Let’s face it, poop and farts are funny. But I’ve created a culture in my household where it’s become a contest to see who can do the most outrageous thing.
Yes, the Banana is a Dad. Of two wonderful boys who I treat like best friends. However, the most important part about this story is that treating them like best friends means talking about childish humor, which is my strong suit.
No, I don’t go around asking them why they have such a small penis or calling them a faggot every 10 seconds, but, we’re embarking on the ten year journey of poop and fart jokes and how they’re the highest form of humor.
First off, at a young age, both children were taught the following:
He kindly picked up the log with a towel and off it went into the toilet.
Second child chimes in and exclaims that the very same day, (they go to the same school) he found a shit floating in the bowl and flushed, to no avail. He wanted to be the Good Samaritan and dispose of said log, but it was just so massive. No toilet paper, no wipes. Just a log that wouldn’t cooperate.
Guess what? It was his brother’s shit. My younger has some olympic sized logs – and I’m not exaggerating. These things don’t go down. They need to be broken up with a fucking pencil or something. I laughed so hard on the drive home I almost cried and lost control of the car.
Bonus content: the entire family was in Khol’s one morning looking for God knows what. Older child tuned and said to me, “watch this” and proceeded to rip ass in the middle of a crowded section where people were shopping. It was audible. Like disturbingly loud. He then yelled out, “Momma, that’s so gross.” Their Mother immediately bolted from the section and turned beet red.
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A deeper look into the Patriots’ logo that never was, and how we arrived at the “Flying Elvis” being featured in its 8th Super Bowl.
Besides thinking about football, I think about design, marketing, and how brands are presented. Of course, by now, every New England fan knows Pat Patriot and the “Flying Elvis,” but most people don’t know what us fans almost had instead.
There it is, in all of it’s glory. The inspiration of the current Flying Elvis which came via the NFL’s graphics department, sourced out to an intern at a graphic design facility in California, run by Stan Evenson.
The process of the entire logo re-design prior to the 1993 change wasn’t something former owner Billy Sullivan really even supported, but he figured he’d set up his son-in-law, the then marking director for the team, with an opportunity – to let the fans decide. At halftime, in 1979 during a home game, the above logo was presented to the fans on poster boards and received with an enormous negative response. So Pat Patriot stayed around until 1993. In came new owner Robert Kraft, and with him the “Flying Elvis.”
In my youth, I was always told the Flying Elvis was the product of a Boston Globe “logo redesign” contest held by incoming owner Robert Kraft. Instead, the truth revealed that the Globe had been the only paper that documented the helmet in the middle, and reported on how poorly it was received by the fans during the halftime reveal in the late 70’s.
The only actual fan logo submission accepted by the Patriots was the original revolutionary war hat, which served as the logo for one season during 1960, which is on display at the Patriots Hall of Fame in Foxborough, MA.
There you have it, the abridged version of how we got to the Flying Elvis, which will be worn for the 8th time in Super Bowl LII next Sunday in Atlanta, GA. If you’re further interested in the sketching related to the evolution from 1979 and NFL Properties: here’s the link.
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An introduction to one of the most irrelevant and low-profile apparel, gambling, and pop culture humor writers on the web. #BetWithTheBanana #49Cent
You’re probably wondering why my name is 49CentBanana. Honestly, there’s a simple explanation: I used to sell banana’s for $0.49/pound when I operated a small indoor farmer’s market. Turns out, that price was pretty competitive.
Fast forward to 2017 – I started attempting to sell t-shirts at 49centbanana.com. My feeble attempt at selling the actual shirts were a few piggy-back posts on Facebook, Twitter, and once in a while on Instagram. Sometimes you’ll find a kid wearing one around town, or at a Patriots game. We’re not superstars at design, nor do we claim to be. Just a kid with a little side gig to escape from the doldrums of actually working.
The business model is simple – make content, be relevant and funny on Social Media, and supplement the content with ads and merchandise sales. Barstool perfected it, but now it’s time ThePackie and 49Cent join forces to make something better than the Stool. So here I am, providing content. Enjoy. Especially with the bullshit of Barstool Gold and paying $52/year for content that’s driven by sales and heavy ads, we do the same shit – for free!
In the final part of my rant, besides writing, I give out gambling advice for $5.00/Sunday. NFL season gives you 6 picks for the spreads. Yes, if tempting enough, we have a small book if you’d like to join too. If you don’t know what that means, please don’t ask.
I’ll be giving out my Super Bowl 53 pick this year. Coupled with an O/U, Moneyline, and 4 props. No, the cost of that isn’t $5.00. Pick will be out on Friday, February 1, 2019 exclusively on here and here on ThePackie.com.
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First off, I was in High School when this show was in its prime, so, my parents weren't about to pay an extra $20/month because we weren't made of money. Second, I wasn't into that shit then. It either had to make me laugh, or it was sports. Young teens just didn't watch this shit, and there were virtually no streaming services in existence, yet. So get off my balls about being late to the party.
Also, let's cut right to the point. Streaming is amazing. I can watch anything, anytime, on my phone, while I fold mountains of laundry, or wash the seemingly endless piles of dishes that my entire family chooses to leave ALL over the fucking house. Plates in the bathroom? YUP! Mugs in the bathroom? YUP! What a disgusting bunch of pigs. I digress. I literally can't do anything (besides vacuuming) without noise or a podcast. But if you choose to watch the Sopranos again, here are my suggestions:
Tip #1: Fast forward through ALL of the psychologist/therapy scenes.
This is a massive theme in the show. Tony Soprano begins seeing a therapist for his fainting spells, which, turn out to be caused by anger and repressed rage (and possibly salty, cured meats) over a number of different topics. Why fast forward? They're LITERALLY verbal recaps of everything you've already watched - or shit that you're about to see unfold. It's total bullshit. There's some weird sexual dynamic too between Dr. Melfi and Tony that I can't understand. Seeing as she is a DISGUSTING 4 out of 10, I don't care for it. (Lorranie Bracco is the actress - I'm sorry but no thanks).
Tip #2: Tony's sexual partners are unrealistically pleased in bed.
There's no way in hell, even with the amount of perceived cash this man has, that ANY of the 20-something sexual partners this fat, greasy, meat-sucking slob are getting off; while he sticks his tiny Italian toothpick inside of them. The sheer weight of this man alone on top of most of these women would at best partially block their airways, restricting them from letting out such a ruckus moan.
Note: the show has an amazing amount of unsolicited tits. Tony owns a strip club, tons of scenes are shot inside this place where the boulders are present and 100% fake. The nudity isn't close to porno-quality, but it's good for a few minutes to keep me interested.
Tip #3: If you hate heavy breathing during meals, just don't watch the show. Ever.
It's mostly Tony from what I've gathered, but the show features A FUCK TON of scenes in which he's eating. I get it. All Italian men, including myself, love to eat. It's like some family tradition to have a "sit down" meal as much as possible, but man, can these fuckers EAT. And to put the icing on the cake, the amount of LOUD, uncontrollable, unbearable nasal breathing is borderline comical.
Tip #4: The amount of psychological problems ALL of these characters have, are completely unnecessary.
I for one absolutely HATE shows that deal with the deep, dark secrets of everyday life. Don't get me wrong, the show deals with problems you most certainly would have if involved with the mob life. The sheer illegality of these problems and business dealings alone, coupled with the aspect of having a family whilst all of this bullshit is going on is mind-boggling. But, when I'm watching TV, I'm watching for the escape of my own bullshit, and the entertainment of it all. I'm not watching to feel worse. Just drop all this sensitive, emotional shit and keep it all in the dark, bottled up, like the rest of us.
So, those are my tips. Are they informative? Probably not. Does the cash that illegal dealings bring in seem attractive, even with all of the risks involved? Yes. Am I going to join the Mafia now? Absolutely. So, in closing, please join my small book of business. Bring cash. I'll kill your bookmaker. Patriots by 3.
Wow. It's already 2019. Said everyone, in every conversation, from now until about March or so.
Every year, we as humans do the same shit. First - in the modern era of social media, we paste, post, like, comment, or hashtag some stupid-ass year in review. Mostly where everyone tries to paint the most perfect image of themselves behind a facade of engagement rings, baby pictures, pregnancy poses, dogs, trips to Dubai, and "getting fit" videos. It's all the same, it's all bullshit. It's fucking pointless.
As the female unit says, people who post every day, seemingly in the most perfect marriage, are the first people to get divorced. I tend to subscribe to this notion. We have the rule at home to avoid posting pictures of ourselves unless it's been about a year and a lot of people think that we're dead. It's literally the most stress-relieving activity that has changed my life. I'm not a celebrity, I don't need to post as if I am.
More importantly, it's more work than it's worth to sit there and believe in all honesty that you NEED to post pictures of your life so a bunch of far off family and acquaintances can hit the "like" button about 17 times. That's it. 17. No more, no less.
After the picture year in review, it's time for resolutions! Ooh yeah baby! Let's get that "bread." Let's get #fitfam! Let's get after it! Have the best year ever! Ooh my god, I'm going to get my life together and stop smoking on that crack pipe!
Ok, first of all, crack is not all that whack when used in the proper setting. Second of all, research says you're going to do these two things:
1). Engage in purchasing a gym membership. This will be used a total of 10-12 times. You will then pay for it during the entire 2019 cycle before you notice you've been spending $10-$20/month to run a business that you don't patronize. You'll continue to be your shitty fat self for the remaining 11 months. You'll use excuses to eat fatty foods and drink excessively for November thru December 2019. The summer will be spent looking "ok" at the beach, whilst you fill yourself with deep regret as you look at memes on Instagram about being fat in said Summer season.
2). Join a dating website. (For single folk). All you single ladies (and men - can we say men anymore? Or is that offensive?) will join some dick/vag-laiden website to explore the possibility of being less of a hoe, and more of a homemaker. You'll do this on January 6th, right after going to the gym for the 3rd time. Sounds good, right? Wrong.
Breaking news: If you're 18-34, you'll continue to be a traveling sex-driven pile of shit. At about age, 35-38, it's been said that you'll try and settle down and stop offering your holes and poles to strangers that you met online only mere moments before they've seen your goodies.
Every year, the same group of dickbags put out a "list" of resolutions they'd like to focus on. Heck, my "real job" boss even asked me to read a book last year: The 12 Week Year. It's literally a bunch of strategies to compartmentalize a year's worth of tasks in 12 week increments. It's putting the SAME SHIT into a basket, only organizing and completing it with different wrapping paper.
Same thing with weight loss programs.
Same thing with workout programs.
Same thing with resolutions.
None of it matters, it's all just presented to you in a different manner, which tricks your brain into thinking it's going to be "different this time." It's going to be the same, dumbass.
The only way to "resolve" your problems is to constantly address them and come up with your own method for success. Heck, it took me 10 years to learn my body and how I process foods. The larger I became, the more money I had to spend on clothing. That's not fucking equitable. I devised that if I stayed smaller, having been fully grown since 18 (fuck my life), I would save money. How do I do that? By staying relatively carbohydrate-free. No breads, only Michelob for beer (Chickleob), clear spirits, only red wine, lots of high-fat and high-protein foods. That's it. Indulge two days each month.
What about dating? Well, I've been out of the scene for a long-ass time now. Relatively speaking, don't use apps. My recently single buddy has dug up one of my old tricks, LITERALLY TALK TO WOMEN (or men, can we say that? Men? Is that ok to say?) in person at the bar. Use a cheesy one liner. Ask them about the game on TV. Compliment them. Worst case is they bail after 5 minutes. Boo fucking hoo. Next woman.
Bottom line, don't play yourself with a resolution. Make changes for yourself. Don't just post shit on social media for the "fans" to see (all 17 of them). Either address your problems, or ignore your shortcomings. Don't sit there and play the blame game. Sack up and do something - without making a spectacle out of the whole experience.
Happy 2019. Now buy a t-shirt. Or a crewneck sweat. I don't care. Just buy one.
I had to find out the Chargers let their massive balls hang low in Kansas City on Thursday night whilst I took my morning seating. I clicked on the 'ol YouTube to watch the replay of the game and had a blast being asked for the 500th time if I wanted to join YouTube Premium.
I'm a cable (or satellite) man myself. I want every channel, immediately. I want no "loading pages" or searching for content. I'm not a fan of all this shit. I will pay the $200/month so I can sit calmly with my fat ass moulded to the sofa knowing that I have a guide and HD programming at my fingertips, without something telling me the content cannot load.
Last night, I was all set for my Thursday night ritual of football watching and slovenly eating. This was after my sister told me she is going to cancel our plans to go out and drink our collective faces after her graduate school final exam, or whatever. I was let off the hook from getting pied on a Thursday night. So Chiefs vs. Chargers it is.
I sit down, pour a big tall seltzer (yes, I am 80 years old), and watch as the Chiefs who are already up 7-0 in the first quarter tea-bag the Chargers into submission.
Wife comes strolling in from work with the look on her face that means I am NOT going to watch this game alone. Goodbye den, goodbye seltzer, goodbye recliner. More importantly, I have been asked to, "help prep buffalo chicken dip and kielbasa" for a work party. Now, I know her work party is next week. So, what the fuck is she talking about here?
Turns out, after a long week of not listening (on my part), she's attending a female friend's work party as her, "plus one" AND making some side dishes. This, "friend" has gone through a "bitter" divorce and is in need of companionship at public events since the split. Notice how everyone always refers to a divorce as, "bitter" whilst blaming the man for his infidelity.
It's almost implied that the man is an asshole and the woman did nothing wrong. Well, turns out, this chick is a lesbian now, so she upped and left with the kids and moved into a good 'ol apartment and found a second job to support her rug munching habits. Turns out the man had nothing to do with it, but is still referred to as an, "idiot."
Good for her, but, please, don't shit on the men. The men are not the problem here. So don't call it bitter. If anything, he should be bitter for you leaving him high and dry. Goddamn.
Anyway, the audacity of this newly minted lesbian to coral my wife into making food for this thing AND sticking me with BOTH kids alone on a Friday night whist she parties her tits off at some Christmas Party is outrageous. However, the stinger his that I'm asked to FUCKING WASH DISHES for this bitch (not my wife) and help prep chicken or whatever because she, "can't cook."
My ass you can't cook. What if you and my female wife unit were never friends? What would you do then? MAYBE GO TO A CATERING COMPANY AND ORDER FOOD TO PASS OFF AS YOUR OWN? Holy shit, what a concept. I mean, my wife is really the one to blame here, because she has one of those hearts of gold that never says no to any friend in need. This is why we have a, "temporary" foster dog, who is a cunt, that was supposed to be gone three years ago.
I can't argue with a good human, but holy shit do I hate people. This is why I stick to a slim number of friends. I also have managed to stay friends with a decent amount of out of state people, meaning we talk sparingly, almost die when I visit to party, and make a vacation out of it. Plain and simple. The more spread out people are, the easier it is to ignore cries for help.
Sorry, I'm too far away. I would, but I can't, so I won't type deal.
So, now that the game is half over and our food prep is done, the wife unit asks if I would like to go downstairs for a glass of wine and a discussion about our day. This is pretty typical - I usually don't mind this activity because it gives us a chance to talk and figure shit out, mainly so I don't forget about picking up the kids or whatnot. Again, it's widely known I don't listen. And, to be honest, you should do this type of thing with your wife unit on a semi-regular basis. It also sometimes leads to anal sex, so, there's that. It's called an incentive-based discussion. It's healthy, so get on it.
In the end, I found out the refs clinched a playoff birth for the LA Chargers by calling a bullshit pass interference call in the end zone on third down. And NO, the play that they screwed up on WAS NOT the game tying touchdown everyone is talking about, or the following 2-point conversion where you could LITERALLY see Anthony Lin's balls hang out of his pant legs on the sideline. (See below). It was indeed the third-and-goal defensive PI in the back of the end zone that allowed the Chargers to score on the following set of downs.
Yep, the good 'ol NFL making things competitive in the AFC West for the first time in since 2010. I'll take it, since that means the Chargers and Chiefs are all one loss away from having to go through New England for the AFC Title.
Editor's Note: Chargers receiver Mike Williams clearly toe-dragged for his first post-catch step, then took a second flat footed step on the turf before stepping out of bounds. So, please, quit being a little bitch about it.
I was originally going to write a blog about picking out a Christmas tree and the disastrous childhood memories I have of them never being properly installed and crashing to the ground, but I thought better of that.
No one wants to hear the stories of gallons of water spilling from the tree holder and "running the nice woodwork," people want to hear something new and exciting.
So, we put together a preview of what the first podcast is going to look (sound) like. It's a two minute clip of mostly bullshit, but please, by all means, listen and get excited for the premier of this bad boy on Monday, December 10th (holy fuck it's like 15 days 'till Christmas). Hope I get a bonus this year so I can buy my kids gifts. Otherwise it's off to the bank to rob some people.
Introducing: Mallie, Boston Joe, and your host, Pud. Enjoy.
It's a little peculiar for a man to be as excited for Christmas as I have been since the age of three. It's been the cause of a deluge of homosexual jokes that fly between myself and my uncle, who dominate Christmas decorating. My cousin is into it as well. Cuts down his own tree and everything. Like in the woods. Not one of those pussy-farm situations.
I'm talking about being the first on the street to get a Hewlett-Packard computer in 1993 with dial-up so I can look at porn in the basement type excitement. I'm talking every inch of the house in COVERED in this shit. I'm talking burning pine scented candles. I'm talking lighting fires (although now I use the Yule log thing online or onDemand because I'm lazy as fuck). I'm talking making scalding hot chocolate and waiting to drink it - only to forget about it and pouring it out hours later.
Decorating for Christmas is better than sex for me. Better than any drug, any type of alcohol in the world. Trust me. Although Old New England Egg Nog is a close second. And the hangover is devastating. Nothing screams Christmas more than morning after diarrhea from a cream-based holiday booze fest.
I guess it all started when my grandmother would put so many decorations in her home that you literally couldn't move. Not one inch. It would take her about a day to decorate when I was a small kid. Then one day turned into two, then three, then at the very end, FOUR FUCKING DAYS. (Plus I had to decorate my mother's house - which took just as long). It ended up getting to the point after college where I would take off two weeks at work and just dedicate 80+ hours to decorating. How the fuck I still earned money at this point is beyond me.
I had a reputation as the, "light man" in town. People started to call me to install the "exterior illumination" portion of their festiveness. I did my old girlfriend's house, my uncle's, my friends, it was a legit business. Yeah, I don't do that anymore. Plus decorating my ex's house, who is married to my childhood best friend and has a kid with him, would be kind of weird?
My Nana even had friends that were so into Christmas that they'd start in October, and FINISH December 1st. That's like 90 days of straight up decorating. We even got to the point where my grandfather would make is own, MAKE HIS OWN goddamn lights for the entire trim of the house. I still have them neatly tied up and organized in my childhood home. Surely never to use them again since they're most likely going to catch on fire if I plugged them in.
I don't have access to an actual picture of said lights. I'd have to travel to another town and take photos out of an album, scan them or whatever, and you get the point. I don't earn any ad money so the effort isn't going to be made. It was like the picture above, only just unreal how the man MADE HIS OWN LIGHTS. Like who the fuck has time for that? Retired people - but none of my grandparents retired until their late 60's. SO just imagine this type of enthusiasm WHILE working for 50+ years.
Fast-forward to the age of about 10, or 11. Its the four day marathon of decorating. We start the NIGHT of Thanksgiving. Take all those turkey shits down. Pile it away. Trash it. Shit's over.
Now, we'd take down EVERYTHING in the house that was a normal nick-nack. All the creepy dolls have been exiled for a month. I'm talking about taking down all the normal shit too, on every shelf, every square inch, completely clean. We'd pile it all in both of her extra bedrooms. Let's face it, the days of her friends and family getting shit-hammered at her house, pissing on the front lawn, and having to sleepover were gone. Her kids are out and in their own homes. These were now exclusively for piling shit in for the months of November and December.
Now, the annual pilgrimage to the attic. There were over 40 boxes. They all weighed at least 50 pounds. Straight up cardio and strength training. Main highlight of this event is to see how many times I can slam my head on an errant nail or support board while fighting through CTE.
Day four, you're done. Not much to it really. Kind of a dumb post. But wait...
Now I'm in my 30's and I work a few jobs. I have a main squeeze that pays the bills and is pretty demanding, and a few side gigs that allow me to drink freely without disturbing the bank account too badly. I can't possibly have time to do all that decorating, so I toned down my expectations BIG TIME. Plus the attic stairs are fucking scary. I did a self install, so there's no reason they should be trusted.
I mean, my grandparents have since passed away, but my Mother still "needs help" with decorating. Trust me, I LOVE nothing more than to decorate, but, the stress is fucking overwhelming. And if I had pubes, I bet they'd be grey because of it. I trim my pubes. Anyway, my mom has massive back problems, combined with crippling loneliness and several weeks in which texting with me consists of the words, "Another night with nothing planned" as if I need more guilt in my life. So, each year, I decorate her house too. And it's 10x more shit than my grandmother ever had, and my Mother's house is SMALLER. It's a killer.
Now focus on my shit. I moved into my wife units house (she already had a house when we met) in 2015 (kinda), where she only had ONE box for Christmas. Flash to 2018, and we now have 10. But the clutter in my house is UNREAL. She refuses to get rid of anything. So Christmas is about the only time when I can put things away, while secretly never returning them to public view come January. proves a point that she knows ZERO about the shit in the house, but if I'm caught throwing anything away, I'll be stabbed. Instead, I just box it away and let it sit in the attic until it eventually falls through the kitchen ceiling in 5 years.
Anyway, I promise to make it more interesting next time. I just had to tell you all that I'm still available for decorating services because I'm poor. Please hire me. My kids want Power Rangers for Christmas.
The proverbial pilgrimage to the outlet stores for "dirt cheap" prices that will blow your tits clear off and into another state.
At least that's what you've been told. But here's the kicker - all that shit you're fighting people for, or standing in long ass lines for, is available online. 365 days a year. 24 hours a day. 7 days a week. You get the point. Also - the unique gifts, the ones people really want, are here, on the fucking internet.
Secondly, you're not saving anything. You're sacrificing your time, which is worth money, to stand in lines of traffic and lines of people that are double, maybe triple the time you're used to spending shopping. There's also the very real threat of never finding parking, someone hitting your vehicle and taking off, someone shoving you, verbal altercations, etc.
Listen, I love verbal altercations for entertainment purposes, but when YOU'RE the subject of said altercation, no thank you. I have far better things to do than to argue with a 40+ year old woman about the importance of her daughter getting a tickle-me-Elmo doll or whatever is popular now.
I also avoid going out in public to silence the very real possibility of thinking that I'm verbalizing an insult under my breath, but it turns out I said that shit pretty loud. My wife unit says that I do that ALL of the time. I think she's right but will never say that to her face.
The effort that you made just to keep the hope and excitement of Santa Claus alive in your home by buying that "perfect" gift at what you think is an absolute bargain is not what Christmas is about. Order that shit online son. Santa is fucking electronic now. Also, select the wrapping option at checkout and BOOM Christmas Eve is saved.
That's another thing I hate. Don't listen to any moron that tells you to wrap your gifts in Paw Patrol or Santa paper cause the kids will remember that shit. No, they will not remember any of that shit. Just select "gift wrap at checkout" and you have magically created more time to get trashed at your house making off color racist commentary the night before the sleigh gets parked on the roof and Santa drags his fat white ass down your chimney that hasn't been cleaned in 15 years.
The stress of this whole fuckery is THE WORST. If you have kids like I do, there needs to be a whole fucking room cordoned off for this crap where the kids can't go for a month. Like the dining room magically just got blown up and it doesn't exist anymore. Then everything has to be labeled as to whom it's for, from, and wrapped or unwrapped (cause Santa brought it). Also, if it's my house, the labels fall off because Post-It Brand is cheap with the glue they buy. Poof, there goes who that puzzle set was for, and oh, the wrong kid got the wrong gift and now Santa made a terrible error. I'm Santa by the way, and the person criticizing me is the female wife unit.
I end up doing all of this at 2am, getting frustrated, needing 20 procrastination breaks in-between all this shit, just so Boy 1 and Boy 2 can run down the stairs, play with it for 10 seconds, be told to keep track of it, never put it away, and eventually given to goodwill after 2 years of staring at it. The other real option is the gift is DESTROYED by the younger kid, who loses ALL of the pieces at once, makes the older kid annoyed, who proceeds to strike his brother with a blunt object, etc etc. You get it.
Meanwhile, the entire month has been spent looking for the largest time slot that will allow me to drink spiked Old New England eggnog, so that I can pretend to enjoy the holiday season a safe distance (mentally) away from crying children that refuse to behave (even for the ONE FUCKING MONTH) while Santa is watching.
I refuse for my love of the season to be sullied by the stress of the Holiday that retail sales has created for all of us. So, if I'm being serious, your kids will be happy as long as what they get is a loving home and to feel safe wherever they may be. Don't put added pressure on yourself and your finances, just know happiness is all your kids want.
If they were raised right - they'll accept anything as long as it's with the ones they love the most.
Merry Christmas. Merry Friggin Christmas.
So, I'm sure there are thousands of you clamoring for the results of my "Brother-in-law's fiancées parent's house Thanksgiving spectacular." Like literally thousands. Believe me, I know, I have the best words.
Rewind to this morning. As advertised, my Dad comes over and feeds the kids doughnuts (proper spelling, huge education points for me) which allowed for the sugar rush to kick in right as they left for the day. He stayed for the typical thirty minutes, surprisingly didn't rip any heaters - maybe he's quitting smoking (lol absolutely not). He brought my wife flowers (classy move) and spent time bullshitting about how he doesn't give a fuck about Thanksgiving at all. Great time.
Dad appearance grade: A+
Then, just as he left, huge development. Wife unit has "kidney pain" and her, "back is on fire." Spoiler: this is a MAJOR typical move. Anytime there is a family event where it involves uncomfortable banter, a new place, or something she doesn't particularly want to attend - kidney flare up. Although, this one seemed real. I'm sure they all are to tell you the truth, I honestly just think they're connected. Her brain is like, "Hey, internal organs, make sure one of those kidney stones gets jarred loose and scrapes the side of that kidney wall, ok?"
This threw an immediate wrench in the timing of the day. Step one was to call her father for any drugs he may have left over to ease the pain from his one of many kidney stone passing events. Negative.
Step two: sift through magical cabinet of drugs and such to find old medicine that will block all nerve pain from previous medical procedures. Huge win: we have happy pills. And now we watch as the wife gets, as she LOVES to say as if she invented the phrase, "high as a kite."
Fast forward to us leaving the house. We need tampons because the period has arrived. On Thanksgiving.
We also need flowers to bring to this godforsaken place because we can pretend we care. Wife confirmed on Wednesday that grocery stores will be open until 2pm. Blatant false narrative. They're closed. Flowers are out.
Head over to CVS for female blood absorption sticks. They don't have anything worth bringing to these people. No flowers. Just those tiny baby tree bushes covered in glitter. Head back home, thank god the personal basement bar has wine, steal some from the collection that we never drink, place in Amazon bag that we save from getting gifts, tie it up, and boom, we pretended we care successfully. Bonus points - parked in "expecting mother/mother with infant" spot at CVS because it doesn't specify exactly when I EXPECT to have another kid. But I can expect it in the future.
Kidney stone/tampon trip/flower debacle: C+
PS - the CVS cashier was IN LOVE with my act. I eye-rolled at least 5 times in the store and she noticed it all. She also asked why I was so pissed on Thanksgiving so I did a short synopsis of the last blog, and she passed away in laughter.
We get to this place in the middle of asshole whatever town trash-ville USA. Very nice 1990's development off the highway in the back of some massive dentist office and a High School. Everyone is already there, since none of them had to purchase tampons, find drugs that make today's events tolerable, and scramble for some gift that they'll never use.
Immediate ask that my shoes be taken off - from left field I pull out a bag with my slippers and hers. Family is so impressed they gobble my cock instantly and praise me for my preparedness. I'm no fool, I'm not stepping all over your cold ass tile floors with my paper thin socks and freeze my tits off all day. No fucking way.
Immediately I see friendly faces as I push through the gauntlet of people I have to smile and make eye contact with. "In-Laws" as I call them are waving me over. We exchange the typical pleasantries, obtain beer, and am shown where the TV is located. Immediately my brother in law's new...well...brother-in-law asks if I have action on the game. Claims he lost $500 on the Celtics last night, bullshit +7 line on the C's, and he needed to make it up the the Bears at -4.5 versus the Lions. I like this kid.
First impression grade: B-
So, I guess you could say it's going well.
The food turned out to be good. Very well done. No nuts in anything to speak of for the main course. (I'm not allergic to nuts or any of that pussy shit, I just hate when people put fruit and nuts into salads and stuffing as if they're fucking Gordon Ramsey). There was even ham in addition to the traditional turkey. To top it all off, THREE different types of cranberry sauce. Amazing effort and no ethnic non-traditional shit whatsoever. I'm not racist, I just demand certain food on Thanksgiving. I don't eat any of this shit all year, so, I look forward to it.
Dessert was offerings were: Pumpkin Pie, Pecan Pie (gross, go fuck yourself AGAIN WHAT IS THE OBSESSION WITH NUTS?), cake, ice cream, cool whip, and apple pie. I demolished the cake, pumpkin, and apple pie(s).
Post dessert, all the males retreated to the family room to foam at the mouth over Colt McCoy's pants pooping versus the Cowboys in Jerry's World. We even witnessed the saddest, most selfish PR move by the Salvation Army, paying Elliott ONCE AGAIN to throw cash into the kettle as if it's a cheap Dallas stripper performing at the Leggs and Eggs breakfast special at Club Alex.
Also, side note. I don't condone 1950's era male/female gender roles. But these people were born in the 1950's and 1960's. Women doing the dishes is what happens, OK? I wasn't about to offer to help, considering I'm the only asshole that does the dishes in my own home, and I deserve a goddamn break. Doing dishes is complete bullshit and the amount of food my wife cooks is INSANE. I FUCKING DETEST dishes. Huge props to me for reversing gender roles in my own home in modern-day America. I deserve a statue in my town for my efforts.
I especially love how Joe Buck, in his infinite wisdom between hits of his in-booth crack pipe, called this a donation to the, "Red Cross."
Alternate family Thanksgiving grade: B+
Overall, a great experience. I appreciated the football, food, and lack of gas my body exhibited during our visit. I guess that was passed to others, considering my brother-in-law's wife to be was clearly upstairs before dessert taking a post meal steamship authority and was immediately greeted with the, "Where were you? We were waiting for you?" as the entire room stared at her.
Sure, it was colder than the attitude I give cold-callers on the phone today, but I was pleasantly surprised how prepared these people were for my arrival. I also forgot how much I especially enjoy older men try and make comments about NFL teams they're entirely unfamiliar with by undervaluing Chase Daniel's ability as a quality backup for the Chicago Bears. Ditka. Polish Sausage.
And yes, I made it home in time for the 8:20 Saints vs. Falcons "Barn Burner" turned sob story of Atlanta's season going down the tubes. Calvin Ridley really owes me one.
Although it wasn't easy. On our way home, an immediate, "I will shit this car and ruin the leather interior if you don't drive faster" comment. Cue the drunk guy smashing into the exit 5 sign on route 93 causing a 1/2 hour delay. We can get into how retarded it is that EVERY DRIVER absolutely NEEDS to brake and stare at the trooper pulling the guy from the wreckage. This also brings up my very valid argument for the invention of toilet car.
Happy Day Before Decorating for Christmas. We're going to have the hap-hap happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny fucking Kaye.