FatKidsLie

With Valentines day swiftly approaching I’d like to tell you all about the best Valentine’s Day ever. It isn’t romantic. It didn’t involve sex. I don’t think it even really involved any women/girls except peripherally.

Way back in the days of 2003 when I had nice hair (or any hair) and lived in my mother’s basement in my old house I had an amazing Valentine’s day celebration. You see, my girlfriend was working. Babysitting. Basically watching these rich people’s kids so they could get out of the house and into a dirty motel for a few hours and attempt to actually sleep for a little bit. Because these kids… were brats.

I was OK with this because #1, I believe that Valentine’s day is an artificial holiday invented to boost retail sales during the post Christmas panic where everyone goes “ZOMGZ!! I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW MUCH MONEY I SPENT ON CRAP THAT I’M NOT EVEN USING LIKE A MONTH AFTER WE BOUGHT IT!!! I SHOULD HAVE SPENT THAT MONEY ON BILLS AND NOW THEY SHUT OFF MY ELECTRICITY!” and #2, even if I’m wrong about that I’m half Jewish and it’s a catholic holiday and also #3 I’m not romantic.

It’s really #3 more than anything because #1 is just the standard blogger guy rant about Valentine’s day. Also it’s in the middle of the most depressing month of the year. February usually consists of 4 full weeks of shrinkage.

Anyway Big Steve and Michael came over to hang out with me. And eat my mom’s cookies. And also drink a jug of alleged Merlot. In a jug. With a thumb-handle on it. With a little hole for tying a rope so you can tie the bottle to your belt loop or broomstick so that you can carry it over your shoulder like a hobo riding a freight car.

We watched Transformers. And got heluva drunk. 3 fat nerds, getting drunk while watching a movie that we idolized as children, with a soundtrack featuring Weird Al, and a song by Dirk Diggler that was actually featured in Boogie Nights. You know that nothing good came of this. Nothing good at all. In fact, stop reading this, turn off your computer and have a good cry. It’s cheaper than trying to un-read what comes next.

I eventually got naked (which happens every time I get drunk, apparently, also… I told you that you didn’t want to read this…) and put on a WW2 era British Air Force trench coat, and a bow-tie. No shirt. No shirt-collar cut off of the shirt and used to hold the tie in place (I’m too fat to be a Chip-N-Dale’s dancer…). I then declared myself an Emperor-General of the basement, and set up my army of Transformers, G.I. Joes, Legos, X-Men and whatever other action figures I had laying around or in drawers.

Michael and Steve were getting Helluvadrunk too. They were both shirtless on the couch. Moobs in full glory!

Steve took my mom’s makeup and made his face up like a Native American warrior. He then outlined his script for a Star Trek: The Next Generation/ Transformers fanfic crossover by candlelight.

We were mesmerized. Michael especially liked how Captain Picard drove the Enterprise right into Unicron while Worf and Data had a beatdown party on Scorpanok…. He could really see it. In full color.

After that Michael and Steve had to go home. So, Michael drove them home… and that’s when there was the accident. No. Not a car crash or anything. This is a HUMOR blog and two of my best friends crashing and dieing wouldn’t make you laugh.

No… The accident happened because Steve is a talker. He’s got a big mouth and it is nearly constantly spewing bullshit. This time it was set to “Projectile Vomit”. Not.. actual Projectile Vomit, but the subject of projectile vomiting. And that actually got Michael to vomit. All over the interior of his car.

There’s still a burgundy stain in the crotch area of his driver’s seat…

Michael was OK to drive home but didn’t want to sit in the vomitorium that became of his car. So he drove back to my place just as I was getting up to puke up…

I’m kneeling at the bowl, and I hear “YO! OPEN UP, IT’S MICHAEL! GODDAMITLUCASOPENTHEDOOOOOR” so when I did, I puked all over the driveway. Which triggered Michael to vomit all over the door.

I then blew chunks on his shoes. I did manage to get a couple loads of barf into the toilet though.. trust me. A half-gallon of jug wine, a dozen oatmeal cookies and 8 microwave white castle cheeseburgers produce more puke than their combined volume.

Michael took some of my dead grandmother’s towels, some Windex and cleaned up the car, driving off into the night, blasting some Thrash Metal…

Still drunk, I cleaned up, took a shower, put on my trench-coat and fell asleep on the futon with my door slightly ajar.

My girlfriend’s clients came home, fresh from humping on a cigarette-scarred motel bed so she decided to come over. Probably looking for some Valentine’s day making out.

“What the Hell, man?” she said as she came in…

“TMANSFOHAAAAH!!!! GOBOTS IN DUSKIEEES!” was all I could mumble.

My grandma was a real JAP. Not Japanese, but Jewish American Princess. She wanted the finest things in life Goddamnit and SHE DESERVED it!

If she wanted something she didn’t care how much it cost or how much my grandpa had to work to get it and may the multi-armed gods of the Arabs help you if you got in her way. Or got the wrong thing.

My Grandfather was a college-educated man, back when that meant something, because we all know that Lisa Sparxx has a college degree and that doesn’t keep her from having sex with 3-30 dudes at once… on camera… Well, anyway Grandpa was a Pharmacist (again, when that MEANT something) but was forced to be a schlep for a dairy farm, delivering seltzer bottles (the kind that clowns use).

He’d haul cases of them out of the truck and into grocery stores and Pharmacies where he SHOULD have been working but since there was no money around because of the Great Depression he couldn’t get a job in there.

He’d bust-ass all day. Six days a week. And he did it all for Grandma. Because he loved her. And showered her with presents.

Like when she wanted a Cuisinart. The Cadillac of food processors. Well, Grandpa thought “Whatever, A food processor is a food processor” and got a… Daewoo or something.

NOT. GOOD. ENOUGH

And by “not good enough” I really meant “Not good enough to process rocks and gravel into food” which is exactly what Grandma put in there to prove how unreliable the “*Knock-off Cheep Chinese Crap” that he dared to buy him was…

Then there was the mink coat fiasco. Back in the days before PETA animals didn’t have souls and it was perfectly acceptable to wear their skins and furs as clothing instead of having to throw them out when you’re done eating the tasty meats that are inside the skins.

People really loved fur coats. It’s like how Koreans brag about how much rice their cars can burn per-mile, Jews would brag about how awesome their fur coats were and would try to out-do each other.

So when she got a mink jacket you’d think that she would be happy and grateful? Nope. She was pissed. She wanted a full-length coat. The kind that you wrap up in and go to shows and have midgets carry the tails of. She wanted something MORE.

So Grandpa said “Not right now. I can’t afford it. I’ll get you one as soon as I can, OK?” … but Grandma didn’t say a word.

No. Instead she went into the bedroom with a pair of scissors and then cut the HELL outta that jacket. Because… that makes sense. And is the ONLY logical action to take.

The reason for this post? You can’t make people happy with presents. Don’t try. Merry Christmas.

About 3 minutes ago I was writing about how fun it is to steal and blow up things with illegal fireworks even though I haven’t done that since before I had chest hair. I looked up and saw the Verazano-Narrows Bridge, clear as… well a well lighted bridge on a clear winter’s night. Then before I could push “Upload” on my blogging software I look up and it’s gone.

“OH HOLY SHIT” i thought and then ran around the apartment getting my duck tape and painters masks in case it was terror but then I realized that that’s stupid and that the temperature just dropped 10 degrees and that it’s snowing.

And before I get on with this I want to make a statement: Yes, I know that I’ve localized myself on my blog. But who the fuck cares? I’m not expecting stalkers and if I get one… I’m armed. And it’s sort of important that some people know that I live on Staten Island because… I’m going to WRITE about STATEN ISLAND!

ZOMGZ@@!!#@$@# What a concept… Writing about your hometown.

And besides… If you’re one of those bloggers that tries to obfuscate their location/employer etc with misspelling and/or just-slightly-changed-names like “Wallyworld” for “Walmart” or whatever then you’re a retard.

ANYdamnedway… enough blogging about blogging.

I remember when I was a kid, every few years it’d snow enough to allow my degenerate friends and me to build those legendary forts and snowmen that you see in cartoons.

I used to make snowmen and put sombreros on them. I got in trouble once because I lived in a Mexican neighborhood. And they would chase me with six-guns in each hand…

When I was 8 or 9 my friend Tommy Peligrino’s brother was one of the older kids that picked on us all year. So Tommy and I came up with a plan for revenge and filled up a garbage can with snow, hoisted it up onto his garage roof and I laid in wait while Tommy lured his brother out of the house, with no jacket and got him to come into the garage right as I fell through the roof.

Tommy and his brother nearly shat out a pile of cinderblocks. We hauled that garbage can out back into the woods behind their neighbor’s house and told their dad “OHMYGOD!! THE SNOW BROKE THE ROOF!”

Their dad bought it, even though I had bits of tar-paper and shingles stuck to my bubble jacket.

Tommy’s brother then proceded to de-pants me and plunged me waist-deep into the garbage can filled with snow.

Good times.

There were also epic-level multi-neighborhood snowball fights. Not unlike the cartoons where you have a crew of “manufacturers” and a crew of “soldiers” and another crew of “snipers”. I’d usually be designated a “rouge-operative”. That’s where you’re technically a soldier, but operating outside the coordinated effort. The only problem with that is that we had an unspoken sort of Geneva Convention and that a captured rouge was NOT covered. And yeah… I’d get a pantload of snow if I got caught behind enemy lines.

During the blizzards of 1996 I was a little too old to go out playing in the snow. At 16 I was too busy trying to get the polish girl in my physics class to let me take her bra off so I could play with her boobies and I missed out on the last real blizzard in the past 12 years. Hell… I missed out on who Maxwel Plank was and what the difference between General Relativity and Special Relativity are but who cares? I was busy trying to grab boobies! BOOBIES!!!

I wonder what the parents of today would think if their precious little angels were out doing what we were doing? Some would just close the blinds and go back to their 40oz of Panther Piss and smoking meth with hookers off of craigslist. And those would be the kids who’d sneak a rock or something into a snowball and act as if they didn’t do it…

Then there’d be others who’d pull their kids right out of the park and into their minivans or SUVs and lecture everyone about the evils of war and competition…

And those parents are probably the ones who thought that the sombrero snowmen were a sign of my perpetually maladjusted Western Male personality. Rife with Greed, Sexism and Corruption.

And I don’t see a problem with that.