shit

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

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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?

 

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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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More Ah-Shit Moments: The Pretty Kitty got all Shitty!!!

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I was chatting with a friend about how much I hate cats and it made me think back to the “incident” described here so I thought I’d share it again. Talk about waking up on the wrong side of the scratch post!

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Last week, I gave you some insight into my twisted brain and a little background into some really embarrassing things that have helped to shaped me. In getting some feedback from that post, I couldn’t help but think of a close friend’s experience. If you’ll indulge me that courtesy, I thought that I might share someone else’s Ah-Shit moment too!

Let me just say that talking about shitting is risky territory to enter. I purposely waited to talk about it because I wanted to ease into the shitting stories – sort of like a slow seduction…If that doesn’t paint a nasty picture in your mind – nothing will, so on with it. When you tell people about your shitting experiences their reactions tend to be one of two types: A) the mock offended who pretend that their shit “literally” doesn’t stink, and that they have never discussed…

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For all my homies to get to know mes

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hearye hearye

 

I posted this a few months ago for all the newbies – and it appears the time is ripe for it again. I’ve gotten a ton of new followers since then and I want to make them feel right at home and steer them down the right path. With so many posts on here, it’s hard to know where to start and unless you’re dedicated like Crazy-Annie-Smack-that-Fannie, you might not go back and start at the beginning to read them all…

Click here to start the ride and get caught up!

For all my Homies to get to know mes

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Of all the questions that people ask me about this site, nine times out of ten there is some variation of “Your poor wife, how does she do it?” as the very first question. The second question is which is the best post to read if you’re new to this site and haven’t had a chance to catch up on all the older stuff posted here. If you fall into the latter category than today is your lucky day!

I’ve created a list of what I think are the essential posts you MUST read in order to get to know this site. Others are really funny as well, but this is where you should start. These are in no particular order, just a random collective to get you up to speed. I must advocate caution while ingesting these posts, as some of them are really funny. In the lab, some of the test subjects were known to lose control of themselves while reading – so avoid liquids while consuming them at all costs!

As an added treat, I will be reposting some of the oldies in between new posts here on the site….if you’ve already read them, it’ll be a refresher. If you’re an Imodium virgin and this is your first time getting a piece – Enjoy it! If your favorite isn’t listed here, let me know in the comments which one you’d have picked…

 

When I was mistaken for a retarded person TWICE in less than a half hour!!!

Assaulting Tom Cruise-Part 1: Hit and run

Assaulting Tom Cruise-Part 2: Great, now Rosie O’Donnell thinks I’m a scumbag

Just for the Holiday Season: My Famous Baby Jesus Story

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

Who does this shit happen to?

Like I’ve heard so many times before “Wow, That’s a long one!”

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

Our Honeymoon Part One: Ain’t no joke, our bed broke (Twice!!!) and I had to call a bloke who was sippin’ on a coke; All because I gave her a poke!

Our Honeymoon Part Two: Forget finger lickin’- my masseuse was testicle flickin!!!

Drop a note below and let me know which one is your favorite.

More Ah-Shit Moments: The Pretty Kitty got all Shitty!!!

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Last week, I gave you some insight into my twisted brain and a little background into some really embarrassing things that have helped to shaped me. In getting some feedback from that post, I couldn’t help but think of a close friend’s experience. If you’ll indulge me that courtesy, I thought that I might share someone else’s Ah-Shit moment too!

Let me just say that talking about shitting is risky territory to enter. I purposely waited to talk about it because I wanted to ease into the shitting stories – sort of like a slow seduction…If that doesn’t paint a nasty picture in your mind – nothing will, so on with it. When you tell people about your shitting experiences their reactions tend to be one of two types: A) the mock offended who pretend that their shit “literally” doesn’t stink, and that they have never discussed shitting before and will not start now or B) the empathizer who knows exactly how you feel because they may not have shit their pants recently, but the look on their face tells me that they’ve come close. I’m not asking you to tell me which type you are below in the comments section, but in honor of spastic colons everywhere – here we go.

One important note -In keeping with my tradition of only humiliating myself here, I will not give away this person’s identity and will refer to them from here on out as Carlotta. What I can tell you is that Carlotta is a woman and that Carlotta is not a cat lover (That might seem insignificant right now, but read on.)

and there I was just minding my own business...

 

When Carlotta was on her way to court for an accident she got in, her stomach started in with that all too familiar gurgling. That’s never a welcome feeling, but more so when you’re driving – one wrong sneeze and you’ll never be able to carpool again. As she was driving, she came to the realization that she wasn’t going to make it there in one piece, so she veered off the highway and headed toward her friend Cher’s house. 

As she was pulling into the driveway, she could tell that the situation had reached Defcon Three. She threw the car into park, sprinted through the yard towards the front door and blasted in the screen door. When you enter Cher’s house, you walk through the living room and straight ahead about fifteen feet to the bathroom door. On a normal day this is no big deal, but on this particular afternoon it was like the long walk to the electric chair. Carlotta ran for all she was worth and screamed something similar to “get out of the way” to Cher upon entry into the house, but it was so fast and jumbled she couldn’t really be sure.

She made it into the bathroom, shut the door, dropped her pants and was about to park it on the porcelain when all of a sudden, there was a commotion. Cher’s cat Pretty spent most of its time in a litter box next to the toilet and had been sitting on the toilet when Carlotta burst into the room. She shooed the cat off the toilet and tried to sit down when the cat got territorial and leapt back onto the toilet. The loud screech of the cat had an unexpected effect that no one saw coming: It literally scared the shit out of Carlotta and she screamed “Pretty, NOOOO!!!

INCOMING!!!

Hearing the commotion outside the door, Cher got concerned: (although it’s unclear if she was concerned about the cat or Carlotta)

Cher: (knocking on the door) “Are you OK?”

Carlotta:  “I need you to get me a pair of sweat pants, some paper towels, and whatever it is that you use to clean Pretty with!”

Cher: “What? Pretty’s a cat – she washes herself…”

Carlotta: “Not today Cher, not today…”

 In case I haven’t made it very clear – Carlotta shit all over the cat!!! Pretty was covered, although she did tell me that it did come off of her fur very easily…(Carlotta told me that, not Pretty) She came out of the bathroom and called the court to see if she could reschedule and the lady on the phone asked what happened.

Carlotta: “I had an accident.”

Lady on the Phone: “You had an accident? Aren’t you coming here because you had an accident? Did you have another…”

Carlotta: “Not that kind of accident.”

Lady on the Phone: (realizing what she meant) “Oh my God, hold on…

They did feel bad for her and let her come back the next day. I usually don’t do this, but I actually called Carlotta to make sure that I was remembering the story correctly, not just to find out about the poop’s trajectory…When I called Cher’s husband to ask the cat’s name because I couldn’t recall it, he couldn’t remember it either. Really? How do you forget the name of your pet cat or your pet cat that someone shit on? The cat’s name was Pretty! She shit on Pretty cat but I’m pretty sure he was more like scaredy cat after that.  

A more immature person might tell you that isn’t how you treat a pussy (cat), but I’m above that. I don’t need to stoop to such levels. What I will tell you is that for this very reason, my dog has never been left unattended whenever Carlotta is around and that this isn’t the first time that Carlotta has had airborne poop. Granted, the last time it landed on a wall and not a living pet (she did that two different times, believe it or not) but it was still airborne. She was sick and mistakenly chose the wrong door when she gave the vomit priority in the toilet at the expense of her explosive posterior and the white wallpaper. Talk about a houseguest and a visit you’ll never forget. The other time she shit on a wall was at was at a softball game when she was younger, but it still seems like a pattern is developing…Thoughts?

She's coming back over???

 

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.

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

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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!

I Hate Birds: Part Two – Dirty Words about Filthy Birds

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It’s a thin line between love and hate for most people, but for me and my relationship with birds – the line isn’t very thin at all. I realize that I might be crossing a line by condemning your flying friends, but I’m willing to risk it. Some of you reading this and a few of my close friends are actually bird lovers, but I don’t hold it against any of you. I am disgusted and appalled by it, but I don’t hold it against you.

People get so offended when you talk about their pets and, as a Real pet owner of a very cool dog, I totally agree when that happens – but here’s the thing: Dogs are pets. I will even concede that cats can be considered pets – even though I severely dislike them. Having a cat is like having an arrogant roommate that won’t let you touch their stuff and they shit on your stuff. Not to mention that when cats see a baby sleeping those sneaky bastards jump on the baby’s chest and try to suck the milk out of their mouth; but, like I said – birds aren’t pets! They are disgusting rats that just happen to have wings! Why in God’s name is there a rat on display in your house? Also, it is really fucking weird when a parrot asks me how I am, how my day was or do I need him to fluff my pillow! THAT IS NOT COOL IN ANY WAY – IT’S ACTUALLY VERY FREAKY AND WEIRD! 

Weezie and her surprises

My friend Weezie and I have known each other since college and she is one of my craziest friends. You’ll see a lot of stuff about her on here for one very good reason – something is seriously wrong with her! I mean to say that she’s truly nuts but that’s why we get along so well and I wouldn’t have it any other way! This is the girl that didn’t catch the bouquet at her brother’s wedding when the bride threw it so she rugby-slide-tackled the girl that caught it. That would have been OK if she let it go at that, but as they were rolling around on the dance floor tugging at the flowers – Weezie threw her legs around the girl, pincer-style and wrestled her for it. Talk about a wedding to remember! That is the very reason that my wife refused to throw the bouquet at our wedding – the last thing she wanted to see was Weezie taking out one of our friends from work with a sneak attack off of one of the banquet chairs like the Flying Karamazov Brothers! I, on the other hand, thought it would add a certain element of fun and bring the reception to another level – but marriage is about compromise and regretfully, I lost that battle.

Weezie and I were out drinking one night in Queens, so I crashed at her house since she lives nearby. Her mother Hazel has two gross tenants in their house that they call pet bids (but as I said earlier, birds are not real pets!) and after too many drinks to remember, Weezie explained to me how her mother does this “thing” when they have people sleep over their house which they think is really cute and fun. I, of course, immediately thought how great it would be to be woken up to breakfast in bed with pancakes made in the shape of the Fraggles or Luke Skywaffles, but that wasn’t the “thing.” What they think is cute is to have one of their filthy birds wake up their houseguest!

What’s wrong with her mother?

Her mother has one of those birds wake up the person staying over their house! “Wake Up, Wake Up! Good Morning!” it bellows as it literally struts across the bed and scares the shit out of (I mean, wakes up) the poor, unsuspecting visitor…I begged her to keep those birds away from me, but she just kept laughing at me and went off to her room. I told her that I didn’t want to be remembered as the guy who strangled their bird or shit the bed when the bird tried to wake him up, but she went down the hallway and ignored me. She went to bed and I couldn’t go to sleep in that house. I was up all night hiding out under the sheets terrified like that kid who saw dead people in The Sixth Sense. Literally, I got no sleep there out of sheer terror!

Luckily for that bird, she listened and didn’t bring it anywhere near me or have it try to wake me up. I am like a dead body when I’m asleep – I’m literally out cold – and I have been viciously attacked in the past by birds (see “I hate birds – part one”), so I get up ready to rumble if I’m jostled (sort of like my friend Sue who actually punched her Sorority sister Collette in the face as she tried to wake her up because she was going to be late for class – needless to say Collette didn’t try to wake her up twice!) I think Weezie realized that if I woke up and that thing was anywhere near me, I would have went all Kung Fu on that bird and beat the shit out of it!

You innocently invite someone into your home and then you turn on them and go all Man vs. Wild? I mean, what if that bird farts on the pillow as it’s casually strolling around – Do you then catch pink eye and bird flu? What’s next – are you gonna teach that bird how to talk with a Jamaican accent? Picture waking up to that filthy little thing bopping on the headboard with a little Rasta hat with dreads hanging down his neck asking if you want a Red Stripe or if want him to braid your hair. Not cool at all! This post should actually be hung at their front door and used as a public service announcement to any of Weezie’s friends about the dangers of sleeping over her house: Hazel is the cutest little thing on two wheels – but you have to beware of the cute ones!

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

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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 girls that I liked so that they’d chase me around and then beat me up when they caught me. I was young and had crushes and besides, I actually liked it when they beat me up. My first love was Elizabeth Taylor (when I saw her in Cleopatra at the age of five, I knew one day she’d be mine), but my next love 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 take hold of my hand or my ankle and 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… 

I have three older brothers and one younger sister, so there were always fights in our house growing up. Usually, the fights were between my brothers Angelo and Anthony, but my sister was always the wild card. She was the one who would say “You know, Mommy says you can never hit a girl, right” and I would tell her that of course I knew that and before I could even ask why she was asking me that, she would haul off and punch me in the face. Literally, closed fist punch me in the face. Of course, I was stunned and disoriented and then she would run to my mother saying I was after her which would have my mother screaming at me to leave her alone. That bitch was crazy back then and to this day I still refuse to sit next to her at family dinners in case she has a flashback or something. I mean, this is also the girl who took a razor and gouged the hair and at least ten layers of the skin off of my right ankle while screaming “Wanna shave your legs too” and then ran off while I lie there bleeding. It has been over twenty years since that happened and the hair still doesn’t grow over that scar.     

As a point of reference, I don’t count the time that I got jumped by those three guys on Wellwood Avenue trying to get my wallet, as a fight. My wallet was in the chest pocket of my poncho (no jokes, a lot of people wore ponchos) and the zipper, of course, got stuck on the material of the poncho as I tried to give it over to them. I’ve never been a hero or what you’d call brave – I think the technical term is actually that I’m a Pussy. When I didn’t hand my wallet over, they knocked me to the ground and just kept kicking me in the head, face, and chest figuring any smart person would give them the wallet and let them be off. That whole time, I was trying to get the zipper unjammed and give them the wallet, but I couldn’t get it loose. Finally, I just said “Take the fucking Poncho and the wallet already” and tried to take the poncho off. I don’t know if you have ever tried to remove a poncho over your head while three people are steadily kicking you in that same head at full speed, but it ain’t easy – so it just added to the confusion.

As this was happening, there was a lady who was about sixty years old sitting on her porch swing at the house we were in front of watching the commotion and saying (not even screaming, but just saying at regular voice) “You boys better move that away from here before I call the cops” to which I gingerly replied back at her (trying to poke my head through the barrage of kicking feet wailing at my noggin so she could hear me clearly) “HEY LADY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR? – THEY’RE BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF ME – CALL THE FUCKING COPS ALREADY!!!”

Long story short, I couldn’t get the zipper undone and then a cop car drove by (she never did call, the cop was patrolling the area and randomly passed by) and they ran off. As I tried to get myself up off the ground, she just kept saying that she didn’t want trouble in front of her house. If that cop wasn’t there and I had my bearings, I most certainly would have went all Jackie Chan on her ass, but I was a little bit shaken up and, truth be told, she probably could have taken me in a fight too.  

At the police station, I didn’t want to get my mother nervous (it was the middle of the night and she had cancer and was undergoing chemotherapy) so I called my friend Elaina’s house to ask her to come and pick me up. That was a mistake. Apparently, that Yenta had hung up the phone, told her mother, then called my mother and then between the two of them, called everyone they knew and more than twenty people showed up at the police station. It probably wouldn’t have been bad if my mother and Elaina’s mother hadn’t started a vigil in the waiting room like Kris, Bosley, and Julie did when Kelly was in surgery after being shot in the head on the last episode of Season Five of Charlie’s Angels.

As I walked into the waiting room and saw all of them there and heard my the aforementioned Yenta‘s wailing and crying, I remember thinking “Oh my God, this is humiliating, what could possibly be more embarrassing than this?” I found out the next morning, when I woke up to my mother hysterical crying on the phone with someone – “They beat the shit out of my baby, my baby boy” (as if she were talking about an infant.) I went to the kitchen and let her mutter on with her call thinking it was her friend Bonnie and as she hung up, I tried to tell her that I was alright and not seriously hurt and asked her to calm down. I asked her to hand me the phone so I could call in sick to work to which she replied “Who do you think I was just on the phone with? That was your boss, Joyce, I called in sick for you. She is so upset” I literally had the shit kicked out of me again right there. Needless to say, I was ragged on quite a bit at work over the next few months for being 20 years old and having my mother calling in sick for me while crying hysterically to my boss…     

So I don’t necessarily consider any of the above an actual fist fight (they were more like drive-by shootings) and as a side-note, I do have really nice hands. I think that one day I could possibly be a professional glove model or ring model, so I would hate to scar them up with bruising and teeth marks from a fight…so it’s really not practical for me. Don’t worry though, because I will update this entry if, by chance,  I ever do get into a fist fight where I actually get to throw a punch – not just receive them.