Food Spank.

To cure my anxiety about going to Europe, I started a new blog called FOOD SPANK. There's nothing on it yet, but oh oh ohhhh trust me, there will be. I will be bringing Dom's macbook and my dad will have his company laptop in Europe, so since I plan on doing nothing other than walking , eating, not sleeping and drugging myself throughout my European adventure, I will have a LOT to blog about. Hopefully I do not eat myself to death. But I guess dying of eating too much on vacation wouldn't be such a horrible death after all. It's better than being eaten alive by squirrels, like the way I think my dad will depart Earth. I just hope that if I die with a bucket of fish & chips stuck in my throat in a London pub, that Dom gets a picture of it and posts it at my funeral. He did get a new camera, might as well make good use of it, right?

Hearts & Gizmos.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Abbiamo rotto questo.

Today is my dad's birthday. I guess I will take a break from roasting my friends and roast my dad instead. It's not even a matter of needing to roast my dad, he has the uncanny ability to roast himself on a daily basis. I guess this will be like a mini biography of him, rather than something that you know is clearly a joke. Seriously people, when I talk about my dad I tend to not be joking. He's probably one of the most brilliant people I know, with the least amount of common sense a person could possibly possess. He is at the ripe old age of 51, which is good I guess considering he looks - um - average - for his age. He acts like he's 7, but sleeps like he's 80. I guess somewhere that meets in the middle at 51, right? He bitches like a woman experiencing her first wave of menopause, including the hot flashes, and sometimes throws HUGE hissy fits over the dishes not being done, very similar to the ones I'd have when I'd go to Toys R' Us as a kid and not get a new Polly Pocket. Sometimes he acts like a wimpy 1940's house wife, but let's not tell him that.

My dad is barely a grown up adult. Yes, he's a responsible man and goes to work. Somehow I'm still in disbelief that my dad is considered an "executive" now who's actually IMPORTANT in his corporation because when I look at my dad I look at a little boy who wants to play with his choo choos. He should permanently wear blue and white pin striped overalls with a matching locomotive engineer's hat. That would be the most appropriate attire for his personality. It's like you look at him you see that although he has a good life, he'd rather be working on a steam locomotive and he'd say nothing but "choo choo. choo choo. choo choo." I guess growing up my dad idolized classic children's story "The Little Engine That Could." In his case, it's "The Little Engine That Could Eat 33 Hostess Cherry Pies and 47 Carney's Hot Dogs." And no, it is by no coincidence that Carney's happens to be my dad's favorite restaurant EVER. It's NOT because of the hot dogs. It's because it's in a choo choo. Don't let him fool you otherwise. See, my mom learned her lesson last year. Last year we spent something in the thousands at Mastro's Steakhouse last year for my dad's 50th birthday when all he wanted was to eat at the choo choo. She has forever learned that the best way to make my dad happy (and to save money) is to take him to the big yellow choo choo in the valley. The joke of the house is that my dad has the palate of a 9 year old. In reality, it's not too far off base.

Again, my dad is brilliant. I don't care if you have your PhD in history, my dad WILL OWN YOU. He missed his calling like 120 years ago when he graduated high school. He should have gone to college to be a history professor. The man LOVES history. He could probably reenact all of WWII in the living room which would be hilarious since he was raised Jewish. I guess I could join him and play the role of Hitler. ICH BRENNE DICH! Which I guess translated to English means "I will burn you." I am so going to Hell after that one. Anyway, he has an extensive collection of creepy books that look older than time, that are absolutely irreplaceable since they are all autobiographies personally given to him by said person writing about his or her life. I know I keep repeating myself but he's really brilliant... Which is why it amazes me sometimes on how unbelievably stupid he can be.

I honestly do not have enough time in this day to write out all the stupid things he has done, but let's recap his top 5 best moments in RECENT years.

5) Sheet Metal Doesn't Make For Good Wall Paper:

A few years ago my mom really started to get on my dad about working on the house. I'm pretty sure she gave him a rather extensive list of things that needed to be cleaned/repaired/replaced blah blah. Instead of my dad trying to make his life easier and just listening to my mom, he decided to bring home scraps of sheet metal and mount them in the garage as wall paper. Not only did he get absolutely nothing accomplished from said list of things to do, the entire garage is like a gigantic mirror and when you open the door it sounds like a gong. Now every time someone comes over and hear that GONG noise we need to explain how my dad tried to turn the garage into a Buddhist Temple.


4) Elementary Arithmetic ALWAYS Applies:

I don't think I need to even explain this story. This is best written in a basic math problem to avoid my own embarrassment.

Young, extremely athletic personal trainer + jumping on work out ball = balance and skill.

Old, feeble and crippled man + jumping on work out ball = attempted suicide.

Spectrum called 9-1-1 thinking my dad killed himself. He broke more ribs. I don't think my dad ever went back to the gym after that. He was trying to act as cool as my mom's hot trainer. Need I elaborate? No. I'm sure you understand.

3) Ladders & Chainsaw Pie:

Sometime in 2005 my dad thought it would be a great idea to chop one of the trees in my backyard. Well, the problem with my backyard is that it's all dirt slope, and by that I mean, NOTHING is flat in my yard. My dad being the genius that he is takes an old ladder and lean it on the tree itself without the legs of the ladder being properly secure on the dirt. He then climbs up the tree with a chainsaw. He then started to cut the branch right above his head (which also happened to be the largest branch), and when the branch gave way - it gave way right on top of it...With the chainsaw on his hand...While on the ladder. My dad hit the ground like the 20th of May hit Cuba. Luckily he released the ON button from the chainsaw and it came to an immediate stop, but it was so hot from running it burned the inside of is leg and gave him a couple of cuts. Not only that, but he hit his head and probably bruised 99% of his body and narrowly escaped decapitation. He was crying on the ground in the backyard for 9-1-1, which I don't think we called this time. I think he broke some ribs too since this happens to be a pattern with him.


2) Horseback Riding is Difficult:

Back in 2004 or maybe it was 2005, my dad decided it would be a magnificent idea to get on my old horse, Sergeant. Instead of being the beginner rider that he is and properly tacking up the horse and taking all safety precautions, he wanted to summon the spirit of Wild Bill Hickok, jump on a horse with no saddle or bridle, try to trot around with a glass of wine in his hand and somehow was surprised to find himself laying on the ground shortly thereafter, with a shooting pain in his shoulder and ribs. The poor schmuck had to drive himself home with a broken shoulder and ribs because my mom was LIVID and didn't want to talk to him. Later that night when he finally had to go to the hospital, mom yelled at him the whole way there (my mom really isn't that nice of a person, if i had to rate her like a hotel, I'd give her 1-star). It turns out he shattered his shoulder, broke his rotator cuff and some ribs. Today my dad still does not have 100% mobility in his shoulder. He and John McCain can hang out. I am probably going to Hell for that, too.


1) Battle of the Bees:

Last year my dad once again attempted to do chores that were not on his list of things to do. My mom's newest excuse is that he's ADD. I just think he's retardati (which is "retarded" in Italian, it sounds nicer this way). Anyway, every other year or so we get a migratory swarm of bees that likes to make home in my mom's balcony. Every time this happens we usually call a bee exterminator. For one odd reason or another, he decided he wanted to clean the balcony when the bees were there. I'll never understand why - or how this idea got into my dad's head - but he grabbed the vacuum and thought it would be wise to take a vacuum up a swarm of bees as if they wouldn't get angry. Well, to all of our surprise he got stung multiple times. He then came in the house white as a ghost, hit the floor like D-Day and had a seizure or something of that nature that is not normal behavior for my mentally handicapped father. My mom started to scream that my dad was dying, I took control of the situation and called 9-1-1. While they were on their way my dad got up, fell apart once again and hit the floor. At this point I thought I was going to have to call 9-1-1 for my mom because I thought for sure she was going to die too. For a moment or two I saw myself being parentless and homeless as I am too worthless to support myself on my own. Anyway, so by the time the paramedics got here he was in some sort of "joker state" as I like to call it, as he kept tried to crack jokes that didn't make any sense and he kept telling me to go to work "because i needed the revenue" in his best English accent.

Awesome. Completely awesome.

Sometimes it's shocking to know that my dad hasn't made the Darwin Award list yet. I'm sure that when he does die, it will be something so stupid that it will be the winner of the Darwin Awards. I'm hoping it'll have something to do with a gang of rabid squirrels and electricity. I'm not sure whether I'll be sad or I'll just laugh at his funeral.

But hey, all in all, my dad is pretty awesomely retarded. He at least keeps everyone around him entertained at his expense. I guess that's what we all love about him.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

I'm just a sweet transvestite... from transexual... transylvania... wha wha hey hey.

I figure since I'm slowly throwing away my friendships via my blog, Racheal is now up for roasting. I like to describe her as a vampiric transexual from Transylvania, with no relation to Tim Curry although sometimes she can look like him. No, really, when people ask me about Racheal I usually tell them that she's completely out of her mind and STAY FAR AWAY IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO LIVE ANOTHER DAY. Racheal will probably suck you dry for all your cum and assets, and when she's done with you she'll throw you over a telephone wire like an old pair of shoes in a bad neighborhood. She'll take off in your brand new Benz with the top down, throw out any important documents you may have in the glove compartment all over the freeway, call your wife and tell her that he just got THE HIV and she should get tested, charge up all your credit cards with pornography and then crash your car - several times. All while you're hog tied at the Motel 6 in Newbury Park.

No, but really, she's brilliant. She's crafty and plots her evil doings very carefully. She will only fuck your boyfriend if you're passed out in the same room and she'll only do your drugs if they can be done off a hooker's ass. Otherwise, she's safe for the most part. I think. I don't really know that much about Racheal. I guess I've known her for like 4 years or something and all this time I just know she has gigantic tits that are as soft as a Snuggie. I suggest that if you get stuck with her for some reason or before she takes you for all you're worth, suck on them titties.

Lastly, and most importantly, Racheal does not know the difference between Native Americans and Indians from India. So do yourself a favor and DO NOT talk to her about curry or teepee's. She doesn't know the difference between the two.

London Bridge is Falling Down, Falling Down...

... and something something something about a fair lady but I don't know any fair lady's so let's just say London's mighty bridge is falling down.

Also, that song is my good friend Dani's ring tone. It reminds me of special children. Somehow that ties into how I feel about Dani. Anyway, now that I know she knows my blog exists and that our other friends read it I guess I can start publicly embarrassing her by letting the world know that she loves it when I eat corn and shit on her chest. She smears it all over her titties and like a monkey digging for mites, she picks off each corn kernel and eats it. This scat-fest goes way back, back to like the first week I met her however many years ago and realized she was just as completely fucking nutso as I am. I guess this is why we get along sometimes. The other times it's because we're being drama queens and complaining about how our Boo Boo's don't fuck us in public enough. Oh, and if I have not mentioned this: The Boo Boo has returned. "The Return of the Boo Boo" will be publicized later, feel free to come back and check that story. It's rather lengthy and semi-complicated but at least it's entertaining. It's like a mix of The Notebook and Wedding Crashers, if I had to sum up my love-life story into a movie plot.

Back to the origin of my post... I mentioned London because now somehow my trip to Europe is getting complicated and has now been extended an extra 3 days to spend in London. What's irritating is all I want is to sit in a cafe in Amsterdam and smoke a shitton of pot (and again, I don't know how to measure this - but in marijuana grams, I'd say it's A LOT) but that doesn't seem to be happening. At a minimum, this stupid trip will force me to get over my fucking plane anxiety because I have like 98123791287318972 planes to get on. I'm flying to London, to Madrid and to Milan - and possibly to either Munich or Frankfurt if we can extend the trip another few days. It's like I will be retardedly plane hopping throughout Europe, without rhyme or reason but I guess as an American traveling Europe during a recession I shouldn't really complain. All I can say is that I'm glad my money's in my vagina and not in the stock market or in real estate. At least my pussy has appreciated in value. Sometimes I wish I was a virgin so I could sell myself on Ebay for something in the millions like that one chick did and sold her virginity online and made The Sexy with some fat old European fucktwat who flew to some brothel in Vegas to play "who's bratwurst is in my puss?"

I guess for now I say, fuck you. Goodnight.

The Nate Phenomenon.

I had a quick conversation with a friend of mine on Facebook chat. We were talking about our mutual friend Nate - and how basically when a girl says that she wants to meet Nate, 99.9% of the time it's because they've been cyberstalking him and want to sit on his pecker.

I can honestly say - every. single. friend. of. mine. over the years that has been SINGLE (even some that are not) and has had any sort of interaction with Nate, they suddenly feel like he's the man of their dreams and he's so amazing and blah blah blah. The dude doesn't even have to lift a finger. Or better yet, he doesn't even need to say anything. Or look. Or wink. Or smile. He can be in a terrible mood, ignoring the world and girls still swoon and wet their panties. It's like Nate has magical powers over women that should be studied in a laboratory. With like, anal probes and stuff.

Anyway, my question is - what gives? At any given point in time I have an AIM window open with someone asking me about Nate. Look, I love Nate. He's a great friend. Honestly? He's a pain in the ass. Why? Because he will do absolutely nothing for you. He probably won't even acknowledge you - and somehow make YOU completely insane - to the point where a straitjacket would be necessary. Then, LUCKY ME, *I* have to hear about it. So, either just stop - or please don't make me listen to it.

To follow that - here are some more pictures of him.

If you can figure out the obsession, or have theories on it, please let me know in my comments.

Oh, and P.S. - He does really awesome tattoos. So like, if you're a dude and not looking at him in a sexy way - Contact me and I'll help you get a hold of him. :)

Oh, so that's how it's going to be?

Dear Robbers:

I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you bring my Apple ipod touch back, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.