Thursday, December 23, 2010

My Greatest Christmas (An oldie from the archives)

I wrote this story on my old Myspace blog a while back, thought it would be appropriate to post this time of the year, holidays and all. 
It's called "My Greatest Christmas".
Sorry for copping out and not posting an actual update, I WILL SOON,  I fucking promise, but it's been my lack of motivation that's been holding me back.
Ah, who am I kidding, I'm lazy.
Anyway, fuck me, I suck, but please read this, it's a good read , if I might say so myself, and look out for something new very soon. I swear to my friend Alex's gigantic balls, I will update soon.
Now, without further ado,  I present to you, "My Greatest Christmas".

Must have been 89 or 90, it was so long ago, I can barely remember exactly, I just remember that it was the greatest Video Game gift I've ever received, and probably the best Christmas I've ever had.
I must have been ten or eleven or so.

My aunt saved up and probably borrowed money to buy it for me, This particular gift, It cost like $100 some odd dollars back then and I figured I'd never get it, since she supported seven of us and my uncle's drug habit on top of a car that conked out at least once a month.

I had been asking for this gift hardcore for two years, a few of my pals had one, and I'd hang with them just to get my fill, to satisfy the urge to have it, but it wasn't enough,
I needed my own, but there were bills to pay and kids to feed, not much extra for videogames.

The only videogames we did get were occasional used NES games from Doorae's mall down on West Farms, where we'd risk it and get whatever we thought was cool.
There was no internet back then, only word of mouth, so if a game sucked, you were shit out of luck.
But, if Ralphie from across the hallway had the game, it must have been good.
Otherwise, we blew about $20-$30 bucks on a real piece of shit, either way, that was what we got maybe twice a year, if we were lucky.

I'd mostly get my games by borrowing and trading with friends.
One good thing about being a foster kid and living in the hood, people tend to move a lot.
When you borrow a game and your pal moves away, you got a free game, it almost always worked out in your favor, but, there were times when it totally fucked you over, and you lost a game or two.
A gamble, but sometimes, you got to give it your all with the shitty cards you're dealt, none of that "know when to fold'em" bullshit.

Anyway, Christmas day comes, we used to open gifts at the stroke of midnight on Christmas day, I remember opening a few gifts, mainly action figures, and stocking stuffers from grandma, mostly sweatpants and socks and art supplies and shit.
I'm done unwrapping all the fodder, but my dream gift was nowhere to be seen.

Did they forget?
Did they not care?
What the fuck?

And MAYBE, just MAYBE, here it is, a rectangular shaped box, with the words "from Santa, To Bryan'" Written on it (my family always writes that shit on gifts).
Is this it?....
What could be inside?
Is it a trick??

I unwrap this gift hesitant, slowly,  like the first time I took a girl’s bra off, nervous, yes, but with a hard on so stiff, I could jack a tank up to change it's tire and not have it bend.

I get the corner wrapping off, from there, I kick the shakes, and just let it rip, there it is, Oh my's a's a FUCKING GAMEBOY,  HOLY SHIT!!!!!!!!!....
Out of excitement, I jumped so High, I almost banged my head on the 8 foot high ceiling, there's photo evidence of this somewhere, I shit you not.
Here I am, I'm screaming "A GAMEBOY, A GAMEBOY" so loud, everyone in the house is all smiles for me, it's like I got the gift of gifts, and all my cousins and my brother knew that this was my moment, I had finally gotten something I wanted in my shitty life, the fact that I lived in the hood, that I was poor, that I was unfortunate,  none of that mattered, at this moment in time, I was a millionaire, I was Richie Rich, I was Golden.
I immediately tossed 4 double A batteries in there and began playing the only game I'd own for a good few months...Tetris.
This was a momentous Occasion.
This was the greatest moment ever in my young life.....

Then, the horror came....
A few months later, I STRONGLY believe my uncle would go on to steal my gameboy from underneath the pile of unmatched socks in my sock drawer and sell my gameboy on the street for $20 to buy drugs.
I had nothing now, my moment.....was at an end, and life had no purpose.
I wished his death so hard that even the devil thought I was being too harsh.
He had to die....
I suffered for a few months, no gameboy, just regular console games to hold me over in the meantime.

Luckily, the god of video games heard my calls, and the next Christmas I got the gameboy core system!

I was back!!!.

Then the horror struck again....and when I slept over my friends house, they switched their broken gameboy for my brand new one..

I still own it to this day, it works, but the screen borders are a bit cut off.
Life sure can suck sometimes.

And this is my story, my Video game Christmas story.

Special Thanks to Titi Loida, without you, I would probably be in jail or dead somewhere.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Holy shit, I'm lazy.

Look how long it's been between posts, I'm a piece of shit, why do you all put up with my bullshit?
Here you all are, all six of you, maybe ten, waiting patiently for the next post (or not, probably not) and here I am, not making with the good shit.
I fucking suck.
Here's some advice:
If you see me in public, punch me in the face, I deserve it, and you don't have to say anything more than "fuck you, Bronx" and I'll understand fully.
I will post an update soon, I swear to the balls of my older brother, but for now, you're going to have to find something else to do, like masturbate to Scooby doo or pour yogurt on your tits or something.
Stay busy, stay tuned, stay the fuck away from my booty hole.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Drugs, Booze, Addiction (my response to "Dangit, relapse") and facts about drug dealers.


Aside from my own blog page, naturally,  I also frequent another blog page, belonging to my brother from another mother named Ish and his lovely lady Ms. Sassy (total addict...... to art!). They run a blog where they both make posts, but in separate forums of it and actually use it as an outlet for their own creative writings concerning myriad issues and thoughts, even commenting and advising on each others stories, rants and raves, but never impeding each others writings, which works out great because they're both fucking retarded.

He made a post the other day concerning some recent events in his life which have transpired due to the untimely and tragic death of an old flame. Not to put anyone's business out there, but she had some issues with alcohol and substance abuse which may have attributed to her death, if not outright causing it.

You can read that particular excerpt here at this link - -  which I urge you to do first, not only because it allows my post to make sense, but because Ish is a fantastic writer, with an Omega level mutant IQ (seriously, he's a registered genius), and it's very well written, and also hits home for anyone who's been through situations with loved ones who have been addicted to substances and abusing themselves in any way.

So below is my response to that specific post of his, which he was so impressed and touched by (I think) that he urged me to post it on my own site so that my millions, AND THE ROCK MEANS MILLIONS, of my fans can read.

To be honest, you could have just read his post on his page, and scrolled down and read mine in his comments, but I'm doing a real favor for you here, so eat it.

So here it is, my response to that silly Irishman's post:

I've never personally been addicted to any substance, hell, I barely drink girly drinks, and I can't even stand to be around anyone smoking, but as you well know, drugs and alcohol have been more a part of my life than I'd care to mention at this point, so while I do not physically understand the addiction fully, I totally understand it from the same point of view you're coming across.
I've watched my mom snort and sniff and get trashed only to get nailed by some random guy every few days.
I've seen my dad wasted more than I can count, and I've watched him stick a needle into his arm as he shooed me away as to not scar me for life.
It's always the people you care for the most that tend to do the most destruction to you.
With that said, I will agree with you 100 percent on the kind of help required to kick the demons out of you.
Any asshole who thinks someone who is addicted is only addicted because they're weak is sorely mistaken.
There's so much more to it, and only someone who's REALLY "been there" and has for the most part fully recovered and now offers professional help can understand the possession of your soul that takes place in these situations.
Perfect example, my mom tried to stop on her own, she does OK , but she still drinks and abuses meds every now and then, my dad, he recovered via a substance abuse program run by people who've done it all.
He relapsed once after an injury, and began using pain meds and then started having a drink here and there, then kicked the habit after that, with Pro counseling and maintained a clean life, until he passed away.

So you know the deal my brother, anyone who doesn't heed your experienced advice is just in for a world of trouble.
It's best to join something like AA, or similar programs, surrounded by positive kindred spirits who know exactly what you're saying and going through.
There's no shame in going some place to try and better yourself, the only shame is in doing nothing at all.

I am sorry for what you had to go through, but you're a solid, strong dude, and these are the journeys guys like us always embark upon because we know we can use our strength to help others.
But like any hero, we can't save them all and casualties will be met, hearts will be broken, lives will be lost, this is the way it is.
That's why we run websites where we can tell the world , warn people, inform people, and just cheer people up, because guys like us , we've seen some shit in our time and while we may not have always been in the pilot's seat at times, we definitely were the motherfucking copilots during those voyages.

One quick relevant story before I close for anyone currently addicted to anything out there.
I remember going to a meeting with my dad where he was a guest speaker (something like AA, but more of a mixed bag) showing up as someone who beat the evils of being addicted to both drugs and alcohol and now had something to show for it for a group of people who were like him a few years prior that were losing hope and were about to give up.
My dad showed up and explained to them what a little hard work and effort can do. I mean, shit, he bragged a bit about his brand new car and newly installed pool in the back of his long Island home that he got from working at his well paying government job, haha, but damn it, he deserved to!
Anyway, in that room, you see all of these people that you'd normally pass off as junkies and bums and losers, but these guys were from all walks of life, white, black, Latin.
Some were drivers, construction workers, businessmen, people who weren't just on the streets using anymore, people really trying to move forward in life.
They had asked me to speak from the point of view of a person who watched his dad rise and fall and re-rise, and I remember this one older white guy, looked like the kind of white dude who works with his hands for a living, big guy, raspy voice, one you can tell was created by smoking damage to his throat over the years, gentle natured fellow, and he talked about how his old lady gives him shit, and his kids are losing more and more love for him because he goes to visit, but they smell the booze on him, they see him all messed up, etc and he asked me something along the lines of "how can they love me again?" then I stood up and said "love your kids".
Everyone just began staring at me with wide eyes.
I told them to love their kids, always, and let them know that you love them, all the time, but make sure you take care of yourself at the same time , meaning, regardless of the addiction, always show your kids that dad (or mom) is working hard to recover to be a part of their lives, but also to make sure he can fully function in society and provide for you as a father should, but you need not impose on them while you're not able bodied, just be consistent in telling them how much you love them and your progress in putting the pieces of all of your lives back together for good.
Seeing that I wasn't bullshitting, the man had tears in his eyes, put his arm on me and said "thanks".
I just hope whoever has a problem that they're going through, reads this and feels the same effect as that man, because it would mean the world to me and to my buddy Ish, I'm sure.


In closing, I would like to point out that technically, there is no such thing as a drug dealer.
Drug dealers are more like drug "offerers", they don't DEAL in the sense that no deal is actually made.
They offer you a price point and a product and you either pay it or don't, or get punched in the face for bitching about it.
The economics behind it are fucking terrible, and it functions almost worse than a monopoly does.
People sell drugs, but they really don't, drugs sort of sell themselves, and sell themselves well.
Most drug dealers are shitty salesmen, they're usually pretty mean to their best customers and are often inconvenient for most people to buy from.
Do I really have to drive across town , in the rain, climb fourteen flights of steps in a dangerous building just to buy a vial of crack?
Fuck me.
See what I mean?
No deals being made here, drug offerers fucking suck.If the better Business Bureau could manage these fuckers, they'd be in so much shit, it's not even measurable.

On another note, they are also portrayed as very evil people by the media, usually as murderers or serious villains.
That is so untrue.
Most people who sell drugs are generally easy going and lazy, often times, they're not really so tough.
I've never seen a person who sells drugs hurt anyone or kill anyone, nor have I seen one transform into a cobra like that old PSA showed us in the 80's.
They don't tell you to try drugs or chase you down with a knife to threaten your life until you do, they just wait somewhere, usually in their own homes, and sell to people who come at their own leisure.
The facts behind these fuckers are such bullshit it's astounding.
Come to me for the truth, god damn it.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

I have to do a number 2 or the following post has way too much information.

Sorry, I know, TMI, fuck you, but No bullshit, I have to take a human shit.
Thing is, I don't crap outside of my home because I need to take a shower after I take the Browns to the Superbowl, and I'm at work right now.
It's OCD, blow me, don't judge me.
I can't even blow my nose unless there's a mirror in front of me where I can enthusiastically investigate my nasal passages for any potential cliffhangers.
I became sort of a hygiene freak during my young adult years for no apparent reason, maybe I thought I stunk or some shit, I don't know, fuck off.

I always have gum on me, or a toothbrush or mouthwash, because bad breath is fucking gross.
I also constantly have to make sure I have nothing gross about my person, no random eye boogers, or crap on or around my mouth or in my teeth.
I'm a little obsessed with being fresh.
So taking a dump and not showering immediately afterwards sends a cold chill of yuckiness down my spine.

I just imagine the lingering odor and dingleberries, ack, it's just fucking making me sick thinking about it and I don't know how people can do it on a regular basis.
Even those wet wipes and wet ones wouldn't suffice to me, has to be a full on bath man, I'm just crazy like that.
I take like 2-3 showers a day, I'm going to end up on 20/20 one day as a really psychotic inmate cleaning his cell with a toothbrush, you'll see.

Funny thing is, I know tons of people who are completely opposite, and it really grosses me out, but I put up with it, because forcing your beliefs and ways on others is essentially a religion, and I'm totally anti-religion.
See how non-conformist I'm being?
Such a fucking bad ass, right?

I just wish people were more self conscious about their breath, many of of my pals do not carry gum on them, and the assholes have their hands out like beggars every fucking time I whip out my pack.
Shit costs a dollar assholes, go buy your fucking own.
Am I really the only person in new York fucking city with access to gum?
What the fucking fuck?

And a big fuck you to those with terrible breath that have the god damned nerve to refuse my gum when it's offered to them.
Look man, I'm cheap, if I offer you something to freshen your breath, it's not because I really want to share with you, it's because your mouth smells like someone used it as a toilet for a few years.
So take the fucking hint, in fact, go brush your fucking mouth, toilet face.
Your breath smells like Chinatown.

Ok, I can clearly see I'm venting here, and I don't want to run down a list of bad hygienic traits from people, because I can do this shit all week people.
So yeah, I still have to take a shit.
Heaven help me, my muscles are pulling some over time.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Having Company and Older Brothers (From the Archives of Madness)

Like the previous post, I pulled this from the archives , the place where I wrote a lot of stuff that just fell off the radar, I like to call it the Archives of Madness because it sounds cool, at least to me it does, fuck you.
To be perfectly honest, I'm actually just using this old shit to update the site while I get my lazy ass to think of something new to write, but if I make it sound like I'm doing you a favor, it doesn't make me look so bad.
So here it is, it's something I wrote a few years ago, my wife was preggers at the time, so don't be alarmed and go thinking I'm having another baby, because I sure as shit am not.
I only edited grammatical errors and stuff like that, but it's pretty much a copy/paste.

What's up people?
Just me ranting and raving again, I like to write to get stuff off of my chest, so open your mind with me, and journey into the world of a sociopathic literary maniac like myself.
Anyway, this topic, as you've probably already read on the subject line, is about having guests over, or company as I say it, and big brothers.
Now I too am a big Brother, but I'm exempt from this, but none of you are.
Because I'm cool as hell, and no rules that hinder or subtract from my cool points apply to me.
Anyway, I got a call from my older Brother today, and he's bitching and whining like usual for no apparent reason other than the fact that he's got a vagina.
He begins to tell me how he'll be stopping by my home later tonight to hang out.
Wow, thanks for the heads up! Way to make fucking plans with me dipshit!
For the record, I hate having company.
I don't care who it is, you're not welcome in my house.
Unless I invite you personally, don't fucking come by; I don't want to see you, your kids, no one.
Go away.
All you want to do is come over, make a mess, eat my cookies, and fart on my couch and ask me stupid questions about my cat.
Yes he's a male, yes he's neutered, and no, he won't suck you off.
Stay home please.
Your kids are bad and evil, your breath stinks, and you hang around to the point where I want to call the police to remove you from my home.
Then when it's all done with, there's a huge fucking mess because you're a pig and don't know how to throw away your chicken Mcnugget boxes and sweep up your chicken crumbs.
Leave me alone.

Back on track now, my older brother is a penis head.
So is yours, and if you are an older brother, you're one too.
I'm sorry to break the news to you, but you are.
In fact, everybody hates you.
Your parents hate you, because since you were the first, they fucked up with you, so to rectify that mishap and take another shot at luck, they had a second child, meaning YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH you busted condom you.

If you killed yourself, here's a list of people who would care:

There you go.

If any of your older brothers are Incarcerated/dead/gay I apologize, but you have to relate just a little, right?
Not to say that I don't love my older Brother, but he is a royal cock.
He calls me to whine and bitch, and something about going with him on vacation to Florida.
Wait, Florida?
You and I?
I'd rather go to a funeral.
Then he says maybe my wife would like to go.
I tell him, "hey, dumbass, she's due to give birth soon, and she's breast feeding, do you think she'll leave me her tits to feed the baby with?"
What a doofus.
Then he has the audacity to say that I'm a control freak, and that I keep my wife cooped up all the time.
She goes out plenty.
Like every weekend she goes to Kmart, or the Supermarket.
She's very fortunate as you can see!
Many women would die for those outgoing opportunities.
Then he says that I must beat my wife.
Come on now, I know Karate and a bunch of other stuff, I could kill that chick.
The most I do is shake and shove.
Usually into the wall, because it scares the baby, with all the loud banging and all.
I kill two birds with one stone in a manner of speaking.
Am I being a bastard?
No, she has all the freedom in the world.
She's as free as a bird.
So he hangs up with me, obviously upset that I have actual male parts to pee with, and whines off somewhere at his job.
Often times, he calls me to tell me that I'm a pussy, and that I've never done any wrong in my life because I don't cheat on my wife, sleep around with chicks, or sell drugs.
I'm such a saint!
They should immortalize my image in the form of a statue over St. Patty's Cathedral.
I know chicks as small as my grandmother that sell drugs, how bad can they be?
What an Asshole.

This is every big brother; they call you to annoy you, and to make up for their shortcomings by belittling you like an abusive husband.
Doesn't work on me, it's just obnoxious that he's wasting my daytime minutes.
Anyway, I came up with an idea.
Punch your older brother in the face.
He deserves it.
One, for ruining your parents life, they were on their way to college when they had him/you.
Two, for ruining your life, because they constantly get felt sorry for because they're losers.
And three, because god wants you to, trust me.
If you are the big brother, walk into traffic.
Preferably highway traffic.
I love my big brother, but I would love to see him get drop kicked in the nipples by the Incredible Hulk.
He makes my life worthwhile by being such a sissy.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Not Everything I Write Is Meant To Be Funny.

I know most people are used to my more smart allecky, comical blogs, and if that's what you're looking for, by all means, I beg you to skip over this one and continue to the other blogs I've posted here previously, they're there for your amusement and such. This is a more serious, from the heart piece I wrote concerning my father. It's a rather long read, so if you have 15 to 20 minutes to spare, please proceed, you will not be met with disappointment.

Also keep in mind, this was a long time ago, different feelings, different emotions, I was probably pretty harsh, but I'm not changing anything unless I notice any grammatical errors.

This particular piece is titled “A Series of Unfortunate Events....Reminiscing.... ".

It was written on my old Myspace blog way back in 2006, two years after my father died in a car accident on Monday, August 23, 2004.

Since today is Monday, August 23, 2010, I thought it'd be a good idea to re-post this here for anyone who cares to read it.

Again, nothing funny here, but I feel it's one of my best works, so I'd like to share it, fuck you, it's my blog.

Without further ado....

A Series Of Unfortunate Events....Reminiscing....

I can still remember it like if it was yesterday.
For the most part at least.
The day my dad died, followed by a week of quite possibly the worst fucking examples of Murphy's Law there could be.
By the way, before I begin, I wanted to bring up a topic about using bad, profane words in writing really quick.
Some people, usually professors, English majors, and other types of over-educated dipshits, with so much useless knowledge that they insist on sharing, say that cursing, foul language, etc, is an expressive tool of the ignorant.
I disagree with that.
Cursing is a great way to emphasize just how bad you want to get your point across.
Sure, why not.
If I told you "get your feet off of my couch, please" would you do it immediately?
Probably not.
But I bet if I said, "Get your motherfucking feet off of my god damned couch" you'd jump off that shit in a second, am I right?
The point of this?
I feel like cursing, and I just don't want people to confuse anger for ignorance.
Not that I care anyway, but just in case.
Also, this is a really long blog, so be ready for about 15 minutes of reading, though I'm cutting major details, to avoid you from reading a novel.
So don't write me bitching that it isn't very detailed, I know, it's basically a summary or something like it.
Anyway, back to our regularly written shit.

That whole week was just insane, for those of you who aren't familiar with Murphy's Law, it's a law that states, "What can go wrong, will go wrong" and that pretty much sums up the week of Monday, August 23, 2004 - Saturday, August 28, 2004.

On Monday Aug 23, 2004, we were headed to the Pocono mountains, PA, but we left late that day, my family and I, we wanted to leave in the AM, but shit just kept making us delay the trip, one thing after another.
We had to go to Jersey to rent the car, pick my cousin up to house sit, go get him some food at the supermarket, bring him back, yadda, yadda.
It took us so long, shit just kept happening.
Finally, we're on the road, it's between 1 -3 pm, I can't remember exactly, but around that time, and we almost get smashed by a truck on the Cross Bronx Expressway. (Irony, or touched by an angel? My father was killed approximately at the same moment we almost got killed).
We get to Pennsylvania, we we're heading to the Pocono mountains for a week of leisure, but we ended up getting lost, really lost, and I was lucky enough to be in the middle of my wife and mother in law yelling at each other, blaming one another for who got who lost.
I'm just sitting there wishing I were deaf.

We finally get there, late, I think they also had trouble getting a room when we got to the campsite, we had to wait a bit, which sucked, because I think I had to take a dump.

It's now the early evening, It's already getting dark, and we have to go food shopping, because it's like this at the camp; you get what they call a cabin, but it's like a mini house and you'll need to stock it with food, because there's nothing around for miles really, and their local camp site convenience store doesn't sell much, so you're on your own pretty much with that.
After buying enough groceries to fill a fall out shelter, we head over to this Chinese buffet.
BIG FUCKING mistake.
Never eat Chinese seafood, that stuff will make you shit like a hose is in your ass, which leads me to my next topic.
My wife decided to try a bunch of that poisonous shit, shrimp, king crab legs, and some other shit.
Unfortunately for her, and me, this would lead her to the biggest bout of constantly flowing ass juice she'd ever deal with.

We head out of there, the curse of the seafood hasn't kicked in yet, and as we're pulling up to our campsite area, as we pull in, I get a phone call, with the shittiest reception I've ever had.
It was impossible to hear, especially in those mountains, but I can faintly hear my friend Claudio telling me he has bad news.
Now, Claudio isn't the greatest icebreaker in the world, let me lay that out there.
Telling me he has bad news is a good way to start the conversation if he accidentally broke something of mine or killed my cat, more along those lines, definitely not to tell me my dad was gone forever.
Way to fuck the dog on that one, Claudio.
Anyway, I get cut off, thanks fucking Cingular Wireless.
So I call back, and in few words, he tells me that my dad died.
I didn't believe him, I announced it in the car, and everyone froze.
All the laughter, talking, it came to a quick halt.

We get to our cabin, and I get another call, this time it's this dude Harry, he's a long time friend of our family, and my first Martial Arts teacher and he's like "Bryan, you hear me? It's me Harry. This is Bryan right?".
I said "yeah".
He was like, "Bryan, Alberto's your dad right?".
I said, "Yeah man, what is it?".
He said, "Your father was killed in an accident, you have to come home".
I said "what!?".
He says again "Your dad was killed, you have to come home now!".
I hung up the phone, I was so shocked, but at the same time, it didn't sink in yet, I was standing there saying, "My father's dead, he's gone".
My friend Richie calls, saying he's sorry, but I just wanted to yell at him and all my friends, I thought they were fucking with me.
I told him this isn't funny, he said that he would never play like that.
I hung up with him.

My sister in law was there; she had gone up to Mt. Pocono that week too, when she put her arm around me, I started crying like a bitch.
Everyone started to gather around, see what was going on, that’s when I went inside, to the back of the cabin, to my room, and it just hit me, I was done.
I cried like such a little kid.
I called my grandmother’s house, my aunt picks up, she sounds like she's been crying since they heard the news, and I confirmed it again.
My dad was gone, forever, there's no coming back.

I still couldn't believe it, so I called my dad's home on long Island, where his fiancé would hysterically answer the phone, apologizing to me, saying that he and I had just started to build a relationship with one another, and that this is the worst possible thing that could happen to me right now.
No shit, lady.
She was saying "My poor Bryan, poor poor Bryan!".
I was asking if it was true.
Of course it was, but things like this, you're hoping someone's kidding, that it's all a big joke.
A joke that someone's going to get really fucked up over.
But it wasn't.
This was actually happening.
The man that survived overdosing on drugs several times, getting beaten to near death just as many times, and getting stabbed 13 times in the head and neck, this man has finally been taken away by Death.
The indestructible has been destroyed.
I was on the phone, listening to her cry for what seemed like hours, but was probably mere minutes.
I hung up with her, laid on the bed and started to think, just random shit, like how I could have changed fate, what I could have done, and how this was my fault.
See, I had told my dad to come with me on vacation, but when he said no, I didn't really beg, try to persuade him, really get on his case; I just let it be, like I didn't care.
I really should have forced him to go, because if I did, he'd still be alive today.
This weighs heavily on me to this day, I still wish I would've just kept insisting, kept telling him how much fun he would be in for, how we could spend some time together, but I never did any of that.

After thinking, a good short while of deep pondering, I called a few people, to share the terrible news.
I called his ex lady, Anita.
I told her to sit down, because I have something to tell her that's going to hit hard.
She didn't believe me at all, and was kind of angry to be honest.
She was more confused than sad at the moment.
I spoke with her for a while, and then I got a call from my brother, who wanted to make sure I knew what was happening.
I was upset by now; I was just tired of hearing the truth.
Why didn't anyone call and lie to me, say that he was Ok?
It was just truth after truth, man.
Shit sucks.
Truth hurts like a motherfucker.

It's late now, early Tuesday, and I'm just lying there, crying, thinking, wishing.
I get a phone call about 3 am from the Suffolk County cops.
This lady cop, I forgot her name, which is funny, because it's all I could remember at first, but she had such a soothing voice, like an angel, really soft and calming
This lady could tell you that you're going to die in five minutes, and it wouldn't seem so bad, that's the voice she had.
Cop must have been a white lady, in her mid to late 30's, maybe early 40's,  I'm sure she has a technique for talking to people in my situation.
A way of making death seem, so peaceful.
She apologizes to me, which is really fucking old by now, but whatever, and she tells me that I'll need to come to the island's main coroner headquarters to identify my dad’s body tomorrow morning.
I'm imagining his mangled flesh staring back at me, what's left of him talking to me, telling me it's my fault or something crazy like that.
I was about as excited as a kid who just found out his dad was killed in a car accident.
I tell her that I'm leaving on the first thing smoking out of this place and that I'll head straight to LI.

Morning comes after a rough shower and even rougher time trying to sleep, and my wife is telling me she can't go.
Guess why?
Thanks motherfucking Chinese seafood.
Not that she'd want me to share this info, but at this time, she’s literally liquefying her organs and shooting them out of her ass.
It's so bad that she has to go every few minutes, basically meaning driving for two hours back to NY is not going to happen.
I felt like tearing out her larynx.
I swear.
I mean, I know it wasn't her fault, but shit, could this have come at a worse fucking time?
I have a rented car, and can't use it.
So I'm stuck traveling by alternate means.
Jesus Christ!

So, by now, I’m already with my "fuck it" attitude, let’s go.
My mother in law drives me to the bus station, telling me to be prepared, that everyone's going to be hysterical.

When I get there, the NYC bus is leaving, so I haul ass to the ticket window and tell the guy to give me one to NYC.
He was the slowest, dumbest fuck in Pennsylvania, if he would've gave birth to my ticket, it couldn't have taken any longer.
I grab that shit, fly to the bus, barely making it on, it was packed, so I had to walk all the way to the back, by the bathroom which smelled of urine and recent farts that may or may not have led to a successful shit, I don't know.

I cry myself to sleep in that stink, waking up right before we got to the Port Authority station at 42nd.
I'm the last one off the bus; all these people packed in the aisle like fucking animals, so I had to wait.
I'm heading through the maze of tunnels towards the 2 train, crying all the way, but trying to keep it to myself, with my puffy red eyes, and swollen face.
Very inconspicuous.

I get to the train, shit takes a few minutes to get there, and when it does, I get on in the back, it's empty.
Next stop, a few cops get on.
I try to hide my face, so they don't come over and ask me stupid fucking questions.
This train was actually pretty fast, I headed to my grandmother's house, figuring I could get a ride to Long Island to identify the body.

When I get to my stop, I walk pretty fast towards grandma's.
Ironically, you have to walk through a cemetery to get there, which was a lot of fun at this point.
I pass the cemetery, still crying, and I head up the long hill to the house.
I say to myself, here comes "hard part number 1".

I see my aunt standing there from the bottom of the hill, I can already see her face, she's shaking her head, as to say no, but I keep walking towards her, crying even more.
I walk up the hill, and right into her arms, I hug her, we both cry, I feel like such a bitch by now.
I hug her for a few minutes, then my cousin Tony passes by, giving me a hug and a kiss, which normally would bother me, but whatever.
I walk up the steps, my other aunt comes out, hugs me, same deal, you know the routine by now.
I finally make it into the apartment, where I'm greeted at the door with what has become the normal for the day, a hug, a shit load of tears, and apologies, like if they killed my dad.
I really hated hearing how sorry people were.
Fuck you and your apology; shove it up your ass.
Give me my fucking dad back, or fuck off.
That's how I felt.

I just wanted to know who was going to LI.
I was then told that my bro went on ahead, to identify the body.
That motherfucker!
He always wants to dive head first into shit, without thinking.
Being the most emotionally unstable one of us, he does some dumb shit like this.
What an asshole.
But it's OK; he'd have an easier time getting there, being that he has a car and all.
Luckily, the family decided to go to LI, to my dad's house.

A family friend named Smokey gives us a ride in his big van.
We pack in; it was my two aunts, another friend, and my cousin.
I sat in the back of the van by myself, still pretty messed up with tears pouring down and all, I can't seem to stop crying.

When we get there, everyone rushes into the house, I stay behind in the car.
I knew this would be rough.
This was hard part number 2.

I knew when I walked in there; my dad wasn't going to greet me with the usual barrage of lovable insults and yells.
He was gone.
I knew it would still have his scent in the air, his belongings that would never be used by him again, the last spoon he used in the sink, things like that.
I knew this would be a bitch.

My cousin Marlene comes to the van, telling me that Linda, my dad's fiancee wants to see me.
I said, "I'll be right in".
After 5 minutes of crying, I gather myself enough to walk out the car.
My dads pick-up truck wasn't in the driveway, it was the instrument of his death, and the next time I'd see it, it would appear to have been hit with a missile, all twisted, mangled, not the kind of place you'd want to live your final moments, but it was like that for my dad, sadly.

I walk into the house; it was like a dream, but not a nightmare, just surreal.
I looked around, the place was full of people but felt so empty.
I walk over to the middle of the living room, and a ghostly figure approaches me, a person so pale, so exhausted from crying and mourning that the very color of her flesh was gone.
It was Linda, her hair was white, her face, it looked as if she was the dead one, and came to life.
She hugged me tightly, as strong as she could at that point probably.
Her knuckles were all ripped up and bloody from punching the concrete steps in anger.

After that, I walked around the house, looking for anything of my dad's.
Even the dogs seemed to be in mourning, it was crazy.
We all just hung around for a while.

My brother shows up shortly after us, didn't really say much, except that they don’t show you the body anymore, they use pictures now.
We had all agreed to head back to the Bronx to discuss arrangements.
We wanted to get everyone in on it.
Why? I don't know, but that was what we did.

We headed back to the Bronx, I rode with my dad's ex, Anita, who talked to me entirely too much for the mood I was in.
I think I even dozed off on her a few times.

When we get there, I think the whole family was there.
I grab my uncle, grandparents, and say we're going to have a meeting now.
Two of my aunts come in to join us, as well as my bro and sister.
I wanted my dad to be buried on Long Island.
My dad hated the Bronx.
It was the place that nearly devoured his soul, nearly took his life prematurely, a place that just let off too many demons for him.
Long island was like Heaven to him.
That’s where he found his happiness.
He loved to fish, and on the island, you're surrounded by water, plus, he loved the burbs, that's what the island was.
It's nice out there, but not for many young people, they hate it, I did.
But my dad loved it; it was the beginning of a new life out there for him.
At first, I thought he "sold out" when he moved out there, but I learned that people grow up, and as an adult, you want a better life, an easier one.
That's why I wanted to bury him there.
I even convinced most people to bury him there, but in the end of the meeting, we'd agree on burying him in the Bronx.
Fucking family.
I'm still pissed about this to this day.
My grandparents wanted convenience for them; they didn't care that my dad would object to being buried in the Bronx.
I felt they were being selfish fucks.
I wanted to do what my dad would have wanted, but it's too late now.
Sorry, Pop.

That night I'd head home with my cousin Donovan, he had a car at the time, gave me a ride, and decided to stay the night there with me.
Normally, this would mean we'd be joking around and playing Playstation, but this day, we were too tired, we just wanted to sleep.

The next day consisted mainly of visiting the funeral homes that the services would be at.
One on LI, one in the Bronx.
These places are like church, they smell funny, make you feel uncomfortable, and somehow find a way of making you lose more money than you came in with.
These people talk their talk, sucker you in during your vulnerable times, feed you a line of bullshit for every possible purchase, and you buy it, most of it anyway.

On LI, I remember we had to pick out a coffin.
No one wanted this task, so I took it upon myself to pick it out.
My sister and Linda joined me.
Picking out a casket for your father is something I hope no one ever has to do.
It's scary and very weird at the same time.
You feel like throwing up most of the time during your selection of death boxes, but you hold it in.
My sister was acting like she was picking out matching shoes.
She wanted it to match his rosy cheeks and overall complexion.
And to match his car too.
Fucking ridiculous.
We selected a nice one I guess.
To me they're all the same.
You stuff someone in it, bury it, and call it a day, what's the big deal of matching something people will only see once?

That evening, my wife would finally make it back home, though I really wanted to just start pounding her face.
I was still upset at her, and yeah, I know it wasn't her fault, but you don't think like that when you're in the predicament that I was in.

The next day, Thursday, would be the first of two viewings, this one on Long island.
This was also my sons fourth birthday.
Happy Birthday to him.
His grandfather was dead.
How fucked up is that, that he'd have to spend his birthday at a funeral for his grandfather who loved him so much?
God is not without a sense of very disturbing irony.
The irony being that it's one child's celebration of birth and one man's memorial of death.
We tried to keep my son happy, they had a kid’s area, where they could play with toys and watch videos and stuff, but I wasn't in the mood to be a good daddy, and I hope I spend a long time in purgatory for doing that to my son on that day.

Time came for the viewing, family goes in first, then others.
I was the last to go in at this wake.
I waited in the back for a few minutes, I was afraid to approach the body, thinking that the last time I saw him, we were driving to Albany, laughing and joking, and now he's dead.
After hearing the sobs and cries of everyone, I walk towards the front of the room, where his body is, though I have my hands over my eyes the whole time.
As I get closer, my aunt Brigid grabs me as to guide me towards it.
I asked, "Is he right here?".
She said, "Yeah, he's right in front of you".
I moved my hand away and opened my eyes and screamed, "NO, POP!"
My cousins and aunt grabbed me, but I yelled for them to let me go.
I was standing there crying in disbelief.
I surveyed the damage; they did a good job on making his body presentable and neat.
I would later find out that most of it wasn't actually his, but padding and whatever else they use to make a body whole.
His nose was also broken, but it seems they patched it up well.
He must have been a mess.

It was time for the other guests to come in, so my brother closes the casket, doesn't want anyone but us to see him.
People started coming in, in the end, over 150 - 200 people would come.
But Later on I realized, this funeral was bullshit.
Aside from the family, many of his coworkers showed up, few were sincere, the other scumbags that he hated probably wanted to show up to see if he was dead for real, other than that, they were all socializing, probably wondering if drinks would be served.
Fucking cunts.

My brother had closed the casket early in the day, so no one on LI really got to see my dad's body.
Which was cool.
Most of them, they didn't deserve to see him.

I must have been hugged like a thousand times that night.
My sides were killing me, and I smelled like a woman, from all the perfumed hugs I had gotten.
My cousin Chris kept following me around for a while; he stunk to high heaven, and looked just as stupid in his Al Pacino as Scarface T shirt as my sister's boyfriend did in his street clothes.
Fucking retards, I swear.

I would be here for the remainder of the evening, I was one of the last people to leave, after I felt my wife and mother in law kept rushing me out.
I didn’t care that my son was tired, or my wife needed to take a rest with her back pain, or that my mother in law needed her medicine.
This was my time, and I was being rushed.
This couldn't be fucking happening.
I was pissed, but I left.

Of course we got lost on the way back, ended up in Queens or Brooklyn, I don't know, and I don't even want to think about it.
When we got home, I was really pissed, but whatever, I went to sleep.
I was really mad at my wife during this week.
What a bastard I was.

The next day, Friday, would be the funeral in the Bronx.
This is where all his old friends, relatives, even the ones you hate, they all showed up.
We got there early, my wife, son and I, we were the first ones.
My dad's body was laying at the front of the empty room.
We were so early that the delivery people were just starting to bring in flowers; one even bowed his head in prayer for my dad, which made me feel good.

So many people would show up this day, all his old running buddies, who did the good and bad with him, all the family, some I haven't seen in so long.
It was cool; this funeral was a lot more sincere. Mostly.

All my friends would show up to pay respects, though they left rather quickly, I guess they felt out of place, but I was glad to see them.
I missed a few of them because I had to return the rental car back to Jersey.
Terrific, huh?
I missed out on someone I wanted to see really bad too, who came and left.
It was my dads friend from Metropolitan Hospital, they had a recovery program, where Pop had just received awards for his achievements in his life of horrors and gave a long speech to a bunch of recovering addicts who would now have a ray of hope's light because of my dad's inspiring words, and I missed him because I was returning the fucking car.
Just one more shitty thing to add to my list of the millions of fucked up things that were happening to me.

None of my wife’s friends or family would show up this day, or any other day during this time.
Not one relative of hers, not one friend, no one.
They didn’t come to the wakes or funerals.
They were either on vacation, or just didn't care to make the time to stop by, and I guess it didn't bother anyone but me, because it's never been brought up afterwards.
That's really fucked up, but I guess they felt that it wasn't important that their best friend’s son’s grandfather and husband’s father had died.
That was really special of them all.
Only my mother in law came, which was cool.
It’s OK though.
When things like this happen, it gives you a better perspective on things, and you know who’s really genuine, and who’s full of shit.
And I feel that most people are full of shit.
For the most part.

I had given the eulogy earlier, people loved it, and I somehow became the unofficial spokesperson of things like this after this whole thing was over.
I was in and out of this funeral home, I had to go pick up my uncle in my brother's car after I took the rental car back, and a little while after that, people begged me to go eat something, I think I grabbed something from Wendy’s if I’m not mistaken.
I hadn’t eaten all day, and I guess I looked flushed.

They had this ceremonial type of thing where everyone walked around the room then to the casket, then back out of the room, saying their final words to my father.
I walked over, put in an Arizona green iced tea, pop's favorite,  and my son put in a toy car, that he'd ask me for later.
I broke down again after that, guess it was too hard to maintain my composure any longer.

I remember at the end of this night, after everyone left, my brother, sister and myself all stood behind, just looking at my dad's body, that's when my brother started pointing out which parts were missing and which were intact, because he'd seen the photos.
It was kind of sickening, I wanted to throw up.
No one thinks of things like that, but my brother is one sick fucker.
I started to poke around, to see if he was lying.
He wasn’t.

The funeral directors tried barging in; to throw people out, but the family got rid of them quick.
I walked out of the room last, after my siblings had gone ahead, just to be the last one to see Pop's body before it was put into the ground.
I gave him a thumbs up.
That night I actually slept pretty well for the first time in 5 days.

The next day, Saturday, would be the burial.
We got to the funeral home a little after everyone else did; people were running around trying to figure out which car they would be in as to follow the convoy of funeral cars headed to the cemetery.
The cars had to pass by the old block where Pop was from, and then head to the cemetery.

When we got to the cemetery, the workers quickly flung open the doors to the Hearst and grabbed my dad's casket before we even stopped.
We had wanted to carry him to the grave, but those fuckers were too busy rushing.
No compassion.
We all got out of the car and the people from the funeral home gave a few words and prayers in Spanish, I didn’t really understand them, then they walked away.
My aunt Millie had given me a poem she asked me to read, which I really didn’t want to, but I did anyway.
It was OK, sounded like a DMX song, it was decent.
After that, I reminded people that Death had to sneak up on my father after so many failed head-on attempts at his life.
I said my own few words, and then I tossed my sunglasses and fell to my knees, crying.
My brother picked me up, his breath was pretty smelly, but it was cool to have someone give a shit.
Some scumbag priest named Bernie spoke too, I think, I wasn't paying attention.
When I got done crying, he was done doing whatever, so I don't know if he did say anything or what.

It was time for them to lower the casket into the ground.

They used these ropes and just plopped him in the hole.
My brother tossed some dirt on the coffin, and my cousin Tony was going to do it next, but I stopped him and tossed mine first.
Then a few other people started to do it too.
I got my son to throw some dirt in as well.

People started heading towards the cars, my brother and me stood there until the end.
We watched every piece of dirt go into the ground, up until a guy with way too many death stories started planting seeds on the grave.
It was really crazy to watch.
It was scary knowing that I'll only see his face in pictures for the remainder of my life.
We waited a few more minutes, until everyone was gone except my brother's wife and her family in their car.
We gave our final ode to my dad, a song he used to sing while touring the city collecting empty soda cans at 1 AM to make a few bucks, which goes like this: "A-O-A-E-O stick your finger in your nose!"
It’s corny, but it had sentimental value, then we did our little handshake and left.

No longer would Long Island be the place to visit pop anymore, it was here at the cemetery.
My dad had asked me to be his best man at his wedding before he died; he was supposed to get married two weeks from the day he died.
I guess he can rest knowing that I'll always be his best man.
The best man I can be.
He'll always be my Father.
My dad.

Rest in peace.

The most horrible week of my life came to an end.

Now began life without my father.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

I'm a murderer, let's play Parcheesi.

Last night, I killed my wife.
I shit you not.
I heard her typing on the computer at around 2 am and the clickety clacking sounds the keys made as she typed away through the night drove me over the edge of sanity, into the fields of insanity, and I fucking lost it and bludgeoned her to death with a Canova lion statue.
I've been cleaning brain meat out of the folds and creases of these intricately crafted pieces of fine art that I purchased back in 99.
And by "purchased" I mean "stole from my job".

The following story is how it all began, so pay attention, or you might miss something important, like how my jaw clicks when I chew sometimes, or my foot snaps as I walk, shit like that.

I got home from work at around 6pm yesterday, oh; did I mention that I have a houseguest?
Let's call him sleepNeat to protect his identity, and that's actually pretty much all he does anyway, so whatever, not my concern in this particular story, but what I should point out is that when I have people over, I tend to go into "loner mode" and head to the loneliest , quietest place in the house, which is usually the shitter, but at this time, it was my bedroom, where I began playing some videogames instead of finally getting around to putting away my luggage from my trip to California, because I'm a lazy cunt.

My wife was at the beach all day I guess, I don't know, but as soon as I tore my clothes off to unwind, she arrives and calls me to come downstairs and get the sleeping kids out of the car.
First of all, I'd like to point out that these little bastards are lazy, when I was a kid it was UNHEARD of for someone to chauffer me around while I slept
Had I been asleep anywhere, at anytime, I was rudely and abruptly awakened by my mothers' yells of "wake up you little shit" or slaps upside the ass to get on my feet and get walking.
What the fuck has happened to the world?
Now we have to carry sleeping kids?
Holy shit.
We've pussied out.
What's next, no more smoking during pregnancy?
No more soda with Cocaine in it?

So anyway, now I have to stop playing videogames and get dressed again, after all the trouble it took me to remove my fine couture, to go pick up these poor, defenseless, sleeping infants from the awful air conditioned car where they sat and slept all the way home from the beach.
I wasn't terribly ecstatic over this.
After that, I come back upstairs to zone out with some games again while the children of royalty continue their naps on my bed, and at this time I have the PC on with some map screens showing for my game that I'm playing.
My wife walks her ass into the bedroom and sits in the computer chair then proceeds to navigate her way around the internet, completely minimizing my fucking game maps.
I mean, shit woman, you have internet on your phone, what the fuck bro?
You're going to come and sit your ass in the seat where my little cat sleeps, have the audacity to interrupt him from his slumber, minimize my motherfucking game maps, and go surfing the web?

That was strike 2 at this point; she's really looking for it.
Had I been born Sean Connery, or had this been California, I'd have been able to dish out an ass whooping, but we're a lot more civil in New York.

So at this point, I'm pacing and racing on the inside, but I'm a very patient and passive kind of guy, so I can let certain things slide, while I maintain my composure on the outside.
Holy shit that kind of rhymed and was totally unintentional, fucking A.

I continue playing my games until I decide it's time to hit the potty, and then shower my fine ass.
I'm on the throne dropping the kids off at the pool, surfing facebook on my phone, when suddenly, the wifi signal craps out and I lose internet access on my phone.
Clearly, she was the culprit, being the only one on, or near the PC at this time, she must have kicked the router plug out of the socket.
God fucking damn it, woman of burden.
This was it.
I knew what had to be done, and there were no other options.
No talking me out of this.
No question, this woman needed to pay for her heinous crimes against man.
I decided that it would be most fitting if I waited for the most advantageous time to strike, and that specific moment would be when she'd go on at night to use the PC before going to bed.
She was fucking toast.
Fucking DEAD.

I went to bed around 1am, and began watching Watchmen.
Great movie, my favorite part is the prison escape scene, and the sex scene right before it.
It's on HBO all the time, you should catch it, it has a great cast, and I haven't seen that much blue cock since that dream I had where I was involved in a gang bang with Smurfette.
Where was I?
So here I am, lying low, pretending to sleep, totally faking my snoring, when 2am strikes.
She's wailing away on the keyboard, looks like the god damned Phantom of the opera, or keyboard cat, just not as cool, and she's driving me fucking bonkers with the sound, so I grab the closest thing to me, the Canova lion statue, which is actually quite a piece of art, here's a picture of it:

I like lions; they're cool fucking animals with big fuzzy nuts who sometimes eat their own kids.

I bet if a lion's kids fell asleep in the car, he wouldn't go downstairs with a carriage to cart them around comfortably as they slept their lazy asses off, he'd fucking eat them, and I bet he'd be excited as all hell because I can guarantee that children are probably fucking delicious.
In fact, notice that you don't ever hear of Cannibals eating kids, because they don't want the secret to get out, the knowledge that children are so god damned delicious to eat.

So as I creep up ever so gingerly from behind my wife, I knew I had to say something clever before I bashed her biscuit shaped head in with this lovely statue.
But shit, what could I say?
If I hit someone with a surf board, I'm guessing it'd be clever to say "surf's up!".
If I hit someone with a lamp, I'd have to yell "lights out!".
If I hit someone with a dildo, well shit, I wouldn't have to say much on that one, now would I?
I mean, shit, that is classic comedy right there.

I quickly reached the point where I knew what to say, because I'm so clever and so god damned cool, I yelled out "Hakuna Matata , bitch!" then swung that lion at her head and her skull dented in like a soda can.
Now Hakuna Matata may not have been the funniest thing to say, but shit on me, it was clever.
In retrospect, I probably should have said "I would tell you I love you, but then I'd be LION!" but we can't all be comic geniuses, now can we?

So, that's it.
I killed my wife.
I'm single again, so ladies, back the fuck up, I'm in mourning, give me a week or so.
My children are now eating marshmallows with steak, Lucky Charms and beans and Spaghetti with cupcakes.
All we do is burp and fart and there aren't any curtains on any of the windows anymore, plus the bathroom smells like doritos now.

This is also the last time I let Satan fix me up on a date.
Jesus was right, he is an asshole.

The end, now fuck off.

8 out of 10 people will appreciate the warmhearted tale I just wrote.
1 out of those 10 people will be really upset upon reading this because they have the sense of humor of a Catholic school nun.
The other 1 remaining will be me sleeping on the sofa with SleepNeat.

I once elbowed an old lady on the subway in the tits by accident.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Random blurbs about California and a few generalizations, because I'm a dick.

I spent the majority of last week in the Golden state, California , hanging with a bunch of my pals and had a grand time, so I thought it would be a good idea to drop a couple of my thoughts about that whole situation here.

Unusually, California was colder and cloudier than New York City typically is in March, what the fuck California?

You guys couldn't put on a sunny display, or crank up the heat?
Yeah, fuck you.

Apparently, a 5.4 Earthquake isn't even enough to shake a pencil off of a table.
Way to pussy out California.

"In and Out" burgers are good, but "Five Guys" has the edge, only because I'm confrontational.
Fuck you "In and Out" (I love you).

Del Taco should be renamed "Colon Blow".

In order to be considered a good driver in California, you have to switch lanes frequently and without signaling, you have to tailgate, and drive at least 75 miles per hour, especially while tailgating.

If your name is Bob, please don't drive in this state.
On that note, to prevent horrifying cliff jumping (especially if your name is in fact, Bob), while driving DO NOT do the following:
1. Finagle with your IPod, phone, radio, nipples, penis, etc, every 2 seconds.
2. Talk amongst your buddies until you lose all touch with your surroundings.
3. Ignore the GPS, or blame the GPS for poor driving.
4. Ignore your friends' yells for Jesus.
5. Ignore manufacturers' warnings on car landing impact from 15 feet in the air.

Many of the white people I know don't shower or brush before bed, that's pretty gross and the reason I would not have sex with any of them, even the girls.
While I'm on that note, I’d like to thank similar white people for bringing diseases to America, and the rest of the world.
This would have all been prevented if you all would actually take a shower before bed.
White people who don't shower before bed are directly responsible for the following:
1. Terrorism
2. Diseases
3. Inner City Crime
4. Serial murdering
5. Seinfeld

Californian Mexicans all sound exactly the same, just like Indians everywhere.
How is that possible?
All Indians sound like Apu from the Simpsons and all Mexicans sound like the Taco Bell dog.

A suburban "thug" will quickly back down if you approach one with enough bass in your voice.
They will tighten and close up like a nervous butt hole, even when you're discussing videogames.

My friend beats his woman, I watched it.
She may have deserved it, so this is OK, but still.
Must be a California thing.

People with neck braces are exceptionally surly motherfuckers.
Especially when their throats were cut recently due to surgery.
They will attack at will (See previous paragraph about wife beating).
Keeping them smiling is the best way to keep them from murdering you or any obnoxious guests of their home (i.e.: Not you).
Interestingly enough, they are also superb drivers, regardless of the fact that they cannot see behind themselves.

All mothers love me.
This is pure fact.
All mothers love the shit out of me, sometimes more than their own mean ass cane wielding kids (Hi Mrs. Eaken!).

California smells like air.
It's weird, usually the smell of sweaty people, salami breath and urine is what air smells like to me, but wow, California smells like real air.

I do not think California is better than New York, nor do I think it is worse.
Would I move there?
Sure, why not.
Will I move there?
Probably not, because I'm too poor to afford such a move.

There you go America, California, by Bryan Bronx.

If you disagree with any of the above, it's probably because you fall under the following statistics:
1. You’re from California.
2. You work for "In and Out".
3. Your name is Bob.
4. You’re not me.
5. You’re a racist.

I would also like to state that guys named Handel should not be allowed to drive ANYWHERE, even an uninhabited place like fucking Mars.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

I will update this page when I damn well please.

Or tomorrow.
Probably tomorrow, yeah, that sounds about right.
Fuck off.

Friday, June 25, 2010

Attention significant others, we men all have super husband powers.

I am speaking on behalf of men in relationships, because we all share the same powers.

Keep in mind, this is all men, and all wives, not just me and mine, so get off my ass.

First, let it be known that I'm a mind reader.
If you're upset, or want me to do something a certain way, no need to express yourself or your feelings at all, I can just get the necessary information by prying ever so gently into your complex mind and getting that info for myself.
I always automatically know what's bothering you and what it will take to fix it, don't say a word.
You wanted the kitchen cleaned and painted blue, not white?
Shit broad, I already knew that, and it's done!
You wanted me to season the meat with Italian herbs instead of Spanish spices? 
I've known that since this morning.
Don't tell your sister that everyone thinks she's a whore?
Of course I wouldn't, because I am two steps ahead of you on that.

Second, I have super strength.
Don't worry about me holding this 200 pound, old as shit television set in my arms while you rearrange the TV stand, I can hold this all day long, no prob.
Don't rush while opening that door as I hold these grocery bags filled with gallons of milk; soda and cat litter, just take your time finding your keys in your massive purse.
That couch with the sofa bed in it is as light as a feather, I'll hold it while you sweep beneath it, take extra care to slowly wipe up any extra dirty spots with a sponge, I'll be here holding this until you're ready to allow me to drop it.

Third, I know every answer to every question you'll ever ask.
I'm so smart that there isn't a method of calculating my intelligence level; my IQ is clearly beyond measure.
I know all about auto mechanics and makeup and home repair and your schoolwork and problems.
Most of the time I don't tell you the answers because I don't want to make you feel bad or inferior, or don't want to show off.
However, when confronted during stressful situations, this power becomes weakened and even negated at times.
Stress is it's Kryptonite, which is why when you yell at us to find out why we broke your favorite cup with our super strength, or why we spent all weekend playing video games instead of doing chores,  we will automatically yell out the first thing to come to mind, which will most likely be a lie.
This is also why we never know what to eat when you call us at work and ask us what to make for dinner.
It just doesn't work like that.
This power also goes haywire during sex.
Heightened blood flow to our lower body regions makes this power go crazy, and we'll either answer things incorrectly or falsely.
Keep that in mind.

Fourth, I have an ability that allows me to create an unlimited amount of money.
Don't worry about any prices, go crazy, book trips like a mad man, buy useless knick knacks for the house, buy whatever the hell you want; I just yell the magic words "fuckmycreditscore" and POOF, instant cash.
I do work for a living, and I do get a steady paycheck, but that's just for laundering purposes.
Besides, I get paid in large gold bars anyway.
Go nuts.

Lastly, I am the greatest fighter in the universe.
No one alive can beat me in a fight.
So go on and provoke that insanely large black gentleman for talking during the movie, or that car full of men that look like the Incredible Hulk that just cut you off in traffic, tell that guy with the handgun in his belt that he's an asshole for taking up two parking spaces.
That guy that just karate chopped the Cadillac in half, total pussy.
Should they have a problem, I will wipe the floor with them up and down this god damned place.
Give them a piece of your mind; let them know how you honestly feel about them because I'm always ready and able to kick someone’s ass.

Keep these powers a secret, if they fall into the wrong hands, we could be easily manipulated by some rotten bitch out to give us shit and cause lots of pain and misery.

I love you.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

When I was a boy, I used to pretend to be a drug addict.

Most people know that I grew up surrounded by drugs and alcohol and all sorts of unscrupulous acts that no child should have to bear witness to.
This is besides the attempted rape and murders by random hoodlums, maintenance men and creepy basement dwelling fat guys I had to dodge every so often, among other things.
When you're raised like that, certain aspects of even bad scenarios seem like they're what life is all about, it's what you're shown, it's what you see and believe, and it’s what you perceive to be acceptable.
This is why I felt that being a drug addict seemed so cool when I was a lad.

I've seen it firsthand from my parents, my aunts and uncles, family friends, etc; these people were out at all hours of the night, partying until the sun came out, having sex with everyone, meeting new people all the time and not having a care in the world.
What wasn't to like?
You tell me.
This was like THE life, if there ever was a definition needed to define the best kind of life to live in my eyes.
Now don't get me wrong, I wasn't some retard who didn't know right from wrong, I had seen enough movies to know what everyone around me was doing was wrong , but that doesn't mean they didn't seem to be enjoying themselves.
So with all that abound, I would pretend to be an addict because it was pretty damn fun.
I'd smash up candies like smarties into dust, or make lines with pixie sticks powder and snort the shit out of that.
Any small candies were pretend narcotics and any beverage was a pretend beer.

I remember seeing Robocop (several times that night actually, after being left in the theater by my mother, who proceeded to go enjoy herself) and there's a scene where Bob Morton is having a party and he's sniffing Cocaine off of a hooker's tits.
This was the greatest thing I've ever seen at that point.
This guy was doing lines off of a hooker's tits!
I mean, what more could a kid aspire to do in his life?
That was a goal of mine, when I was a kid, I wanted to be a detective, to be wealthy and to also sniff blow off of a hooker's rack.
That was my dream.
I probably still aim to do this in life, although, it might be considered breach of the contractual obligations of marriage.
And I also don't do drugs.
Still, it would be a great experience to go on my resume.

Nowadays, I hate drugs and alcohol and addictive bullshit and stay the hell away from it all.
Not because it will tempt me to sniff blow off of a hooker's tits, which would still be awesome, but because I never knew how terrible my life was until I was old enough to look back and go "wow, that was a pretty fucked up life I had”, that's why I steer clear of it, I don't need a do-over.

In retrospect, I wouldn't change much, probably nothing of the past, because then I'd be different, and not only would I be a weaker person, I feel, but I'd probably be into drugs and all that crap, and I would probably have already sniffed blow off of a hooker's tits, though she would have been an ill reputable type of hooker, not the foxes Bob Morton was about to get it on with.

From your eyes, my childhood might have been a terrible mess, which it definitely was, but from my eyes, it was actually pretty fun at times , especially when I watched Robocop and sniffed pretend blow and got busy with the neighborhood girls at 6 -7 years old, but that's a story for another time.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

This page is ugly.

I should really consider making it more aesthetically pleasing.
Any suggestions?
More blue you say??

Old Dreams.

I used to be into music.
Rap music specifically.
Seems like a lifetime ago, and I wouldn't say I was heavily into it, but I was pretty immersed in it at the time.
I'd constantly write music while riding on the bus to work, cranking out new songs regularly.
It's one of the things I enjoyed and I'd like to think I was rather good at it.

For those that don't know, which would be most of you,  once upon a time I went by the rapper alias of "the Mentalist" (before that stupid TV show , mind you, my name was from Legacy of Kain!).
I'd get compared to the likes of Big Pun (speedy rap style) and even Eminem at times (weird subject matter), which was a great compliment back then, not so much now though, haha.
I was also the very first rapper most people knew, this was before everyone and their mother wanted to be a rapper in my family and friends circles.
After having some chats with my cousin and a friend of mine recently, the thought of getting back into the music strongly crossed my mind.

Now the reason I stopped would still be a pretty prevalent reason, which was lack of resources.
Meaning I had minimal support, if any,  to actually make music.
These resources being production, mainly, which would open up such reasons as: no one to supply original beats, to record music, to help me bring plans to fruition, etc.
Sure, I wrote songs and once in a blue moon someone would toss me a bone and I'd receive an original beat to write music to, even had a few recording sessions, though not the best quality, still had them, but I had no one at the time with the sufficient tools to really be there to say 'let's do this shit, and make some music".
It felt more like a hobby a small job to do on the side, and after a while, I got bummed out by the fact that I couldn't make solid music for people to hear without a producer, and just stopped making it period, feeling that any attempts were futile.
I didn't want to bug my cousins, because it just felt like I'd be pussying out and they'd hold it against me someday.
The songs I did record , I put up on a myspace music page and they got mixed reviews, but were mainly bashed due to what most said was sub par recording quality.
Other "friends" bashed the subject matter, even going as far as saying I wasn't really a good enough rapper to make it.
I got the laughs, the jokes, etc, whatever, they hurt a bit, because you'd think friends would be supportive, but you get used to the negative shit when you're trying to do something new and different, because people think they know you, but they only really know one side of you, so they can't accept another part of you doing anything out of the ordinary.
People just fear what they do not understand, it's typical nature for most, once you realize and understand this, you learn that those closest to you would be the ones you're least likely to share your creativity with, which is fine.

Anyway, I figured, I am kind of old to be a rapper, pushing 31 now, BUT, if I could get a producer, I think I'd try to hit this thing hardcore.
I feel I am original and creative enough to be a really good rapper.
Most rap nowadays is just really terrible party music, I weave together intricate stories with complex lyrics to form a web of originality that is respected by those who actually understand what good rap music is all about.

Consider my interest piqued for now, let's see where this can lead.
I may or may not be the next best rapper.
If anyone has any input here, negative, positive, etc, lay it on me, I'd love to get some feedback.
And if you'd like to hear the current list of tracks, hit up the Mentalist's music page on myspace, keep in mind that they are in fact, poorly recorded, but it's because I used shitty tools.
Feel free to tell me if I'm out of my mind, or if you think it's worth a shot.

Friday, June 18, 2010

For fuck's sake, close your god damned mouth when you chew!

Why do some people have to smack so fucking loud while chewing?
Is this just some conspiracy to annoy the fuck out of me?
Everyday at 12, these Indian dudes pack into the lunchroom at work, and eat in a large group, and all you hear is constant smacking and chewing with open mouths. It's so fucking nauseating.
Sounds like a horse chewing moist hay, or a blow job being performed.
This dude at Wendy's today was chewing his gum so god damned loud, I wanted to Karate chop him in the esophagus.
This happens on the subway a lot too, people will decide to bring their food and eat it on the subway, then smack and chew and slurp for the next 40 minutes.
Please note, the subway is the last place I'd want to eat, it's so disgusting, if it doesn't smell like warm bum shit, it smells like sweaty passengers, or breath, or some other putrid odor that would not allow me to enjoy a decent meal.
Close your fucking mouths while eating and chewing, there is no excuse for this disgusting habit.

Don't get me started on people who blow their noses at the dinner table either, I'm looking at you assholes right there.

I'm not a racist, but....

I have to point out and establish some shit first, before I continue with anything else, that way I don't get mistaken for something I'm not, like a racist, so please continue reading.
I live in New York City, born and raised, I personally feel that it is technically impossible to be a legitimate racist here being that we are a melting pot of the droppings of every god damned country imaginable.
Every person, unless they're a Native American, is of foreign origins here, so to be a real, authentic racist is really fucking stupid here.
Or anywhere for that matter, but here it's really, really foolish.
Shit, even our Ku Klux Klan here isn't racist.

Now with that being said, I can describe how I break down my hatred of other races, in a completely non-racist way.

I think it's actually more hating of the stereotypes of races as opposed to the actual races, more than anything, but allow me to explain.

Let's start dark and go lighter (RACIST!), you have Black people, good people, contribute to society, perform well in school, excellent workers, don't cause problems, we all love them, then you have Niggers, who are the total opposite.
Niggers hang in front of the building at all hours of the night, hooting and hollering and making a mess, they destroy public property, and can't have anything decent or nice in their neighborhood.
They are piled in front of the public assistance buildings and speak as if they learned English from Chicken George himself and they like to make scenes in public places by being totally obnoxious, especially in groups.
Police hate them, white people cross the street when they walk by (actually, they do that with Black people too) and anyone around them wishes they'd spontaneously combust and burn to death.
Most rappers act pretty niggerish and give good black people a bad name, I have to say.

Then you have the Latinos, Hispanic, etc, (like myself, regardless of how pale my flesh is) you have good strong Latin people that are in politics and own businesses, and go to college, really helpful to the country , just like good black people, sadly, you also have the Latin equivalent to Niggers, which are Spics.
Spics are pretty much niggers that speak Spanish, usually "Spanglish" which is the worst kind of fucking language.
They don't necessarily speak English, or Spanish, they speak both, Spanglish, and whenever they can't say a word in one language, they say it in the other, and it's really fucking irritating, they also make up their own fucking words or use the Spanish word for "thing" when the proper words becomes too elusive for their simple minds to locate. It's also pretty common for them to say the word "for" instead of "so".
Here's an example, instead of saying 'I bought these shoes so I can go dancing" they'd say something like "I bought these shoes for I could go dancing".
What the fuck is that?
Did I mention that they're also loud as all hell?
You can hear a spic speaking from a whole town away, and they're worse than Italians when it comes to speaking with their bodies.
They always want to physically demonstrate something on you, because not only did they get punched in the face by the cops, they need to explain what that means exactly with their entire body, and yours.
They also tap you as they speak, constantly, stomp their feet for story emphasis and stop dead in their path while walking to express their frustration about a certain subject.
Fuck spics.

Though these next few don't directly affect us New Yorkers, they can't go unmentioned.

White people have rednecks, and everyone hates those assholes, all over Jerry Springer and littering our southern Wal-Mart’s, and I have no clue what the Asian equivalents to Spics and niggers would be, but they're out there, the assholes shooting snot rockets all over the god damned city and invading your personal space on the Subway with their Salami breath, fuck you guys, I hate you too.

This is pretty standard for all races actually; you have the good side of the bunch, then their nigger/spic/redneck equivalent.

So as you can clearly see, I'm not a racist, I'm just a very outspoken stereotype hater, but unfortunately, in NY, it seems that the stereotypes make up the majority, so it's not uncommon for someone to say "I hate Puerto Ricans" but actually mean "I hate Spics".

It's pretty much exactly what they meant to say.

I needed to have this pointed out, so that whenever I go on a seemingly racist tirade, you know it's totally out of love.

More to follow, when I get around to it.