Sunday, February 26, 2006

Come on over to "my space".

Last night we were shaking hands with people coming out of our show and one of my buddies was handing out his “card” saying, “Come be my friend on my space.”

He’s young, he’s Vietnamese, I thought maybe this was his feeble attempt at picking up women and he was having a language problem.

“Dat, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m inviting people to my space.”

“Jesus Christ Dat, you won Last Comic Standing you don’t need to ask out the skanky drunk girls.”


“Look, shake everyone’s hand but be a little more particular about who you invite over to your place.”

“Tony what the hell are you talking about?”

“I know your 15 minutes of fame is almost used up, but come on use what’s left to get hot chicks.”

“Tone, you do know what "my space" is don’t you?”

“Look I don’t know what kind of oriental Asian martial art metaphysical hocus pocus you’re in to but it’s all good, just be a little more particular and don’t be so aggressive.”

“My space is a web site.”

“I know, I know, you’re Asian, all you guys are into that techno stuff with your pods your mp’s and your blueberries and everything. How you decorate your apartment is none of my business, I’m just saying you don’t have to settle. What would your mom say?”

“Tony, "my space" is a social networking interface that uses different types of media for people to interact with each other on the internet.”

“Dat, you don’t have to tell me. Back in my day I had the ladies wowed to the sounds of Jethro Tull on my eight track stereo. Ohhh yeahh… I know all about social networking.”

“No, my space is an actual site on the internet.”

“Look it’s none of my business. You got a camera set up on your computer to broadcast what goes on with the ladies at your space that’s your thing. Hey, I saw American Pie. But do you really want people to see you with some of these women? Please Dat, a little self respect.”

“Tony, "my space" is not my apartment; "my space" is a web site. WWW DOT MY SPACE DOT COM!!!!”


“It’s a web site.”

“Oh…Well… Go ahead then…”

I guess I’m getting too old to hang out with these younger comedians. I’m being passed up by body piercings, tattoos and technology.

I’ve tried to fight technology; I don’t need a five blade razor. I want to shave, not skin buffalo.

I struggle to communicate with the youth today.

There’s a cocktail waitress at the Comedy Store that has a tattoo in Mandarin Chinese on the back of her neck and rings through her nose, ears and both eyebrows. She told me the tattoo translated to the words, “logical nonsense.”

“Really? Do you speak Mandarin Chinese?”


“Then how do you know that tattoo doesn’t say beef with broccoli?”

Who knows, maybe some day I’ll get a ring pierced through something, maybe a nipple, at least I’d have a place to keep a spare house key.

But as for “my space”…. The only space that’s mine is a little corner of the garage. There are no cameras, no pods, no blueberries or any of that crap. There is my old eight track stereo cassette player, my Jimi Hendrix and My Edgar Winters White Trash tapes, my tools and my fishing gear.

I don’t share my space with anyone.

It’s mine.

I earned it.

That’s all the space I need.

Friday, February 24, 2006

I'm going for the gold!!!

I’m watching the Winter Olympics and all these athletes are skinny people.

Wouldn’t it be more challenging if say a ski jumper weighed, oh I don’t know, 400 pounds?

Now that’s a landing I’d pay to see.

I think fat people would be more fun to watch in all the events.

Think of a 1200 pound four man bobsled team. Sure the start would be slow but once those puppies got moving….

The “skeleton” and “luge” events would give fat kids hope that someday they too could wear Olympic gold.

Um… speed skating might be a little boring; it’d be more like mall walking.

If Sasha Cohen weighed in at around 350 when she fell on her jumps we’d be disappointed, but we’d almost expect it, and I for one would give her the gold medal just for the effort.

My favorite Olympic event is “Curling”.

How drunk were the guys that thought this up?

"Dude why do you have that rock, your wife’s iron, Crazy Glue and her broom?”

“Check it out; we glue the iron to this rock right? Then we use it as a handle to throw the rock across the ice.”

“What’s with the broom?”

“That’s to fend off my wife until the rock stops.”

I didn’t understand what “Curling” was so I looked it up.

Did you know that rule number 16 of the World Curling Federation says, “No Doping”?

These people are concerned about “Curlers” using performance enhancing drugs.


Never mind.

I’ve decided that being an overweight middle aged man that my chances of winning Olympic Gold in any event are fading quickly.

But I’m starting my own drive to add an event to the Summer Olympics. This is an event where someone like me not only has a chance, but will dominate. This is an event that Americans will rule until the end of time.


The summer barbecue.

Bring it on Norway, Finland, Japan. Come on Russia, China, we’ll kick your ass and we won’t have to wear some frilly tights and do triple sour cows or whatever.

You won’t have to be skinny or twelve years old to win. You won’t have to vault over anything and the only thing you have to balance is the corn on the cob.

The only rings we'll hang on to are onion rings.

We’ll toil over the flames in a sauce stained apron of pride and rise above all victorious!

This will be my moment on the podium holding my golden spatula for all to see while they raise my flag over the Germans and their bratwurst and the English and some type of meat.

Yes, this will be my Olympic moment!!!.


USA!!! USA!!! USA!!!


For some reason I’m hungry all of a sudden.

Must be because I'm an athlete in training....

Monday, February 20, 2006

File this one under, You Just Can’t Make This Stuff Up.

Last night I take my wife, two sons, and pregnant daughter-in-law to dinner. I’m not going to say who said what, you can probably figure it out.

“What’s wrong Kim?”

“There’s an old woman singing in the stall in the ladies room.”


“What’s she singing?”

“You’re not going to believe me.”

“Sure we are sweetheart.”

“New Attitude.”


“I’m serious there’s an old woman on the toilet singing “New Attitude.”

“Do pregnant woman hallucinate?”

“I’m not hallucinating, she’s in there singing, “I'm feelin' good from my head to my shoes.”

“Well you do kind of get a new attitude after you’ve gone to the bathroom.”

“So it was a “Potty Labelle” song.”

“Stop it Tony.”

“Can we please just order dinner?”

“Where are Melina and Alex tonight?”

“She’s working, Alex is at her mom’s, but she’s upset with me anyway.”

“What now?”

“We were in Target checking out and Alex asks the checker what her name is, she says Leticia. He then says, “My name is Alex and I’m three.” So far no problems. Then as we’re leaving he turns to her and says, “Hey Leticia, what time do you get off work tonight?”

“I’m laughing and Melina is mad because she thinks he’s repeating something I said. I told her I was innocent. She knows I would never do anything like that.”

“What? Why is everyone looking at me? I don’t even shop at Target.”

“Right dad.”

“Let’s change the subject. So Anthony how are the dogs?”

“Well, we’re having puppies?”

“We gave Cali a doggy early pregnancy test.”

“Dude, you’re wife and your dogs are giving birth? You’re screwed. You may never sleep again.”

“Excuse me I have a question. How do you give an early pregnancy test to a pit bull?”

“Very carefully.”

“I had to follow her around with this little cup and then try and dive underneath to get some, you know, just as she starts to go.”

“Why are you all laughing at me? Have you ever tried to get a pit bull to pee in a cup?”

(The waitress walks up just as he says that.)

“Um… It sounds like you need a few more minutes to decide.”

(We order, we get our dinner, and then….)

“Whenever I eat meat my nose stuffs up.”


“I can’t explain it. My nose just plugs right up whenever I eat meat. Not a cheeseburger meat, I mean like, you know, steak meat.”

“Uh… What are we doing now? Random thought streams?”

“My nose is plugged up okay? I’m just saying when I eat a steak it plugs up.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Here’s a thought… Blow your nose.”

“Oh, whenever I eat lamb I go blind.”

“I can’t have chicken, I go deaf.”

“Bite me.”

“Knock it off.”

“Boy what we need here is a little attitude adjustment.”

(In unison and out loud.)

“I'm feelin' good from my head to my shoes, know where I'm goin' and I know what to do,
I tidied up my point of view, I got a new attitude.”

“Oh my god, that’s the singing lady right there. She thinks we’re making fun of her.”

“Ooh ooh ooh ooh, I need to use the restroom.”

“Check please!!!”

Friday, February 17, 2006

The lunatic is in my head......

I’m hearing voices in my head.

“You’re gonna die anyway.”

“Don’t listen to him, yes we’re all going to die, but do you want to be buried in a casket from COSTCO?”

“Pussy, just eat it. You’re an adult, you pay taxes, and you deserve it.”

“Deserve it? You deserve to have a heart attack? Eat your carrots.”

“Carrots? Look at yourself, are you a rabbit? No, you’re a man, you have teeth that were made to eat… meat… and… and… pizza.”

“If you’re going to do this don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Oh now you’re trying guilt? You’re as big a pussy as he is.”

“Don’t push me, I mean it.”

“You mean what? I’m not afraid of you, bring it on pussy boy.”

“WHAT? YOU TALKING TO ME? I know you’re not talking to me.”

“I must be talkin to you cause I don’t see another loser in front of me.”

“THAT’S IT!!!!”


“What the hell are you doing?”


“Why are you looking at my dinner that way?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are and why are you moving your head up and down and back and forth?”

“Uh… I have a spasm.”

“You’re an idiot, eat your vegetables.”

“Maybe I don’t want vegetables?”

“Fine, maybe you want to weigh 300 pounds again.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Oh yes you are.”

“Okay that’s true, but only because you have a sword and eventually I have to sleep.”

“What the hell is wrong with you tonight?”

“I want pizza.”

“Get over it.”

“Get over it? That’s your big diet tip? Get over it?”

“Visualize pizza on your plate and then eat it.”

“You want me to eat broccoli and pretend its pizza… broccoli… Last time I checked you couldn’t get a slice of broccoli.”

“Yeah, well you eat pizza and you won’t be able to get into those pants.”

“Those aren’t my pants, those are your…. Crud… Pass the carrots.”


“Okay, break it up you two.”

“He started it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”



“Enough, both of you get back into his head and act like responsible consciences, I’m in charge now.”

“Ooooh, Mr. Sex Drive thinks he can take over.”

“I guess we better behave for the next five minutes.”

“Do you two want to sleep on the colon?”

“Fine, we get it, we’re outta here.”

“But we’ll be BACK!!!”

“I hate sleeping on the colon.”

“Me too, especially after you make him eat that broccoli.”

“Better than that fettuccini you want him to eat.”

“True… True…”

Sunday, February 12, 2006

"Oye Como HUH?"

“Dad, help me.”

“Speak to me grasshopper.”

“Kim… Kim… I’m not sure how to say this….. Kim made me kiss her rash.”

“Uh… Son… Aren’t we a little too old for a “birds and the bees” talk?

“Dad? Did you hear me? SHE MADE ME KISS HER RASH!!! NOT HER ASS, HER RASH!!!”

“Uh… Mr. Miyagi got nothing.”

“Dad, I get home and she’s scratching this rash on her stomach I tell her not to scratch it and she says then I have to kiss it and I say what if it’s something contagious and she says you won’t kiss the stomach where my baby is so I blow a kiss to it and she gets this look like mom gets when she’s got her sword only she doesn’t have a sword so she picks up a shoe so I kneel down to kiss it and at the last minute I slip my hand between my lips and her stomach and she notices so I say okay and I kiss the rash but then I go to wash my face and brush my teeth and she catches me snaps and now I’m outside with Chewie.”

“You’re outside with your dog?”

“He was already in trouble.”

“A twenty-five year old Italian Portuguese male and a pit bull are outside hiding from one pregnant woman?”

“Chewie started it.”

‘You’re blaming your dog?”

“Well dad… He… He… Kind of got stuck to Cali.”

“He got stuck?”

“You know dad… stuck.”

“You mean?”

“He’s been humping everything and well… he got stuck.”

“So your pit bull molested her pit bull and that started it.”

“Well if Cali hadn’t, you know, tensed up, it would have been fine. Have you ever tried to separate two mating pit bulls?”

“Not recently.”

“Well Kim looks at me with this, “See what you’ve started” look and starts yelling at Chewie like he has a clue. He’s looking at me with this, “Hey! Little help here” look and it just got bad dad, really really bad.”

“So now you’re hiding.”

“We’re not hiding; she knows we’re out here. Dad I don’t think this is just mood swings anymore I think she may be possessed.”

“Son she’s not possessed, what you’ve got there is, “failure to communicate.”

“Cool Hand Luke? You’re quoting Cool Hand Luke dad?”

“A good movie quote or the lyrics to a Carlos Santana song can save the world.”

“How has mom not killed you? Dad what am I gonna do? I just want things to be normal again.”

“Um… Son… Grasshopper… Sport…Think of this as your “new” normal.”

“Dad… I kissed a rash…”

“Son you will kiss a lot more than that when your son is growing up.”

“Dad, how did you get through this?”

“Man who catch fly with chopstick accomplish anything.”

“Come on dad.”

“You just do son, you just do.”

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Sometimes it really isn't my fault....

I took my three year old grandson to Toys R Us last night... cause that's what grandpas do.

We get to Toys R Us and he wants to ride standing up in the cart. He wants to “steer” the “ship.”

I’m good with this because he can’t take off running if he’s in the cart.

See… I can be responsible.

“Hey poppa, are you a super hero?"

“I can’t tell you. Super Heroes can’t let anyone know who they are.”

“I think you’re a super hero.”

“Well thanks pal.”

“You’re Suuuupppper Poppa Man.”

(Oh he is so going to get toys.)

“Poppa, what’s wrong with that guy?”

“Um… Nothing that I can see.”

“Hey mister, what happened to your face?”

(OH NO!!!)

“Hey little guy.”

“What’s wrong with your face?”

“Uh… I don’t know. What do you think is wrong with my face?”

“I think you ate too much chocolate.”


“I’m sorry sir, Alex there’s nothing wrong with that man, he’s a black man, and he was born that color.”


“Well Alex people are born all different colors. Your skin isn’t the same color as my skin. Wouldn’t it be boring if we were all the same color?”

“I want to be purple.”

“Purple? You watch too much PBS, How about Blue?”

“Pink, I want to be pink.”

“Pink? Um… What about green? Green is good.”

“Hey mister what color is your tongue?”

“Alex everyone’s tongue is the same color. We’re all the same on the inside.”

“Show me.”

“Ha ha poppa you stuck your tongue out.”

“No... Sir I wasn’t sticking my tongue out at you… no…. my grandson wanted to see your tongue so I stuck out my tongue to show him how all tongues are alike.”

“Poppa, what about his weenie?”

“TRUST ME!!! He’s all the same color on the outside okay? How about we play the quiet game for awhile?”

“I don’t like that game. Poppa? Jeffrey’s mom has a tattoo.”


“On her butt.”


“That lady over there has a tattoo on her neck.”

“Yes she does…. Um… How do you know Jeffrey’s mom has a tattoo?”

“Jeffrey said so.”

“You and Jeffery talk about that stuff?”

“Yep, all the time, Jeffrey says she has a leprechaun on her butt.”

“Huh… I thought she was Hispanic.”

“Nooooo, poppa she’s a girl.”

“Yes but I thought…she… she… she has a leprechaun on her butt? Well you learn something new everyday.”

“She has a tattoo on her butt and a booby job.”

“A booby job? Jeffrey told you his mom had a booby job?”

“Yep, he said Santa brought it.”

(Merry Christmas.)

“Uh…. How about this dinosaur right here? Let’s get some toys okay?”

“Poppa? What’s a booby job?”

“It’s… uh… a job… where you…um… count boobies.”


(Jesus Christ!!! I look like a racist pervert right now.)

“Shush!!! Alex, you don’t yell that out. Be cool. That lady is a super hero like poppa. That’s… um… Super Boobie Lady.”

(Whispering) “Okay grandpa… Is that guy Super Black Man?”

“Yes, I think he is, so we need to keep whispering.”



“I can see him.”

“I can see him too.”

“Then it’s not a secret. HEY MISTER!!!!”

“SHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! Alex!!!!”

“Poppa!!!! This is fun!!! Push the cart faster, faster!!!”

$200 worth of toys later we went home.

“You couldn’t just buy him one toy?”

“Come on babe… Most of them were on sale.”

“Hi Gramma, I saw Super Boobie Lady and Super Black Man and poppa stuck his tongue out and Jeffrey’s mom has a tattoo on her butt because she has a booby job and poppa bought me all these toys to shut me up.”

“I… uh… he… Jeffrey said... um... I’ll just go sit on the time out step.”

Sunday, February 05, 2006

The Seventh Ring of PMS and my epitaph.....

Since Friday I’ve been weighing the consequences of posting another e-mail from my wife.

The voices in my head were in a hell of a conflict.

All men have two voices little voices in our heads that constantly battle for prime time, the ego voice which controls everything below the forehead, and the brain voice which usually pipes in just before we get in trouble for listening to the ego voice.

For example, for a forty-eight year old man the ego voice will spot a hot twenty something year old woman and say, “Hey… she wants you”, and the brain voice will say, “Uh…that’s too much work.”

So when I read my wife’s e-mail I was torn. The ego voice was saying, “Don’t be a wuss, it’s her fault for sending it to you.” and the brain voice was saying, “Um… she owns a sword.”

Then, as usual, the two voices reached a mutual understanding. We would call this a “guest post” from my wife on my blog.

How much trouble could I get in for that?

To set this up I need to say that during the day my wife works for a large defense contractor and deals all day with engineers and rocket scientists. So here is my wife’s unauthorized guest post.

The subject of her email was, “The Seventh Ring of PMS”.

“It’s not on any map, but all women eventually find themselves there, in a "just world” where God is a SHE. This is where men would end up when they found themselves lost and refuse to simply ASK FOR DIRECTIONS! Where is it....? Simply go to hell and hang a left!

I'm sooooo there! Picture the scariest thing you can imagine... yeah, that's it!! I'm stressed, I'm bloated, my back and legs are aching, I'm having a really bad hair day, my face looks like a pepperoni pizza (again) and every IDIOT SAVANT MAN on the planet has stopped by my desk today with a stupid-ass question! Did you KNOW rocket scientists were just as capable of random acts of stupidity as all other males??? Well, I'm here to tell ya, THEY ARE!

Add the fun, I'm craving (and not in an "oh, that sounds good" way, but in a "give it to me or DIE" way) chocolate... doesn't matter what form! So I went in search of a vending machine... walked in to find this guy standing there (all 250+ lbs of him, eyes glazed, lips slack, drool sliding down his chin). I very politely waited, giving him plenty of space... for about three minutes. Then I tried the "cough"... just to let him know someone was there (I was sure my presence in the room hadn't filtered to him yet). Still nothing... no movement, now the drool had slipped from his chin to his plaid button down shirt... yeah, he's a keeper. Finally, I decided to try humor, so I said, "it's sure hard to choose isn't it?".... NOTHING... now I'm wondering, should I check for a pulse, or just punch this numb-nut! OOOMMM be damned, this guy was in my way and I have the tools to kick his ass!

So, my plan is to hit the gym as early as possible, wrap up and take Nick's class. If I'm early enough I may jump into Kelly's class just to get loose. Then I'm going to punch, knee, elbow and kick every damn thing in sight. Then, I'm coming home to a hot shower (cuz there's still no friggin' bathtub!) and I'm going to light some soothing candles (and any reminder that they are dangerous etc. would be considered another one of those random acts of stupidity!), put on my fuzzy robe and Uggs and curl up in my favorite blanket (which better not be wrapped around you!).

Have a nice day!”

I can tell you when I got this email that my initial reaction was to make sure we had chocolate in the house when she came home.

But that would be wrong. Never bring home anything with calories in it when a woman is pissed off.

So I did the smart thing.

I hid.


I may have to hide again after she reads this.

So why would I post this?

Because I think all women have probably had a day like that, but not all women send an email warning to their significant other basically saying, “Get the hell out of the house”.

My kind, loving, gentle, honest, fair, friendly, helpful, considerate, caring, courageous, strong, thoughtful, courteous, sweetheart had the forethought to let me know I could die if I screwed up on Friday.

That’s love people.

I wanted to share that with you.

It may save a life.