Close One (or potentially 3!)

"Close one!"

That was my thinking last week when I was wearing one of my favorite pairs of boxer shorts.

I don’t remember when I started wearing boxer shorts, but I know the radio station Eagle 106 was still around, because they were an Eagle 106 pair. I remember them well because they were made of this horrific material that was so stiff the “pee hole” was always open, kind of defeating the purpose of underwear at all. If that wasn’t bad enough, my Mom won them for me.

And thus I entered the world of boxer shorts.

There are many stories I could share, such as the “white” Homer Simpson boxers I destroyed…the less detailed the better on this one, but note “white” is in quotes. There’s the light pair I accidentally dyed pink. I continued to wear them, because who would ever know? Then, and perhaps the greatest boxer story known to man, there was my infamous “Bullwinkle” boxers. I wore them to France (no underpants poem coming up). And decided they should, like many works or Art, remain in the Louvre. I have a map indicating where I hid them. Some day I hope to go back and see if they are still there. France is pretty dirty. I’m thinking they are.

So the other day, I put on one of my favorite pairs. They’re supportive. They’re comfortable. They’re one of the pairs that make my day better when their turn comes up. We all have pieces of clothes like this. Which makes you wonder why you hang on to the ones that don’t make you fell like this. I put them on last week and went off into the dangerous world of boxer wearing…

I saddled up to the urinal like a cowboy’s known to do and did what cowboys did…besides running the Natives off their land. Although I guess in a way there was a similarity…that is if the cowboys had asparagus the night before. I finished and pulled the zipper up…and got caught!

Here’s the thing that the ladies will never understand…er…at least I hope they never understand…can you snag a labia in your zipper? Because if you could, you should probably be in the circus. Every guy, at some point in his life will “catch himself.” It just happens. It’s usually not something you feel right away. You think, “Did I?” but you there’s no pain. Then it HITS! *WHAM-O!

*I did notice that I have WHAM, “getting caught” and men’s rooms in this past sentence. I dedicate it to George Michaels.

I felt resistance, which causes an immediate stoppage of zippering. I looked down and realized, not unlike the Secret Service, my boxers took one for the Commander in Shorts. Will they get a metal? Unlikely. Will they be remembered in a text book for children to read about for years to come? No, but as previously mentioned one of their contemporaries is in the Louvre. Will they just get thrown into the trash and become another discarded piece of clothing eventually worn by a homeless man? Maybe…but not yet. I am happy to say I am wearing them as I write this.

They’re my favorite pair, how could I simple toss them aside especially after they took one for the team (I refer to my parts as a team, as we’re all in this together).

So next time you put on some article of clothing that is near a dear to your heart, stop a moment and enjoy that feeling, especially if your “heart” happens to be in your crotch.

Chi TOWN!

I am thinking of auditioning for the Musical “Chicago.” There’s only 1 problem…I can’t sing. I’m one of those Irish that likes to think he can sing, but deep down knows there’s a potato feminine in my tune carrying department. This is a trait only found in Irish Americans. I’m not saying that ALL natural born Irish can sing, I’m just saying they all think they can and would never admit anything else.

So, Wilmington Drama League is about to put up “Chicago.” I enjoy the musical, but I’m not going to pretend that I love it or it’s the great musical I’ve ever heard. But it does have one thing I am a huge fan of, fishnets.


*I swear they look better on a person...well not ALL persons...

I don’t know where my obsession for the airy leggings came from. Perhaps the Las Vegas ads in my Dad’s old VFW magazines (which, by the way, seems like an appropriate ad for a magazine about war, “You’re lucky enough to survive Vietnam, now try your luck ay blackjack!”)

The thing is this…I just flat out can’t sing. So my thinking is Matt Casarino, director of Chicago (and writer extraordinaire in his own right…or rite…or write – HEY-O!) should add a character, The Prison Janitor. That’s right. Who cleans up those floors the girls get all sexy on? The Janitor. The can’t be dancing around on dirty floors, this is not Flashdance after all. His back story is tragic. He was beaten by his mother as a child and as a result has become a mute (no singing – brilliant). His tragic flaw, he’s obsessed with fishnets, probably from frequenting dirty prostitutes (come on, the guy isn’t going to be picking chick up in bars, he’s a mute AND a Janitor). Though he doesn’t sing or talk, he can even have a dance number if it’s necessary. Maybe with a mop? I don’t know. That’s really up to Matt to decide.



In the end he runs off with Roxy Hart when he realizes he can communicate through her when she sits on his lap ala ventriloquist dummy. He sings a heart wrenching song at the end in his own voice (which is actually sung off stage by someone else). The women all swoon for him because they are amazed at how beautiful his singing voice is and that you can’t see his lips move. They show their appreciation by using their fishnet clad bodies to writhe across the floor. Both turning The Janitor on and, kindly enough, taking care of his cleaning chores.

I don’t know that this dream of mine will come true. However, I high recommend you ALL plead with Matt Casarino, that this is the direction he should take the show when you show up for auditions Sunday, July 11 and Monday, July 12 at 7:00pm. Tell him, “you send one of ours to the stage or we’ll send you to the morgue…that’s the Chicago way.” It works better with some Ennio Morricone score behind it.

I’d say I’ll see you there, but there’s I am in a local production of Rocky Horror that night, playing the mute Butler who rubs against everyone.

Karma Vs Caffeine

No matter what my wife says, Karma is a bitch! She gets angry when I say this. She says based on MY version of Karma, the people in Haiti did something to bring the shit storm they have experience over recent times on themselves. Neither she nor I actually believe this. I’m sure some of you do, and you are the one Karma is looking to gang rape.

So that said, I have spent many of my days making fun of people with lazy eyes, crazy eyes or eyes that are completely missing. Growing up, not a day would go by when I didn’t make fun of Sandy Duncan. I still do, though most people don’t know who that is. If you try and explain it to them, their eyes glass over (which is kind of ironic or eye-ronic).

Sammy Davis Jr, Peter Falk, Stevie Wonder…ok, he didn’t have a glass eye, but we still made fun of his deformity.

That said my eye has been twitching like crazy! So much so that I have taken to calling my right eye Alex P. Keaton (because again, the 80s sitcom stars must fell my wrath!)

I thought the twitch was being caused by mounting stress. My wife (the one who doesn’t believe in my vicious version of Karma) seems to think caffeine is the culprit. I had given up drinking soda a couple of years ago because I was starting to get a bit large in the “lower region” (my gut). However, like a true addict, it slowly crept back into my life.

So I stopped drinking it again 2 days ago. But alas, I woke up this morning with a blood filled eye. “What the what?”

I can now only assume it is not caffeine, but rather Karma making a visit.

So I’d like to apologize to Sandy Duncan for all of the times a Wheat Thins commercial came on and my brothers and I laughed at you. I apologize to Peter Falk, who always seemed so focused on the case as Columbo even if he couldn’t focus on an object. I apologize to Steve Wonder. I have seen you lately buddy (notice no joke about you not being able to see me?) Seriously, you too might want to cut out the soda and perhaps go easy on the Wheat Thins. And finally I apologize to you the reader, for that horrendous “eye ronic” joke I told. You deserve better than that.

As for Alex P. Keaton, you can suck it buddy! Just becaussssssss…

…Holy Shit! My hand started shaking at the end of that sentence!

Bald, Balding, Baldiest

Bald dudes get a bum wrap in our society.

People equate being bald to 2 things: skinheads and cancer patients.


Come on! Really? Isn’t there anything else. Isn’t there anyone COOL who can take up the cause of the bald or balding fellow? I guess I should say Fellette here too but, let’s face it, a bald chick is kind of hot. It immediately makes one think of other possible hairless areas.

Did you know in the history of the United States Presidency, only 5 were bald! John Adams, was fortunate enough to live in a time when it was fashionable for men to wear wigs, plus he had his own HBO mini series - the 20th century has yet to see a tranny wannabe in the White House. John Quincy Adams who, based on photos and what limited research I did (Wikipedia), clearly inherited his father’s follicle challenges AND his badass wig collection. Martin van Buren, like the two previous bald Presidents, he only served 1 term – I guess people didn’t like to re up these guys once they got a look at that “high shine.” James Garfield was bald…and assassinated. He only got to baldly serve his country for 200 days, many of which were spent in bed after being shot by the full headed Charles Julius Guiteau. Guiteau kept his hair buzzed close to his head, which many baldies see as a spiteful insult, “I can grow it, but I choose to do this.” And finally Dwight D. Eisenhower. Okay, I’ll admit Dwight kicked ass! But he was an infamous military leader. Perhaps he kept his hair cut short as many a soldier is known to do, I guess so bullets slip off of them or something

And I know there are some bad ass baldies out there. Kojack, Picard…Yul “Mother Effing” Brynner! Although he did change his name from Ûlij Borisovič Briner, you could say he was ashamed of being Russian…but perhaps it was the fact that he was forced to buy an awful lot of hats! The man was in The Kind and I! Do you think it wasn’t deliberate that Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II (both men of copious amounts of hair) cast a bald dude in a show that features a song called “I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair?”

Bald is beautiful?

Finasteride, which produces many products used to treat male pattern baldness (for example Propecia), is currently trading at $35.51 on the NYSE. Merck & Co, the company that owns Finasteride, made 27.4 billion in 2009. Sure, they deal in more then just hair rejuvenation, but 27.4 billion is a LOT of little hairs! So what is the cost of a treatment such as Propecia? I don’t mean fiduciary, I mean the possible side effects, because that’s how you know how desperate someone is. Well…1 to 18.5% of users experience impotence, 7% abnormal ejaculation (not sure what this means…does it glow in the dark, cause that’d be cool), 1 to 2.8% decreased ejaculatory volume, almost 3% abnormal sexual function (again, not sure if this mean a raging Bruce Banner like boner that rips through one’s pantaloons – again, quite a party trick), and my favorite 1.2% experience testicular pain. Quite a gamble to have something to run a comb through.

In December 2008, the Swedish Medical Products agency advised that the use of Propecia may result in irreversible sexual dysfunction. So you spent all that money to lure a girl into your sack and you can’t do anything once she’s there! Hell, just invest in a rag and some ether.

So anyone who wonders if it bothers me that I have 50% less hair then I did 5 years ago and 150% more hats in the same time, let me assure you that I take NO pills or other remedies to hold on to something that every one of us complains about if it’s in our food. Although I have been known to rip through a pair of khakis in my day!

Let's See How Long This Lasts...

I have fallen off when it comes to blogging. I used to love it. But lately I can’t get motivate enough to walk up the stairs and turn on the computer. Also, I have taken to spending time with my wife. I know. Crazy right? But when I want to commit every commuters soul to damnation because they all slowed down to witness a fender bender (which I assure you I didn’t even gaze upon), I just come home and tell my wife. She rolls her eyes and then outs small, almost tasteless amounts of arsenic in my dinner.

I also wonder if anyone really cares. Sure people will listen to your opinion when you have a party, because you have supplied beer and nachos (again, if prepared by previously mentioned wife, I’d watch yourself). It’s amazing the amount of rhetoric people will entertain if they are getting something free out of it. Hell, there is an entire holiday built around girls showing their privates for beads that you can buy at most party stores. But not only do you NOT get anything for free while reading someone’s blog, you give up something FREE. Your time (I was going to be clever and say “your free time,” however it occurs to me, most of you deadbeats will read this on your company’s time).

I do love reading people blogs (on company time). One of my favorite things to do is get angry and worked up over the opinions in a blog and think, “what kind of a moron would write this garbage!” Then I realize, I am reading my blog from a few years ago. I also like to get drunk and write a blog. When I read it later it’s like the story of the elves helping the old cobbler mend shoes. Only filled with a shit load of spelling errors and more than a few incoherent sentences…also, I still have holes in my shoes.

I do have more time to write now. I recently ended a web series that took up much of my time. And although I am in pre-production on another series, I have done things differently this time around. I brought on a bunch of talented people so I can steal their ideas and work a hell of a lot less!

So with that I hope to re enter the world of blogging. Or at least get one of these new writers to do it for me.

Little Drummer Boy

Who amongst us didn't think, at least at one point in their life, that "the Little Drummer Boy," and "Little Drummond Boy," might in fact be the same person? Be honest...

The fact is it's kind of tough to figure out who the REAL "Little Drummond Boy" would be. Sure Willis was the OLDEST, but that doesn't mean Philip Drummond didn't heap upon him ALL of his love. In fact, sometimes the OLDEST is the most loved. After all they are closest to you in age.

Let us remember all of the Drummond's as we go through the lyrics of "The Little Drummer Boy," and of course, some holiday history:

Little Drummer Boy was written in 1958. Katherine K. Davis, Henry Onorati & Harry Simeon all had a hand in its creation. The song would go on to be a hit for the odd duo of (Christmas perennial and kid beating) Bing Crosby & (cross dressing and Mick Jagger beating offing) David Bowie. It was Crosby's hottest selling song since "White Christmas."

"The Little Drummer Boy"

Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum.
They actually told you "come?" Like...in what way?

A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum.
There seem to be a lot of problems with that last sentence...could you maybe move the verb around? What is this, "Yoda Speak?"

Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum.
Really? Cause you didn't actually bring anything. Yeah, you played a song and all...but you left nothing CONCRETE. Like, the kid had nothing to unwrap...that's kind of like not bringing anything at all. You didn't even leave a drum stick. Tommy Lee at least has the decency to throw a stick into the crowd...and he made a porn.
Just saying, be more like Tommy Lee (WWTLD?)

To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
Again, didn't "lay" anything before the King. Tommy Lee on the other hand, did lay Pamela Anderson. Not necessarily "before" the King, but nonetheless...

So to honor him, pa rum pum pum pum, when we come.
Kind of obsessed with this whole coming thing, huh? And what's with the rum pum pum pums? Couldn't think of anything else? Sounds like a place holder that you decided to leave in. Lazy buddy! Really fucking lazy. Let's see how things are progressing for the "Little Drummond Boy..." Oh Sam. The cousin Oliver of Different Strokes. What was with your mother's accent by the way? Why didn't you have one?

Sam did end up on "Salute Your Shorts." He went from being "honkey lips," to being "Donkey Lips." Look it up...that's close to accurate, and on the internet, that's PRETTY DAMN GOOD!

Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum.
I don't think I would call The Lord, a little baby. I understand what you're saying...just seems like a taunt.

I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum.
You just called Jesus a baby and poor. What's up bub? He can shoot ray beams out of his eyes. I wouldn't be talkin' shit.

I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum.
Because you spent all of your money. On whores. Philip Drummond would be rolling over in his grave if he wasn't cryogenically frozen (they store them so they can't roll over - limits the cracking).

That's fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
The King? Or A King? Cause Jesus was great and all, but there's only one true King...

King Dudley:
You knew I had to fit in a Dudley getting molested joke right? Cause it isn't Christmas if some's "kick stand" isn't being straightened out in the back of a bike shop. Look it up...

Shall I play of you, pa rum pum pum pum? On my drum?
No, why don't you play on the baby's soft spot? Dumb fucking drumming kid. You know they will eventually invent a drumming machine because you're such a dick right?

Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum.
She was being nice.

The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that what the drummer is supposed to do?

I played my drum for Him pa rum pum pum pum.
We get it!

I played my best for Him pa rum pum pum pum rum pum pum pum rum pum pum pum.
You're what 6? How good could that really have been?

Then He smiled at me pa rum pum pum pum. Me and my drum.
He's a baby...it was gas.

***************************************

So there you have it. The Little Drummer Boy, and of course the little Drummond boy.

What's you talkin' about Jesus?

Jingle Bells

I find Christmas a bit perverted...perhaps that's why I love it. The holiday revolves around a dude who sneaks into your house and fondles your stockings for Chrissake! We all know the jokes about how he only "comes once a year." Hell, even mistletoe is a devious ornament. The rules of Christmas DEMAND that anyone caught standing under mistletoe, must kiss. This has lead many a sex fiend to fashion a belt buckle out of the leaf from the old rape tree.

My brothers and I are all within 4 years of each other. This meant we all made similar discoveries around the same time. My mother, in her motherly way, decided to tell these three boys that their testicles were "jingle bells." This was no big deal, until Christmas when we heard the word incessantly. I suppose some children would blush hearing the word being tossed around the way it was...while others would scream with fear. Imagine the thoughts of a child who learns "jingle bells" will be hung from the Christmas Tree. This does prove an efficient way to keep naughty kids nice the whole year round. However, the Regan boys found this to be hilarious. Imagine watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and hear Santa Claus say, "each year I shine up my 'jingle bells' for eight lucky reindeer." Trust me, we laughed our Jingle Bells off!

By the way, a little history on the song: It was written by James Pierpoint in 1857. It was actually written for Thanksgiving, not Christmas. Pierpoint was a Boston minister, which given what I've already said above and the things we have learned about clergymen from Beantown in recent years, seems appropriate (in a very inappropriate way).

So, put yourself in the mind set of a child as we review the words to this "harmless" Holiday Classic:


"Dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh"

I feel two horse open sleigh would have been a bit on the nose. Imagine the bouncing up and down you'd be doing with two horses pulling the sleigh. Rather than red and green (as pictured above) those jingle bells would both be RED!

"O'er the fields we go, laughing all the way"

If one of your jingle bells was green, you wouldn't be laughing. Instead, you'd be booking ass to the doctor. He'd probably say, "Put some ice on it." Then you'd be like..."CHRIST! I was just dashing through the snow, I should have reached out and grabbed some."

"Bells on bob tails ring, making spirits bright"

What is a bob tail you might wonder...well it was a horse's tail cut short. Not sure why this asshole decided to put bells on it after he butchered it. Man, this song is creepy. We got a guy with a red nut and a green nut booking ass to the ER all the while riding a eunuch horse. (Wait until we get to "Deck the Halls" kids).

"What fun it is to laugh and sing a sleighing song tonight."

Now here's the crazy part, in Boston, where people speak funny, "Sleighing" and "Slaying" mean the same thing. So...it's possible that this deranged animal, with multi-colored testes, is on a killing spree which should have been predicted when he started cutting horse cocks as a hobby. Let's see where this tune takes us...

"Oh Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way."

You all pictured him shaking his parts about while singing this right? It's not just me I mean.

"On what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh."

Now I'm picturing the guy riding down hills IN the horse. He gutted the poor beast like Han did to the Ton Ton in Empire. Only Han did it so his friend Luke won't die from horrid weather conditions, this dude did it because SANTA told him to...I ask you, was it SANTA...or perhaps if we move a letter or two S-A-T-A-N. Oh holy shit!

"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way."

He's back to the shaking thing again. It gets him riled up.

"Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh."

Repeating one's self is both a poetic device, AND a sign of insanity. Luckily no one else was on the sleigh with this sick bastard. Wait, what? There's a second verse to this song? Most people just repeat the first verse over and over (See line about insanity above).

"A day or two ago, I thought I'd take a ride."

That means this is ALL premeditated. That's first degree sucko!

"And soon Miss Fanny Bright, was seated by my side."

Oh Fuck! He's got a hostage.

"The horse was lean and lank, misfortune seemed his lot."

Okay asshole, you cut his dick off...not sure you should be blaming misfortune here. How about the guy with multi colored balls. And why point out he's lean and lank? He was doing just fine until you started snipping.

"We got into a drifting bank, and then we got upsot."

I have no idea what the fuck this means.

"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way, Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh,"
"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way, Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh."

And there you have it. Clearly the guy dies in a snow bank. What of the fate of Miss Fanny Bright you wonder? Some claim she was already dead and the guy was defiling her corpse in between verses, but others believe it was Miss Bright who went on to tell the tale of the man with multi colored nuts.

Either way it's a toe tapper.