get to gym somewhere in all of that and stop being so freaking fat, etc. And worst of all, the dread of increased interactions with other parents, many of whom appear deeply convinced that of all the children in their brat’s class theirs is the only one with parents who have a kid in school. This became obvious during Jack’s orientation when one grimacing mom began pushing the tiny chairs away from the circle we were supposed sit in to hear school deets from Jack’s teacher. Needed additional room for her cellulite to throb, I’d say

The prohibitive cost of a Bud Light probably slows down the drunks. And the last thing you want to be is tanked in a hot, zitty and fat concert ho-down. Like this multiply-limbless dude who’d been bumming smokes and staggering around the lawn on bionic stilts. He was plastered. The chick who’d originally plopped down on the grass with him had vanished, leaving strangers to pick him up each time he face-planted on a hunt for yet another cigarette. The kid was chain-smoking, trying to find ways to hold two smoldering fags in the knuckle nubs of the one thing he had close to a hand. My pal Ralph & I were trying to assess what could have happened to him – war vet? Awful car accident? Ralph mused that it might’ve been genetic, “Something wrong with his DNA, you know, like it’s really DN-Ohhhhhh…”

It really would be swell if we could develop a remote control which could mute people’s mouths. A big, knobby, cast iron remote that would allow you to point, click “off” then go bash the jackass in the face with. It would come in handy in so many situations – subways packed with teenage girls, dining morons loudly calling for golf scores into their mobile dingbat, Blue Tooth ear-lobotomizers or snatchy middle-aged gants snidely calling into question my parenting skills at the playground.

That’s what I got the other day for going outside where people could see and talk to me. I’ve been trying to be a better, more engaged dad and lately that means getting out early and doing stuff that’s fun and physical…

haul your lummox ass over to Frederick’s of Hollywood and pick out lots of garishly lacey things for her. And make sure you buy it a couple of sizes too big. Hot dog! She’ll be buying extra vibrators and considering going lesbian if she hasn’t already made an appointment to have her cooter sewn shut.

Bittersweet news: our Bacon of the Month saga is coming to a close. I’d almost decided never to bother writing about bacon again. Then my son, who’d slipped into the bed during the night woke me up early by kicking me in the nuts…a lot. His slender boy foot was like keen-edged garden shovel trying to chisel off my scrotum. Naturally I thought Elisa was behind the assault so I made a heavy armed swat for her – nothing but pillow. Where the hell was my wife’s head?

There have been growing legions of non-Hispanic groups who feel they’ve been slighted in the recent immigration
Who's Gonna Make Your Pierogies Now, America?
 debate. Some have feared that with the waning of the previous administration’s Mexican Witch Hunt their hopes for Federal acknowledgment have also been lost. To address these concerns, …

Then Jacko arrived, after a long labor, and a martial maternity nurse came along to demonstrate how attach him to his mom with the mechanical roughness of a wrench to a lug nut (upon request she was promptly replaced with far nicer nurse.) She was followed by La Leche League’s Mz. Furrlip with her rolling kiosk of books, tapes, lubes, lotions, Tupperware, rubber hats…and machines with gears, nozzles, tubes, whirligigs and what appeared to be little brain transference caps straight out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon. With her whiskery, smile-free face and brusque demeanor I’d wondered why she was allowed to sell her wares in the hospital. Wasn’t breast feeding just as much about love and bonding as it was nutrition? This sour gant was far better suited for abortion protests or working an organic turnip stand. It had gotten very weird

Saturday mornings I drag my ass over to paint lines and set up goals. I also get to spray paint notes to my son on the sidelines! Interesting how things change over a lifetime. Scoot past Jack’s arrival a half decade ago and travel to Boston of fifteen years past. What was young Frankie doing at 25? Well if it was 6:30AM in April I was already getting sick of the early sunlight and thinking about finally going to bed. I might be dialing a cab for a ride back from wherever the hell I was or wondering how many people to boot out of my apartment to make it quiet enough to sleep.

 
   First off, I’d like to note how cool Wynonna Judd is for staying fat for her fat pill commercials. It saves us all from having to wonder if alli® actually works. Therefore this installment of Bacon of the Month goes out to that wonderful, Country singin’, crybaby cow.
 
   We’re …

Was it enough to know that there was a corncob in the barn while Temple Drake was getting raped? Hell no it wasn’t – did it get kicked up her snatch or did it only get whittled into a pipe as she was groped against her wishes? And Faulkner suddenly seemed too squeamish to commit to the idea that she’d been raped at all. These were to be my models for writing? The Canterbury Tales had been assigned to me three times in my various schoolin’ venues and it was comical that none of my teachers ever seemed to notice what a lewd, lowbrow piece of crap that ancient text was.