Bastard!

Last week I sold one of my Land Rovers.  I went back and forth in my head about selling.  Do I sell it, do I keep it.  Do I sell it, etc, etc.  Finally I threw a number at the buyer that I figured there was no way that would meet and of course then said fine.  I was pissed, but what can you do?  My brother said the whole situation reminded him of a great exchange in the movie Heaven Can Wait.

Former owner: He got my team. The son of a bitch got my team. 
Advisor to former owner: What kind of pressure did he use, Milt? 
Former owner: All I asked was sixty-seven million, and he said "okay." 
Advisor to former owner: Ruthless bastard. 

Bastard indeed!

You will be missed!

How to make money at Toys R Us

I've decided to take a crack at my memoirs, tentatively titled,  Fuck You, Portnoy.  It's about time I shared my story with the world.  Here is an excerpt:

When I turned seven, my mother decided a good way to earn some extra cash was to throw me a birthday party.  The con went something like this;

• Invite a bunch of kids over for a "birthday" party.  
• Make sure no one is allowed in the house without giving me some sort of a gift. The bigger the box the better.  Bonds will not be accepted.  
• Stick one old Hannukah candle in a Entenmann's cookie.  
• Have me blow the candle out ten minutes into the party.  
• Tell all the guests my brother has diarrhea so they will leave.
• Throw all the gifts in the trunk of the Corolla.  Leave the drum that some neighbor gave as a present in the house.
• Drive to the Toys R Us on Route 4 in Paramus.  
• Ask to speak to the manager.  Tell said manager that you bought all the items the day before, but you lost your receipt and you have to have cash back.  A store credit is unacceptable.  
• Count your earnings as you walk out of the store.
• Regift the drum to Jake on his birthday because you're mad his mom is a Shiksa and she stole a good Jewish man.  The beat of the drum will teach her.

Actual video of my mom robbing the store.

Stay tuned for more dysfunctional stories.

My cleaning lady saw my dick

Sadly this isn't the first line to a Dear Penthouse letter.  I was getting ready to go to the gym earlier today when my relationship with Rosy (Mexican last name) was changed forever.  It all started when I decided it was time to get my pump on.  In order to get my pump on, I needed to put on my gym costume.  In order to put on my gym costume, I really should have closed the door.

It went down like this.  I could hear Rosy in the other room cleaning and what not (pots banging, vacuum running, etc) so I figured closing the door was pointless.   I took off my pajama shirt.  Yes, I sleep in pajamas.  I put on my sleeveless gym shirt.  Sleeveless so I can see my biceps working as I curl for an hour straight.  It's also for all the moms at the gym.  After I had my gym shirt on, I proceeded to take my pajama pants off.  This is when the horror happened.  I had my pajama pants and underwear off and before I could get my gym underwear and pants on, Rosy walked in.  She basically saw me standing there in a shirt that was just long enough for her to see the head of my dick hanging out like a turtle coming out for sun.  She immediately walked out of the room.  I eventually got my pants on and did a workout, but the entire time I couldn't stop thinking about the moment we shared.

I just got home and asked Rosy if she was done cleaning the table.  I told her I needed space so I could put my computer down and get to blogging about her seeing my dick.  She wouldn't even look in my direction as she responded by saying "What's a blog?"

She will never smile like this again.

My life could have been so different.

All the failed dates, the botched job interviews, that one funeral, it all could have played out so differently.  I'm of course talking about my non stop farting.  There are only so many dogs that I can blame for what clearly has my name and smell written all over it.  Sure one could say, the fact that I lean slightly over and lift a butt cheek when I fart really is the cause of my misery but I disagree.  Anyway, the point is, yesterday I discovered Shreddies.  It is some new magical underwear that has filters for farts built right in.  I've been too lazy to read any of the scientific data on the product so all I can tell you is they have some sort of carbon filter that eats farts.  I have to say, they're not half bad looking either.  Here you will see a picture of them for ladies.  I refuse to attach a picture of a man in his underwear because I'm not gay!!

As far as I can tell they are not available in thong form yet.  I will have to check to see if they make a pair that has a built in silencer.  I am ordering them now! My life is about to hit an upswing.

Nobody wants my hate!

It's been a week and I haven't gotten a single response to my craigslist ad.  Maybe I should have been more specific about my terms.  Of course anonymous sex can be used as a form of payment!

Tamiya - douchey nostalgia

I really love shit from my childhood.  The toys, the cars,  my parents fighting while I watched cartoons. So many good memories.  It's probably why I still have a poster of Samantha Fox on the hood of a Corvette over my bed.  Lately, I have been looking at Tamiya remote control cars with a bit of nostalgia.  Back in the day, I had quite the collection.  While other kids were playing outside, I was in my room getting high on tri-flow. I had to make sure the differential was properly lubed!

I just came across this video and it made me miss the good old days.  Nah, not really.  I dare you to watch the video and not laugh.  It is 100% authentic, yet it feels like it was made as a propaganda movie by white people.  This is what I was told Asian people sound and look like. I swear Godzilla runs across the track a minute in.

 

Job Hunt

Lately I have been doing a lot of soul searching.  Walks on the beach, pensive thinking, that kind of shit.  Mostly the kind of activities that get you in trouble for "alleged" cruising.  The point is,  I've been trying to figure out what my next career move should be. You don't build a resume like mine by not thinking things through.  I am one strategic move away from screaming checkmate or Yatzy.   I'm lazy, never finish anything, and most importantly hate everyone, but does that mean I don't deserve to make three figures?  Exactly.  That's why I've decided to play up my strengths.  I placed the following ad on craigslist today:

My Ad

I should be rich by the weekend.  

Get me a coffin, honky

A little while ago I wrote a post about how George Jefferson had passed on to the great dry cleaner in the sky.  I think he fell into a giant washing machine or something like that.  It was a sad time for our nation.  After months of grieving, I still have a hard time dropping my shirts to be pressed.  Many people might not know this, but George was only buried two weeks ago.  Apparently there was a fight over his $50,000 estate which included his remains.  Yes you read that right, $50,000.  His half brother and some lady he lived with were fighting over the body like the $50,000 was inside it like a giant black pinata.  Thankfully it has all been settled now, and George has been laid to rest and is finally able to rejoin Weezie in the hereafter.

I'm not trying to be a racist*, but I do wonder, why when a famous black person dies, does their family always fight over the body?  James Brown, Michael Jackson, George Jefferson, Larry Hagman, all these famous black people end up sitting in a refrigerator somewhere while their families argue over the corpse.  Am I missing something?  Toss the body in the closest dumpster and clear out the back account with an ATM card.  I mean if it's good enough for my parents it's good enough for Bernie Mac.

*Seriously, not a racist.

Douchebag Advertising

I think in polite society it is best to meet a person face to face before you hate them.  Fine, I'm lying.  I can hate someone just by the shirt they're wearing.  With that in mind, why do people make it so easy for me to show my true feelings.  In the course of a morning, I passed the following idiots:

 

Until I figure out a way to fit NAZI HUNTER on a plate, I just don't see the point.

Rat does cheese

I have vivid memories of my youth.  My parents were deeply in love, New Jersey winters never got below 60 degrees, and Chuck E Cheese next to Bradlees in Hackensack was the shit.  I remember insisting on having my birthday there, year after year, even the year my birthday fell on Yom Kippur (Oct 6th, 1984). I'm Reform so it's ok.

Everything about my childhood might be a lie but this is how I remember it.  Chuck E Cheese was this dark cavernous place that had miles of video games (Zaxon, Star Wars), and a ball pit 8 feet deep.  It was a place where my ADHD was embraced.  Sure, I was yelled at for punching an animatronic rat in the face and for jumping out of a helicopter ride when it was five feet off the ground, but that doesn't mean it wasn't awesome.  It was a time when hand sanitizing consisted of wiping pizza grease on your dad's leg while trying to avoid being ashed on.  Yup, you could smoke there.  There were no bracelets, to identify whose kid was whose.  Hell, if your parents came home with the same group of kids they brought, the party was considered lame.  It was a simpler time.  A time when buying weed off a twelve year old was normal.

With all that in mind, you can see why I would be happy when my three year old asked me to go to Chuck E Cheese the other day.  I finally could settle that score I had with Jasper T. Jowls, while my daughter  learned to swim in a ball pit that surely hadn't been cleaned since the Reagan administration.  Sadly though, neither dream could be realized.  The rabid rat has become nothing more than timid mouse.  Where once stood Donkey Kong lies Mario Cart.  Where once was a ball pit, there is a slide. Where once was a greasy Italian making fresh pizza is a microwave serving stouffer's.  Where there once was darkness, there are lightbulbs.  Sure the animatronic rat is still there, but my daughter felt a wave was better than punch.  What has the world come to?  They stamped our hands when we walked in and asked my daughter who I was when we left to ensure I wasn't stealing her. Come on people, we were the only white ones there.

This really is making me rethink where to have my 38th birthday.



*I just realized, it might have been Showbiz Pizza where I had all my birthdays growing up.  I can't remember anything correctly.

House Keeping

No turndown service.  No mint on your pillow.   Just a couple of quick notes before the real house keeper comes and starts to question why your toothbrush is in my ass.

Due to my lack of posting,  I thought about closing shop, firing all the employees and starting anew in Argentina.  Then of course I remembered, no employees, no shop, hell I'm not even wearing pants. And don't get me started on Argentina.  If for some reason you are still reading, may God have mercy on your soul.

If you really do care, I will let you know a couple of things:

1. I plan to blog more. (lies)
2. Mitt Romney won the popular vote. (no clue)
3. I plan to combine this blog with Barry Ride part douche.  (maybe)
4. Due to the above this blog is going to become even douchier. (true)
5. Steak-umms are amazing. (definitely) 

BTW: this guy is the master.

Who is the Master?

Last year Paul Thomas Anderson, one of my favorite movie directors, got wasted in a Los Angeles bar and bet one of the other patrons $50 that he could do the following:

1. Make a two hour film about nothing except Philip Seymour Hoffman with a funny mustache.
2. Bang Fiona Apple.

Well played Mr. Anderson, well played.

Bigfoot? Captain Caveman? Lewis?

I really wanted to go mountain biking this weekend, but no one would go with me.  Boo hoo hoo. Life is tuff.   Since I refuse to do anything alone and really wanted to do some exercise,  I decided to go for a hike with my brother.  He always asks and I always say yes, but then at the last minute I scream "I'm out!" I liken it to Lucy pulling the football away.  Today though, that all changed at Los Liones Canyon.

I could go into how Lewis insisted we stop for breakfast before the hike or how I had to wait for him to evacuate his bowels while he texted me photos of his movement to give me a timetable of when the hiking would actually commence, but I I think I will focus on what's really important which is my brother has retard strength.  We went to Los Liones Canyon for what I assumed would be a nice little walk.  What I did not expect was that as soon as we got on the trail my brother would basically sprint off into the woods. He was all business. Full speed ahead. Two things made this awful. First off, I couldn't even remotely keep up with him.  It was embarrassing.  For the amount of mountain biking that I do you would think I would be able to walk up some easy trails at a brisk pace.  This was not the case.   I walked super slow in a zig zag pattern.  If you look at the tracks, you would think a coyote was dragging my corpse back to its den.  My right ass cheek and my hip flexors are still burning.  Now the second issue which should be clear by now, is that I don't like to do things alone.  This was lost on my brother. Because of his speed which I naturally attribute to his caveman walking style, I in essence went hiking alone.  Well I wasn't totally alone, I got to walk behind a nice elderly couple in cargo shorts that had ski poles to help them balance.  They were more than happy to ask if I was doing okay and if I hiked alone often.

It wasn't all bad.  My brother did take me to lunch after the hike.  Then again he was looking at his iPad the whole time so I guess I had lunch alone too.

Lewis, thanks for a lovely day.

Camp Harlam - Current Events

I think I've mentioned once or twice that back in the '80s I went to Jewish sleep away camp for six days.  That's all I could handle before I made my parents come pick me up.  In hindsight I guess it's pathetic that I couldn't handle being in a sleep away camp for Jews.  I imagine there was a lot of sunscreen, complaining, and little weak boys standing around a field looking at a soccer ball wondering  what it was.  I try to block out my failures, but today I was reminded of those days in the backwoods of Pennsylvania when I saw this news article.  I guess some hicks from Tennessee decided terrorizing a bunch of little Jewish kids would be a good use of time.  Now I know this is terrible and I shouldn't laugh, but as a survivor of a Jewish concentration sleep away camp I feel I am allowed to be amused at the thought of these little kids in their yarmulkes running for cover as Cassandra here fires away at them with her paintball gun screaming "Go back to where the fuck you came from you goddamn Jews." Just think about the whole scene.  You know it's funny.

No one said I was a good person.  It could be worse.  At least I'm not Dane Cook (has nothing to do with his Dark Knight joke).

Had to get it out of my system

In what I consider an unprecedented move, I took the initiative to go see The Dark Knight Rises for a second time.  This was the first time I 've ever seen a movie for a second time in the theater.  Until now I never saw a need.  Sure you could chalk it up to me being unemployed and having a delusion that I am indeed batman or you could you could say to yourself the movie is that good.  It isn't.  Don't get me wrong, I loved it, but the second time around I started to see the flaws.  If you look closely, you will notice that batman is wearing eye liner.  That's a deal breaker.

It might be time for me to give my batman mask back to the child I stole it from.  I don't think the world is ready for Jewish batman anyway.

Sad day indeed.

Eastside Apartment in the Sky

If you live on the upper east side and need a shirt pressed, I have some sad news for you.  George Jefferson, of Jefferson Cleaners has passed away.  The store will be closed the rest of the week while Weezy mourns.

As I wipe away the tears, I would be remiss if I didn't mention my fondest memory of Mr. George Jefferson.  It felt like yesterday that George was babysitting Mrs. Whittendale's doberman.  They were playing fetch when an errant toss sent the dog souring off the balcony to his death. For some reason my father couldn't stop laughing when George told Mrs. Whittendale that Poochie committed doggy suicide.  That laughter was infectious and I couldn't help but laugh too.  What do you want from me? It was 1982, my father was high, and this was as good as TV got.

Godspeed George.

 

The Dark Knight Rises

On July 20th, I completed my final goal of summer.  I saw The Dark Knight Rises.  It was everything I hoped it would be. I may be in the minority with this, but I liked it better than The Dark Knight.  We could probably debate the pros and cons of both movies for hours but let's focus on what's important.  The movie has inspired me.  I finally know what I want to be when I grow up.  I want, no I need, to be batman.  I don't see any other way for my life to be fulfilled.  I need the suit, the batpod, the cave, and of course the man servant.  What else is a giant nerd who not so secretly wants to kick everyone's ass to do?  I started working on my costume and batpod.  Now I just have to get in shape.  Fear me.

No Credit for Jhen

I have this friend named Jhen.  She is Mexican, not that there is anything wrong with that.  I met her in New York roughly twelve years ago.  She was working as a chamber maid at a Holiday Inn Express that I liked to frequent for the free continental breakfast.  We hit it off right away and have managed to stay friends all these years despite me being a terrible friend, her almost getting deported, and me moving away.  We don't talk that much these days (mostly because Jhen has a burner phone), but once a year, four days before her birthday, she flies to LA to hang out.  She normally stays with me and we spend the entire time eating like two orphans who just got adopted.  On the second day of her stay I ask her when her birthday is and she tells me it is right after she goes home.  I of course completely forget and never wish her a happy birthday.  One would think she would get upset but she takes it all in stride.   This year though she threw a giant wrench in the plan and I don't think our friendship will ever recover.

Jhen had the nerve to bring a Chinese friend with her on the trip and worse than that, she didn't even stay with me.  Jhen and the china girl stayed with yet another friend.  Instead of us having our normal pig fest, followed by nap fest,  I had to actually schedule time to hang out with her. It was terrible.  All we had was one lousy lunch.  Now at that lunch she did pack away a patty melt and a waffle which was impressive, but I'm still mad.  I had a salad in protest of her betrayal.  Here's a picture from the five seconds we hung out.  Maybe she will get it right next year.  Until then I'm fuming.

Happy Birthday Monkey!

Seventy years ago an unwed bitch gave birth to the most important person in my life.  A person who has no equal.  A person who has seen me through thick and thin.  A person who always holds my hair when I throw up.  A person who has always been there to help me bury the bodies and never asks questions.  A person who is able to lick his own junk.  I'm of course talking about my dog, Monkey.  Ten years ago Rooney made sweet love to Xena and nine weeks later Monkey appeared as the runt of the litter.  Yes, I know my dog's parents names and I find nothing odd about it.  Monkey, you complete me.  Here's to another ten years.  Hopefully I'll live that long.