Friday, June 26, 2009
I am speaking, of course, of the day that Whole Foods ran out of those delicious Fruit and Yogurt Parfaits before 5pm!
It was like any other ordinary day. A light rain, a cool breeze, a mediocre and COMPLETELY uneventful afternoon at the office. A memo, a phone call or two and a few random emails. Little did I know the suffering that would soon unfold on society and the world - all at the hands of a madman, the Prepared Foods Manager. "He was such a quiet Man" says a saddened customer as, in retrospect, they pondered what may have caused such a kind man to perpetrate such a heinous injustice. Some have speculated that an acute lactose intolerance and a raging nut allergy may have caused the seemingly professional man to snap. TMZ.com is reporting that an exotic strain of Mad Cow Disease comined with an addiction to laxatives may also be to blame. But we may never know.
It all began in 2007................
The Fruit and Yogurt Parfait and its Mediterranean counterpart, the Greek Yogurt Fruit Pot were long time companions - but living in separate refrigerated cases at America's Organic Headquarters, Whole Foods. Early in life, the Greek Yogurt was the favorite. Always snapped up in the produce aisle LONG before eager shoppers even stumbled upon the Fruit & Yogurt Parfait nestled way in the rear of the store - ill-placed between the Tandoori Chicken Bites and the Tofu Potstickers.
As the years went by, the Fruit and Yogurt Parfait was a bit of a transient, making its way from the prepared food section, to the Gelato case to a barrel full of ice in front of the pizza counter. It was not until the Dessert Station was born that the Fruit & Yogurt Parfait blossomed into the highly coveted lactose-filled treat adored by fans young and old. A tasty mix of granola, seasonal berries and exotic fruits, rich custard-like yogurt and ripe thinly-sliced strawberries for garnish..... It was a culinary masterpiece.
The true "Dairy Queen," this little nibble provided such happiness to so many. It was love in a cup. But its popularity came at a price [insert dramatic VH1 "Behind The Music" soundtrack here].
The Greek Yogurt Pot was lost. The once adored favorite of so many was quickly becoming yesterday's news. The proverbial Billy Ray Cyrus of all desserts. Greeky (I called it Greeky) was now an orphan in a big city, a ship without a rudder, never finding it's home - a defeated sense of purpose and rapidly diminishing feeling of self worth.
A true American tragedy.... yet in Greek.
It seemed to be smooth sailing for the Fruit & Yogurt Parfait - Super stardom had taken hold. Now dwarfing the success of that "other" Yogurt snack. The fanfare was endless, the popularity at its peak. It was just then, at the height of the euphoria and cult-like success that it all just fell apart.
I recall that fateful moment when I rounded the corner past the Handmade Gluten-free Pizza Shells and Honey Bees Wax Lip Balm display that the news rang out - Much like that time I put a stethoscope up to church bells at noon on Christmas Day - it sheered through my very soul like a hot dagger through a stick of butter. The case was bare. The yogurt was gone. A piece of me had died.
Customers were agasp and there was a common look of horror I haven't seen since the Jerry Springer Sex Tape was leaked to the media. Some cried. Others smiled and recounted the good times with the luscious parfait. Some consoled others and offered a hug to a stranger. Most just copped a feel. There were a few that just greedily ran to the produce aisle looking to snap up the once renowned, now outcast Greek Yogurt - a bit fair-weathered, I know but that's because they are cold, selfish, unfeeling yogurt whores. Dirty, dirty whores.... I nearly slipped during that mad sprint across the store on a wet leaf of organic lettuce from Paraguay - but let's not lose focus here.....
The sadness and utter heartbreak is something that will stay with me until my dying day. In fact, I am finding it hard to go on. But with each passing day, my pain will heal and society will return to a sense of normalcy. It is my hope that the world remember the Fruit & Yogurt Parfait with love and kindness and not be tempted to let its legacy fade by the seductive allure of a new 4000 calorie 40 gram of fat little heart attack with a dome lid.
I will miss you dearly my Fruit & Yogurt Parfait (which is manufactured in a facility that produces nuts, pine nuts and may contain soy, egg and pieces of shells)
You will always have a place in my heart....
Oh, and by the way... Michael and Farrah are dead.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
I was trying to think of some tidbits from the train wreck that I call "life" and share them with my dear friends. In their absence, y'all will do.
As discovered in previous blogs, most of my stories begin with "I was REALLY wasted last night." This is one such story. It begins devoid of boozing but quickly morphs into a drunken disaster. Buckle up.
For such a quiet kid in the early 80's, it is truly amazing how much trouble one can cause under the guise of being the "good kid" (as opposed to Billy who was that "other kind of kid."). See, I was the kid with three jobs in the 7th grade. I delivered newspapers, worked in the pizzeria and then headed off to the movie theatre. I was a hard-working good kid. The altar boy (pipe down.....), the guitar player in the church folk group and the kid that would go shopping with Grandma just to keep her company on a Saturday afternoon. I was the one that would do a friend's book report or mow their lawn so they could run off and get laid. It was I that once volunteered to take care of an elderly guy when his kid's stopped coming around. I was practically a Saint.
All a ruse! I assure you. This quiet kid was stealthing through adolescence with a mean streak ready to flourish and a sinister sense of humor that would turn ugly for anyone in it's path...
Let's begin at the Harrison Library. A studious child, I was not. I was often ridiculed in class for NEVER having my homework and for once getting a 34% on a math final. Not exactly a scholar. But the library was my safe haven. It was here that the devilish and mischievous carnage would begin. Enter Witch Hazel. She was some librarian who was as tall as Big Bird. She had a mammoth Moley, Moley on her face that could be seen from space. While she was very scary to me as a child (In a Bea Arthur - Adam's Apple kinda way), I was still daring enough to test the waters with ol' Witchy. And so it began.
Frank Alfano was a friend of mine in the 7th grade. After moving around a lot and ending up in a different school almost every year, I landed at St. Greg's in Harrison. It was here that a little porker of a child would be befriended by Frank. Now, if there were anyone that would crack my little shell of goodness and turn me into something evil, it was Frank. We would spend hours in that library thinking of ways to torture the staff, destroy things and torment little old ladies until we were finally thrown out. Not permanently, of course. Just for the day. For whatever reason, those trusting hags granted us library-crime immunity practically every day hoping that the next afternoon would be the moment that we were reformed. Not gonna happen. Not in this story.
George Carlin was a funny guy. Super Genius and Cynic. Smart beyond smart. But we didn't know that in the 7th grade. We barely had a hair on our ass let alone the ability to recognize genius in the making. We only knew George to be the guy that dropped "F-Bombs" and we were determined to change the way people enjoyed their library visits.
The library had all kids of gadgets. Microfilm to look up old news articles, braille books for those blind fuckers and hi-tech cassette players (ooohhh!) and headphones so one could discretely enjoy a book-on-tape in the quiet of their surroundings. Not us. We would plug in those over-sized, giant cushioned headphones with that enormous plug into the player and listen intently as George started his rant. It would build and build, finally erupting into a tirade of profanity that was too good to keep under wraps. It was just then that Frank would violently rip the giant headset plug out of the recorder and, at full volume, the young and elderly alike would jump out of their skin as Carlin screamed "shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits." Seems these 7 dirty (and loud) words were enough to get us thrown out for the day. Not without first running quickly through the library (with Big Bird in pursuit) pushing books off shelves and ripping down hanging mobiles from the ceiling.
Tomorrow's another day.
The fun didn't stop with Witch Hazel. There was Warthog, The Faggy Guy and Wendy. Not sure why we never named Wendy. But Wendy is a whore's name anyway - so it's all good. Warthog died after a couple of months. Frank and I even went to her funeral. Well... not exactly. We were both altar boys and we used to get out of class to "work" the funerals. We would load up on candy from the little luncheonette across the street and spend a joyous (but sad for some) 60 minutes listening to the priest say "Warthog was such a fine woman, yada, yada, yada." Who cared, we had Tootsie Rolls. We would eat half and throw the other half across the altar at each other. The priest was on to us and he quickly stopped us from doing funerals together. Buzz-kill.
The faggy guy is tough to remember. Not sure why. Hope it is not a memory just being repressed and I find out some day he showed me his Dewey Decimal.....
Then there is Wendy. A frump of a woman who had the face of Ernest Borgnine and an even less attractive body. Even as horny young lads, we knew to keep that beast at arms length and not look directly at it. Wendy was just a bitch. She would get mad when we pushed each other down the stairs, angry when we would hurl the book cart at lightning speed up an aisle into a feeble old woman and she'd even get pissed when we would move entire sections of catalogued books to a different aisle. What a rag! And if she were not unreasonable enough, imagine the scene when we took those little check-out cards from the pocket of every book and swapped them with the wrong title. Imagine that call when Mrs. Henderson had a late charge on "The Joy of Sex" when she took out "War and Peace." Wendy was just no fun. But she did have a love of candy. She would always yell at Frank and I and take away whatever food we had smuggled in. She would slap her porky fingers down on the table and say "No eating in the Library, young men!" (Which is better than "No Eating Young Men in the Library.")... But I digress. She would quickly snap up the treats and throw them in the desk drawer. Now, judging by the look of Wendy's "thickness" there was no way these snacks were making their way to any landfill other than the one that was occupying that ill-fitting skirt. You knew that the minute Frank and I lit fire to a garbage can or small child, she would be on those Twinkies like white on rice. No offense to you Orientals.
Again, we were not thinkers. Not a valid thought between our two heads. Yet Frank and I conjured up a plan that involved a bag of Reese's Pieces and a potential case of Hepatitis A.
We were doing our normal thing - like messing with some old woman, Gladys, who used to come to the library every day wearing moon boots and a wife-beater shirt. She was hot. We were well underway with Operation Fart on Gladys when Wendy caught us mid-crank. We were asses up in Gladys' face letting one rip when Wendy (a whore's name) threw us out. She snapped up the open bag of Reese's Pieces and we ran like hell. Now that she had taken the bait, we were outside perched on the window sill, watching, waiting (and still farting and giggling). 5 minutes, 10 minutes... we were about to give up hope when she looked around, opened her drawer and discreetly stuck her quarter-roll sized fingers in the bag of E.T.'s favorite candy and nibbled away. Little did she know that EACH of those little extraterrestrial treats had first been in our noses and blown out like a snot rocket back into the bag. We were redeemed - but had to run. We were working the 7:30pm mass.
There was a young girl that worked in the library. We would try to torture her but she'd fire right back at us. I had a bit of a crush on her at the time - but she was smokin' hot and the only thing hot about me was the Bacon, Egg and Cheese I was secretly hiding in my pocket. For those keeping track, I was tipping the scales at 300+ by the 8th grade. We used to call her Flippy - her name was Filomena. The only thing they called me was Orca. That's not short for anything. Flippy would yell at us but I could tell she was having fun too. She later married a friend of mine. Enough with this walk down memory lane... Let's move on...
By my late-teens I had moved on from quiet (but easily swayed) young man to an absolute beast. I did this all under the silence of a grin and the occasional chuckle. Unbenounced to all around, if you encountered me on any given day, I would cast a half-smile all the while planning what I could do to make you cry. A bit passive-aggressive, I know - but you can call me a humanitarian for keeping shrinks in business. They need love too.
Once again, my brother was always the one to be in some kind of trouble. He hung out with an absolute "wack pack" and was once even arrested because they thought he was someone else. Me, not so much. The face of an angel (a really fat angel with super-wings for lift).... [Patti and Debbie, if I recall, you were part of that Wack Pack]...
Fast forward a bit to the early 90's. By now, I was full-fledged Satanic and could always been found smashed out of my mind doing something ridiculous. I had this apartment in Rye Brook. Sounds fancy but it was about 3 feet over the Port Chester border and I once had a guy literally knock on my window at 4am to buy drugs - thinking the former tenant still lived there. I sold him a dime and went back to bed.
At one point, a friend of mine, an E.M.T (turned cop, turned convict, turned reformed convict) [this is too long to explain - that's a blog for another day] moved in with me. We would have a drunken blowout party every night of the week. There were typically 10 people packed into a studio apartment that was literally a sink, two couches and a bathroom. We used to go out for drinks at a restaurant and then really whoop it up later at the TH2. This particular night, we opted for drinks and dinner at the Crab Shanty. It was me, my roommate Matt (EMT, COP, CONVICT, REFORMER), Terri (aka Uncle Jessie) and Trish (Evil, Evil Trish)... We started off with daiquiris and quickly moved on to Cuervo. Before we knew it, we were done with dinner, had moved on to the bar and were planning how all of us would squeeze in Matt's tiny, rusted car to go out bar hopping. This was further complicated by the addition of our waitress, Linda, who was shanghaied and was now coming with us. Linda was older than us. A Cougar, before Ashton and Demi made it cool. She had to be like 35+ (how old!) and we were maybe 24 or so. I do not remember any of this, but according to legend, I learned that Linda was married - so my challenge, of course, was to figure out ways to get her to cross that line. I figured Matt would be prime for that challenge. Little did I know, It would be me at 2am on HER FRONT LAWN sucking face and other seedy little indiscretions, all under the window where her husband was sleeping. This would have been more discreet if the rusted, car-full of goons were not cheering me on... Never saw her again - on the street - in the restaurant - anywhere. I wonder if her husband's name was Drew Peterson...
There are soooo many crazy stories of similar (but more scandalous) nature I have been injected into - that will keep me blogging (and in therapy) for years to come....
I have always been an attention seeker. Despite the fact I seem to keep to myself, fly under the radar personally, seem somewhat reserved.... okay - none of these things are true. I am an attention WHORE (just call me Wendy). If I am not talking about ME, someone else had better be. That's my motto. Go ahead, Google it! If there was a gathering, I had to be there - doing something wild - and having everyone talking for days (and in some cases years).
Halloween, DOUBLE BONUS! What better time to do something ridiculous AND be disguised as someone else making it even less risky to have people pissed at me. Now, Halloween was always a fun time. Even as a kid, I would always do something a bit "off colored" and spark a controversy or two. Dressing up as a penis wearing a condom was just kid's play. Imagine the scene in the 6th grade when I decided a "hooker" was a reasonable costume to wear to the 6th grade dance. My mother (back in day before she were certifiable and old) was quite the party-gal. Often found hanging out with her friends and going "clubbing," I had no problem finding something slutty to wear in her closet. The laughs began so the Halloween's continued.
Later on, I took a more dignified approach to my costuming. The ideas typically came to me about 2 or 3 days out, but make no mistake, they were no less masterful due to a lack of planning, that's for sure.
Making a P.C. choice for costumes was never my forte. Better yet, defying the politically correct was a mission that I held dear to my heart. If I could make just one person sneer, shriek, scowl or slap, my job was done. When I got all 4 in one year, I had arrived.
Ted Danson was once lambasted for jokingly showing up at an awards show in blackface. He was, after all, dating Whoopi Goldberg at the time. Me, on the other hand, found that the scandalous provided a great opportunity for a costume. Enter, Al Sharpton.
Being 350+ pounds (at birth), my costume choices were somewhat limited. I could be Pugsley or Uncle Fester... Perhaps Ralph Kramden or Uncle Buck. But make no mistake, finding a "fatty" that was highly recognizable was quite the challenge. After all, all us fatties look alike, right? (haters)...
But there was one lard ass that could not be mistaken. One with a velour sweatsuit, Don King hair and a series of giant gold bling around the neck could only mean one person. The Rev!
I locked myself in the bathroom for what seemed like hours... (get your minds out of the gutter, I was dressing - not having a love fest with a tube of Jergens...)...
Billy, Beulah, Terri and others all waited eagerly in the living room inhaling the CLOUD of toxins that my mother was exhaling while I brushed out a big Elvis wig until it looked like something Macy Gray could wear.
I emerge from the bathroom painted completely black with theatrical makeup - right down to my arms and fingers. I was practically one of those Africanistans!
There was a ROAR from the room (or a gasp of Emphysema from Mom, not too sure)... that could be heard down the block. Field of Dreams guy once said... "If you build it, they will come, Ray." I don't know who the fuck Ray is, but build it, I did! A colossal replica of the Mighty Reverend complete with bling and fuzzy bunny slippers (a must with all costumes)...
Off to Karaoke we went. Singing LOVE SHACK with a pack of Slutty Nuns (Freeta and Fray Fray). Then, my boldest move yet. Off to the biggest inner-city nightclub in the heart of New Rochelle on Hip Hop night. Classic! I was nearly gunned down in a drive-by. Fun times, all.
Later costumes include The Pope, Mimi from the Drew Carey Show equipped with eyeliner and pig earrings which I popped through my ear by hand just for the night... Dr. Evil - with a 16" tall Mini-Me doll hanging off my shoulder and my finest work up to that point.... Superman.........in a freaking wheelchair.
It was just days before Halloween and I could not think of a costume. Trying to keep things topical, I scoured the news to find out what the "in" story was. The only thing I could muster up was the recent death of Jerry Garcia. My friend Beth (Hi Bethy!!) that I worked with at the time, shook her head and said "Pat, that's not right...." My response was... "C'mon, Beth, its not like I am going as Christopher Reeve or something...." BINGO! The light bulb had gone off. I deployed the entire maintenance team at work to convert my grandfather's wheelchair into the best damn cripple-scooter that was known to man. Complete with an I.V. dripping green serum into my veins (Called the Krypto-drip), to the Nintendo Joystick I used as the directional controls, to the Painter's respirator I had strapped to my neck, to the Curl in my slicked back hair. I was Clark Kent! Even with a cape flying off the back of the wheel chair as Psycho D-Cups (B cups at the time) wheeled me through the doors of the bar, the Superman soundtrack blasting on my Discman speakers.... It was PERFECT! A masterpiece. Little did I know that the entire place would come to a screeching halt when I wheeled in. The music stopped, talking ceased and jaws dropped. It felt like an eternity until life returned to the room. People shook their heads. I heard "ASSHOLE" being screamed from the back of the room. The bartender stood in complete disbelief. The Superman music was the ONLY thing that could be heard. I felt like a CHAMPION! My job was done.
As the moments passed and Elaine fed me my drinks through a straw (aka feeding tube)... the noise returned to the room and one-by-one people approached to tell me what a sick bastard I was. Being a paraplegic, I just sat there - not responding other than to sip my luscious martini which was now being poured into my mouth by Lola Big Cups.
As hours passed and the comments started to shift from sick bastard, to "that's just wrong" to "you are crazy" to "your a lunatic" to "it's kinda funny" to "that's the best fucking costume I have ever seen." Funny how beer goggles have no limits. Then the voting began. First Place by round of applause. The same people who nearly stoned me in the village square, were now chanting and buying me drinks. Thank god for horrible life-changing horse accidents! I was so lucky... This costume was later revived after Chris Reeve died. Why mess with the charm of it. I just slapped a giant grim-reaper (complete with sickle) on the back of the chair and PRESTO ! Just add vodka and shake... Won again!
I skipped a few years of Halloweens post 9/11. I though for sure dressing as Bin Laden or Saddam Hussein would quickly get me killed, especially if I hit downtown NYC like planned.
The grand return was in 2004 and this was my last... (for now).. Going back to my altar boy roots (see how this is starting to tie together?).. I donned my finest black suit, strapped on a collar and sprayed my hair grey. I was the perfect Monsignor. Well, not exactly perfect. I was missing something.... days went by... weeks.... what can I do to make this worthy.... Then it hit me. It was missing the Boyscout! How could I forget that! Not able to find a good Wooden Midget Store, I bought a child-sized mannequin and a cub scout uniform. It was kinda blah. It needed some merit badges, a collar and bandanna and a troop number badge on the front. Why buy those cheap iron-on patches when I can sew them completely by hand! And sew, I did. Picture the look on the clerks face at the uniform store when I bought all of this shit and she said... sir, those merit badges are for boy scouts and the uniform is for cub scouts. I think you are buying the wrong stuff. I insisted I had it right and when she asked why I was making such a purchase, I said without flinching "I really need it to make my pedophile costume authentic and those colors really match the priests eyes..." I have NEVER seen someone look so horrified. Until that night of course, when I hit the White Plains bar scene... bouncing from club to club rounding up the top prize where ever I could. I was up a few hundred bucks. Traffic stopped on Mamaroneck Avenue. People stared and pointed... The church music playing on my ipod speakers caught people's attention as did the trick-or-treat bowl strategically placed near the little cubscout's zipper. Bernie and Trish (good Trish) were my escorts (and bodyguards) for the evening.
Now, walking around with a cubscout was not exactly suggestive enough. So using a barrage of bungee cords, I actually strapped the young tyke right to the front of my pants - face first of course. Now I was done!
My only regret (other than eternal damnation) is not making my way over to Archbishop Stepinac High School for a quick trick or treat....
So, Let Us Pray........the next time I see you on the street, and I nod my head and cast the notorious half-smile, half-grin.... remember that I am really not that genuine and I am actually trying to spot your biggest vulnerability and use it for the inappropriate.
Go In Peace, My Children.....
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Doom and Gloom are the flavor of the day.... Financial collapse, credit crunch, housing crisis and now the fucking PIG FLU! Now... being a pig myself, I am quite concerned. Swine runs in my genes...
The minute the news even HINTS at a crisis, I am convinced that I will be at the epicentre of all that is unholy. Hearken back to the days of Sky Lab in the late 70's... This satellite thingy was hurtling towards Earth... a very large planet made up of mostly water.... However, I was not only convinced it would hit Harrison, NY... it would crack me square in the skull and kill me instantly. Now, my Mother should have noticed the paranoia back then but NOOOOOOOO - she just let it blossom into the full blown insanity that is my life.
To put things into perspective.... The movie the Swarm - they were coming straight for me.
The birds..... them too. I still flinch every time I see one of those fucking flocks heading South and think they are attacking!
Exploding Pintos - yup that was my destiny.
Locusts...... need I go on?
On 9/11 I was convinced my one bedroom apartment on Post Place was the next Al Qaeda target - screw the Pentagon - I was ground zero!
So, Imagine the latest with the banks collapsing and the swines attacking... One person sneezed at the club the other night and I dove for cover nearly knocking down 3 old ladies and a blind nun with cancer...... CANCER! Now that's a fear for another day...
I am now bathing in Purell. Which is all for naught since the hotel I am staying at is a hot bed for disease complete with foot odor (not belonging to me)... It's a Marriott! WTF!
Now that the swine flu is subsiding, I will need to find new ways of torturing myself as I cannot be at peace for a second without having to find some other means of death and destruction that will CLEARLY be unleashed on me. Perhaps a meteor screaming towards Providence or just a general plague.... You choose.
So... I am in Albany. Scenic Albany.... I was nearly mugged at the Pick and Pay - but I arrived safely at the Marriott after a near incident at the Starbucks when Mr. Barista Man sneered at me and was rude! Does he not know that I speak Starbuckian? I asked for a toasted bagel and you would think I asked him to clean the toilets with his tongue. The look of disgust. I got even, of course, by unscrewing ALL of the milk carafe lids and the condiment shakers so the next person would create a disaster! HA! That'll learn him....
I am here for a bunch of meetings with Congressmen and women about calorie-posting legislation on menu boards in food service establishments. Apparently, I am representing not only my company but the movie theatre industry as a whole. Again - for those that know me, you may feel the need to combust in laughter right now - but do read on.....
Calories - let's see.... Send the guy who used to be 400+ pounds to talk about healthy eating.... Then - set up a bunch of meetings with politicians..... Yup, send me! The same guy who once dove into a frozen swimming pool just to make snow angels in Lake Placid. Diving board and all... Yeah, I AM THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE!
But, I will put on my greatest bullshit face (you know the one)... and I will once again be victorious! Then - a meteor will strike my car on the 4-hour drive home..... You see? Not stable.
I heard from an old friend today (Bob) who happens to live in Albany. He sent me a FB message seconds after I called Albany a shithole. Quite the ice breaker since I haven't seen or talked to him in 10+ years... In any event, it was fun to catch up. He was planning a night of drinking and I have to say I came within moments of saying "YES!!!! BRING ON THE BOOZE" but we all know how that would end..... a Meteor!
Flashback: Back In The Day.... I was drinking wildly at the Town House and Terri was going to drive me home. I remember saying "Terri - don't take the highway, I'm gonna puke" and puke I did! Every other block I landed in someone's front yard or in the bushes losing my lunch along with the quart of Tequila I had downed earlier that night. Her and Trish (yes, Evil Trish) were trying to pick me up out of the gutter. HA! Pick me up! Them and what army? After they finished laughing, they got me into the car and continued to my house. As I got out of the car and said "goodnight" (more like a grunt and a slur)... I started to walk. Then weave... Then run to try to catch up with my body that was falling forward. As I swerved wildly around the yard, Terri yelled from the car "Pat! Watch out for the oil pipe!" See, there was this oil pipe that stuck up in the front yard. Now, chances are I would have veered around it.... But because Terri's yelp seemed urgent, I quickly turned left and ran face first through my neighbors bushes, tumbling down a hill and landing on something white and small... (minds out of the gutter please)....
Terri and E.Trish came to my rescue once I cried out "Terri... Help Me!!!" When they arrived in the ravine, I was whining "I killed the kitty!" while petting the small, white thing I had landed on. "Terri! The poooor kitty!!!!' I cried out.... She kicked me and said "Pat, you ass! It's a lawn Leprechaun. Go to bed."
I would have - except I was now locked out of the house. Living on the first floor, I saw a window of opportunity... or just a window. I thought (not very clearly) that I would climb in the window and snuggle up in bed. I opened the window from the outside and CRASH! The air conditioner fell out of the window on my legs! Ouchee! Found it on the lawn the next day.
Looking for a "Plan B" I quickly (but not rationally) decided that I would just push the door down. 400+ pounds of running flesh - and CRASH - the door comes clean off of the hinges. Ahhh. I was home.
Again - probably best that I did not go out drinking with Bob.
Today is Tush's Birthday!!! Yay!
Well, I am off to dinner with the calorie people.... Funny - a meeting about health and combating obesity and the best plan they can conjure up is dinner???? Maybe racquetball would have been a more P.C. choice..... but who the fuck plays racquetball...?
Death to the Taliban! Peace!
Sunday, April 19, 2009
It amazes me how many people have chimed in with other "Ruth-related Atrocities" most of which I have either forgotten or blocked out thanks to the hard work of my therapist, Dr. Feelgood. Many have asked "What ever became of Ruth?" I am not quite certain but I imagine she is contributing positively to the community in some fashion either as a counselor at Big Brothers and Sisters or just giving blow jobs for money. In either case, I will not REST until I find my dear Ruth! and.... she really does exist.
Here's the latest on the work front. Seems my office may be about to implode - so the days of my illustrious career in over-priced snacks may be limited. However, I am going to hang on with every glimmer of hope that the Pretzel Nuggets will prevail and the Phosphorescent Orange Nacho Cheese will continue to flow (ever so slowly) through the veins of others so I can keep doing what I do. I mean, honestly, what else would I possibly be good at? It's either this or curing polio- and I really like those nachos! Such tough choices.
I suspect a Facebook "mole" that is fueling some crap at work - so with that, I have devised a plan to orchestrate a crazy (Ruth-like) story - complete with drama, scandal and despair with the hopes of having it spread throughout the office like a scorching case of herpes - thus flushing out the "mole." I could then spend my remaining days torturing them in subtle ways like gluing down the receiver on their office phone, removing one wheel on their chair or perhaps subscribing them to "Chicks with Dicks" magazine and having it hand-delivered by a messenger with Turrets Syndrome right to their desk. These are just a few subtleties that I have perfected over the years. If these fail, it'll be time for some hardball.
Again - LET THE GAMES BEGIN.
I have fallen off the proverbial wagon...... (no I am not hitting the sauce - it's worse than that).... I am back on the potatoes! That's right - those starchy little tidbits have lured me back into their twisted web - calling out "EAT ME" louder than a lonely Vegas hooker with Chlamydia! Lent is over and Sweet Potato Fries have replaced Tic Tacs as my #1 meal choice. One would think that a VEGETABLE! That's right a fucking VEGETABLE would not be my biggest foe. My Mom has held that position for years and is now at risk of being dethroned for some sugary brown treat and I do NOT mean Starr Jones (although I want to tear that up - lol!)!
I can honestly say that I have a problem. I would not recommend any attempt at an intervention, however, as in a moment of sheer desperation, I would secretly cook up those sinister Idaho "devils" with a crack spoon using stolen cash from an orphanage full of cancer kids.
I was reminded recently (thanks to Ilene) of my time as a bookkeeper and front end manager at a supermarket in NY. Ilene and I used to get into quite a bit of trouble making fun of customers and doing crazy things after a night of heavy drinking at the Westchester County Fair. We would run through the aisles dropping tampons and Vagisil in peoples carts and screaming loudly for a price check on Wart Cream on register 9 - just for entertainment value. There were nights when I'd be working until closing. Me and some guy (Dave??) would fling cans of food over the top of the aisle into the next - eagerly awaiting a "thud" and a scream when it knocked someone in the skull. True humanitarians. I would pack the groceries of "mean" people with the bread on the bottom and tip the dozen eggs spilling them loosely into the bag. I guess my interpretation of "mean" was a bit warped considering the chaos I was unleashing on others.
Well, it seems that one day out of sheer boredom, we decided to reprogram the registers and watch through the one-way mirrored window as guests eyeballed the display and "SHITBALLS.... $1.99/lb." appeared when they rang up Bananas. It got us both transferred or demoted or both - but it was well worth it.
The store I ended up in had some crazy girl Dolores that worked as a cashier. She was about a foot and a half tall with psoriasis, stringy hair that seemed to be falling out and she was wall-eyed. Other than that, she was hot.
I used to call her Clitoris (rhyming it with Dolores) and made her wear name tags that read just that. She'd say.... "Pat.... My name tag is misspelled again!!..." I insisted that she check the spelling on her application as there was NO way the name tag machine could be wrong.
I used to draw Satanic stick figures all over her time card - a gift from a secret admirer - and cut out magazine letters leaving delusional notes from her "stalker." I guess she was the first Ruth. Actually - I think it was some old lady Gladys at the Harrison Library and Mrs. Lumbo who lived across from the school - but that story will take some time to tell.
I am having a good time working at the comedy club on the weekends. Who woulda thunk it? Humor? Me? I am so straight-laced and serious all the time. Pardon me as I scratch my balls.... ahhhhhh..... Okay I'm back...
Like I said... Serious as the day is long.... My years of being an altar boy have paid off. Although my lingering self esteem issues still make me question.... Why didn't those priests diddle ME? Was I not cute enough? ... --- pathetic sad face inserted here :( --- Rejection at ALL levels. How rude.
I guess even back then my self image was a bit off kilter prompting me to ask... "Father, does this robe make my butt look fat?"
Issues..... Thanks Ma!
Gotta get crack-a-lackin'... Peace!
Sunday, April 5, 2009
"I was really drunk one night and...."
It's not what you may be thinking - this is clearly not some hot, passionate romance story - quite the opposite, in fact. Being tortured as a kid, I was schooled in the art of taking advantage of someone's vulnerabilities and preying on those very qualities for personal amusement. Now, this may seem shallow and mean - but by the end of the story - you'll be singing right along with me.... "I once knew a girl, her name was Ruth ........"
It all starts at the Town House II - a local dive bar full of the usual suspects (many of whom are reading this right now - provided there are not too many big words). The first Town House burned to the ground. Hence the II - (the use of authentic Roman numerals was quite significant - being suburban NY and all.)
Again - my childhood was a ridiculously hateful experience. But all of the tactics those sinister neighborhood kids and terroristic schoolmates applied to torturing me, we're quickly bottled up and stored for a rainy day.
All of this mean-spirited energy was well-harnessed and under control - until I discovered tequila shooters and Budweiser. Let the games begin...
Rather than unleash a postal barrage of hate, I decided to spin the energy around and find entertaining ways to make people laugh - however, it was usually at the expense of some unsuspecting victim. Enter RUTH!
I could not start a good Ruth story without first introducing the supporting cast. There was Liz - my "sister" and the bartender from the dive bar. Liz watched nightly as I prepared to pounce on some poor victim and she quickly knew her role. She was a master of her art!
Then, there are Beulah (aka Lisa), Harriott (aka Julie) and Freeta (aka Trish - not "good Trish", the other one) - sorry Freeta - needed to paint the picture....
Beulah and Harriott were my "lesbian" friends that - on command - would spring into action trying feverishly to get Ruth to "join their team." The stories quite often surrounded Beulah and Harriot who deserve Oscars for their performances - although I would have preferred a little hot tongue action to make it "real.." Team-players, all, this cast of characters set the stage for our introduction to a "friend of a friend" who just moved to the area.
John was Liz's husband. An old high-school friend of John's was coming to the bar to be introduced to some "nice" local people who could help acclimate her to the area. John had the crazy idea that we were that bunch. In hindsight, I am sure he would choose a more compassionate group - such as White Supremacists or Animal Torturers.
The nightly stories began.... the very first - an attempted suicide. I was a bit bored and looking to prank some poor unsuspecting fool. Lightbulb! I called my E.M.S. friends to bandage up my wrists. The ambulance pulls up to the bar and they practically applied tourniquets to my arms for my first big scene. Quickly - the team springs into action and calls Ruth. Now, Ruth was an unemployed musician at the time and money was very tight as was fueling up her car. What better way to start the festivities by finding creative ways to make her leave her house, drive lots of miles for nothing and run down her gas tank. That sounded like fun.
"Ruth, come quick! Pat has tried to kill himself.....AGAIN! and he keeps calling your name." Wondering why someone she just met would single her out to rescue him from the pit of despair, she shrieks in horror and jumps into her car and drives 40 miles (I carefully time her arrival and continue to drink beers until she is about to pull up) at which time I drop to the floor and start muttering non-sensical babble from my pill overdose and subsequent wrist slashing. She asked what I took and I reach in my pockets flinging tablets all over the room (every thing I could round up including Midol, Flintstones Vitamins and Tart-N-Tiny candies; which oddly resembled a hit of mesc.)
My friends all rallied to my bedside (the booth in the back of the bar) for a death vigil. Beulah and Harriott were there - holding each other for support - of course - and (at my prompting) were singing old Negro Spirituals to help me "go into the light."
Ruth was horrified - but we quickly formed a bond the next day when I called her and told her she was the ONLY reason that I hung on....
Within weeks, Ruth was a regular at the bar. I was now "cured" from my illnesses (although I had to keep my fucking wrists bandaged for months as a prop - that was a pain in the ass). Ruth checked in on me daily and I always found a way to make her get into that car and drive..... miles.... for something totally obscure and ridiculous.
She was in constant touch with my fake "parents" Ray and Natasha. Natasha (I forget her real name, I think it was Jane) was a 60+ woman who was a cashier at the movie theatre. In a pinch, she was cast in the role as Mom - a decision that later was declared a "win."
Ruth and Natasha formed a friendship one evening when a weeping Natasha confided in Ruth that she was ill. Seems Mom had a steel plate in her head. It was not very painful, except every time she walked past the microwave, she shit in her pants and pretended to be King Lear! and .... she never read Shakespeare.
Ruth was always watching out for Natasha - including the time that we dialed Ruth from my office and Natasha started screaming wildly mid-sentence because someone turned on the microwave. Ruth was pleading on the other end "turn it off! turn it off." The call ended with Natasha, in her best Shakespearean voice, proclaiming "How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!" Lear (Act I, Scene 4).
The call goes dead! The next day, Natasha shrugs it off by simply moaning "oh - that damn microwave, Ruth!" Ahhhh, good times.The stories continued for months.
There was "other Liz" who was my "ex-wife" who was now married to Skip. Ruth was amazed that she and I remained friends despite our hideous breakup which included Liz getting a restraining order and throwing me out of our trailer home. Liz once even took the keys to my John Deere mower so I couldn't sneak off to the whore house when she was hard at work at the meth lab. Astounded that Ruth wasn't yet "on to us," we continued the story. Liz and Ruth fast became friends and formed a trust. Enough of a trust for Liz to confide in her why we remained so close after all we had been through. Seems that Liz had a "problem" that only I could help her with. This sparked Ruth's curiosity and she asked Liz to share. A tearful Liz explained to Ruth that the exposure to the chemicals used to cook the meth had caused her to grow an inordinate amount of hair in odd places. Liz explained that I was the only one that could help her "shave her back." She also fessed up that the cost of razors was straining her financially at which point Ruth suggested she'd pitch in and buy a few. Now that's a true friend.
Beulah and Harriott were always the stars of the show. Ruth was soooo understanding of their "lifestyle" as lesbians and confided in them one drunken night that she, too, would like to kiss Harriott. Even Meryl Streep has her theatrical limits - so imagine the answer when I asked B & H to "take care" of Ruth. Hey, a man can try, no?
Everyone - and I mean - EVERYONE called Lisa and Julie - Beulah and Harriott. Even my grandmother. In fact, she asked a few months ago "What ever happened to that nice Beulah girl."
Skip and I once stole Ruth's car from the bar and parked it blocks away - ON the sidewalk - BEHIND A FIRE HYDRANT and she got a wave of tickets when the police "recovered" her stolen vehicle.
That was the same night that Steve blew his nose on her coat.
Ruth played the flute. We once made her do a recital at the bar because we wanted to be cultured. We made sure that one-by-one, people angrily walked out during her performance - but like the band on the deck of the Titanic - she kept playing until the entire ship went down.
She wore perfume called Red Door - but we called it Barn Door. It was awful!
Ruth always wanted to be "part of the crowd." We tried to help her. Kind of like a band-geek makeover. As part of her transformation, we told her that wearing spandex was "in." The whole bar took one for the team, donning their tightest fitting clothes including Gina who was like 500 pounds. We also kept referring to ourselves as Heifers. She was curious - so we told her that a Heifer was a "party animal." Much to my surprise, she called me one morning after a night of partying hard and starts the conversation with; "Pat I was such a heifer last night." My job was done.
Months later, she looked it up in the dictionary and called me angrily. She read me the definition:
A young cow, especially one that has not yet given birth to a calf..
I quickly explained that she mispelled it and our "HEFFER" was Yiddish. Oi! What a Shiksa!
Then there was the ransom video from Lake Placid. That's a blog of it's own. Ruth had to pony-up money to save me from kidnappers. Too long for today's blog. Stay tuned.
A quick preframe:
The ransom story begins on the ride to a bar-sponsored ski trip. The bus full of barflys on the 4 hour drunken drive - began a bit of a sing-a-long on the drive up - "I once knew a man whose name was...." (yada, yada, yada....) I was passed out from the hours of drinking and missed most of the limerics (until watching the video).
However, being my turn to chime in, they smacked me to a light consciousness, and I rang out in song.... "I once knew a girl, her name was Ruth - who had more gum than she had tooth." Since Ruth's teeth looked like little mini-chicklets, there was a brief silence and then laughter ensued.
Then I threw up all over the bus....
This catchy little tune will likely be trapped in your head for years to come.
Peace out Heffers! Moooooooo!
Friday, April 3, 2009
For example, Bernie and I spent 10 minutes on the phone talking fart humor and after the ridiculous jokes subsided and we stopped giggling like school kids - we both asked "who called who and what was the point of this call?" It is clear to me that the best phone calls are ones where you can laugh hard about someone shitting their pants and then move on to more important things - like BOOBIES!
I mean, honestly, what the fuck is the point of being serious when you can simply poke fun of others and cash-in on their misfortune with tasteless humor and shallowness?
But, I digress.... a few have reminded me of drunken stories from year's past that - surprisingly - I remember. Who knew that you guys had such recall of the ridiculous crap that we orchestrated while sipping a beer (or 12.)?
Of course, all of these stories deserve a blog all their own - but a quick mention to whet your appetite.
Laura was kind enough to remind me of the crazy blow-out parties at the house on High Street in Rye. How we weren't arrested, is beyond me. Probably because half the cops were at the party and higher than I was.... The most memorable moment, of course, was the party where the entire third-story patio gave way - plummeting to the ground with my brother tumbling along with the loose railings . 3 stories - onto concrete - on his head! I was doing a beer bong in the living room when Erich comes in and says "can I have a beer? oh.... and by the way - the patio collapsed and I think Billy is dead." After finishing the beer funnel challenge (which I won, of course), I excused myself to attend to my half dead brother who just fell off the house -laying there like a bird that flew into a pane of glass. The ambulance arrives, he comes to a light consciousness just long enough to give me "the finger" and then slipped back into a mild coma.
4 weeks and 1 fractured skull later and STILL in the hospital - we were planning the next party. Ah.... the memories.... Lest we forget the crazy neighbor that used to walk right into our house in the morning snooping around. I'd chase her down the stairs, down the block and back into her house while she screamed in horror and barricaded her door. Fun times, all!
Lynn- I hope you are loving the flashbacks - that house was a train wreck!
And then, there's Beulah! I am saving an ENTIRE blog this weekend just for Beulah, Harriot and Ruth memories.... stay tuned. (sorry Beulah, you'll have to wait another day or two - need to gather all of the evidence and present a compelling case)...
So, another week has passed at work and I have survived yet again. If any of you told me that I'd still work for a freakin' movie theatre company since junior high school - I'd never believe it. Living the dream!!!!! But seriously, we are down to like 2 people and a janitor in the office. I think they may have just forgotten that I am here - and intended to cut me loose years ago...... In fact, the letterhead in my desk now has the janitor's name instead of mine... hmmmm...
My mother calls me yesterday - and - after not working for a FULL year is wondering why her unemployment benefits are running out soon. She is outraged! Career under-achiever.... Maybe Obama can stimulate her package too....
Well, I am off to start my day of Goobers-related issues, then off to the comedy club which I now affectionately call "Shits and Giggles" - then a nightcap of shit-kickin' country music at the club near my house..... All in a day's fun.......
Saturday, March 28, 2009
If people were even remotely interested in the Judds, they should just have that crazy mother sell the drugs she is taking to escape death from leprosy, lupus, lymphoma - what ever the hell else is ailing her.
I suspect the same marketing genius will cast Mickey Rourke in a moisturizing face cream commercial.
Now that I got that off my chest, we can move on..... Still there? Helloooooo?
I want to be a pole dancer!
There - I got you attention. Let's continue.....
Two questions - are Obama's ears getting bigger and wasn't that mole on the other side last week? Holy Moleeeee....
So, about 20 people got axed at work this week. Not me - I still get to continue my career in buttery topping. The whole layoff process was tactful and very well thought out
So... relieved that I wasn't one of the casualties, I decided to celebrate by prank calling people on the drive home. FUN! There is nothing like calling a random stranger saying "I am so sorry, but there's been a terrible accident" and then simulating bad cell reception and disconnecting. It felt good to smile after such a stressful day. Everyone needs a feel-good moment.
Today is my grandmothers birthday. I think she is like 1000 - but she's a cool old broad. Some of you may know her as Nan... (Everyone loves Nan!!!) I tried to call her to wish her a happy b-day but she was working. She's like 84 - and she works like every day of the week. Yet my mother (some of you may know her as "the goiter") is too old and tired to leave the house. Go figure..... We all know where me and Billy get our work ethic from. So, to keep Mom occupied while she sits at home, I call her.... "there's been a terrible accident".... click.....
I think they should make a soup that has pizza bits and red M & M's - but that's just me.
Well, I hope that I have kept you mildly entertained. Me? I just finished my dinner of Cheerios and Red Bull and plan on rounding out this fine spring evening - rubbing one out to the Wynonna commercial on YouTube. Ewwwwww...
- Chip, Chip Cheerio!