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

Goonies

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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

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If you’re laughing at this, my wife probably isn’t – Part three: Does it still count if it’s her aunt I mount?

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I got a comment from Celtic illumination, aka the loveliest pair of legs in Ireland about something I mentioned off-handedly in this post. Those legs are off on a secret cabal to become the Master Candle Maker in the world and considering that the double top secret world of candle making is extremely cutthroat, I’m offering support where I can. There are way too many pairs of legs gyrating through Ireland to blindly classify one set as the loveliest, but I’m going to give the benefit of the doubt here and choose to believe my new friend. Anyway, here’s the comment she left:

 

You mention ‘accidently mounting your aunt,’ are we talking taxidermy here?

 

Shame on me for assuming that the term that “mounting” was universally understood. I thought that people would realize that when I said that I “mounted” her it was pretty clear that I ended up straddling her. I know it’s hard not to think of straddling as a sexual thing, but this truly wasn’t that kind of story. When I read the comment to my wife, she laughed out loud and I said “who would think I was trying to stuff your aunt and mount her on the wall?” to which she replied “Please don’t try to stuff my aunt!!!” which definitely had a sexual connotation to it and not the intended taxidermy slant.

IRISH

 

So, to clear up any lingering confusion, here is the official non-taxidermy related version of the incident. It was my wife’s family Christmas luncheon and we were at her Aunt Lynn’s house. There was about fifteen of us scattered around, but the majority of the group were having drinks and catching up in the living room. The kids and my wife’s grandmother were opening their gifts when her aunt gave us a gift (even though we weren’t supposed to be exchanging). Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t raised by animals so I got up to go over and say thank you while my wife was walking towards the kitchen to refill drinks for everyone.

 

Her aunt was lying on the couch across her mother and grandmother as I walked over to her. They were positioned like this: her aunt’s head was on the throw pillow at the end of the couch and her legs were stretched the length of the couch on top of my mother-in-law’s lap and my grandmother-in-law’s lap. As I leaned down to give her a kiss, I said “I really want to thank you…” and that’s when it all happened in an instant. As I was bending down to her, her uncle Gary (who was walking by me at the time) pushed me. This normally might not have been a big deal if I hadn’t lost my balance from the nudge he gave me and ended up right on top of her. When I say I was on top of her, I mean that I was now straddling her. If that is not any clearer, I mean to say that my junk was lined up with her funk! She was, of course, caught off guard by this strange way of being thanked at a family gathering and she said “Oh…your welcome” as she was laughing at me.

 

get off my sister

 

Uncle Gary immediately helped me even further by shouting “Hey, get off my sister like that!” which in turn made my wife spin around to see me still on top of her aunt. She looked at me with that all too familiar look of puzzlement/annoyance that I have come to know and love after all these years as she said “Get off my aunt like that!”

 

As I tried to gently dismount her and regain my composure, I tried to explain that her uncle had pushed me and that I wasn’t just some pervert looking for a little something to fill my Christmas stocking. It wasn’t like I was the crazy one in this situation, but needless to say it was another family gathering that I made an impression at similar to the game of Cranium when I was paired up with my wife’s grandmother and had to hum “Like a Virgin” to her. When I realized the next clue I had to draw for her was nipple I gave up with no hopes of winning that game. Sometimes you gotta know when to cut your losses if you can’t win. At least it wasn’t like the time I got punished and was forced to leave the table during Thanksgiving Dinner and sit upstairs alone, but that’s a story for another time…

In-Every-Family-Is-One---Witch-Cat-Ate-Your-Prozac---

 

Keep those comments coming! I have a tendency to ramble on like a yenta and have been known to go off on incoherent tangents from time to time…

St. Patrick’s Day Part Two: I thought I knew it all until I took a fall, I went chin to the tin and made a disgrace of my face! It wasn’t a rave, hitting into the pave(ment)

You’ve heard one example of my version of March Madness and now here’s another reason why St. Patrick’s Day sometimes hurts – literally. I don’t mind the crowds and all the tacky lime green clothing, but the real truth is that I keep getting injured on St. Patrick’s Day. I am clumsy normally, but my dilapidated sense of coordination is heightened on that day more than others for some reason and I always end up face down – ass up covered in bruises.

I will tell you the event that actually was the tipping point of why I can’t go out on St. Patrick’s Day anymore. My wife was pregnant and had no interest in hanging out with a bunch of drunk fools (i.e. me) so she went out for the day without me. If you think this is leading towards me blaming her, it isn’t.  I have tried blaming her and just cannot find a single soul to back me up; what happened next was my fault – whether I like it or not. Stupidity cannot be blamed on anyone other than the fool himself!

I went out and met up with some of my friends from work to watch the parade and then headed to the bar that we frequented almost every night. We didn’t even make it three steps into the bar before Darren saw us and already had the beer out on the bar for us. Not five minutes went by before we were finished with number two. Did I mention that it was before 11 AM and we hadn’t eaten anything yet? That’s never a good way to start the day or it’s actually the perfect way to start depending on who you ask.

So the parade was a blur and the aftermath was just getting uglier as time went by. Darren announced that my wife had just called and insisted that we do shots and it never occurred to me that it might not be the truth. It didn’t occur to me the first time he said it that it might not be true, nor did it faze me the fourth time he lined them up. It was then that I had the brilliant thought that I should probably eat something before I blacked out.

We laughed like crazy and apparently, I have never been funnier. That could be because a) I’m hysterical when other people are really intoxicated or b) I’m a stupid ass when I drink heavily. I’m inclined to go with b) here since we aren’t talking about looks (which is the funniest thing about me.)

Looking back, I guess it is kind of obvious why everyone thought that I was so funny...

 After multiple drinks, a terrible lunch, and many laughs it took me spitting on a client (for telling me that he had chosen to go with a competitor) to realize that I needed to go home. Don’t judge me, who brings work talk into the bar? It was a ptthhh kind of spit – I’m Italian, that’s what we do. There was no phlegm involved, it wasn’t spit spit. Also, it’s not so bad because I didn’t fully remember it until I called him the following Tuesday morning not realizing that we had spoken on St. Patrick’s Day at all until he mentioned it. Good thing he’s a high-functioning alcoholic too and thought it was really funny…

I bid adieu and waited outside the bar for my cab to come. I finally got sick and tired of waiting and started to walk home. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had never actually called. They aren’t psychic and I was standing there forever thinking they were on the way to get me when, in fact, I had never even called for the cab. I only lived up the street, but it took forever in my drunken state. Did I mention that I also stumbled past and stopped to rest at that Popo Station on the corner? (The Popo Station is a Police Station for those of you that aren’t street like me.)

At the time, we lived in a townhouse in a gated community. It may sound obvious, but that means the development is surrounded by a gate. The front gate was a long wall of gates connected by brick pillars. If you see where this is going, you’re doing much better than I was that night. As you get to the entrance of the development, there is a gatehouse that is manned 24 hours a day. The “guards” in the gatehouse are the kind that refuses to accept a package for you if they have to leave the gatehouse in the rain and get wet or the type that will let anyone enter no matter what they say their name is. My sister actually used to drive up, push the buttons and answer Al Qaeda when he asked who she was and they would always let her in. No, we didn’t pay more for the high end security, don’t be a smart-ass!

Anyway, as I was stumbling up to the entrance, it was like something out of a cartoon. I lost my footing and smashed face first right into the brick pillar and then collapsed face first into a heap on the ground.  As I was on the ground crumbled in a heap, assuming the gatehouse “guard” would come to my aid since he had just seen what had happened, my cell phone started to ring. It was my wife and she actually thought that I was kidding when the answer to her “Where are you?” was met with my “On the ground covered in blood.”

I thought my teeth had been forced out of my mouth and that my nose was broken for sure due to the sheer amount of pain and the massive amount of blood that I was covered in. My eye felt like it had a pencil sticking out of it and I didn’t realize how scraped up my hands and knuckles were until I actually tried to use them to answer the phone. I was in a bad way and she said to stay where I was as she was only around the corner and she truly thought that I was exaggerating. Since it was raining, I couldn’t really stay put and I finally managed to get myself off the ground. Would you believe that as I stumbled past the gatehouse, the guard actually waved at me? Here I was mangled, nose, mouth, and hands gushing blood and that asshole waves at me. Guess who was off my list and didn’t receive my wife’s homemade cookies in his Kwanzaa basket that year!

I finally made it to our front steps yet didn’t have the strength or dexterity to open the front door. My wife approached slowly and she was shocked with how badly I was hurt. She took me in and cleaned me up. As unbelievable as my cuts, abrasions, brick wall road rash, and swollen face was – all of the injuries were only on one side of my face. I actually looked like Harvey Two-Face from Batman. It was a like someone had drawn a line down the center of my face to spilt it in tow and then proceeded to beat the shit out of one side of it. 

As I sat at the Hospital intake room with the admitting nurse to gather my information, she actually swung around on her stool and accidentally (or so she said) hit me in my mangled face with her fist. I screamed so loud, that they took me to x-ray immediately. I swear that if I had any sense of co-ordination left, I would have knocked her out. As she rolled my wheelchair down the hall, my wife said “Don’t you want to know how this happened?’ she looked right at her and smirked “Honey, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, I’m Irish and I have three older brothers – I know exactly how this happened!”  

By some grace of luck that I’ll never comprehend, I didn’t break anything. I went to bed and slept forever only to wake up to voices.  The doctor did give me painkillers, but these weren’t the usual voices in my head so I trudged down the steps to our Living Room. As I entered, there was a room full of my wife’s family and they all got quiet and just stared at me with looks of pity and some of actual disgust -due to the discoloration and severe bruising. No one said a word at all, nothing but stares.

“Oh my God, is this an intervention?” I muttered and felt nauseous. That apparently broke the ice to make them laugh. I had forgotten that they had previously planned to come over and spend some time with my wife and since they just got there she hadn’t fully filled them in about my face. I guess they didn’t expect me to come down the steps looking like Rhianna did after Chris Brown was finished with her.

I had to cancel all my appointments that week because there was no way that I could go into work and see people looking like that. I also couldn’t shave half of my face due to the road rash I got from the brick wall so I actually called my boss from the parking lot and said “Come outside and look at my face – if you want me to work I will.” He took one look at me and said “Oh God, Please go home” and I was in too much pain to even be offended.     

I know what you’re thinking right now: At least he’s learned something from this. No, what I learned from this is that Darren is a liar. When he offers me a drink, forget about me because I have no self-control. I need to start hanging out with people that will say no for me and make sure I really do call a cab to go home. I don’t think the drinking was the problem, I think the problem was that I didn’t eat anything before it. Thank God I’m this overweight and my body was able to absorb all that alcohol or I would have fallen even before I left the bar and been more hurt than I was.

So, as you stumble down the bar for a refill this week, think of me safely in my house drinking nothing but Diet Pepsi and watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia to satisfy my bar fix wearing this:

Does this snuggie make my hips look big?