Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Whiskey and Horseflies, A Love Story

This is my second post about my trip to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic.

As I mentioned previously, I hate to fly. It scares the shit out of me, but I will say this, as we came into the Punta Cana airport, we had to fly over the Dominican Republic.

And my God, was it gorgeous. Beautiful lush green meeting bleached sand meeting light blue ocean. When I looked up the GDP of the Dominican Republic it listed three things:

Sammy Sosa
Pedro Martinez
Yearly GDP: the equivalent of a local mini-mart in Alabama.

And I could see why. When you live somewhere this beautiful, well, it's real easy to say 'fuck it, let's hit the beach, we'll work tomorrow.' Now, you cobble 40 years of those days together and you get what you have in the Dominican Republic: a Third World Country where the people are very nice, but not very motivated to do much.

We finally get out of the airport and get on our bus that will take us to our resort. We pull into the main entrance and let me say I was wowed. Big time. We had people taking care of us from the moment we arrived.

We then went to our suite. It was the most awesome room I have ever stayed in, anywhere. View of the Atlantic, view of the pool (which was topless - which at first blush sounds awesome, but quickly turns to a bit of a nightmare), and the facilities were top notch. Stocked bar.

And whiskey.

I love whiskey.

Once, a very long time ago, when I was about 21, I was drinking at some hole in the wall bar somewhere in New Jersey. I asked the bartender for a good whiskey, as I didn't know of one, being unfamiliar with the concoction. He suggested Glenfiddich. I said ok. He then asked me if I wanted it on the rocks.

There was a guy sitting to my left, and he immediately piped up (with a British, or Scottish accent, not sure which, and didn't care enough to find out), and said 'do not put ice in that drink, it's sacrilege.' He said it with such conviction that I figured he knew what he was talking about. And ever since then, I have never ordered whiskey on the rocks.

Punta Cana is pretty hot. And you can't drink the water, so you're constantly drinking bottled water. Also, most of the population, even at the resorts, do not speak English with anything resembling proficiency. At our resort, there were bars everywhere. You walk up, you order and invariably, unless you order beer, they ask 'Ice?' Now, 'no,' the last time I checked was the same in Spanish or English. At least, I think they spoke Spanish.

Then I'd get the look. The 'are you a crazy American gringo' look when I said no ice. The look that said 'are you sure you don't want to reconsider, as you are making a really poor decision with regards to your choice of libations.' I stood resolute. No ice. Anywhere. Near. My whiskey.

But these people were relentless. It could be the same bartender from the night before, and I would have to repeat the whole godforsaken process just to get my whiskey without ice. At one point, I think I got frustrated and told the bartender that if there was any ice, anywhere remotely near my Johnny Walker, I would hunt him down, his kids, dig up his grandparents, and kick all of their asses. I tried saying it in Spanish. It probably came out 'I want to bone your dead grandmother' for all I know, but to his credit, he didn't seem upset. And I got my whiskey without ice.

Ah, but the battle was far from over. My wife and I went to the 'Italian' restaraunt at the resort. The waiter comes over, 'would you like something to drink?' My wife orders. I say 'Johnny Walker Black, no ice.' 'No ice?' 'NO ICE.' He wanders off.

My wife gets her drink. My drink is nowhere to be found. Our appetizers come out. Still no whiskey. I flag down the waiter. 'Could I get a whiskey, no ice?' 'No ice?' This was quickly turning into an Abbot and Costello routine.

He wanders off. Our dinners arrive. Still no whiskey.

Half way through the dinner, I see our waiter, grinning triumphantly, glass of brown liquid in his hand, and I can see there is no ice. I am ecstatic. Finally, all the explanations have paid off. Then I thought, 'fuck, I should have ordered a double, as I will have to go through all of this again.' He places the glass, with no small amount of flourish, on the table in front of me.

And then I see it. I can see his fingerprints on the glass.

Oh no. As I reach for the glass, I know. I fucking know what took so long.

My hand touches the glass. It's colder than Meryl Streep in 'The Devil Wears Prada.'

That's what took so long. They put the fucking glass in the freezer. For twenty five minutes.

I ordered beer or vodka for the rest of the trip. I couldn't keep up the fight.

My wife and I went on one of those excursions to see the country. We ended up in some truck that had an open back. Our guide was pretty cool, and there was a long day planned of various stops along the way. The first stop was a school. We get into the classroom, and the kids sing some song. For all I know, they were saying 'Die motherfucking Yankees, die.' But they were cute while they did it, so we gave them some money and went on to our next stop.

The trip seemed to go on for an eternity, and we eventually ended up at some old ass looking bridge with some concrete steps down to the water, which ended at a 'dock.' I am using the word 'dock' in the loosest possible sense here. There was also a 'boat' at the end of the dock. I am also using the word 'boat' in the loosest possible sense here. So we pile in, and the guide breaks out the beer. No whiskey though, and I sure as hell wasn't going to ask for it.

So we drifted along this river, flanked by rice fields and grazing horses and cattle. It was actually quite beautiful. The people we were with were very nice. I had a few beers and was starting to relax, envisioning this trip like the upriver trip in 'Apocalypse Now' - except, you know, without Robert Duvall trying to kill me to get his surfboard back.

Just as it's getting a bit boring, we round a bend, and see people in the middle of the river. Me and the other passengers thought it was a bit strange. As we got closer, we realized that they were in the river, they were in the ocean. We were coming up to where the river met the ocean. It was absolutely stunning. We then 'dock' at some concrete steps and walk up to the beach, and start going down a path. We then come to a clearing.

Then I see them.

Oh, fuck. Oh, no, anything but this.

Horses. Lots of horses. It's not that I don't like horses, I think they're beautiful creatures. I just want nothing to do with them. So I'm sitting there as the rest of the group walks up and the guys who are handling the horses are starting to bring them into the clearing. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

My wife is well aware of my stand on horses. Pity? Sympathy? Yeah, not so much. One of the handlers points to me and motions for me to come over to the horse he has. With much trepidation, I look around, surveying the beauty all around me, knowing that I'll never see it again because I'm surely going to die in the next five minutes.

I get on the back of the horse. I decide to name the horse. I decide to name the horse 'Fred.' Why 'Fred?' Because it's a non-threatening name. I figure if I name it something blase, then the horse will follow suit. Made perfect sense to me.

Fred begins to move. He must have been able to tell that I had absolutely no experience on the back of a horse because he just did whatever he wanted. I quickly wracked my brain for all of the information that I knew regarding horse riding. My knowledge on horse riding is extremely nascent and can be summed up as follows:

They like carrots.
Don't fall off.
'Whoa' is the 'failsafe' word.

I have developed the above from my extensive movie watching. I figured I was well armed with the information necessary to go ahead and not die.

I was wrong.

First of all, every fucking movie I have ever seen has characters saying 'Whoa horsey' and the fucker stops. I guess either the people making these movies had never ridden a horse, or Fred had never seen any of those movies. Maybe it's because "Whoa" doesn't translate into Spanish.

Whatever, but when I said 'Whoa' nothing happened. No pause, no nothing, just Fred blithely going after the horses in front of us. Fred apparently believed he was Secretariat, because all he wanted to do was be the frontrunner. Which was fucking annoying, especially when I specifically forbid him from such conduct. How did I forbid it?

By shouting 'Fred, fucking stop, you goddamn animal, Fred, FRED, FRED, WHOA HORSEY, GODDAMNIT FRED.'

I know I was starting to get through to him, because he decided to spite me. The fucking jerk. We're coming up to a bend, and the trial narrows. Which means Fred can't pass. Or so I thought.

HE GOES OFF THE GODDAMN TRAIL INTO THE TREES.

I don't know if you're aware of this, but I found out the hard way. Palm trees appear to be designed so that horses can pass under them without hitting anything while the rider gets pelted with palm fronds in his face.

Oh, and have I mentioned my nuts? Yeah, like I said, I've never been on a horse before. For those of you who don't know, your legs are spread across the horse like you're hooking for hobos. Which means your nuts (if you're a guy, like me) are squarely on the saddle. Which is hard. Factor in the bouncing gate of the fabulous fucking Fred, and my foray through the fucking jungle went something like this:

Relief of nuts as I went up in the saddle (Ahhhh), Smacked in the face with a palm branch (Thwack), yelling at Fred (Goddamnit Motherfucker, back on the trail), agony as my nuts reaquanted themselves with the saddle (GODDAMNIT), Palm frond to the face again (Thwack!).

Ahh, Thwack, Goddamnit Motherfucker, back on the trail, GODDAMNIT, Thwack. There was the occasional 'Whoa Horsey' thrown in there as well, but it became apparent that it only works in the movies.

Rinse and repeat.

We finally emerge from the jungle, Fred trotting along like the Mafia bet on him, and me, beaten, bruised, and frankly near death. Or wishing for death, I can't remember which. It was the toughest 5 minutes of my life.*

So what was my wife doing? Taking pictures. Of me. That's right. I nearly die a horrible death and all she can think to do is snap some pictures for the vacation album. So much for 'cherish.' It was at that moment that I resolved that if I had to die, there were two lives that were going to precede mine into the abyss.

So did I kill Fred?

No, I didn't. So what saved him (and by extension, my wife)?

Puppies.

We arrived at the stable (the place where the bastard demon spawn known as 'horses' congregate to discuss how they will attempt to kill their next unsuspecting victim) and dismounted. My nuts felt like the size of two cantaloupes trying to occupy the space of a thimble. I was dehydrated. I was broken, battered, a former shell of the once proud man I used to be. Then I saw them.

A bunch of dogs lazing around, and some puppies. Who then came up to me. They were so freakin' cute. And I'm such a goddamn sucker. So that, coupled with a generous helping of straight rum, made me abandon my plans of visiting furious and unpleasant mayhem upon my wife and Fred.

Consequently, the stable provided a bottle of rum with a picture of my wife and I (atop Fred and whatever docile sweet creature she got to ride on) along with a CD.

A CD of Spanish techno music. You think techno in English sucks? Yeah, it's fucking Bach compared to this shit.

Anyway, that's how I nearly died (one of several times) while on vacation.

And know this Fred: I ever get back to Punta Cana and see you again, I'm giving you two names:

Crazy. And Glue. Motherfucker.

I am never riding a horse again.

*'5 minutes' probably was only 30 seconds but it feels like eternity when your nuts are almost literally on fire, you're hunched over dodging foliage that the VC would exclaim 'that's WAY too fucking thick, I'm not going in there!), trying to yell commands to a horse that doesn't listen, meanwhile praying to God, Satan, and Umfufu (the God of water holes on a golf course, don't ask, I was desperate) that Fred goes off a cliff so that you have the satisfaction of knowing that when you hit the ground, at least Fred would die first. So excuse me if I was a bit too fucking busy to get a stopwatch out on the 'Devil's Run,' as I like to call it.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Top Ten Things We Learned in 2009. And Wish We Hadn't.

I could start with a savvy '2009 is the year, unlike any other, where we first discovered X, Y, or Z' and how that somehow makes it a historic year. Progress of mankind and all that nonsense. You'll see a lot of those lists in the upcoming weeks. And most of them suck, mostly because they attempt to somehow distinguish the suckage that was 2009 from the suckage that was 2008, or any other year, for that matter.

But fear not, gentle readers, you'll not get that here. So I'm going to start my own tradition, which will be a top ten list of things you wish to God you never knew that became widespread knowledge in 2009. I was going to put them in descending order, but they all suck so mightily on some level that they are each justifiable #1 sucky things we learned which we wish we never had.

The Economy Blows, Isn't Going to Get Better, and the People that Fucked it the Most are the Ones Recovering First.

Yeah, it's a long title, but unlike Congress, I feel like it's necessary to put useful information in the title of things (more on this later). Anyway, it seems like a year ago that AIG and others got bailed out by our new President (more on him later) because they were 'too big to fail.' Well, apparently they weren't, because they did. Risky investments, rampant greed, ignorance of actual accounting principles and a year later we took it up the ass like a Thai Hooker from David Carridine. He almost made the list too, by the way. Who the fuck jerks off in a closet with a belt around their neck? Isn't that the fucking point of being an actor/famous in the first place? Never having to have sex alone? I'll tell you, some of these 'stars' are really shitty at being famous. If I were a star, you'd have caught me in that closet with Charlize Theron and a camel.

Don't ask what the camel is for, you don't want to know.

Anyway, what makes the economy even more fun, and I mean 'fun' as in 'getting anally raped by a mastadon' is that we're in a 'jobless recovery.' Like anyone knows what the fuck that is.

Congress says 'Health Reform' but actually means 'More Ways to Fine You.'

Remember those halcyon days of March, 2009, where the President made a stand and was going to get health care for all those unfortunate folks that couldn't afford it.

Remember those halcyon days well, because it turned into an opportunity to fine you if you don't procure health care, as well as potentially prevent people from actually being able to afford decent health care insurance. I love it when an opportunity to do some good becomes a giant fuck fest where we all lose out equally. You thought 'equality' meant we all succeeded together? Silly fuckers. It means we all get fucked together. Kind of the same. But not really. It's like winning the lottery only to find out that the 'winner' gets all expense paid trip to Guantanomo Bay. With accomodations. And cock meat sandwiches. YUM!

We Learned that our President Isn't a Savior.

Don't get me wrong, I never thought he was. But remember last year at this time? Yeah, all the 'Change is Coming' stuff. And you know what we learned this year (yet again). Roger Daltry, in "Won't Get Fooled Again" got it right.

"Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."

Now, I certainly don't think Obama and Dubya are the same, but ultimately, we learned that no matter how well intentioned a President is, the 'two party system' will unite like at no other time if the cause is lucrative enough.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Obama is probably a one termer. Not because he sucks, but because no-one could come into the Presidency during such a super-shittastic time and expect to be able to fix an economy, foreign policy, jobs, and health care. President Clinton took a beating just trying to 'fix' one. So did Bush. Obama has to fix all four? He's fucked. And it's not really his fault, but that's the bitch about being at the top, you get blamed for it.

Why isn't it his fault? Cause no one could possibly fix the above problems in one term. It took decades of mistakes to get here, it's going to take decades to undo it.

Michael Jackson was Creepier Than You Previously Imagined.

Now that's fucking saying something. Raise your hand if you believed the following at the beginning of 2009:

"Michael Jackson is probably weirder than I think he is."

Ok, hands?

You! Yeah, you, in the first row. Put your fucking hand down, assclown. There is not one person alive who really thought Michael Jackson was creepier than you previously thought. There is no way any human being can be that creepy, yet exceed your expectations for creepiness.

Jon and Kate Plus Eight = Ten People That Need to Be Aborted. Immediately.

The fact that I know who Jon and Kate are, and you do too, might well be the harbinger of the apocalypse. I have never watched the show. I have never watched an interview with them, nor read an article about them. In fact, I have gone out of my way to avoid them at all costs, yet inexplicably I know who these shitfucks are.

Think about that for a minute. If I spent this much effort avoiding math, I'd be using a calculator to figure out 1+1 = 3. See what I mean? Yet, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I know way more about these fucksticks than I care to. Which is anything at all.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, the solution is obvious. They all have to die. Yes, the cute ones too. The only way for humanity to progress is to remove these attention whores from the gene pool.

Tiger Woods is a Fallible Human, Andre Agassi Super Pissed

Can you just imagine the following conversation:

Andre: Well, Steffi, the book is done. I talk about everything. How I hated my father. How I hated tennis. How I did Crystal Meth. How I should have never married that Blue Lagoon chick. How I wore weaves. As far as tell-all books go, this is the gold standard. It will be on every Christmas list around the world. Sports fans will rejoice in its honesty and integrity.

Steffi: Hold it there, baldy. Breaking story on CNN.

Andre: What? Global warming? War in Iraq? War in Afghanistan? Health Care Reform? What?!?!?!?!?

Steffi: Apparently Tiger Woods fucked his way through every Waffle House, IHOP, and brothel in the United States.

Andre: But there's no sex in my book!

Steffi: Ah, but you're about to get fucked nonetheless. Hmmm. Seems Tiger drove his Buick into a fire hydrant. It appears his wife came after him with a golf club.

Andre: Thank God I took up tennis.

Seriously, what the fuck do you have to do to get some fucking press in 2009? Andre Agassi, whom I do admire, lays it all out there, only to be upstaged by perhaps the most taciturn sports star of the 21st century. And a couple of thoughts:

Tiger, you're worth a Billion. More than any other sports star in history. Yet, somehow, you can't figure out how to password protect your phone? Or buy a second phone? And you call one of your mistresses and identify yourself by name and ask her to change her phone ID? Jesus titty-fucking Christ, Tiger, you need new handlers.

I know everyone is down on Tiger, but in my mind, this just elevates his achievements. The dude has won 14 majors. I always had a picture of this guy practicing his ass off, total focus, working out like a fiend, and now we find out he was probably too busy fucking everything that moved (including his wife) to have time to buy a second 'minutes only' phone. What does this guys schedule look like:

5:30 a.m. Tee off.
7:30 a.m. Bang cart girl behind 10th green.
9:34 a.m. Finish 18, finish off cart girl.
10:00 a.m. Bang wife, shower.
10:02 a.m. Call mistress, tell her to change ID.
10:05 a.m. Have argument with wife.
10:06 a.m. Get hit with golf club.

Lots of fuzzy stuff here.

2:30 a.m. drive car into fire hydrant.

And now we're learning all sorts of fun tidbits. Tiger doesn't use condoms. He takes Ambien. He likes waitresses (who doesn't?).

And not one bit of it really matters. Love him or hate him, he is probably going to go down in history as the greatest golfer ever. I just never knew he'd go down in history as one of the greatest 'cocksman' ever. Typing that last sentence made me throw up in my mouth just a little bit.

H1N1 Flu is a Gigantic Pussy as Far as Killer Epidemics Go

Once again, the fact that you know that 'H1N1' refers to the Swine Flu - given the fact that 98% of Americans can't name the current Vice President - is a pretty good indicator of how much coverage the Swine Flu received in 2009. Hell, I can't remember the chemical equation for water, but I fucking know this one.

And where are the mass deaths? I don't remember there being this much coverage of the Black Plague in Europe during the middle ages, and that killed like seventy gazillion people. There were also fleas and rats involved, but I'm not sure if the fleas ate the rats and the people ate the fleas and then died when something came out of their stomachs like that dude in "Alien," but I digress.

Anyway, since this is a hard nose journalistic site, I decided to run the numbers. These are from the US government's CDC site.

So, I'll use the median numbers.

Amount of cases: 47 million.

Amount of deaths: 9,820.

I will convert this to batting/killing average. The Swine Flu had 47 million chances to kill people, but only did so on 9,820 occasions, yielding a percentage of .02% of the time it actually successfully killed someone. If a major league player had this for a batting average, he would no longer be in the major leagues. But he might make the record books for worst batting average ever.

So H1N1: What a fucking pussy.

For future reference, please sound the panic alarm on diseases when they actually, you know, have a better chance of killing me than a rabid platypus during an ice storm in Nebraska during the Summer Olympics.

Octomom: Sadly, More Than Just A Villian in Spiderman 3,245

I'm not even going to use her real name, because she doesn't deserve it. How the holy hell this bitch got famous is beyond me. To recap, she already has 24.76 kids, goes to a fertility clinic, tells the 'doctor' to knock her up with a starting line-up plus three bench players, and then proceeds to actually shit out the Dick Van Patten. Yes, I'm calling it the 'Dick Van Patten.'

She's a corrections officer, but somehow having 3,410 children, while not living in Africa and starving, seemed like a good idea. You know someone is going to bust out Sally Struthers to do a telethon for this bitch. Who knows, maybe we'll get an 'Octo-Aid' concert where a bunch of pretentious musicians pontificate on the horror of starvation in California after visiting a fertility doctor and having more kids than you can handle and how we all need a heart to support them.

Two rules of thumb:

One, unless your door locks with laces, and has a foundation of 'rubberized sole' you have no business having 8 kids.

Two, you are allowed to have the amount of children in accordance with the following formula: Woman's IQ + Dad's IQ/100. If Dad isn't around, you don't get to count his IQ. So unless Octomom has an IQ of around 1,400, she's in violation.

Holy Fuck, how awesome would it be to stick her and all her kids in the same house with Jon and Kate and thier brood and have a death match? Now that's reality TV.

Twilight: Proving That Middle Aged Moms Crushing on Teenagers is Just As Creepy As When Men Do It.

Sometimes in the morning, my wife has on the 'Today Show.' Recently, I saw a bunch of moms with signs and whatnot going on and on about 'how cute' the main guy from 'Twilight' was and how they had crushes on him. The character is like 17 years old, but a vampire, so he's really 1,098 years old, and emo. Seriously? Emo vampires? What the fuck is the world coming to? Now even creatures of the night have emotional dilemmas? I like my undead focused on one thing: eating the brains of hot chicks AFTER the gratuitous boob shot.

But what's even skeevier is imagine if there were a bunch of middle aged dads at a Hannah Montana appearance with signs talking about how they love her and how cute she is.

The FBI pedophile division would be down there in 15 seconds cracking skulls (well, this would actually be pretty awesome) and they'd all have to call their probation officers prior to leaving the jurisdiction because they're registered sex offenders. Now, I may be coming off as morally superior but the fact of the matter is that I'm bitter.

This reminds me of that slew of teachers that were banging their 15 year old students. You ever see pictures of some of those teachers? They were fucking hot. And here I am. When I was 15-17, none of my teachers or friends' moms wanted to fuck me. No one did. Christ, I'm not sure anyone wants to now.

I'm going to go cry a bit and listen to Miley Cyrus.

Twitter: Confirming That Our Lives Are Even More Boring Than We First Imagined.

I had held out hope that the internet would be the new education media platform that would bring a new level of discourse and enlightenment to the population at large. We would have debates about the finer points of politics, find out more information about our representatives, become better consumers, expose the scams and otherwise enrich our intellectual lives.

Instead, we got youtube and twitter where every idiot on the planet posts shit in an effort to 'get discovered' and 'become famous.' Now, I know what you're thinking, I'm here blogging in an effort to 'get discovered' and 'become famous.' I assure you, I'm better than that. Why? I have no idea. I'm ok with the hypocrisy of it all, so don't shed any tears for me. Anyway, back to my elusive point.

From what I understand, Twitter is this thing where you can post random thoughts about what you're doing. You have only 140 characters per post (which means this article would be about 2 billion twits, or tweets, or twats, or whatever the fuck they're called today). You update the world on what you're doing at that moment. I've thought long and hard about what my twitter account would look like, and here's what I've come up with:

My nuts itch. I scratched them. The wife said 'ewww.'

I burped. The wife was annoyed.

The dog is laying on me.

The dog farted on me.

Now my taint itches.

Why is my taint itchy? IT'S DRIVING ME NUTS.

Went to the store. I'm back.

Playing video games.

Posting on my blog.

After reviewing the above, I would claim 'most boring existence on the face of the planet' but apparently everyone else is JUST AS FUCKING BORING AS ME!?!?!?

We missed the boat on this whole internet thing. It could have been good. Hell, it could've been great, instead it's been taken over by a bunch of fucking morons updating the world on whatever trivial bullshit they are in the midst of doing at that moment thinking it somehow makes it more important because other people can read it.

Just like this blog.

Ok, that's it for 2009. I'd like to tell you I'm an optimist masquerading as a realist pretending to be a pessimist, but the reality of the situation is I gave up all hope for a better world when "America's Got Talent" got picked up for a second season.

Happy New Year, and here's to hoping 2010 sucks less cock than 2009.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

The Leaving

If you're looking for a somewhat amusing post to kill some time while you're bored, then this isn't the post for you. I suggest you check back early next week for my story regarding a boy and his reluctant horse.

The thing about The Leaving is the getting left behind. If you're the one leaving, there are difficulties to be faced. Sometimes, leaving is easier than being left.

The Leaving is tough because it breaks a bond between you and another. The absence of that which we have come to count on, even subconsciously, that binds us to a place and time. When one of those bonds breaks, you feel slightly adrift. Or in my case, totally adrift.

Ultimately, we're all seeking stability in a world that is anything but. We bind ourselves to others in the hopes that as a sum we'll be greater than we could be individually. When that bond breaks, you end up re-evaluating yourself, looking inward to try to determine how, and when, to replace that bond. But what if that bond is irreplaceable? What if there is no possibility of securing that part of yourself to the whole?

Five years later, and I still ask myself that question. Five years ago today, my father passed. This is always a tough time of year for me, as The Leaving has affected my life in dramatic ways.

We all have broken toys in our attics. We all figure that one day, we'll bust out the crazy glue and put them back together and they'll be like new. But real life gets in the way, and before you know it, those toys have piled up. And the task becomes incrementally more insurmountable.

There are a few toys I wish I had put together, but the biggest would be the relationship with my Dad. Sadly, I still can't get past the anger. The anger at being left behind and having to mend toys that I didn't break. I just got left with a mess.

The central theme of this blog (to the extent that my ramblings could be said to have any theme) is that I work two jobs that are very different, on opposite ends of the spectrum, if you will. None of this would have been necessary had my Dad done what I had advised him time and time again. Take care of himself, get his checkups, get health insurance, and make sure Mom is taken care of. So in a large respect, this very blog is the result of my Dad's death.

My wife's mother recently lost her husband, and despite his flaws, she was left in a reasonable situation.

I, however, got stuck caring for a woman who didn't particularly care for me. I work two jobs - one of which I despise - in order to make sure I make enough money so that she's taken care of. It's a tough thing to wake up day after day knowing that you're falling farther and farther behind because you're stuck. You're not building you're own future, you're merely preventing someone else's future from getting worse. And the years roll on.

We all start out with visions of greatness. Some of us, a very select few, are fortunate enough to realize that greatness. For many of us, that vision changes. It blurs, clouds, and the focus and clarity of thought you once had about your future and your place in the world is muddled and fuzzied with the mental fog of too many obligations and not enough resources. And that's where I find myself today. I've told my wife time and time again 'I want to do something great.' I still have no idea what that is. I fear I may never know, and without the knowing, how could I possibly work towards it? Quite the conundrum.

Recently, my friend and coworker Jim (whom caught Terrance treating the walk-in freezer like his personal grocery store) has been faced with a similar situation. His father, who left the family years ago, has attempted to get back in touch with him. Apparently, he has cancer. Jim has made it clear in the past that he never wanted a relationship with his dad.

But I could see the conflict on his face. Time is running out. There's still time to get the crazy glue out of the drawer and do your best.

And that's what I told Jim.

Staring at a toy that is forever broken isn't a good ending. Will there be the happy reunion? Probably not. We all draw our lines in the sand, stake out positions that are somewhat unreasonable, but are necessary for us to keep up the facade that makes our lives have some meaning.

My father once told me that despite all the mistakes he made, the things he really regretted were the things he didn't do.

Dad, I wish I had been smart enough to listen. You were right, Dad.

I wish I had put that toy back together. Forgive my pride and anger, Dad, I'm hoping that as the world grinds away at me, they'll both be gone soon, and I can finally start over. I hope that it all makes sense, that epiphany that it was all worth it. That I come out the better man for it all.

And I look forward to telling you all about it someday, Dad.

I also hope that you don't mind The Waiting, because I have a lot of living left to do.

Monday, December 14, 2009

You Don't Bring Me Water, Anymore...

Clients.

You love them. You hate them. Though I went to law school for three years, I did not have one class on 'client relations' or 'evaluating cases.' No, we were too busy learning 14th Century British Common Law to actually get into, you know, how to be a lawyer. Law School is such a scam, but I'll get to that at another time.

I do both Plaintiff's and Defense work. I have no bias either way. I see plenty of deserving Plaintiffs get screwed by the system, and I see plenty of Plaintiffs scam the system, so both sides have some fairly persuasive arguments as to why the other one sucks.

Anyway, one of the most important skills you can develop in a small practice is case evaluation. If you get the right Plaintiff, it can be a very lucrative case.

What is 'the Right Plaintiff?'

Here's the ideal Plaintiff: Young, Rich, Educated, Employed, Married, Kids with disabilities, Maimed. Not dead, just really fucked up for the rest of their life.

And you need a Defendant. Your ideal Defendant is Rich, or Insured, A Drug Addict, Criminal, Drunk, and Thoroughly Reprehensible.

When I evaluate a case, I usually use this as a measuring stick: Young male married dude in Med School gets hit and pees through a tube for the rest of his life by Bill Gates whom is Drunk with six underage Thai hookers in the car at the time of the accident.

Ca-fucking-ching, baby.

Sadly, most calls I get are a far cry from the above.

So I get a call from a potential client about two months ago.

He's injured. It's his landlord's fault. His mom has cancer. He tells me about the cancer twice. Did mom get cancer because of the landlord? Unfortunately not. Can't win them all, I guess.

Then I hear the magic words:

"You don't know landlord, do you? They have a lot of power and influence in this town."

Oh goody, a Conspiracy theorist. I love those guys. You run into these types every so often. They think they're an extra in 'Roadhouse' and the Big Bad Dude is running the town. I guess that makes me Patrick Swayzee. Which isn't good, because despite what Patrick says, pain DOES hurt. A fucking lot.

So I'm already inclined to tell the guy to fuck off. When we spoke on the phone, I told him to bring in any medical records he has. He shows up empty handed. Then I get the 'Why aren't I meeting with the named partner' question. Like I'm the circus side show. But, since business is slow, I press on.

I explain the necessary steps to evaluating his case. I ask him if he has the medical reports. He gets all snotty. "Of course I do, I told you I did on the phone." My bad, you also told me on the phone that you'd bring them. Because I need them to evaluate the case to see if I can take it.

"Ok, so you have the narratives too?"

"Do you know what you're doing? It doesn't sound like you've ever handled one of these cases."

I am now openly glaring at him. 'I asked, because many folks don't necessarily get the narrative along with the x-rays or mri's. I have handled many of these types of matters."

But no, it gets even better. "Do you represent tenants in landlord/tenant court?"

Uh oh, I know what's coming. I've seen this movie, and it never ends well. I close my eyes and mouth the words that I know I can't NOT say:

"Yes, I do."

"Ok, because my landlord has sued me for failure to pay rent..."

Bingo. We have a winner. And by winner, I mean loser.

Big. Fucking. Loser.

"I couldn't pay rent because my mom got cancer..." Again, the mom has cancer card. I got it the first sixteen times. Instead, I say 'I'm not really sure how your mom's cancer is relevant.'

"Because I have to care for her, and because I'm injured, I can't." Nor pay rent, apparently.

Then, after my tone got, well, assholish, he says this:

"I don't think this will work out..." No, really? "...I mean, you didn't even offer to get me a glass of water."

Wait, what? What the fuck did he just say? He's evaluating whether or not I know what I'm doing as a lawyer by whether or not I asked to get his gimpy ass a glass of water?

My reply: 'Have a nice day. It was a pleasure meeting you.'

People love to blame lawyers for our litigious society. People are dead wrong. The fact of the matter is unless I have a client, I can't sue anyone. Since the economy has been underwater, I definitely have received more calls from hard luck clients, looking for any slight to serve as their lottery ticket out of the mess they're in. And they just don't get it: the law is not a lottery ticket. There is no sweepstakes. And the funny thing is, there is some lawyer somewhere that might take the idiot's case. Good luck with that, I guess.

I hope he got evicted.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

My Banned List

Several months ago, I went on a trip to Washington, DC with my wife and a good friend to see another friend of ours. Have you ever been? Don't bother. Yeah, I know, 'it's got history' and 'it's the Capital of this great country' and 'I hear there are hookers that are real cheap.'

One of the first things I noticed is the amount of uggos walking around. If San Franciso is a the gay Mecca, then DC is the hideously deformed people Mecca. Every person that I talked to that seemed reasonably good-looking was invariably from elsewhere. It was highly disturbing. I guess Kissinger was right when he said that power is an aphrodisiac, because otherwise, these people would never get laid without significant amounts of cash changing hands.

The traffic? Holy Mother of God. I can only imagine the aerial view of the area looks like a plate of spaghetti had vomited all over the map.

I also saw some of the most bizarre looking trannies that I've ever seen. I live in a major city, so I've seen trannies before. I guess I never thought that I was lucky enough to live in a city with a better cut of tranny. Yay for me, I suppose.

This is not to say that I didn't have a good time. I did. Mostly because I like my wife and my friends. Short of that, you could wipe it all from the map and I wouldn't blink an eye.

Anyway, upon our return, my friend sent me the link found below. I'm generally a pretty mild-mannered person, but some things, well, some things a man of honor can't let stand without comment. As such, upon reading the link below, I sent the following e-mail to the National Archives.
To whom it may concern:

I have a comment regarding the following article/exhibit:
http://www.loc.gov/exhibits/treasures/tri001.html

I'll just start with the first line: "Pierre-Charles
L'Enfant's 1791 plan for the city of Washington is one of
the great landmarks in city planning. "

Are you people high? How anyone could draft such a
statement without falling dead from the sheer stupidity of
it looking back at them boggles my mind.

The French suck. The fact that a Frenchie designed
the Capital of this great nation is a great source of
shame. As it should be. If you look in the
dictionary next to the word 'French' it clearly states
'people who suck. lolfrenchies.' It's science.

The design of DC could have been improved dramatically by
doing the following:

Find a retarded gerbil

With Epilepsy.

Dip it in ink.

Drop on clean sheet of paper.

Induce seizure.

Have you seen Florida Ave? I did. Once.
Because no one can probably ever find it again. DC has
two '15th' streets. How this is acceptable is beyond
imagining. No one else in the world would
come up with such a boneheaded idea. And if they did,
I don't want to know about it.

Your street names, on first blush, seem to make
sense. That is, until you actually try to find
them. Then not so much. I believe I saw a corner
of M and M street. I could have been hallucinating on
roofies at the time, so don't quote me on that. I
thought the circles in Jersey were bad, but that's a walk in
the park compared to the shitfests that litter DC.

Frankly, I attribute the United States' primacy in the
world to this design. So it was successful on that
level. I can only believe that foreign dignitaries
come to DC and think 'Holy shit, I live in a mud hovel next
to a Yak, but these bitches are flat out fucking crazy.'

As such, I have placed Washington, DC on my personal 'ban
list.' Other notable residents on my ban list are
Dunkin Donuts, the corner store that I thought was a Wawa
but turned out to be some low rent convenience store (it's
in Berlin, NJ), and all of Europe. Actually, at my
wife's urging I am re-examining my ban of the United
Kingdom, so they may come off the list.

Also, I respectfully request that you remove the article as
your very soul depends on it. Satan himself would not
allow that Frenchie in Hell, because he'd be jealous of the
design and worried that the Frenchie would take over.
Come to think of it, maybe that idiot IS Satan.

Anyway, if you fix the streets so that they don't look like
someone with Cerebral Palsy designed it on an etch a sketch
while riding a rabid camel, I will consider lifting the
ban.

Thank you for your time and attention, have a nice day.

A proud American

Night and Day
I sent that e-mail months ago and I have not received a response. You have much to answer for, DC. Oh, I've also added China to my 'banned' list.

My wife was fearful that I would not be able to get a passport and that I'd be on some 'National Security List' or I'd be sent to jail. Or I'd get sent to Guantanamo Bay. Or hoping I would, I'm not sure which.

Anyway, I got my passport. So maybe, just maybe, there's someone in DC with a sense of humor. If that person is you, please reply. Thanks.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Huevos de Fuego

What most people don't realize is that law is quite possibly the most boring occupation you could possibly do on a daily basis. You know those service contracts you see from time to time? Look on the back. Go ahead, I'll wait. You see all that little writing on the back? Yeah, some moron like me spent 2,321 billable hours writing that shit. And you know what's funny about it? Almost all of it is necessary because some idiot did whatever the little print on the back tells you not to do.

Law is extremely reactionary.

For instance, I worked for the State way back when. When we went through orientation, we were given a handbook. Under the rules section, it stated that you could not bring your kids to work.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Who the fuck needs to be told that you can't bring your kids to work? Apparently, someone had in fact decided to bring their kids to work. And since it wasn't against 'the rules' they weren't sure how to deal with it.

So they had to write up a rule. I think it was Plato that said in 'The Republic' that a state's measure of civilization is inversely proportional to the amount of laws that state has. Or something like that.

Law is the examination and application or rules. Doesn't seem so exciting now, does it? Yeah, I know, in the latest 'Law and Order' Jack McCoy got the bad guy to slip up on the stand. It never happens in real life. There are no Perry Mason moments. Just a lot of reading of shit that you could go a lifetime of happily not knowing.

Anyway, the point of the foregoing is that I'm often mentally bored out of my mind. It's just tough to get real excited about that case from 1983 where the insurer was successful because his claim was filed within the statute of limitations. Don't lie, you wanted to puke after you read that last sentence, didn't you?

So by the end of the day, my mind is typically fried because you can't read shit like that day in and day out and be normal. It's not humanly possible. So what does my mind do?

Fantasize. It takes vacations. It was one such vacation that gave rise to the 'Legend of the Huevos de Fuego.'

I was sitting in my car, in bumper to bumper traffic, making my way home like I do most days. Some perfectly pitched person on the radio making a claim that I could have a better life if I just spent 16 months in a Microsoft Certification program.

Then I thought, and to this day, I have no idea why my mind went here, 'what if I had balls of fire?' And the more I thought about it, I thought it would be the Coolest. Thing. Ever.

Seriously, how awesome would it be if you literally had balls of fire? The chick factor alone gives it huge upside. Yeah, sure, the ladies have all heard the 'I've got big balls line' (and who hasn't heard that story before) - but can you imagine the following (and I did imagine the following):

Sitting at a bar, and some chick says 'what makes you so special?'

And you pull down your pants, and this intense glow emanates from your man region. Seriously. Fucking. Awesome. But no, that was not enough of a mental vacation, I had to go farther.

Yes, that's right, my Huevos de Fuego (because it sounds so much fucking cooler in Spanish), could actually shoot fire. So not only were they made of fire, they could burn a motherfucker too. Why this appealed to me, I just don't know.

Still my mind was not satisfied. I used to live in New Jersey. New Jersey has a section known as the Pine Barrens. It's millions of acres of nothing but sandy soil and pine trees. Then I remembered that fire is necessary for pine trees to grow because pine cones are heat activated. Yup. I went there.

The Legend basically goes like this, the Native Americans passed the tale of the 'Night of the Consuming Fire' down, from story-teller to story teller. One group, living on the wrong side of the Delaware, a.k.a. New Jersey, tell of a 'Night that was Really Unbearably Fucking Hot So We Packed Up Our Squaws and Moved to Florida to Live with Our Elders.' The other group, on the right side of the Delaware, a.k.a. Pennsylvania, tell of the 'Night of the Superbright Light That Woke Our Asses Up Which Led to a Bunch of Kids 9 Months Later Because We Were All Up Anyway.'

Of course, I'm the central part of the Legend. My balls singlehandedly (or double ball-edly?) laid waste to a vast portion of Southern New Jersey, thus creating the Pine Barrens.

Yes, rereading what I just wrote gives me great doubts as to my sanity. But it gets worse. Much worse.

That night, my wife and I went out with a great friend of ours. We're sitting around having a few drinks and talking about something. Then it happened. And unfortunately, I'm given to moments that for whatever reason, I just say things. It's like I have no volition, the words come out.

"You know, I have Huevos de Fuego."

Both my friend and my wife look at me.

So I told them about the Legend of Huevos de Fuego. I left out the part of the Native Americans because even I could sense that maybe, just maybe, this was a little too far out there.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Just the Way You Are, or Billy Bob Strikes Again!

When I last left you, I wrote about my In-Laws.

Billy Bob didn't fail to deliver.

There's always doubt at family functions as to whether Billy Bob will show up. Which reminds me of last Christmas. So before I get into his latest dumbass move, I will harken back to the halcyon days of Christmas 2008. Christmas is usually held at Victor's house. Last Christmas was two days after my wife's stepfather had passed away - but before his funeral where Billy Bob would act like a complete asshole and seal his fate.

So it was kind of important that everyone attend Christmas dinner. Billy Bob did manage to show - given that he lives about 15 minutes away from Victor. And yes, he had them boots polished, sparkling brightly like the rays from a thousand moons. Billy Bob is a country song gone really wrong. Or really right, depending on how you feel about Country.

So we have dinner - which included the scariest culinary experience I ever had - but that's another story for another day. After we finish the big family meals, I tend to be the one to do the dishes. In fact, I think at all the family gatherings since I started dating my wife, I do them. Not because anyone asks, but because I'm usually sitting on my ass not lifting a finger in preparing the meals, so it's the least I can do. As you can imagine, a full meal with 12-16 people generates a shitload of dishes. It's a bit of a task, but I don't mind, and my in-laws appreciate the effort I think.

After Christmas dinner, Billy Bob had to rush home for a 'big family announcement.' He had been talking about it all day. The way he was describing it, this announcement was bigger than when Clay Aiken announced he was gay. BIG stuff.

So after dinner we exchange all of our gifts , but Billy Bob is nowhere to be found. He had been in and out all day, except he did manage to eat a ton of food, alienate his step son and reconfirm that as far as seating arrangements go, sitting next to a 400 lb tard with an oxygen tank or him was a toss up.

He walks back into the house, a smile beaming on his face. The room was silent in anticipation of the 'big family announcement.' We were on the edges of our seats. Ok, we weren't. And then he hits us with this:

"We got a WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII."

I sat there dumbfounded. THIS was the huge announcement? I thought he was kidding. Nope. I'll tell you, I bet the trailer was a rocking event that night. The fact that purchasing a video game platform that was developed in the last 5 years was a big deal to these idiots gives you an idea of what Billy Bob's family is like. They're the Beverly Hillbillies, without the wealth. Or intentional humor. They do have unintentional humor nailed though.

So fast forward to Thanksgiving. Billy Bob shows up. I'm outside, and he's blabbing about hunting. How he gets in camo gear, and how his arrows were the wrong ones and how most hunters are 'doing it wrong.' My only fear with Billy Bob hunting is that there will be a 'hunting' accident and my In Law meal ticket will perish.

Back inside, I'm talking to his step son who started his freshman year at college.

"Didn't you break up with that chick?" I delicately asked.
"Yeah."
"You dating?" Hey, I paused for a second in recognition of the break up.
"Yeah." But there was a bit of a twinkle in his eye.
"You're whoring around, aren't you?"
He smiles and says "A little bit."

I now realized this was actually an important conversation. One of those conversations that his idiot stepfather couldn't have with him. So I stepped up.

"Ok, listen carefully. This is very important." I leaned in towards him to make sure no one overheard us.

"Someday, you're going to be me. Yes, I know, you don't think it will happen to you. It will. Do I look like a happy guy?"

He laughs. I continue.

"College is like a buffet. You think when you get out in the real world you're going to find an environment of young hot girls with self esteem issues and damaged decision making faculties? No. You won't, unless you pay for it. So you need to take advantage of what you have, while you have it."

"I hear you, but it's a bit awkward, you know, I ran into this one after we hooked up and she was mad. I kind of hurt her feelings." Oh boy, I could sense he was about to make the biggest college mistake: a steady girlfriend.

"The buffet has no feelings. You can't look at it that way, and realistically, what's more hurtful? Stringing a chick along, or ending it quick, like removing a band-aid? I've broken up with chicks on voice mail. Sure, they get mad, but get used to the fact that you're going to piss off chicks you sleep with. It's the way of the world, accept it as a cost of doing business. Dude, you're making memories now that are going to have to last you for a very long time. Don't lie to them, but do not, DO NOT, get guilted into dating a hook up chick because it's awkward. Any time sex is involved, there's going to be awkwardness, that's part of the fun."

He looked at me quizzically.

"Look man, just play around and avoid relationships at all costs. You're too young to understand a good relationship, but old enough to enjoy sex with randoms."

He laughed. "Ok man, I hear you."
"Use protection."
"Of course, thanks man."
"Don't tell your parents about this conversation."

I have to end a lot of my conversations that way. Wow, that makes me sound like a pedophile.

Yeah, I know, I'm role model of the year. The thing is I don't have the heart to lie to the kid. I'll let the real world handle that.

Anyway, dinnertime arrives. My mother in law puts up a nice spread, even if I don't like Turkey very much. Then this nugget:

Victor: "Hey Billy Bob, did you see that weight set out on the curb up on Maple the other day?"

Now, I'm thinking, is Billy Bob going to start working out? Why does he need to know about a trashed weight set?

Victor: "How about that piano on Pine the other week?"

Now I'm really baffled. At this point, I think my wife was talking to me, but my super-duper developed spidey-sense was going off.

Billy Bob: "No, but I got one the other day from another place."

Me: "Why did you get a piano?"

Billy Bob: "For the scrap."

Oh. My. God. He is dumpster diving. As his main job. But it gets better. He then describes how he gets all this trash stuff (some of it, I have to say, sounded really interesting - like finding a WWI trench knife, or that in the old days, typewriters didn't have a "1" key, the lower case 'L' was used instead) - brings it back to his place, and then destroys it in the back yard. He was talking about how much he enjoys destroying stuff. He forgot to mention that he's still on disability. But his best scheme was this one:

"Yeah, so I was watching the price of copper go up. So I weighed out some pennies to see how many were in a pound to see if it would be worth it to melt them down."

Oh. My. God. This guy is the gift that keeps on giving.

Me: "Uh, you know they don't make pennies from pure copper, right?"

"Yeah, I found out that you need to get pre-1983 pennies. So I started separating them, but the price went down again so it wasn't worth it."

Oh no, Billy Bob, it was definitely worth it.

We finish dinner. Billy Bob gets up and says "I got dishes" and makes a big production of it. My mother in law looked at me. Like I'm going to say no. Plus football is on, so fuck it, he wants to be the dish hero, well, he could use the points, and he's so out of third, I'm not worried about it.

I go sit in front of the tv to watch the Cowboys/Raiders. I am totally oblivious to my surroundings. In other words: at peace.

"Honey!"

I realize my wife is calling me. I lean forward. "Huh?"

Billy Bob: "Where's my reliever?"

Holy fucking shit. Are you serious? You need 'relief' from washing dishes? After you made this big production about it? Then he does the whole 'just kidding' thing. So fine, I can play along. I sit back and watch the game.

Five minutes goes by.

"Oh, where's my relief?"

Now I'm annoyed. What a fucking pussy. You can't even finish dishes? So I get up and go out there. Billy Bob makes a big production of showing how much he got done. So what did he get done? Basically anything he could rinse and put in the dishwasher. Wow, Billy Bob, you're a real Dish Wash Hero (I think of it like Juke Box Hero, but infinitely cooler).

That's right, all the pots, pans, and shit that, you know, actually requires effort to wash and won't fit in the dishwasher is still left to be done. So I'm up. A lesser man may have accepted his fate. A lesser man would have done his job.

I am not a lesser man.

I resolved at that moment that every dish I washed, by hand, would be the cleanest fucking dish in the history of clean dishes. No, standard scrubbing wouldn't be enough. Those fuckers were gonna sparkle. Dishwashers the world over would tremble at my dish-washing might. I pulled up my sleeves, turned up the hot water, and I began.

To say that I was poetry in motion doesn't do me justice. It was as if the dirt and grime on the dishes knew that they were witness to, and part of, the greatest dishwashing session ever. Pans? Ha. Pots? Please. Roaster rack? Fuck you, bitch.

Then my mother in law asks me: "What do you think of the dish towel?"

"It's nice Ma, I dig it."

"I made it myself." Yup. I was in the zone. Everything falling into place. Now, I sweat at the drop of the hat, so with all the water, steam, and scrubbing, I'm dripping like a hooker after a Naval convention.

And then the women come in. Oh yes, they saw it. They saw it all. Me, at the height of my dishwashing prowess. Banishing dirt and food particles to the never to be seen beyond. Dripping with sweat, just looking as fucking manly as only I can.

"Son, why don't you let me take over" my mother in law says.

Oh, no. I see that trap.

"Ma, I'll finish it. I'm fine."

The glasses? Like fucking Rembrandt with Cascade, bitches. I would set the President's table with that shit.

But has Billy Bob done enough damage to himself? Ha, not at all.

He says to my wife: "Wow, he's pretty good, maybe we'll keep him."

And though I'm not a boastful man, I wasn't letting this opportunity get by without comment.

"I should be, I wash dishes three days a week."

"Oh, yeah, you got that other job." He got the point. Instead of dumpster diving, and disability, get a job. Help your family.

Yup. That's right, Billy Bob. That's what a man does. Everyone has hard times. It's what you do to get out of them that makes you a man.

But don't change, Billy. Don't change one bit.

I love you just the way you are.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

The Key to Surviving In Laws: Enter the Dumbass

Once again, Thanksgiving is upon us, and I don't really have a lot to be thankful for. Then again, at this age, I thought I'd be fabulously wealthy, famous, getting blown by a different chick every night, and driving a Ferrari back to my part-time residence in St. Thomas.

Using the above as a barometer, I'm 0-5. But when we look at the real Thanksgiving, I guess I do have a lot to be thankful for. In the old days, we learned that Thanksgiving was the time when the Americans went hat in hand to those other Americans, you know, the folks that conveniently kept an eye on shit til we showed up, because we didn't have a lot of food. So the other Americans gave the new Americans some. And being thankful, as new Americans always were, they then proceeded to wipe the other Americans off the face of the earth. This incident is the perfect example of the old adage 'no good deed goes unpunished.' If only Tanto had known, he'd probably have let all the new Americans starve.

Anyway, I will be attending Thanksgiving at my in-laws tomorrow. I actually get along with my in-laws, probably better than my own family. Actually, that's not true, I don't even talk to my family, so it cuts down on the arguing dramatically.

My mother-in-law has four sons-in-law. Now, if I were ambitious, I'd try to be the best - kind of like my fantasy listed above (amazing how I tied that in, huh?) - but I learned from the Indians. Doing too much good is only going to get you fucked. You need to think about survival, first and foremost.

The first, and longest tenured son-in-law is Victor. Victor is one of those religious guys who practices it without preaching it. He helps the homeless, gives rides to tards, and otherwise helps people. Given the fact that I'm exceedingly self aware, and I know that I'm pretty self absorbed, attempting to top this guy is going to result in a lot of effort without the payoff. So I'm already at #2.

I'm the third longest tenured son-in-law, but I'm going to give the #2 spot to my brother-in-law, Harry. Harry, I think, is like me in a lot of respects. I believe he's self absorbed, but he has one major quality that elevates him to the #2 spot: he doesn't say a lot of stupid shit. I lose here, hands down. But it's closer than you might think.

I fall at #3. And this is exactly where I want to be. If you're #1, you're going to have people expect shit out of you. I do very poorly when people expect shit out of me, unless they expect to be disappointed, in which case I'm your man. At #1, you become the defacto patriarch, if there is no other, such as a grandfather. In our case, there are no grandfather's left, so the sons-in-law are basically the four men up for the position. I don't want that position. People scrutinize you, it opens you up to criticism. Victor can have it, cause I don't want to deal with that shit.

#2 is almost as, well, #two-ey, as #1. You're the patriarch in waiting. Essentially, you're on an extended audition. You have to think about everything you do, because people are going to remember, and boy-oh-boy, you're going to hear about it when you ascend to the throne. Plus, you're kind of the stunt double for #1. So you get the potential for all the responsibility, without the glory, of the crown. Fuck that noise.

No, number 3 is where it's at, assuming you're lucky enough to have a #4. And do I have a #4.

Enter the dumbass: Billy Bob.

How can I describe Billy Bob? He's kind of hickish. Not in that endearing 'kinda folksy and slow spoken' sort of a way. More in that 'I could see him attending KKK rallies' sort of a way. No, I'm not saying he's racist, he's never said anything of the sort, just trying to give you a visual here.

He married my sister-in-law in a fire hall. I have nothing against fire halls, but to give you a bit of background, I was drinking a can of Coors light (fuck off, it's all they had) during the ceremony. Why was I celebrating? Cause I knew the promised land was dead ahead. One of Billy-Bob's relatives was wearing an eye patch. An eye patch with a skull and crossbones on it. I'm dead serious here. This was like winning the in-law lottery, ticket holder: me. Did I tell you I was self absorbed?

Billy Bob fun facts:

He used to be a tree surgeon, but fell out a tree and went on disability.

He used to be a crack addict. He cornered my wife, at a Thanksgiving dinner once and told her this. I'm big on abandoning my wife when I sense an uncomfortable conversation coming. Like it's my fault I have a better developed spidey-sense than her?

He lived in a trailer.

He was short on cash - well, this is a constant thing - but always has cash for a tree stand, or a bow, or something completely and utterly useless.

He mentioned that he wanted to have sex with my sister-in-law (one that was not his wife or mine) during my wedding reception.

He wears black slacks and cowboy boots to every family function.

He got in an argument with the funeral director during my wife's stepfather's funeral. Right when we were supposed to take the casket from the hearse to the grave site. I don't think I loved Billy Bob any more than at that moment.

His wife attempted to divorce him via facebook. She got major ups in my book for that abortion of an idea.

His wife has kicked him out after finding correspondence with other women.

His wife has called the cops on him. I've always said 'It ain't true love til the cops show up.'

Basically, I could not create from scratch a better shit-bomb to be measured against. If he was any worse, he'd be in prison (and in fact, I'm waiting for him to admit he did time, hopefully to someone who is not me).

Let me be clear, at Christmas dinner last year, I had the choice of being seated next to a 400 lb tard with an oxygen tank or Billy Bob. I was happy I got the tard. I don't like being around him, because he's one of those guys that knows he's a fuck-up, but tries to be everyone's friend. And it just comes off as sleazy. Not that I don't appreciate sleazy, but the sleazy I appreciate involves low cut blouses and short skirts.

So maybe God screwed me out of my Ferrari, riches and fame.

But I'm thankful for Billy Bob. Compared to this fucker, I'm #3 for life, unless I go on a mass-murder spree.

Well, even that would show a little ambition and still keep me in my current position.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Rainbows, Midgets, Dick Vermeil and the Absolute Necessity of Headphones.

Friday was my last day of Vacation in the Dominican Republic, and fortunately I have a few stories. However, I'm going to post them in reverse order, for no other reason than I feel like it. So there.

My wife and I woke up fairly early so we could get in some beach time before we had to leave. We get out on the beach and get under one of those straw umbrellas just as it begins to rain. Sunshowers, which was pretty cool. After about 15 minutes, they pass over and we take a walk down the beach. I turn around and there it is.

A perfect rainbow. I know, it sounds childish, but it was beautiful, one of those rainbows that you could see both ends of it.

We get back and decide to go in the water, which was very nice. I look at my wife and her eyes get wide. I immediately think 'oh, shit, it's a shark, I'm sure going to miss her.' She mouths 'look behind you.' I then think, 'oh, shit, it's a shark, I better get my wife between me and the shark.' I slowly turn.

It's a midget. In a bright bikini. She was a vision. Her little legs and arms and big belly. I thought to myself, 'I've never seen this in 37 years, and I don't think I'll ever see it again. I wish I had my camera.' But alas, she will forever be my 'Dominican Midget Memory.'

We get to the airport, and we're going through security. Which is a bit like kindergarten nap time with all the taking off of shoes and whatnot. So there's a guy in front of me taking off his belt. I get a look at him, and I'm about to turn to my wife and say 'hey, doesn't that look like...'

"Mr. Vermeil?' my wife asks.

"How are you?"

Then, I come up with this genius response:

"Oh my God, we're from Philly!" Yeah, I'm smooth.

So we started talking to him, he was a super nice guy. I said "Coach, it was great to see you win it all with the Rams." He was very gracious. He then turns to me and says:

"You know, ever since I got that hip replacement, I set off those damn metal detectors." Eventually some folks started recognizing him and he took time out to speak with all of them. We talked a bit about golf and the Dominican Republic. Of course, right before we board, my wife, who has a bladder the size of an acorn, needs to go. Right now. So I'm sitting watching our shit while folks are filing past us and Dick Vermeil asked 'what happened to your wife?' I pointed towards the restroom and he laughed. As I got on the plane, he was in first class and made a point to say to me that it was nice talking to me. I said 'You too, Coach.'

He was truly a genuine guy.

Oh, travel tip: ALWAYS have headphones.

We get on the plane, and I took the window seat. Mostly because I'm terrified of flying. So my wife is next to me and this rather large woman sits next to her and is shouting to her friend, about 4,562 rows back, that her bus was late and she almost missed the flight. After about 4 times of shouting this, her friend apparently got it.

She then starts talking to my wife. Now, we've all been in this situation. You're about to get stuck in an uncomfortable situation, whether it be a conversation, a strip search or getting anally raped. You know that your friend/wife/cellmate is done for, but there's still a glimmer of hope for you. You feverishly examine all the possible exits out of the situation and say 'fuck it, my wife's done for, she's on her own.'

I quickly don my ipod headphones. I would have listened to Creed. On constant repeat. That's how annoying this woman was. So I blissfully listened to my music while my wife got lambasted by this woman, who revealed the following details of her life:

Her one sister hung herself because she was unable to find a man and have a baby. If there was a family resemblance, then this mystery was solved within seconds.

The other sister died after a long illness, so she took custody of her niece. I looked over at the sixteen year old niece and she had on headphones too. I guess she saw the same disaster coming and opted out like I did. The woman also mentioned that the sister that had the niece was annoying and her niece was just like her. I love it when annoying people are annoyed by people that they think are annoying. I think that makes sense. Fuck it.

And she wants to meet up with my wife for lunch. I, of course, am encouraging her to go.

Anyway, we touched down in Philly, and as we're going through customs, the guy asks:

"Are you related?" To which I said: 'No.' My wife looks at me and says 'we've been married over a year, we're related you idiot.' The customs guy was laughing his ass off.

My next story will be 'Don't Swim with the French, and Don't Ever Play Volleyball with the Russians.'

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

Well, I'm off for a week to the Dominican Republic on a well earned vacation. According to my wife there is actually internet there, so I may well update while I'm away.

I hate flying. Jesus titty-fucking Christ I hate flying.

I hope I live.

Hopefully, I'll update, if not, be well. I really hate to fly.

Friday, November 13, 2009

"Cards" on the Table

One thing you figure out pretty quickly in practicing law is that most of your encounters, your conversations, your motions, your entire persona become largely scripted. At first, it's a bit of a shock because Law School is a pretty laid back atmosphere from an etiquette standpoint, so your first year in practice you have the potential to make a few gaffes.

Most lawyers I've met are pretty decent folks. Contrary to popular belief, most of us are not complete douchebags. There are definitely some, but fewer than you'd probably think.

Anyway, by about your second year, you pretty well have the script down. You've been to a few motions, you've written dozens of dry letters, responded to discovery, taken thousands of phone calls, and otherwise immersed yourself in a world faker than a beauty pageant. Some may look down upon this characterization of practicing law, and they're certainly entitled to that opinion. However, try talking to a lawyer in 'real life.' Do they sound like a lawyer? Probably not, at least not most of them. They're playing a role. They have to. Fortunately or unfortunately, the law is replete with custom and tradition and variation from either is looked down upon by the powers that be.

So when you see something that isn't in keeping with custom and tradition, it tends to really stick out, assuming you know what to look for. One of those instances still haunts me to this day.

I was working on a very large case, involving hundreds of attorneys. At a certain point in time, there was another case ongoing that might have impacted the case I was currently working on. Several of the same attorneys were involved in both cases, so I tried to keep an eye on what was going on in the other case. A good friend of mine was involved in both, so we would talk about it. We were at a deposition and one of the attorneys who was also in the other case was about to depose a witness in the case I was involved in.

I mentally referred to this particular attorney as ‘Fish Lips.’

Depositions are fairly formal events. If I go to a deposition, I will wear a suit. No, it's not as formal event as a Court Appearance, but the witness is under oath and it does have certain rules and customs that you are typically expected to follow.

Fish Lips was huge. I'm not talking 'oh, you mean she's not as rail-thin as a model huge.' At my heaviest, I ran about 240 lbs and I'm 6'2". Fish Lips had me by about 50 lbs. Remember that chick that won American Idol? Not the one with no neck, the other one. She was in that Eddie Murphy movie. Fuck it, I can't remember her name.

Except Fish Lips wasn't remotely cute. We've all seen this chick. She had completely given up on any attempt at putting herself together. I get it, I’ve battled weight issues, and it takes a lot of work and a lot of time if you’re inclined to lose it. That being said, I see thousands of overweight women and most of them still try to put themselves together in a way that is pleasing to the eye. Combing their hair. A little make-up. A low cut blouse, you know, a little something for the audience. Or bathing.

Not Fish Lips. She would show up to depositions in stretchy pants. I don't mean those slacks infused with that rubber stuff - not to be confused with Spandex (which I believe has been outlawed) - I'm talking full on 'I had fourteen kids, I vacuum, do laundry all day, run the kids around and eat at McDonalds six times a week' stretchy pants. The type of stretchy pants that are the de facto uniform of every girlfriend on ‘Cops.’ I can only imagine that the fabric of these particular stretchy pants had been woven from the very soul of Hitler because I can't imagine a worse fate than being Fish Lips’ stretchy pants.

For a top, Fish Lips would have a dark long-sleeved t-shirt thing with a sweater that looked like it was straight out of the Bea Arthur catalogue for women who were waiting to die with 15 cats and an outstanding balance of $54,982.13 at QVC.

But like any horror movie, it's not what you directly see that scares you, it's what lies beneath that keeps you up at night.

I like boobs (just check my profile). I LOVE boobs. Frankly, if I had a pair of my own, I probably would be homeless because I would feel no need to be gainfully employed. Ok, ok, you get the point. But those boobs? I now understand the phrase 'too much of a good thing.' These things were huge. Massive. Not in a 'wow, I'm a bit aroused but feel guilty about it' sort of way, more of a 'my penis would commit suicide right now if it had an opposable thumb' sort of a way. If these were the only boobs in the world, I'd be full on Clay Aiken gay.

Think back to when you were a kid. You and your friends were hanging out at the local swimming hole. Think hard. You remember? There's a dock out there in the middle of the lake? Ok, now imagine you're goofing around with your friends and you look back and there's suddenly a Blue Whale on the dock. You're positive it wasn't there just a second ago. You'd swear to it. It is so out of your expectation of reality, your brain can't handle it. At first, you deny to yourself that there's a huge-ass Blue Whale on the dock of your pond. Your eyes refuse to believe your brain. You move to 'maybe it fell on the dock out of the heavens' as an explanation. Nope, no splash. Feverishly your brain seeks to come up with an explanation that allows you to keep your illusion of reality intact. You probably settle on 'oh, it's Ted the Big Fucking Blue Whale and he's always there.' You know it's a lie, but it's a useful lie. Your reality takes a bit of a bruising, but a few drinks will set you right.

Unfortunately, I had none of the above excuses to keep my own reality after what I was about to see.

Fish Lips subtly moves a shoulder. Waves of fat ripple from the strain of the motion. Time and space seem to bend. Reality tears just a bit. Somewhere, you can hear the distant scream of a child. Through the deft use of fat-physics and redirection by hand, it happens.

Fish Lip's right breast is now sitting on the table in front of her. If you’ve ever seen the movie Snatch there’s a scene towards the end when Turkish, Tommy and Mickey walk out of the unlicensed boxing match, fully expecting to get shot. Turkish says something along the lines of ‘you think your life will flash before your eyes, but you just end up with a stupid ass look on your face.’ (Oh, by the way, spoiler alert for the preceding sentence if you haven’t seen the movie.) I had that look. Except possibly more frightened. Frankly, I would have rather been shot. Because, for whatever reason, I continued to watch. I couldn’t look away, like rubbernecking on the Turnpike. You know you might see something that you can’t handle, but you can’t stop yourself. In fascination, horror, and praying to all that is holy that I'm struck blind immediately, I watch as the she repeats the motion, reality tears a bit more, and the left breast joins its partner on the table.

And there it is. There's my Ted the Big Fucking Blue Whale on the dock. The only problem is I witnessed him jump out of the water onto that dock. No amount of negotiating with myself will ever make that go away. No, my reality was forever changed.

I looked around the room. There were 30 attorneys, at least, in this room and it did not appear to me that one of them had actually witnessed this catastrophic event. No one is that good of an actor. You can't witness that and be the same.

When I went to law school, we learned phrases like res ipsa loquiter, nunc pro tunc, supra, and respondeat superior. We learned to be pompous, to be proper, to be lawyers. The Cool Hand Lukes of this society. Women used to bitch that they’d have to wear skirts to court, and how sexist that was. No where, at no time, in no way, did anything prepare me for a fat chick tossing her jubblies on the table like she was the shooter at a craps table screaming ‘Fish Lips needs a new pair of shooeeeeessss…’

The veneer peels away just a little bit. You start to see the man behind the curtain, and his very existence isn’t something you’re prepared for.

So why was I the only one that saw it?

Because of my jackass of a friend. As I said earlier, my friend and I discussed the other case he was involved in, and he told me the following tidbit that happened at another deposition that Fish Lips took:

"Dude, she flopped those puppies right on the table in front of her."

And I doubted him. Some may say the moral to the story is 'believe your friends.' I disagree. The moral to the story is 'don't ever fucking tell me something like that because I might think it's necessary to watch to confirm the story.' Or 'Lie to me, motherfucker, lie to me.'

That's why I was looking. And maybe that's why I was the only one that caught it.

And I'm scarred because of it. Thanks a lot, jackass friend.

Thanks a lot.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Inappropriate but Funny

The above title is how my wife, who knows me very well, sums up my existence. This is the story of how she came to that conclusion.

We live in an apartment building. And like most apartment buildings, it has an alarm system in case of a fire. One weekday morning, I heard this blaring sound and lo and behold, it was the fire alarm.

So my wife gets out of bed and starts heading to her vanity.

I say 'what the hell are you doing?'

"Brushing my hair."

I was dumbfounded. Now you may take from the above that my wife is a vain woman, but this is not the case at all. Well, not any more vain than an average woman. Which in man terms is unbelievably, but somewhat tolerable occasionally, vain. But what was baffling is that she is an extremely logical person. Well, as far as estrogen and logic can co-exist.

You need to understand, I am probably one of the most clear headed people in an emergency situation. In non-emergency situations, I worry about everything. Everything. Hell, I make shit up to worry about just so I can have something to do. But an emergency? Nothing clears away all the mental noise in my head like an emergency.

Immediately, my mind covered the three steps necessary to getting out and avoid burning to death.

One, figure out how to get the wife moving in a productive direction. In this case, productive meaning 'not worry about how you look first thing in the morning so that you may have other mornings to worry about how you look because you didn't burn to death in a fucking fire because you were doing your hair.'

Two, corral Ben and Seymour. Immediately, I realized this was going to be problematic. I don't have a cat carrier. I'll probably get into more about Ben and Seymour, or the 'tards' as I refer to them at a later date, but for now all you need to know is Seymour is feral. He lets me pet him maybe twice a year, and I've had him since he was a kitten. He's just terrified of everything and hides all day. So I run into the closet and get a duffel bag and throw it on the bed.

Now the hard part. I had to corner Seymour. He's one of those cats that will run and run until he's out of options. So you need to 'funnel' him into a spot that he can't get out of. In this case, he made his last stand in the bathroom. Meanwhile, the alarm is blaring away. In reality, probably 40 seconds have passed, but I could swear I smelled smoke and felt the temperature rising, harbingers of my certain impending doom. At that moment, I resolved that if I died because of this retarded cat and my wife's hair, I was going to haunt the shit out of them if they made it out alive.

Anyway, once you get Seymour cornered, he freezes, and he resorts to his last ditch attempt at avoiding capture. The wily Seymour stares at you, as if to say 'look at me, I'm scared and really cute, are you sure you want to continue on this course of action? Maybe it'd be best if you just let me be...' So that's when I grab him. He's got back claws, but none in the front. I grab him by the back to nullify the claws, rush out of the bathroom and head into the bedroom and start the process of trying to shove him into the duffel bag.

What happened next? Well, it was a new one on me. Between me yelling 'Shove his goddamn head in the bag' and her yelling back 'I'm trying you asshole, he doesn't want to go in there,' a strange thing happened.

For some reason, Seymour was suddenly attached by his mouth to my wife's wrist. It took a second before I realized the ramifications of this. Then my wife let out a howl of pain and I thought 'huh, guess he really didn't want to go into the duffel bag.' It took a second to extract Seymour from my wife's wrist and we got him in the bag. Which he peed in just to annoy me further. Oh, and my wife was bleeding out of four holes in her arm. Quite a bit actually.

And Ben? Yeah, he was sitting on the floor, just watching all of this transpire.

Step Three, I throw the duffel bag on my shoulder, scoop up Ben and we start heading for the front door and the stairs.

Just as the alarm goes off.

Well, that sucks. So to recap, I have one 25 lb cat in one arm, a terrified cat in a peed in duffel bag in the other, and a wife with four new holes and mussed up hair.

It was one of those moments where you just think 'God fucking damnit. Was this really necessary today?'

My wife was now really irritated. She's in pain, and knows she now has to make a doctor's appointment. She ends up going to the doctor that day, and gets bandaged. Apparently, if it hadn't been a cat bite, it was deep enough to require stitches. I was shocked the little fucker had it in him to do that. He certainly never bit me in the eight years I had him.

There would also be scarring, and potentially an infection. So not exactly fun for my wife.

I try to be empathetic, I really do. But sometimes I fail on a monumental level. The next day, we were chatting back and forth. I guess maybe I was busy at work, but for whatever reason, I felt like she was going on an inordinate amount about the 'attack.' So I sent the following:

"Hey, we just got a get well card and it's signed by Siegfried and Roy*."

Maybe it was too soon. Maybe it was the bandages. Maybe the puss. Maybe the pain. Maybe the threat of infection. Maybe the knowledge that we now had a man (or wife)-eater living among us. Maybe it was all of the above.

My wife was not amused. Yet, she still managed to laugh. She showed the message to a co-worker who said 'Funny. Inappropriate, but funny.'

And it stuck.

My wife has threatened to put that on my headstone. So excuse me if I get a bit frightened by the delivery guy with a big headstone under his arm and my wife grabbing a stone chisel.

*For those of you who don't know, Siegfried and Roy were an act that decided playing with 300 lb tigers was a good way to make a living. Right up until the point where one of the tigers decided Roy (or was it Siegfried - I can't tell them apart) would make an excellent face-jerky treat.

Monday, November 9, 2009

The Terrence Incident

Prior to the cook that I worked with that needed time off in the middle of the shift in order to consummate a drug deal, the worst example of employer/employee relations I had witnessed was:

The Terrence Incident.

Terrence is just one of those guys. You know the guy. He's cool, savvy, and everybody's friend. Now, let me be clear, I like the guy. We liked the same music, had some good talks during our shifts, and generally got on really well. However, Terrence was not very cognizant of time. Especially when that time related to the time he was supposed to come in. During one of my first shifts, I was supposed to come in on a Tuesday night after my day job. So I dutifully show up at 6, only to find Terrence is not there and the day shift cook is pissed as he needs to get out. He doesn't want to leave me alone, because I didn't know the whole menu at that point. So we call Terrence.

Oh, he's coming in, he's going to be a bit late, the bartender tells us. He was due in at five. It's now 6:20. Like I said, Terrence operated on a different clock from the rest of us.

Anyway, he shows up, finally, and his excuse was he hurt his knee while working out. Did he go to the doctor? Not exactly. He went to his 'Dr. Feelgood.' His words. My manager shows up, and reads him the riot act while I'm in the kitchen. Is there anything more uncomfortable than being in the same room as someone who is getting yelled at? Yeah, not fun.

So the manager basically says that you need to give notice if you're going to be late. Common courtesy, etc. etc.

The next day Terrence decides to show up an hour and a half late to his next shift. He gets fired.

Now, as I said, we all liked Terrence on a personal level. So he would come to the bar every so often to hang out. There were no hard feelings. Terrence was one of those guys that could probably walk in on his girlfriend getting gang banged by the Knicks and he would shut the door and never give it another thought.

So Terrence is in late one night, after the bar has closed. I didn't witness this first hand, but heard from the main participants who all related the story to me the same way.

The bartender is there, a waitress, a cook, and Terrence. A word about Jim, the cook. I love Jim. He's funny as hell. But, the down side is he tends to like to drink during his shift. I'm certainly not one to think negatively about someone for that, I merely offer this as background. So by 2 a.m., Jim's pretty well hammered, given the fact that he was done his shift at 1.

Jim's in the bathroom, which is downstairs. He hears some noises coming out of the walk in refrigerator where all the food is kept. As he comes out of the bathroom, Jim bumps into Terrence. He tells Terrence he doesn't work there anymore and he can't go into the employee area. So that was it.

Fast forward a half hour and Jim's bothered by something. He notices that Terrence's coat pockets are bulging. Even in his inebriated condition, Jim knows something's up. So he goes over and looks in the pocket. On the top of the pocket, there's a hamburger. Raw, wrapped up and prepped for when we use it on the line. So Jim pulls it out. Under it is a chicken wing and thigh. And some ham. And some cheese. He empties both the pockets.

Terrence apparently thought it was ok to do his grocery shopping in the walk-in.

Jim says 'Seriously?' And starts laughing.

The bartender can't stop laughing. Well, right up to the point where it came time to pay the tab, of around $40, and Terrence tells him he only has $2. Not so funny after that.

So Terrence gets banned. A few weeks later, he bumps into the owner. He makes good on the check. When the owner asks him 'why the fuck would you steal from me?' Terrence replies brilliantly:

"I'm not the worst one there."

For some reason, his ban remains in place.

Oh, and did I mention? He lives at home with his parents. He didn't need the food.

Was That Wrong? I Didn't Know You Couldn't Do That!

So I got back into cooking, and since I haven't cooked professionally for about a decade, some training was required. The place I work for was undergoing some changes in the kitchen staff and I was brought along with a couple of new guys. One of those new guys, Albert, was a bit off. Here's two of the first things he told me about when we met on the first shift we worked together.

1) He had a bet with his uncle on the 1980 Superbowl and his uncle never paid up.

My thoughts: let it go, man. Let it go. It was 29 years ago. My response: A look like 'is there some point to all of this?' Ok, to be fair I'm not the most patient man on the planet, and I typically have an awful 'bedside' matter.

2) He caught his wife in bed with not one, not two, but three guys. At the same time. Strangely enough, this led to his divorce.

How on earth this had anything to do with, well, anything, was beyond me. I told him 'that was the luckiest day of your life.' He didn't seem to agree. I was going to explain it, but as my wife has cautioned me on numerous occasions I am 'inappropriate but funny.' This seemed like one of those times. So I let it go.

I ended up working with Albert several times. You ever get a vibe that someone is a bit off, but you can't really put your finger on it? That was Albert. One of the first shifts we worked alone, he kept throwing food away. He said it was 'not good.' I would smell, taste, and go over the food, as the place I work for has the following maxim in place: Don't serve it if you wouldn't eat it. And that is the law, I've seen every cook there throw something away at some point because they wouldn't eat it.

But not like this. I finally had to say to Albert (after the fifth container of something went in the trash) 'Yo, is there anything you think is ok to serve tonight?'

'My taste is off, I might be stuffed up.'

I looked at him like 'you are a fucking retard.' I still double checked all the food, actually, triple checked, to make sure it was ok. It was all fine. Anyway, my shift ended and I went home.

After the Terrence incident, which I'll get to a later point, I did not think that you could find a worse employee. Two weeks later, I was proven wrong. VERY wrong. By Albert.

During my Friday night shift, I was talking with the owner, who told me the following, 'yeah, we're thinking of moving you to Sunday days because we're letting Albert go.' I figured it was a cost measure because all of us had our hours cut lately. Not quite an 'overhead' firing, as I would come to learn.

Me: 'Man, sorry to see him go, just couldn't keep him around?'
Owner; 'Well, no. He had to leave on Friday to do a drug deal.'
Me: 'Heh, no really?'
Owner: 'I'm not kidding, the kitchen manager told me about it today.'

Ok, that right there sealed it. On Sunday, I work at night, but my manager was in early, so I stopped in yesterday to talk with him. I grab a beer at the bar and ask my kitchen manager:

'What happened with Albert?'

'You're not going to believe what this motherfucker did. We're working on Friday, and he says to me 'yo, I got to go out around the corner for ten minutes.' I said 'what for.' He said 'I have to deliver a package to my friend.' I said 'What kind of package?' He said 'Coke, but it's my friend's.'

My manager was stunned. I mean, who wouldn't be? We all tell little white lies to get out of work sometimes. Maybe you say you're sick when you're just hungover, or you have jury duty, or Grandma died. Again.

But to tell your manager you need ten minutes to deliver drugs? In what world does that constitute 'the best excuse to leave for ten minutes in the middle of my shift.' Fuck, 'I took Viagra and I've been hard for five hours' would have been a more appropriate excuse. By the way, someone needs to try that and tell me how it goes with their employer.

So I ask my manager: 'What did you tell him?'

'I told him to bring me a paper on his way back.'

Me and the bartender had tears in our eyes, we were laughing so hard.

'So you didn't fire him right then and there?'

'No, I was just too shocked over his honesty to think about it.'

So I showed up for my shift last night, and my manager was in, sitting at the bar. I walked up to him and said: 'Hey man, I need to go around the corner and rape a busload of nuns. You want me to bring you back a paper?'

Inappropriate, but funny. I hate it when my wife's right.