It Was a Graveyard Smash

Halloween bitches! Some people love it, some people hate it, I fall somewhere in between. As a kid, of course I loved it. Dumping out my pillow case full of candy and as always there was the one old crazy lady who would give you fruit. "Hey lady, thanks for the orange, it's just what I needed to cure my bad case of scurvy." There was also the house that gave out change. Really? Change? As a sugar-craving six year old, I want to thank you for the 35 cents in nickels and pennies that you just dumped into my bag. Fucker!

After sorting through the citrus and dimes, it was time to start sorting the good stuff. The candy that your parents would steal after you went to bed. Snickers, Reese's cups, Nestle Crunch, Hershey Bars, Milky Way, Three Musketeers, Twix, Kit-Kat, Pop Rocks, M&M's and Butterfingers. These were the top tier candies. Then you'd get to the second level, Tootsie Rolls, Sugar Daddy's, Clark bars, Skor, Peppermint Patties, Now and Laters, Lemonheads, Skittles and Starburst. Finally, you'd hit the bottom of the barrel, Mounds, Popcorn Balls, Oh Henry, Laffy Taffy, Charleston Chews, lollipops and Bit-O-Honeys. With your loot laid out in front of you, it was time to start trading. "I'll give you two packs of Bottlecaps and these fancy wax lips for a Snickers and a pack of candy cigarettes." Done.

In my teens, Halloween became less about treating and more about tricking. Growing up next to a corn field, the big thing was to take pillow cases full of corn and dump it all over someones porch or car. So two weeks prior to Halloween I would wear the top layers of skin off my thumbs shucking kernels of corn into a case. Then, Halloween night would come and I'd throw my two weeks of work onto someone's porch and run. Kind of weak looking back on it now.

In my twenties Halloween was all about the parties. There's nothing more dignified then getting hammered, while dressed up as a chick. Walking in heals is a bitch when you are sober, after a dozen beers, I stumbled around like I had two broken knees. I looked like a white trash tranny with lopsided fake tits and smeared lipstick. I don't know how you ladies do it everyday. One night dressed as a chick was more than enough for me. The make-up, the clothes, the shoes, it's all an exercise in masochism if you ask me. I did have some sweet tits though.

Now that I am in my thirties, Halloween is all about the Moo. I've traded my costumes for a lawn chair and cooler full of alcohol. The wife parades the little one around the neighborhood, and I get to sit back, relax and wait for the candy to come to me. I am officially a Halloween pimp. "What, this is all you got for me? Bitch, get back out there and don't come home until you have at least a dozen Take Fives! Before you go grab me another 40 out of the cooler.".

This is totally unrelated, but I laugh everytime I think about it. Here are Amy's quotes of the week:

“It took me like four minutes to realize that I was stuck in the middle of an instrumental Rush song, why is that even on my iPod?” - Amy Crawford 10/29/08

"Your company is bringing in burgers, just for the guys, and then you are getting mystery envelopes? Do you work on some sort of sexist game show?" - Amy Crawford 10/30/08

Wontcha Be My Neighbor?

Sorry non-breeders, but it’s time for another installment of Maggie Moo’s Neighborhood. I try to keep posts about the fruit of my loins few and far between because my wife has this angle covered in her blog, but she always uses a soft focus and a silver lining, so every once in awhile I like to keep it real.

Moo is becoming the queen of the catch phrase. She is the Kenny Mayne of Cosworth Terrace. Her big phrases are “Alright Da-Da”, which she says relentlessly, and “Ohhhh Nooooo!”. Of course she has that cutesy little voice that makes everything sound so sweet. She called Barbara Walters a stupid twat the other day, but the way she said it, just made you go aaaaaaah you’re such an angel.

I will admit it is kind of nice getting reassurance from my daughter for everything I do. I make dinner, I get an “Alright Da-Da”. I use the bathroom, I get an “Alright Dad-Da”. I call the opposing team’s quarterback a fucking date rapist, I get an “Alright Da-Da”. That’s my girl!

While the “Alright Da-Da” is money, the “Ohhhh Nooooo!” sucks sweaty, monkey balls. She thinks she has the right to be a total asshole, as long as she says “Ohhhh Nooooo!” after it. She’ll throw her milk off the table for the tenth time “Ohhhh Nooooo!”. She’ll rip pages out of a book “Ohhhh Nooooo!”. The other morning she broke my glasses, just ripped them apart while I was in the shower, and all I heard was “Ohhhh Nooooo!”. Maggie, WTF? “Ohhhh Nooooo!” is not the “Bless Your Heart” of the South. You do not get immunity for your actions by saying “Ohhhh Nooooo!”. I wish it worked that way, because I would immediately ram my car into the jagoff who comes to a dead stop in a merging lane, then I’d rip out their eye balls and skull fuck them. When I was done, I would just go “Ohhhh Nooooo!”, and then go about my day.

Moo is also starting to put together words and actions, especially when it comes to songs. When we play “The Wheels on the Bus” she goes through the various dance moves that go along with the song. (I am using the term “dance moves” very loosely here.) She rolls her arms, rubs her eyes, waves her hands and shushes us, right on queue. This is cute, except when the 69 Boyz “Tootsie Roll” comes on and she grinds out her booty dance to the howls of the brothers singing “Let me see that tootsie roll”, then she pours a little milk out of her sippy cup onto the floor as if it were a 40oz. “This is for my homies who can’t be with us today.” Maggie your 18 months old, I’m pretty sure all of your homies are doing just fine. Besides, it’s kind of hard to do a drive-by while being pulled in a Radio Flyer wagon.

Finally, Moo has a new favorite TV show, Blues Clues. Apparently, Yo! Gabba, Gabba is sooooo last summer. When Steve or Joe, depending on the episode, comes on, she sits on the floor, yells boos coos about a thousand times and then sways to the music, like a stoned hippie at the original Woodstock. If you haven’t seen the show, the host goes around and collects three clues that will solve the mystery for the day. The mystery usually centers around something that Blue (the dog) wants to do. The host has a note pad to keep track of the clues, and then he sits in the thinking chair to figure it all out. So if the host has a picture of a camel, a woman, and a table support, they would conclude: Blue wants to hump Mommy’s Leg today. Hey! “We just figured out Blues Clues, because we’re really smart!”

Which reminds me that it’s time for me to go and hump Mommy, I just hope that I get an “Alright Da-Da”, and not an “Ohhhh Nooooo!” when I’m done.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I don't sleep that well in hotels, so here I am at 6:30 am on a Wednesday morning banging away on the keyboard. The place we are staying at is nice enough, it's one of those deals where they take an old rundown chain hotel, bring in some fabulous Top Design prodigy and turn it into an uber-chic, too-cool-for-school joint. Then, they can charge you double what they used to, because you have a better mattress, some abstract art and a flat screen in your room.

I don't have a lot of tales from the road so far, but I did find myself in a bit of an uncomfortable situation last night. Because we are in Boston, we ate dinner at Cheers. By the way that place is full of shit, there was no Norm or Cliff and I'm pretty sure that no one knew my fucking name. Anyway, we knocked down some burgers, beers and foo-foo drinks. The girls flirted with the waiter and bartender, Bob and Steve respectively. I was hoping for a Neil and Bob or an Adam and Steve, so that I could make a bunch cliched jokes all evening, but no such luck.

As we were leaving I decided to shake the dew off the lily and when I entered the mens room there was a guy at the sink with his belt open and he was wet around his "region", and then there was another guy taking a piss and spitting a lot. They were both in there 50's and I felt like I'd just walked in on the after glow of a lemon party. (If you don't know what a lemon party is you can do some internet research, but I will warn you that it will scar you for life, and you'll never look at grandpa the same way again.) I went immediately to my urinal, kept my eyes on the wall in front of me, drained the main vein, and headed for the door. As I was leaving, I started singing to myself:

---

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name

and they're always glad you came

On the way out of the mens room, there was a scale where you can pay to weigh yourself. I found this kind of odd, it's not like there were a bunch of jockeys or boxers around who needed to make weight. I can't imagine an instance in a public bathroom I would need to know my weight. "Hmmm, well I weighed 220, then I ate a 1/2 pound burger and I just took a big dump, I wonder how much I weigh now? Wow, 220, I guess my dump and that burger weighed the same amount, I'm really glad there was a scale in here to provide me with that knowledge."

Time for me to jump in the fancy shower and try to wash last night's ick off of me. Hopefully, the maid won't find me curled up on the shower floor in the fetal position, like Elizabeth Shue in Leaving Las Vegas after she'd been gang raped.

Wicked Awesome

I'll be in Boston all week learning how to be the best demo specialist ever, so no posts until the week of Halloween. And one last thing, yoah retahded if ya don't think the sawx ah frickin awesome. Go Rays!
---

Dear God, It's Me Erik

I've tried to stay away from religion, politics and the persecution of the Jews in this blog, because those are the three things you're not supposed to talk about in mixed company. Well, those three things and why slavery was such a good idea. Religion, politics, Jews and slavery, I think that's it. Oh wait, and porn. Religion, politics, Jews, slavery and porn. The five things you shouldn't talk about in mixed company. I know you're thinking what about the plastic surgery game your uncle played with you in the basement, where he drew all over you with a purple marker, then you fell asleep and woke up the next morning with a bloody stool. Damn, this list is getting longer. Religion, politics, Jews, slavery, porn and bloody molestation poo. The six things you shouldn't talk about in mixed company. Fuck, I forgot about my zooligists taboo subject, rhino clits. Religion, politics, Jews, slavery, porn, bloody molestation poo and rhino clits. Ok, I think I could probably go on until I had the 12 days of Christmas covered. "Fiiiiiivvvvveeee rhino clits, four uncle rapes, three porn stars, two persecuted Jews and Jesus nailed to a tree."

Wow, if there's a VIP section in hell I will be sipping Cristal champagne with Hitler, Cheney and Spencer from The Hills, while we watch Paris Hilton and Martha Stewart get some scissor sister action going. That's Hot!

Getting back on topic, I watched this debate on the internet today and it was nice to finally see two people intellectually discuss the issue of God's existence. Most debates between the religiously inclined and those who choose reason over fantasy, usually devolves into a bunch of moronic mudslinging. (Ok, maybe there's a little mudslinging) So whether you say "Oh God" on your knees while you genuflect or you say "Oh God" on your knees while swallowing a sword, this debate should make you think.

Religion: Touch Gloves and Come Out Fighting

Politics: Sam on Sarah

Rhino Clits: Safe for Work

Sorry to those of you who come here for your weekly dose of dick and fart jokes, today I am aiming above the neck, even though I did throw in one dick joke and some bloody stool for you sick fucks.

The Chief and Ryan’s Dad

There’s this woman at Maggie’s daycare that I call the Chief. I call her this because she reminds me of the Chief in One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. She has that big potato head, shiny black hair, and she is always sitting in the same chair. If she can’t do it from her chair, it doesn’t get done. She used to be Maggie’s teacher, but now that Maggie has moved up a level, I only have to see the Chief when someone is out sick.

Yesterday, I went to pick Maggie up and they were all out at the playground, and there she was sitting on a bench. I’m not exactly sure how she got from the classroom to the playground, but that is another tale for another time. I say thank you and she just gives me that stoic, dead-in-the-eyes look. I expect that someday I will come to pick up Maggie and see that a water fountain has been thrown through the front window, and I will immediately know who was responsible.


Last week at daycare, the class of three year olds were all lined up ready to go outside and this smart ass ring leader looks at me with a shit-eating grin and goes “Hi, Ryan’s Dad”. I just smile and wait to get past the crowd. Then, he looks at me again with that wink-and-a-gun smirk on his face and goes “Hi, Ryan’s Dad”. I look at him kind of laugh and say “I’m not Ryan’s Dad”. Apparently, Mr. ring leader isn’t taking no for an answer today, he says “Yes you are!”. Then, this little girl behind him wants to get in on the action and she starts in on me, “Hi, Ryan’s Dad”. I tell them again that I am not Ryan’s Dad, and then the whole class starts calling bullshit on me. “Yes you are!’ “You are Ryan’s Dad!” “Hi, Ryan’s Dad!”. I’m totally getting heckled by the toddler mafia. WTF? I wanted to pull the ring leader aside and say “Listen kid, I’m Maggie’s Dad, not Ryan’s, but if you see Ryan’s Mom and she’s a total MILF, then let me know and I’ll be happy to play the part of Ryan’s Dad.”

That was my week in daycare drama. Next time I see the Chief on the playground, I will be sure to teach her how to dunk a basketball. And as for that little Hitler, I won't hesitate to give him a titty-twister if I can catch him when the teacher isn’t looking. "Say my name bitch, and it better not be Ryan's Dad!"

Doctor Doctor Give Me the News

Over the years I’ve taken minor ailments and thought the absolute worst, so Amy is convinced that I have hypochondriacal tendencies. I don’t think that hypochondriacal is an actual word, but the hypochondriacal tendencies would be a kick ass name for a Jewish punk band. “Did you hear that Marc Goldstein got the Hypochondriacal Tendencies to play his bar mitzvah last weekend? They did a great cover of the Thompson Twins Doctor Doctor”.

This post came about because I was feeling completely exhausted yesterday. I could have closed my eyes and fallen asleep at any point. By the time Amy came home from work, I was convinced that I had a full blown case of chronic fatigue syndrome. However, I feel better today, so I must have had TNSCBSFF24HS. (The not so chronic but still fatigued for 24 hours syndrome) Not only do I self-diagnose my own maladies, but I also project my worse case scenario medical expertise onto my daughter. She had a cough for a few months and Amy thought it was asthma or allergies, but I was convinced it was Cystic Fibrosis.

As a side note, if you want to see a really fucked up documentary check out Sick. It’s about this guy with cystic fibrosis who is a crazy ass masochist. He would cough up jars of phlegm everyday, and then for kicks he'd take a hammer and put a nail through his dick. Which begs the question would you rather have CF or a nail through your penis? After watching this film, I’d take the nail. CF is a mother fucker, not that a nail in your junk isn’t, but that shit will heal, CF is permanent. Sorry I got a little side tracked there. My dreamed up fatal illnesses aside, here is a look at my actual doctor approved injuries over the years.

There you have it, my medical history, both real and imaginary. I think I'd better go call in sick, because I'm pretty sure I feel a nasty case of the plague coming on.

They Call Me the Working Man

We are getting our cars washed at work today, so I started thinking about the jobs that I would never want to do. Washing cars, moving other people’s shit and basically anything involving manual labor is totally out for me. I would be the worst Mexican of all time! Day laborer? Nope. How about a day loiterer? You can pay me to just hang out. Ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper, I would always turn manual labor into a game. If this were Scrubs or Family Guy this is where they would insert a cutaway of me working in a field with other Mexicans. “Hey essay, you seen Rico? We really need to get these apples harvested.” “I think I saw him in that tree over there throwing rotten grannysmiths at the birds on the fence”. El trabajador peor nunca!

In my youth I had a grand total of two manual labor jobs. The first was working construction when I was in high school. We stayed at this pay-by-the-hour motel, four guys to a room, and we got up at 6:00 AM to work in and on an over-sized storage shed all day. I was so tired by the third day of the week that I almost put a nail through my foot. I was on the roof putting up shingles, when I fell into a sleep-deprived trance and set the nail gun on my foot and pulled the trigger. Luckily, I pulled back at the last second preventing a full puncture.

If only the Romans had nail guns back in the day, they could have made the crucifixion business much more efficient. (Insert cutaway to an ancient Roman courtroom) “You are hereby convicted of adultery and sentenced to crucifixion. Ch-chunk, ch-chunk, ch-chunk, ch-chunk…Next!”

Later that week, the boss caught me grabbing a quick nap in a big pile of insulation. Who knew that sleeping on the job was frowned upon in the construction industry? Finally, on the last day, I got food poisoning, because like an idiot I ordered shrimp scampi from a shitty dive bar in bum fuck Pennsylvania. It was definitely, one of the longer weeks of my life.

Lessons learned:
1. Pay by the hour motels are sticky
2. Nail guns fucking hurt
3. If the bar you are eating in considers Coors Light an imported beer, you might want to steer clear of the seafood.

My second manual labor job was during the summer after my freshman year of college. I worked from 7:00 pm – 2:30 am in a bulk mail facility loading huge trucks with shit like catalogs, and QVC merchandise. Keep in mind this was the height of the BMG and Columbia House CD clubs, so I spent a good six of my eight hours throwing boxes of CD’s around. It was hot, sweaty and a good workout, but it was also monotonous and mind-numbingly boring. When it’s 2:00 am on a Tuesday and you are up to your ankles in George Michael and Janet Jackson CD’s, you get a little attitude going.

The old-timers were all union, so they sat around and read the paper, while the young turks, like myself, did all of the work. (Insert cutaway to a bulk mail warehouse) “Hey young turk get this truck to L.A. filled by midnight, and pass me the sports page. Man, that Barry bonds would be great for the Pirates if he could just hit a home run once in awhile.”

The only job I liked at the facility was working in the pit. It was a round area surrounded by conveyer belts and you would sit there and sort packages by zip code, 46219 – Indiana, 25568 – West Virginia, 80129 – Colorado. I was a mail sorting maniac on the floor, and I was sorting like I’ve never sorted before.

Lessons learned:
1. Working nights sucks balls
2. CD’s make good Frisbees
3. Knowing the zip code for Fargo, ND does not impress the ladies

There you have my impressive manual labor resume. If I ever get my dream job of scraping road kill off the highway I’ll add it to this list. For now I’ll just celebrate being a card carrying member of the Rhythm Nation. It’s Erik, Mr. Crawford if you’re nasty!

It's Just a Fantasy

If you have a vagina or a life you can skip this post, as it will contain fantasy football and gambling content. However, if you are big on schadenfreude, then you might want to stick around to enjoy my Sunday debacle. Rant time bitches!

There are a few situations in fantasy football that will make you crazy.
1. You drop someone, who then goes on to have a big game for another team
2. You start someone who is a game time decision and they end up not playing
3. You start someone who gets hurt before they can produce
4. You play the best team in the league and your top players are on a bye

Then you have my fuck up from yesterday, benching players who have outstanding games. I know what you’re thinking; “hey we’ve all benched players that have big games”. But did you bench players from the team that you follow religiously? I’ve only missed three Steelers games since 1994, so I probably should have some insight into my team. Right? Au contraire, I decided to bench Hines Ward and Ben Roethlisberger in favor of Matt ‘I put the ass in’ Cassel and Eddie ‘oooh I have a sprained ankle’ Royal. Of course both Ben and Hines had great games, and to compound my ass raping sans reach around, I lost my fantasy game by less than 6 points. Bitter! ---

For all of you ladies who stuck around, let me try and put this in your terms. Say you love Steve Madden shoes, you wear them everyday, you brag about them to your friends and you constantly show them off to your disinterested significant other while he’s watching Family Guy. Then you walk into Nordstrom and for whatever reason you are wearing your fuck-me, knee-high, Marc Jacob’s boots, when an employee says for the next five minutes we are giving away $500 gift cards to anyone wearing Steve Madden pumps. Bitter!

So that was my fantasy football hall of shame moment. Now, let’s talk about these fucking no talent, ass clowns known as the Colts and Broncos. Last week Mr. Bruce introduced me to the wonderful world of online gambling. I know, bad idea, but I love football and I love gambling, so if you put the two together I am like a pig in shit. I decide to pick three games that look like a lock: Indy giving 4.5 to Houston, Chicago giving 3.5 to Detroit and Denver giving 4.5 to Tampa.

The Bears did what they were supposed to do, so they can leave this conversation. The Colts, who are supposed to be an elite team in the AFC, started strong but then choked on Rosenfels dick for most of the day, before he gave them the game in the fourth quarter. Coming off a bye week, in a game they really needed to win, against a team that for all intensive purposes lost to the Steelers by five touchdowns in week one, the lowly Colts had lady luck give them a gift and then they fail to cover. I want to punch Peyton Manning in the face with a cobra, then give his Mom a Dirty Sanchez, while his brother pisses all over the UT flag.

Ok, now let’s turn our attention to the defensively challenged Broncos, playing at home against the Bucs. You are up by 10 points with 2:08 left and you give up the touchdown that let’s them beat the spread. You couldn’t hold out for 128 seconds more to hook me with some coin? Hey Shanahan, maybe you should spend less time in the tanning booth and more time working on your prevent defense. I know that you and your giant capped teeth enjoyed a big juicy steak at Del Friscos after the game, while I had to eat PB&J because those sorry ass, scrotum-kissing, rim-jobbers you call a defense couldn’t be bothered to actually stop someone from scoring.

So week 5 in the NFL was a disaster for me, I guess I’d better go fountain diving for some change to bet on next week’s games. Has anyone seen my Steve Madden pumps?

An Open Letter to October

Dear October,

I wanted to thank you for the many gifts you bring; cooler weather, great sports, Halloween and Cypress Independence Day. I was thinking with the first part of your name being “Octo” that you would be the eighth month of the year, but somehow you ended up in the ten spot. After further investigation I discovered that you used to be the eighth month on the old Roman calendar, but got demoted when January and February were added to the new Gregorian Calendar. (Thanks Wikipedia!)

You open with the internationally celebrated Cyprus Independence Day. I mean without Cyprus being a free and democratic society we wouldn’t have, hmm, ummm, uhhh, yeah, well at least it’s not Lesbos Independence Day, right? That place is full of lesbians, wait, that would be great. What I meant to say is fuck Crete! Hey, this isn’t an open letter to Cyprus, so let’s move on.

By the way, great job cooling off the weather. As all the women over 30, or under 150 lbs, break out the scarves, sweater sets and desk heaters, I am finally comfortable. Gone are the days of sweating like George Kennedy in Cool Hand Luke when my toe crosses the line from air-conditioning to the outside world.

October, you are truly a sports panacea. The NFL and NCAA are in full swing, the NHL starts this weekend and baseball is in the playoffs, making it possible for me to actually watch more than one inning without changing the channel. Plus, the NBA season is still a little ways off, so this is the only time during the year when I can actually enjoy ESPN. This reason alone makes you better than the other 11 months.

Finally, you close with Halloween, the second candy giving holiday of the year, but the only one without a dead guy coming out of a cave after three days and an over-sized retarded bunny. (I’ll save my Halloween appreciation post for later.)

In closing I want to say thank you October for being the best you, you can be. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take the “Fuck Crete” bumper stickers and flags off of my truck.