Sunday, October 23, 2011

God - The Original Dead Beat Dad

It's time to talk about "Family Values" for a moment. You hear this term all the time. Usually it's the politicians who spout off this phrase as if their shit don't stink. And these are the ones who generally end up with their arms elbow deep in hooker hole trying to get their wedding ring out. For those of you who know what I am referring to, and can easily picture the visual? I apologize. For those who do not? You're reading the wrong blog and should thank the maker that you have the imaginary vision of Stevie Wonder because this picture I painted just ain't pretty.

Hypocrites. Every last one of them. But what's interesting is where they base their family values from. The Bible. It's usually these right-winged religious zealots spouting the word of God and looking down on free love, homosexual marriage, lesbian car washes, and goat fucking in the back woods of Maine in the middle of Spring.

It's my personal belief that you love who you love. As long as they are 18 and not related to you any closer than 3 generations removed, who is anyone to tell you who you can sleep with? And as far as a gay couple raising kids? "Oh, no! That's immoral!! The kid will be all screwed up on angel dust and humping the neighbor's cat because he is confused from having Mommy June and Mommy Alice teach him how to ride his bike at 10 years old. I stand for Family Values!!! Gays should not marry or raise kids or buy ass-less chaps at the mall!! Family values!! Family values!!! FAMILY VALUES!!!!!! It's wrong!! The Bible says so!!! God intended for man and women to marry and have children!! Follow the word of God!!!!!"

Well, let's take a look at God and the "Family Values" the Supreme Being has given us as an example to live by.

He knocked up Mary without even lifting a finger. So basically because of his fear of commitment, his son was born a bastard child. I bet she felt special, huh? Not only does The Creator not want to marry her, he wants to father her child without even having sex with her. What? Is he gay? Wouldn't that be a kick in the ass, huh? I mean, what straight man wouldn't give his left nut to bang a virgin?

So now we have Mary and Joseph raising this child together. Joseph. Ha!!! He's another fucking sap. He was basically cuckold by the most powerful being in the universe. So he watches his wife carry this life inside her that he had no hand in. Or anything else in, for that matter. Do you really think that Mary even let him anywhere near her while she was pregnant? Not only does he have to see his wife with another man's seed being planted in his wife's garden, he doesn't even get a chance to prune the bushes. What a dope.

And Christ is born, making Mary a single mother. Oh, but wait. She's married to a pussy. I guess it wouldn't be fair to call her a single mom since she's got a husband. That makes God her "baby's Daddy".

Do you think God has the same schedule as most single father's? I mean, he never sees his kid. What does he do? Pray to him on Wednesday's and every other weekend? "Gee, Son it's great to talk to you. How's school?" "It's fine, Dad. Hey, listen are you coming to my game on Thursday?" "Oh, sorry Son. I have a new planet to create. I'm sorry, kiddo. Maybe next time."

Does God pay child support? And if he didn't. who the hell would Mary go to in order to collect? Have the IRS garnish his wages? Take him to small claim's court? It's not like her spineless husband would stick up for her. What's he going to do? Kick God's ass? And I can just picture the whole "I don't have to listen to you. You're not my real father!!!" fight. How is Joseph supposed to compete with that? "Well, I'm the best you've got!!!" Um, sorry wrong again asshole. You can't top God. Black magic, no erasies.

So all through Jesus' life, he never saw his dad. All the school plays where he would be on stage and look out and see that one empty seat where his father was supposed to sit. All the baseball games when he would hit a home run and trot around the bases and touch home plate and look up to the sky to see if Pops was looking. Being nervous about his first school dance and wishing his Dad was there to give him girl advice only to have to talk to his two mother's, Mary and Joseph instead. No wonder the only woman he connected with was the town whore when he got older.

And after 33 years his one wish finally came true. He got to see his Dad. Too bad he had to get nailed to a cross and starve to death in order to do it. Father of the year right there.

So the next time one of these lying closeted cross dressing, nipple pinching with clothespins, diaper wearing, hooker buying, politicians says 'Family Values" as some sort of disparaging remark regarding people and their sexual and societal preferences, I am going to snap.

But not before I kiss my daughter good night. You know, on Wednesdays and every other weekend. 

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Guess What? Your Kid Can't Draw

For those who don't know, or honestly don't care, I fix PC's in a large office building. I pretty much walk around and plug the PC back in because some lazy clam kicked the cord with her fat cankled horse hoof and disconnected it. And they look at you like you're some sort of magician when you plug it back in.

"I swear I looked and it was plugged in."

One time I was on the phone with said wilder beast and she claimed the PC "Just shut off on it's own." Or, now stick with me here. Maybe it was the 20 pairs of shoes you had under the desk just couldn't stand the stink of your crows toes and tried to run away and tripped over the cord.

"Is the PC plugged in?"

"Of course it's plugged in!!!! I checked that, how stupid do you think I am?"

Sigh.... "OK, I'll come down and take a look."

So I walk to her desk and I was right. There was a pair of boots laying there tangled in the power cord looking like a rabbit caught in a trap. I untangle the sweaty boot from the cord and plug it back into the wall from which it had become unplugged. And then you wouldn't believe what happened? Holy shit, the PC turned on!!!!

I crawl out from under the desk and look at Roseanne Barr's twin and just smiled from ear to ear.........

"Very." and I walked back to my desk.

In my daily travels throughout my office building, I get a glimpse at how people must live in their homes. Their desks are an extension of their homes and I expect to see most of them on A&E's Hoarders soon. It amazes me the amount of soda bottles, and candy wrappers, and crumbs, and stacks over stacks of paper that haven't been moved in 10 years.

But that's not the worst of it. Don't get me started on the pictures of their kids. People act like you should constantly give a rat's ass about what new piece of shit artifact Johnny brought home from school that you tacked to your wall. No one cares about your stupid kids. And no, little Tiffany is not the next Rembrandt. For Fuck's sake, her drawing looks like a Smurf threw up a bowl of Fruit Loops all over a piece of orange construction paper.

"Isn't it beautiful? She has such talent for a child her age."

No she doesn't. She's fucking 3!! The only talent she has is picking her ass and wiping it on the wall. Oh wait, that's the other picture you have pinned to your monitor.

I wonder if Home Depot is hiring.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Happy Birthday Howie!!!!

Once again, I take us back to a time and a place that holds such endearing memories in my heart. A time when I was coming into my own as a man. A place where I was loved, adored, respected, and sometimes asked to perform miracles that even the world's foremost hide and seek champion, Jesus Christ, could never perform:

The Paint Department at Home Depot.

I worked with a man named Howie. In fact, he was also a math teacher at my high school and worked at Home Depot 35 hours a week on top of that. So, he was sometimes quite cranky and short with people without even noticing it. That made it fun to fuck with him.

One day we were both behind the paint counter mixing for customers when I asked who was next. And I saw her. One of our repeat customers. And she was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. You know the type. She had that wide eyed look that if you stared long enough, you could swear you'd see birds behind those eyes chirping in her ear. She was way too friendly and way too talkative for my taste. She just never shut up long enough to answer any of her questions before she asked another one. And she liked to talk about birds. I know, right? I still think she really did have birds in her brain and they were controlling her brain just to fuck with the rest of us.

After about 10 minutes I couldn't take it anymore. She asked me another stupid question about which type of brush she should use. I smiled wickedly and said "Oh, I'm sorry. I don't know enough about the product. But you know what? Howie does. He should be able to help you better than I can." Howie spun around and looked as if he was about to strangle me with his bare hands. I just smiled and bent down behind the counter to pull out some paint that was mixing and I was laughing my ass off. I could hear her with that shrill, Edith Bunker voice babble on and on about nothing and everything. And Howie had to take it up the ass like a skinny prison bitch.

He looks down at me and mouths "I fucking hate you." and I just giggled "Happy Birthday Howie." And no, it wasn't his birthday. I then hear "Oh, Howie!!!!! Its your birthday???? Happy Birthday!! How old are you? What are you doing for your birthday? Blah,blah, blah,blah........" This went on for over 30 minutes. She just would not stop talking to Howie and he couldn't escape her.

Howie never stood next to me behind that paint counter ever again.......

Wanna See Something Swell?

Who would have thought that this completely hysterical, sarcastically comical pick up line would end up getting me verbally berated like a whore in confession?

As some of you know, I have partaken in the human Petri dish known as Internet dating. Oh, what a grand time to be had by all!!! I have had my fair share of awkward dates over the years. Your basic crazy chick, your "they look 10 years older and 50 lbs. heavier than their pictures" dates, and so on.

But one in particular had me scratching my head wondering how the hell she had two sons, because there is NO way anyone fucked her twice.

I tend to have a very sarcastic and perverted sense of humor. Who knew? And it takes a certain kind of woman to be able to handle that, and thus be able and willing to sit through dinner with me without cringing or gagging. Sometimes both. This girl was not interested in playing along.

I met this woman for our first date, and things went rather smoothly. Except that I held back a little. I kept the sexual jokes and witty comments to a strict minimum. That should have been my first clue. But, since the date went so well we decided to see each other again.

One night we were hanging out at her place as she wrapped Christmas presents for her kids who were not home that night. We talked and laughed and joked and it was good.


She somehow made a joking reference to me performing a certain act on a certain gender of the human population that shall remain nameless. I just said, laughingly "Hey, don't judge. I was young and needed the money." and she laughed. Alright, now we're getting somewhere!! Maybe I can ease into this and let her see the real me. I was better off stabbing her in the eye with a pen to ensure she never saw anything on her right side ever again.

"I didn't like it though. The whole experience left a bad taste in my mouth." Ha, Ha!! That was funny, right guys????


"Hey!!!! You have a lady here!!! Save that kind of talk for your buddies at the bar!!"

I actually felt like I was 5 years old and getting scolded for wiping my buggers on the wall behind my bed. I hung my head, and said I was sorry and we kept on talking. I saw her one more time and things were going well again.


We were texting back and forth and joking and I decided to try again. "Hey, you wanna see something swell? LOL". Only, she didn't "LOL" back.

"Hey, ALWAYS remember the lady you have on the other end of this line, GOT IT??"

I suddenly had the urge to put a Dunce cap on and sit in the corner

Needless to say, I apologized and told her that this was not going to work out at all.

It's a good thing I didn't tell her the one asking if she wanted to play Carnival Game? It's where she would sit on my face and I guess how much she weighs.

She probably would have caned me for that one.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

I Want to Beat the Bag Out of Sir Isaac Newton

For those of you wondering why, it has been said that Sir Isaac Newton invented the first color wheel. And it is because of said invention that I wish to go back in time and jam a hot, pointed piece of rebar into his retina and see what kinds of colors come spewing forth.

I worked at Home Depot for over 7 years. 3 of those were spent in the Paint Department. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're guessing that I pulled a lot of ass while mixing paint for the hot college student picking up a can of paint for her new dorm room. Or the lonely, recently divorced MILF who is painting the bedroom a new shade of black to hide the blood stains left over from when she caught her bastard husband banging the aforementioned college chick, and is just looking for a revenge lay. Sadly, the only types I seemed to have run into were the uninterested, solemn, bored housewives who saw the latest episode of Martha Stewart and wanted to paint the room with a crackle finish just because it looked easy. But even still, I did look damn sexy in my orange apron splattered with a multitude of colors from all the paint samples I mixed. I looked HOT!!!

But one day sticks out more than the others. As part of the services we offered, we would color match various items brought into the store. A paint chip, a piece of siding, a shirt, etc. But nothing gave me more heartburn than the angry, bitter, shrill of a woman who wanted her dark green shutter matched.

I looked up at her as she approached the paint counter and put on my best customer service face and smiled warmly as I greeted her.

"Good afternoon, Miss. How may I help you?"

"I would like a can of paint matched to this shutter, please."

"Of course, it would be my pleasure."

I should have run away, tearing all my clothes off and screaming like an escaped mental patient instead.

I put the shutter up to the color match machine and out spat the formula. I mix it, test a sample on a piece of wood and it looked spectacular!!! DaVinci himself couldn't have done a finer job. Too bad it wasn't DaVinci who I was helping.

"Um, that doesn't look like my shutter."

"WHAT????!!!!!!" I proclaim.

"Prey tell, what is it that you gazing upon, because it most certainly is not this magnificent can of color that I have labored over for you, my sweet, sweet, love."

"It's too blue. Can't you make it more green?"

"Miss, if I may be so bold. This is the absolute best that you will get. The color match system is not perfect, nor is it intended to be. But I assure you, looking at this stick side by side with your shutter, this is an exceptional match. No one will be able to tell the difference."

"But I can tell the difference."

Fuck me.....

So for the next half hour I add some yellow to take out the blue. "No, now it's too yellow."

I add some blue to take out the yellow. "It's too light, now."

I add some green and some black. "Now it's too dark." I think you get the point.

I went through 3 cans of paint and 2 quarts of tint when all was said and done. And each time, it wasn't good enough. I even had other customers come over to judge and they all said the first mix was the best. It didn't matter. Mr. McGoo's long lost inbred sister, Irene was having none of it. I didn't know what to do. Then the light bulb went off.

"Miss, could I speak with you privately for a moment?" She walked over to the back of the counter, an unsure look on her face.

"See, this is awfully embarrassing and I guess I should have brought this up earlier. I am trying the best I can. I love my job and really would hate to lose it over this. Sigh, I'm color blind. My manager doesn't know. If he did, he would fire me. Please don't tell. I will do the best I can to get you the color you need, but please don't say anything. I don't want to have to collect bottles out of trash cans and eat dog food in order to survive if I lost this job."

She must have been a mother, because what I saw in her eyes melted my heart and only a mother can have that look. Such compassion. Such concern. Such yearning to take me in and nurture away my pain. Such a fucking sap.....

"Oh, my. I'm so sorry!!! I had no idea. You know what? Um, this first can is fine. In fact, it's perfect. I'll take it." and she hurriedly grabbed her can and headed for the register.

And to this day, I cannot look at Hunter Green without a slight tear rolling down my cheek.....

Sunday, May 8, 2011


As you all know, today is Mother's Day. A day to reflect back on our mothers and what they have meant to us all through the years. The bedtime stories, the hot chicken soup and crackers while we sat on the couch with a cold watching cartoons, and the countless ass wipes when we were in diapers.

So what does it all mean, having a mother who loves and cares for you and supports you throughout your entire, pathetic existence? Sadly, not everyone benefits from such an experience. I was fortunate enough to have lived a very good childhood with parents who loved and cared for me. I grew up knowing they were there and knowing they would never let me down. So many times over the years when I meet new people (OK, meet new women. Guys don't care about this type of shit, and let's face it. Women are impressed when we speak highly of our mothers. So ladies, if you're out there I have some great stories to share. You'll be mesmerized and find me hard to resist. That is until I start talking about anything else.) and I tell talk about my childhood and especially what my mother meant to me over the years they smile, but sadly proclaim "That's really nice, Dave. You are so lucky. I never had that growing up." Well, today I am going to share my mother with all of you who didn't have a mother like that growing up. But after today, that's it. She's mine. Get your own God damn mother.

My mother, who shall remain nameless since this is the Internet after all and I don't need her getting spammed with Viagra ads or instant messenger invites from all you skeevy perverts, is a lovely woman with one of the gentlest souls of anyone I have ever known. Picture Edith Bunker, but not as passive when it comes to sticking up for herself. And truthfully, she's a little smarter, too. She stands a whopping 5'2" on a good day but she has the power to engage you in conversation with her even if you really don't feel like talking. And for those of you who know me, if I don't feel like talking I won't. But I find myself spilling my guts to her without even thinking twice.

Growing up I never wanted for affection, love, and understanding from my mother. She seemed to just give that so naturally and easily. It was if she didn't even have to try. It was just her nature. She used to tell me I was little shadow, always following her around the house. Hell, if she ever stopped short, I would be a freckle. Was I a momma's boy? I suppose. Am I now? Sometimes. Hey, don't judge. It's for my own benefit. I can walk into that house to this day and still come out with a batch of homemade sauce that she saved just for me. Laugh all you want, but I bet it shits all over any slop you could come up with. And speaking of which, there was nothing better than being outside all day playing in the snow and coming into the house and smelling that sauce simmering on the stove. And like clockwork, I would grab a piece of bread and "test" it to make sure it was OK. The minute she heard the lid come off the pot she would yell "Hey, what the hell are you doing?" "Nothing, Ma. Just testing the sauce to make sure you didn't screw it up." and she would laugh.

My mother and I would play games all the time. Chutes and Ladders, Memory, etc. But my favorite was hide and seek. I would hide under the sink and she would pretend to look for me. Calling my name as I giggled. She would find me then make me laugh so hard I would get uncontrollable hiccups until I couldn't breathe.

My love of reading comes from my mother. She would always have a book in her hand and I used to grab my books and sit next to her on the couch and read with her. To this day, I am always have my face in a book. It could be in a lot worse places.

When I played baseball and basketball in grammar school, it wasn't just my father who would attend the games. She was right there cheering me on. Although after that time I got nailed in the shoulder while up at bat and dropped to the ground like a baby seal getting clubbed, I think she showed up less and less.

Help with homework? Yup. Listen to me ramble on and on about Star Wars? Usually. Beam with pride every time I brought home a report card? Sure. Make my peanut butter sandwiches just the way I liked them? Every single time. Smile at me and tell me she loved me? More times than I can count.

But my mother wasn't wall fun and games. She was tough, too. "Wait until your father gets home" was never uttered in our household. She took care of it right then and there. Like the time I was 10 and got into a verbal shouting match with one of the neighbor's kids up the street. I called that little prick every name in the book. And then Lisa Soucy ratted me out. Told my mother EVERYTHING that I said, word for word. Let's just say that momma wasn't proud of her little darlin' son anymore. I ate about 2 1/2 bars of Ivory soap that day.

As I ventured into my teenage years and eventually adulthood (some would debate that I still have not made it to that point yet)I began to see my mother through a different set of eyes. I began to see the woman behind the "Mom" and started to appreciate everything she has done over the years. And after having a child of my own, that picture grew bigger and brighter as time went on. The love, patience, happiness, worry, sacrifice and enormous sense of pride in your child is something her and I both share today. And when I see her interact with my daughter in the same manner as when I was a kid, it takes me back to a time in my life that I wouldn't change for the world.

I love you, Mom. Always have, and always will. Now go make me a sandwich. Your baby boy is hungry again......

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Getting Hurt Has Never Been So Much Fun

What is it about a guy's childhood that makes getting hurt so much fun? Think about it. Most stories we tell about our childhoods have to do with the 10,000 ways we got hit in the nuts and we laugh hysterically. Sitting around trading old war stories and the occasional scar. You don't hear woman talk about stuff like this. All they do is sit around and compare stories about their favorite dolls, how they all had their weddings planned by the time they were 12, and their first kiss. Guys? We laugh about the first time we ever got our peckers caught in our zipper, or the time that Mike farted and shit his pants on the way to church.

When I was a kid we all went sledding at the reservoir in Lawrence at the top of Tower Hill. It had these huge double-decker hills with jumps and everything. When it snowed the place would be full of kids. It was mobbed.

I would stand at the top of the hills and just listen. Look up at the sky and watch the snow fall against the gray background. And hear all the screams and chatter of fun. Because that's what it was. FUN. And you didn't need a gaggle of adults around watching your every move.

And we all had our own style.

John would stand up on the sled like a skateboard and ride it down the hill. Until the one time he went too far and ended up under the fence and slid into the road. He always thought he was so slick. Thought he was something special doing it that way. He didn't realize that he looked like Helen Keller trying to surf. It just wasn't very graceful.

Stephen would just sit on his ass and hold onto the ropes and go. He had sort of a big head and wide hair. So he would be like a mushroom bobbing up and down as he hit every bump on that hill.

But me? I had the best style. I would step back a few paces then run and leap onto my stomach like a belly flop and fly down that hill. And my sled was fast, too!!! Shiny red with yellow handles. And I swear, I could hear Chuck Yeager curse under his breath as I broke his record.

I would always put my head down and just go. I never looked up. And my hat was red, too. So, I looked like a big, fat dildo in a red hot dog bun flying down those hills.

Until one day.

I was once again astounding audiences with my red rocket of death. People would come from miles around just to watch me careen down those double decker hills and flash past them in a bright crimson blur on my way to another record setting finish. My head down, daring anyone to try and stop me.

"Hey Dave, look out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I looked up just in time to see him. A teenager looking the other way, less than 10 feet in front of me.

"Hey Dude, look out!!!". He spun around and I could see his face contort in slow motion into what I could only describe as that dude at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark who's face melted off.

"Oh, shit!!!" he yelled. Yeah, oh shit indeed.

He leaped as high as he could, the little trooper. But it was more like a midget trying to hurdle over a speed bump. It just wasn't enough. And faster than I could say "Please don't kick me in the head with your boot and send me flipping over backwards out my sled." he kicked me in the head with his boot and sent me flipping over backwards out of my sled.

Bruce Lee couldn't have landed a better roundhouse.

I laid there for a little while looking up at the sky. Only instead of admiring the gray skies and sounds of laughter and fun in the distance, all I heard were bells ringing in my ears.

I don't remember much more about that day. I do remember the kid came over and asked if I were OK. My friends Pat and Scott who were at the bottom of the hill watching all this came running over. I got up and laughed and brushed it off. We shook hands and went back to our business.

And I swear, to this day I could still hear ole' Chuck laughing his ass off.