin or anything, just a plain old Advil travel size container that I use to transport my tiny little life-support system. While out gallivanting one night at the bar “networking” I apparently dropped it out of my pocket and went into full panic mode.

Tken during my second Junior year in college - no one told me that the pimpstache was just a little too much...

This was taken during my second Junior year in college – no one told me that the pimpstache was just a little too much…

I used to keep my Imodium AD in a round mint tin that I was very attached to, but that met an unfortunately tragic end. Long story short, I was following my brother and sister-in-law to the Long Island Expressway through some back roads that I was unfamiliar with when they got out to hug me goodbye. THEY STOPPED THE CAR AND GOT OUT TO SAY GOODBYE ON THE EXPRESSWAY! WHO DOES THAT? Why they couldn’t just waive and drive on like normal people do is anyone’s guess, but we were coming from a funeral so emotions might have been higher than usual. As I got out of the car to see why they stopped, the tin dropped to the ground and rolled right onto the Expressway. It was like it happened in slow motion and I immediately freaked out as it took all of three seconds before it was run over by a hottie in a red hoopdie who sprinkled my Imodium all over that highway like confetti!

 Terms-Of-Endearment

As you can imagine, I responded as any normal person would after seeing something so traumatic: they had to restrain me from chasing it into the street like a psychopath while I was screaming like Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment when she’s in the hospital and it’s time for Debra Winger’s shot. My stomach dropped and I fell to my knees crying out in pain – I almost had a heart attack at that sight while those two just laughed their asses off. There was not one ounce of sympathy that I was on my way to the airport and might need to risk my life and make the flight commando now. Meryl Streep had an easier time making Sophie’s Choice than I did getting over seeing something I treasure destroyed like that…Needless to say I stopped and refilled and replaced the tin so everyone could rest easy…

As I’ve highlighted before, me traveling for work is normally difficult , but adding this to the mix doubled my stress load. My first stop the next morning was at 8:30 AM, so I did what I could and hit the market kiosk in the hotel lobby. Why they don’t offer items in bulk I’ll never guess, but they only sold Imodium AD in two packs. I did the only sensible thing and got ten of them figuring I could stop at CVS after my appointments were finished and fully restock. Since it was a busy Wednesday morning, there were quite a few corporate travelers like me filling the lobby as I waited in line to pay at the Front Desk.

As my turn to pay arrived, the Agent looked at the heap of Imodium AD I had placed on the counter and gasped. He looked from the pile right up at me and said “Oh my God, Are you OK?” Normally, this really wouldn’t have been a big deal if there weren’t four people on line in back of me and he hadn’t said it so loud that they all heard and immediately looked at what I was buying. I scowled back at him and said “Yes, thank you for asking” and took out my wallet to which he replied “Buddy, I’m not going to charge you for these…if you’re in pain and need that many – they’re on me!”

I guess it would have been a nice gesture if he hadn’t been talking so God damned loud that everyone and their mother could now tell that gastric disruption was going to be a big part of my day. I guess it might not have been that bad if the elevator had come a little quicker after me paying for them so that I didn’t have to ride down to the hotel entrance with two of the people from the line staring as if I might lose control of my colon at any moment. You know that look of disgust mixed with judgment mixed with a hint of the stink eye? That’s what they were coming at me with and I really can’t blame them. What could I do? It wasn’t like I could tell the front Desk Agent or those people that it was preventative… I guess we all have our cross to bear…

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What’s the lesson we learn here? Right, always have a backup case for your Imodium because there might come a day when the hotel lobby might not have Imodium and you’ll really be screwed!  I almost felt like it was a little bit of karma from the night before. I proceeded to explain to a colleague (that bears a more than striking resemblance to Julianne Moore but from The Kids Are All Right, not Boogie Nights) that if she took more than four minutes in the restroom, the assumption was that she was dropping a deuce. She tried to dispute that logic, but come on – I wasn’t being judgmental – just factual. You know those people that come back after a spell and try to pretend they met a friend and got to talking on the bathroom line – they’re liars! They didn’t see a friend in there – they dropped off a friend in there! Own the deuce and the amount of time you took for it – we all know that’s what you’re doing. You’re not checking your messages or emails at 10:30 PM! If you’re just going in to pee – there is no way it takes that long. Am I wrong here? I may be crazy about a lot of things, but I’m not sure I’m off the mark on this one…

 

Three Quick Things: KAPOOYAH!!! KAPOOYAH!!!

Three Quick Things!!!
 KAPOOYAH – KAPOOYAH!!!

Three Things

1. Everyone knows I love me some Glozell and would “get me a cold pop” with Sweet Brown any day of the week – but Michelle Clark is my absolute new favorite baby girl! Words cannot accurately describe this, but suffice it to say that the new way to fame is not won on The Voice or American Idol, but local newscasts gone viral! And for those fitness fanatics looking for a good beat to run to at the gym, here’s the autotune remix now available on ITunes!!!

Glozell

2. An Oklahoma woman was arrested for trying to sell her kids on Facebook : Come on Misty! Everyone knows you do that on Craigslist, not Facebook!!!  

3. I have picked up a ton of new followers lately and they’re getting really heavy. While I put them down and rest for a moment, I wanted to highlight one that thinks my blog is “twisted and hilarious” which proves that he is obviously very smart. Peter Ellis wrote a post about possible memoir titles and hasn’t received a lot of appreciation for it which is a shameful oversight on so many levels. Click Here and let him know what you think of it. I might actually use number nine if I ever publish my memoirs!!! Well done Sir!!!

cold pop

A Stain by any other name…

buck rogers

As I heard about this crazy story and it randomly made me think of my college friend Weezie and her “guy.” Nothing as tragic, but you’ll see the connection…But first – let me tell you that this is the exact reason I will not commute without my Imodium AD!!!

I know that in college that it’s a different world and you live by crazier standards than you do in real life, but banging someone named “ShitStain” is sort of like watching the Wendy Williams Show sober – it’s never a good idea! He was a great guy and all, but it didn’t matter – his name was “Shit Stain.”

Wendy Williams is a Wonder allright!

Wendy Williams is a Wonder allright!

If you were to ask Weezie, she’d tell you he looked like Brad Pitt, but I think he looked more like Nat from The Peach Pit. I’m not trying to be mean here, but they weren’t even officially dating so it is hard to know what to call them; I’ll just say they were “friends” and leave it at that. I liked him, he was a cool guy. My question was never about him or his looks or anything – it was his name. Hear me out: I am not one to normally pry about anyone’s nighttime fun – but I couldn’t help but ask: What did she say during the sex? Seriously, what do you yell out when you’re having sex with someone named ShitStain?

“Give it to me ShitStain”

Me love you long time ShitStain”

“If this stain’s a rockin, don’t come a knockin”

You get the picture and you can understand my curiosity – something just ain’t right about that…

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I’m sorry to report that there was no happy ending for the two of them and the relationship didn’t progress to the point of registering for linens monogrammed with ShitStains, but I did I see him once after Graduation. I was up at the Fat Camp when I randomly saw him walking with his mother in the mall.

As I walked over, I yelled out “Hey ShitStain, What’s going on?” to painful looks of confusion on his mother’s face as if she didn’t know who I was talking to. She was looking around side to side as if there might be two ShitStains in the mall at the same time. It was then that I realized that I didn’t actually know his real name and she apparently didn’t know his stage name. OK, so it was his Fraternity name and not a stage name, but does it really matter? His mother was like:

“What did you just call him? That’s not his name!”  

Blank stare back from me – I couldn’t even guess at a real name…

“Do you not know his name” she asked me…“It’s John.”

“Really? I don’t picture you as a John…”          

She turned to ShitStain “Why did he just call you that? How do you know him?”

“What?” I said “Everyone calls him ShitStain…” It’s not as if I would walk up to strangers calling them ShitStain for no reason…

“Who calls you that John? Why do they call you ShitStain?” she questioned as they walked away…Not really much of a question if you ask me…I never actually asked him why, but I always had a pretty good idea of how he got that name…

open mouth

Once again, open mouth and insert foot! I can only imagine that car ride home…

“John, I’m telling your father that people call you ShitStain…”

Don’t you miss college sometimes???

How did I spoil it? He shouldn’t have been on the toilet!

No flashy intro necessary; I literally overheard the absolute strangest parent-teacher Conference ever yesterday afternoon. This is what I walked into:

Is there anything we can do for her grades? Can’t she stay after school with you for extra help? What can we do?”

Then there was a pause as the person on the other end of the call said something.

But she’s a good girl…I know she can try harder…there must be something we can do?”

I won’t bore you the rest of the conversation because what was said isn’t the weird part. The weird part was that I was heading into the employee locker room to go to the bathroom after lunch and walked in on that conversation. I immediately looked around to see where the voice was coming from and low and behold I looked over at the stall to see a pair of white uniform pants the kitchen guys wear around the ankles and two black loafers… I recognized his voice and already knew who it was and he’s a really nice guy in spite of the vest of back hair that he wears under his shirt.

 

Realizing he was on a parent teacher conference call that was obviously personal, I wondered why he would even have that conversation in a bathroom stall because the echo alone would be disruptive, when someone in the stall next to his farted. Really Loud! Gallagher smashing a watermelon with a mallet loud! That was immediately followed by an abrupt flushing of the toilet, I guess to distract, but the damage was already done. As I have always said, and will continue to say until the day I slip into my final Imodium induced coma, farts are funny. Apparently, what wasn’t funny was that me, being the absolute picture of maturity and professionalism at work, immediately burst out laughing uncontrollably like a Tickle me Elmo on steroids. I couldn’t help it, the laughter just burst out of me with the same sheer force and velocity that the fart flew out of the stall next door with.

Even though I had originally gone in there to use the bathroom, I sprinted out the door and down the hall. I was laughing like an insane person with tears rolling down my face as I heard him ask the teacher to hold on a minute while he stomped his foot and mumbled something about being on an important call with his daughter’s teacher…  Maybe I’m not mature, but I love how the fart didn’t merit a mention, the flush didn’t get a notice, but I burst out laughing and it gets him annoyed.

To any teachers out there, please tell me the weirdest parent teacher conference you’ve had. To anyone else, please don’t tell me about your shitting and phone usage. I would think having your cell phone go off repeatedly with a Sanford & Son theme song as your ringtone (DUNT DUNT DUNNIT… DUNT DUNT DUNNIT DUNNIT DUN DUNT DUNT DUNNIT….DUNT DUNT DUNNIT DINIT DUNNN DUNT DUNT …DINT DUNT DANT DANT DANT DERRT DERRRT DERRRNT DERRRNT DEERNT DERRRRRR) while you were in an Easter Sunday mass led by the Pope would be more appropriate than having this conversation while on the throne.

I’ll use absolutely any any excuse to bring up this classic…

Let’s not even mention the impracticality of the noise or the strangeness of having to explain a rogue fart or two…That is just a filthy undertaking! Even in the cleanest bathroom – poop is poop and shouldn’t ever be involved in a conversation, whether it’s your kid’s teacher or not. Are you dialing and pressing keys with those same hands you’re using to conduct your business in there? Did you just dial with those germ infested fingers and then put that phone up to your face? Are you going wash your hands before you prepare the lunch for the employee cafeteria? Am I ever likely to eat in that cafeteria again?

Please don’t ask me what ever happened to his daughter and if she’s now working at the car wash because she had to drop out  of school –  it’s not like I’m ever going to bring that up with him and find out. It’s also not likely that I’m ever going to shake his hand again. It’s amazing that I can get past the mountain of back hair covering his back like a mohair Schmatta, yet not the parent/teacher throne conversation…What do you do if you’re that teacher and what do you do when that kid brings brownies into your class on her birthday and says her dad made them? Teachers have it hard enough people, let them be…not working summers isn’t worth that!

Doesn’t mean he’s not a nice person…

If you’re laughing at this, my wife probably isn’t – Part One

I know that it might seem hard to believe given some of the foolishness I have taken part in, but whenever I start to second-guess my mental stability I’m reminded of a very comforting thought: I may be off the wall, but my wife willingly chose this. Who’s really the nutty one, you might ask? She’s calm, cool, collected and most importantly, not crazy. While I’m way out there, she’s at the normal end of the spectrum and it gives us a nice balance.

My wife’s a High School Guidance Counselor and understands the inner workings of fragile minds – thus the attraction to me…At first thought, one would think that I was an independent study or possibly an internship for her Master’s Program. Hell, I’m so wacked out – she should have enough credits for her doctorate by now.

My OCD Rituals, superstitions, neurosis, positive energy crystal worshipping, endless supply of toiletries and taking handfuls of Imodium at every turn might come off as amusing to some people, but not if that was your life 24/7. Every time someone meets my wife and says “He’s so funny” I can see the look on her face and hear it before she even opens her mouth and says the inevitable “you don’t live with him.” I don’t want to make it like she’s a saint here, because Homegirl has gotten a little Cray Cray at times too – but compared to me, she can’t help but come across as the normal one.

As I go through my days, I constantly try and find ways to make her laugh, because there is nothing more infectious than her laughter…usually I can get her to smile and a snicker here and there, but I’ll tell you a few things that she most certainly DID NOT find funny:

When she was pregnant with our first son and I took her to the midwife’s office for a check-up. While she was half undressed because she was changing into the gown for her examination, I shot past her and hopped up onto the exam table. I forced her to take a picture of me in the stirrups so I could text it to my brother-in-law while she looked at me in amazement/disgust. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best timing for my photo shoot; it should have been all about her and the baby (and it really was) but I just couldn’t resist. Like a dog dry humping a still leg, I just couldn’t help myself. Her rolling eyes reminded me that it was blackmail evidence and I maybe should have used my phone instead of hers for the picture. Also, it’s probably best not to push a pregnant woman out of the way while racing to see who can get up in the stirrups first…but lesson learned.

“Smile and Say Cheese…”

I don’t fully understand why, but guess who was annoyed when I Skype-recorded a fart so I could play it back and listen to myself…No further explanation necessary: farts are funny and come on, don’t try and pretend that you haven’t done it too. Isn’t that what Steve jobs had in mind for the Ipad all along? You can get a fart scented candle, but you shouldn’t record your own? Something is wrong with that kind of thinking. Is it OK to wire tap someone else farting? I know you can’t record other conversations, but where is the line on the recording of farts? These are the real questions people should be looking for clarity from our public officials this Election Day.


Do I even need to bring up the Rosie O’Donnell incident
again?  Now that was something she certainly didn’t find amusing then and she still doesn’t now…

Tune in next time as I go over some more of my shenanigans at my wife’s family weddings and holidays…Nothing brings out the full-on crazy like a wedding or holiday celebration. The hits just keep coming and every great once in a while, I can get her to laugh along at the craziness too…

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

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.

Forget the Apple store, the only Mac I care about starts with Big or ends with Rib!

Hard as it is to believe, I’m a guy that really used to go to the gym every day and actually really cared about how I looked. Don’t worry, I’m still that same shallow person underneath; I’m just underneath a lot more layers now. I wasn’t always so self-conscious until people started reacting oddly to me.

Just me daydreaming again at work - they really need to fix that Air Conditioning.

After the last tuxedo incident I wrote about, I thought it better to go out and buy a tuxedo instead of renting one. I was interrupted while browsing the selections by the sales guy who felt the need to yell at me across the store “Hey! What are you doing over there? You need to be in the short and portly section down here!” As if I wanted everyone in the store to know that the height Gods might have snubbed their noses down at me but the fat Gods had given me an overabundance of gifts. And who calls someone “portly” anyway – is that even a real word? As funny as I didn’t think he was, he didn’t seem at all fazed when I yelled back “Thanks asshole; do you have any portly shoes to match this?” Some people might have gotten the hint at that point, but he then proceed to follow me into the dressing room and lecture me on how short people look even shorter when wearing the vest of a three piece suit as I was undressing. I’m not sure why, but I always seem to find the most helpful people out there…    

If you were to ask my sister Marlene to share her sage advice on the topic of me gaining a few pounds, she’d gently say “It’s because he’s fucking lazy!” but I like to think of it as being conservative with my energy. The kind and gentle words of a mentally unstable sister can be so soothing sometimes…

I’ve gained so much weight, that if you were to look at my driver’s license picture (which was taken when I was in college, when I was younger and, more importantly, when I was hotter) it looks like a distant relative. You know how when people look at a fake ID and squint and then tell you, unconvincingly, how you could almost pass for the person in the photo? It’s just like that although it looks like I have swallowed the person in my picture. Seriously, people look at that photo and then look back at me, and then back one more time at the photo to make sure it’s really me. They usually furrow their brow as if unsure how to respond and although no one has actually said it out loud yet, I know it’s only a matter of time. I just know that they’re looking at that photo and thinking “What happened you fat fuck?” Don’t tell me that people wouldn’t say that because that’s the type of thing that I would say to someone!   

I don't know why my wife won't go to the beach with me!

I almost feel like I need to explain to them that I broke my left ankle twice – two years in a row on April 22nd actually. It takes a real uncoordinated ass to do that but I’ll wear that crown. Whenever I try to offer that up into the conversation, my ever-supportive wife likes to remind me that it has been five years since I broke my ankle for the second time so it’s probably healed by now enough for me to start exercising again…She also likes to throw in for good measure, that three Presidents have been in office since I was last considered “in shape” so the excuse doesn’t really hold water anymore.

Would she say that to Joe Theismann about his injury? I thought not. As a side note, that is the first and only time you’re ever likely to see a sports analogy used in anything I write. It’s not because I don’t think sports analogies offer anything to the dialogue, it’s because that’s the only sports factoid I actually know and to be perfectly honest, I really only know that one because it was in The Blind Side.

I know very scant bits about sports and can offer little by the way of anecdotal evidence unless you’re referring to the subject of an Oscar-nominated movie. I wouldn’t know Lebron James from Rick James, but you get me started about The Fighter, Field of Dreams, or Rocky and I’ll light this mother up.  

Isn't he on the Miami Heat now?

I was always way too uncoordinated to ever play sports anyway. The last time I tried was the first time I broke my left ankle. Picture it like a mathematical equation if you will: volleyball + a really tall bitch spiking the ball in my face + short stubby me + a one-time jump trying to block a shot that was three feet over my head = Emergency Room, Crutches and then surgery. Get the picture?

Don’t even get me started about that surgery on my ankle because Like B.A. won’t get on an airplane, I will never go in that hospital again. They gave me a sedative and my wife and sister walked me down the hallway as the attendant rolled me towards the elevator and into surgery. I had taken my contact lenses out and couldn’t see anything past my nose. As we passed by, another attendant asked the attendant pushing me to drop a sample off at the lab and then proceeded to toss the sample on the stretcher and it landed next to me. I was squinting like mad to make it out for sure, but I knew it was shit in a bag and I looked to my wife and sister for help.

I pity the fool that put shit on my stretcher!

 Little use they were, because they were looking at each other trying not to laugh. The only thing protecting me from a log of someone’s shit was a thin layer of cotton that the hospital was calling a sheet! The last thing I remember before the sedative knocked me out was me trying to sit up and get off that stretcher because I was so worked up and muttering over and over “There’s shit in that bag…Oh God, There’s someone’s shit in that bag…” No, I am not exaggerating and I am not mistaken – THEY LITERALLY PUT A CLEAR PLASTIC BAG FULL OF SHIT ON TOP OF ME!

My biggest fear in life had been realized and where was my wife during it? Laughing in my face! I might have to go back and rewatch our wedding video, but I’m pretty sure that we covered this in the vows. If it is at all still unclear Honey, please let me remedy that right now because to me “in good times and in bad times” actually means that I vow not to let someone transport a bag full of shit on my spouse!!! 

Incidentally, the second time I broke my left ankle on April 22nd was exactly one year after the first time I did it. No volleyball this time, but I went out with friends to “celebrate” my anniversary and my finally being able to walk unassisted after a year of surgery, physical therapy, wearing a boot cast up to my knee, walking with crutches, falling with crutches, and then walking with a cane like every pimp should. I got drunk that night and left the bar to get into a cab towards home when I tripped stepping off the curb. I twisted my ankle and smashed head first into the rear quarter panel of the cab as I was screaming in agony on the ground clutching that damn ankle again.

One would think that in that situation, a normal person might get out and help someone that had fallen, but the cab driver leaned over the front seat and yelled out the open back door towards me “Are you getting in or not?” As I tried to crawl off the ground and into the back seat, he asked me “where to?” I just cringed and muttered “Hospital – I think I broke my ankle again.” The nurses and doctor thought it was so funny and so ironic that I somehow managed to break the same ankle on the same date two years in a row, but you know who didn’t think it was funny: My wife who was in Florida with her sister. At least the second time, I didn’t break a piece of the bone along with the ankle and need to have another surgery but I was back in that cast and back on those crutches for months again…       

I hope that you weren’t expecting a positive, lesson-learned ending to this post: That’s not me. I will admit that I have gained a little weight and while others might waste time with vows to lose weight this time of year, I am actually heading the other route. I’m vowing right here and now to gain at least ten more pounds over the next month to spite all of those people on a diet!

Screw you! Next time your stomach is growling or you’re tired from getting up early to go to the gym and you’re nibbling on carrots for lunch, picture me and my McRib sandwich laughing as I pass by on the obesity train. Next stop – Elastic waistband pants, Chubb Rubb, and medical intervention with the lap band surgeon! CHOO CHOO!