Rant

"It's this stuff, this gangsta stuff, the gangs getting into the sports that made me turn away from the NBA. I'm close to doing that now with the NFL." - a caller on Mike and the Mad Dog


"Man, I never see white motherfuckers doing shit like this. These niggas don't know how to handle their money..." - A Hispanic, former semi-pro football player who's a truck driver



Sometimes you wonder what makes people do things. Some guys have the world at their feet, they got life made in the shade, and yet... they still push. I'm not talking about pushing in a good way, either- some men can never be too successful, and will burn with a passion for power or money forever (though I'm not like that, I can understand where it comes from). No, what I'm talking about is the fellas who get so successful that they think they can't be touched, be it by man, law, or God. We've seen it all over in history- Louis XIV, Al Capone, Whitey Bulger, Sharpe James... all men who never knew where to draw the line. They amass so much money and fame that they believe that there is never a true threat to their lives, and that there is no way I, I, could end up in jail.

You might already know where I'm going with this. Michael Vick was indicted this week for having dog fights on his property. Well, he's from the ghetto of Newport News, so I can't judge him for this because there are countries where it isn't looked down on, similar to the way Mexicans dig cockfighting. I could care less about cockfights, but I have a big soft spot for dogs, being as I have two. Of course, some folks probably have that for roosters, and fur does not make one animal more worthy to live than another. That being said, I could not watch a dog fight, and I am glad it's illegal.

What bothers me is what Vick did with the dogs that lost. "At the end of the fight," court documents say, "the losing dog was sometimes put to death by drowning, strangulation, hanging, gun shot, electrocution or some other method."

Hey Mike... you fucking kidding? In the first place, you're a cretin for doing this to these dogs. Dogs are long past the evolutionary point where fighting is a day to day thing, and some of them had to be starved to get them to fight more viciously. Secondly, how the hell can you kill an animal that is so bound to humans in so many ways so easily?

I used to play football. It is unlike any sport because of two reasons: the absolute violence of the game, and the extreme team nature (boxing is as violent, but there are only two men in the ring, making football unique). When you step on that field, it is a field of battle where not paying attention, not watching your buddy's ass, can get both one or both or you seriously hurt. You depend on the character of the guy behind you, in front of you, to do the right thing and take care of their job. No one is as important as the quarterback in this endeavor- he is the field marshal, the general with the binoculars who watches the flank and makes sure a slaughter isn't imminent. If I looked at a man and knew he was capable of such extreme acts of violence against relatively defenseless creatures... well, let's just say that it would not inspire unwavering confidence.

There is a complex that these athletes are getting, specifically those who come from this gangbanger mentality that thrives in the ghettoes. Pacman Jones, Albert Haynesworth, Marcus Vick, Ricky Williams... the NFL is becoming inundated with men who are more criminals than athletes. You throw them a couple bucks, some coke, maybe a gun or two, and all of a sudden everyone is invincible, and above the strong arm of the law.

Well, let me tell you, you dumb motherfuckers, there were a lot better criminals out there than you guys. You want a real gangster? How bout John Gotti? How about Mickey Spillane, or Jimmy Coonan, or Mickey Featherstone? How about Whitey? How about King Mike McDonald? These men ran cities and presidential elections, not fuckin' dog fights. If you're going to do this shit, then do it, have some ambition. You guys aren't even trying.

You know the only thing you have in common with these guys? You all get caught. You all end up in jail. And if those guys can get caught, you sure as shit will, because their setups were alot better than yours.

You want to call yourselves "Gangstas", more power to you. It ain't gonna be me crackin off in a jail cell, or having my mother weep over my closed casket. The worst thing is, jerkoffs like Vick and Pacman... you got little black kids with no fathers looking up to you all over the place. And this is what they see... and this is what they will emulate. One day, maybe these dipshits will realize that their actions go far beyond their basements and clubs.

I...

Am getting very philosophical and long winded when I am drunk. Although the last post doesn't make all that much sense, I got some great imagery in there.

If I should Fall from the Grace of God..

You know whats fucking bad? When something, a song, let's say, maybe one called, "Hey Ya", reminds you of some serious shit back in the day... and you turn it off, deaden yourself, and turn on, "The Irish Rover", and keep drinking. And you say, "Fuck this, I'll be dead eventually and this shit won't hurt."

Some people say this life is too short. I wonder exactly what life they're living when they say this shit..

When you think about it, it's only been five generations for me since my family came over from Ireland because of that fucking potato famine. I know the man who came here, he opened up a liquor store in Jersey City back in 1852. It seems like it's so long ago... but it is not. They were named Lynch, Burke, and McMachon, and they came over here because our boys were starving over there, and the English laughed from their high horses, caring little for my ancient brethern that starved while they drank.

Never wonder why I'm a Democrat. If you looked at me, you would know that Italian blood flows through my veins- my dark hair and skin gives this away quickly. But in my heart, in my soul, there is green blood that roars like a brutal tide, because the Irish has always been what I've identified with. When the pipes play amongst the cold March days, and our boys go marching down Fifth Avenue, you'll know who I am. My heart fades to a shade of Kelly green, one that has been passed down through the generations of people to show what the holiday truly means...


To be honest, I've been drinking, and women, in general, have got me tremendously upset...

Summer

I was driving home tonight with the windows down, feeling the hot, humid Jersey summer wrap my truck in heaving sweat. Flogging Molly's Drunken Lullabies played softly on the radio, a good acoustic version that tapered and flowed with the road.

Shit like this, these old Irish songs, make you realize that no matter how fucked up things get, no matter how bad your life is, you still got it easy. So your girl doesn't love you like you thought, or your car got impounded, or you got locked up for some charge that will be gone in a year. It still doesn't compare to all of the things that those before us had to go through to survive. Your love may be lost, and she may never return. You may have fucked everything up over over the past five years, and wondered how you came to this point of being half drunk and lonely as shit at a compartively young age. You might wonder how you got to where you are, or how the next fifty years will play out, or wonder if you will even make it long enough to worry about such things.

But you listen to these old hymns, these songs that are so cheerful, so beautiful, even though the men who sang them had such horrific lives. How many of them watched their fathers get killed in battle, how many of them saw their mothers starve on gray streets, fading into an obscurity of the poor dead who owned nothing in life, and even less after. How many had harder lives than us....

We are amongst the fortunate. We have a good country, a good, stable base where we can move up in the social classes without paying for it in blood. Even the poorest have food and a couple TV's- rarely in history have the poor had both food and entertainment.

I don't forget this, though it may sometimes seem like I do.



And by the way, to that cunt that reviewed this site and said, "I expected it to be funny", GO FUCK YOURSELF. This didn't say, "Comedian's Ramblings: This is the story of a really fucking funny guy who you never heard of but will make you piss yourself laughing every time you come back to his awesome blog." No, bitch, it said I'm cynical and I drink too much. If you thought a barrel of laughs came with it, then who's the fucktard?

Hounds at the Stage

"Look at these fucking guys trying to pretend they're not perverts. We're at a strip joint- we're all fucking perverts. They should embrace it like I do."



Hours into the bleak South Jersey night, we are in search of a strip club that serves both naked women and booze, which is harder to find than I thought. I may or may not be very fucked up, and that Amy Winehouse song is stuck in my head as I lazily hang my cigarette smoking arm out the window... "Try to make me go to rehab, I say "No, no, no."

The place is called "After Dark", and it is the most ghetto strip club I have ever been in. There is one white broad there, and the guys who run this place know their customers- the rest of the girls are black and Hispanic. The guy who walks around like he owns this place is a grimy looking Italian with gold chains strapped to his neck and a tremendous gut that hangs over the front of his black pants. This place is like stepping into an episode of "Miami Vice", minus the "Miami" part.

These girls know their shit though; I watch in awe as one climbs nearly to the ceiling on the pole, then slides twenty feet upside down with her legs spread. I have a big problem with strippers that don't try, and just expect you to throw your money at their heels because they're (almost) naked. I don't pay to see naked girls, I pay... well, yea, I pay to see naked girls. But still, they have to do something and make it worth it. It's similar to how I hate that now at every Dunkin Donuts they have a tip jar that gets filled with change every day. You fuckers pour coffee, and that's what you get paid for, and I'm not giving you my thirty eight cents because you... pour me a cup of coffee. Maybe if they ran it more like a Hooters, with hot young blondes behind the counter instead of old hairy Indian men... I might write them a letter about that.

I go out for a smoke later on, and of course this damn stripper ruins everything. She's sitting on the curb in her knee high boots, talking to some sympathetic soul about her two year old son as she smokes her cigarette. It's easy to forget sometimes that they are people, as they prance around on stage and beg for your money, pushing their breasts together in a vain attempt to feed their children. It always makes me feel bad when they start talking, because you realize that this is their life, their whole existence, sitting outside dressed like a hooker staring into the American night yapping to some frat boy who feels bad for her in his overly drunken state. I have a good time until this shit starts, and then I just feel like an asshole. If the girl is ugly, then it's easy to brush it off... but if, as a few can be, they are truly beautiful, then I despise seeing that hollow look in empty eyes that they all have.

It strikes a deathly fear in me because if I ever had a daughter, I could not handle her living a life that resembles this in any way. It's bad enough that I'd be passing on these genes that are prone to addiction, violence, and constant turmoil... if you put that on a chick that had smoking good looks like I'm sure my daughter would have, it would be a dangerous combination.

It's worth not having kids over shit like that.

Italians...

He looks me up and down, and he looks like the Godfather, even talks like him; low raspy voice, laid back demeanor, olive skin that's dark as could be.

"He has my brother's eyes."

It's the biggest compliment I've ever gotten from anybody, especially my grandfather's brother. It breaks my heart and makes me smile at the same time, because my grandfather is God in my eyes. To hear him say that, though, is tough- his wife later comes up to me and tells me how hard he took it when the old man died... "They were brothers, you know... real close. He took it rough." Fifteen years later, and it's like the shit went down yesterday.

Family parties are tough like that for me. I like'em, because of the standard reasons, but it's also tough to be reminded of the dead man every time. I bear a strong enough resemblance that people make remarks constantly, between my dark eyes, black hair, and natural hairyness. Later on, my great aunt will come up and show me an old picture she found of him, and my eyes tear up nearly immediately. I am in the shadow of a great man, and I miss him like hell.

The DJ eventually plays, "Sweet Caroline", and three family members get worried when I leave the room. I was only taking a piss, but apparently it's very evident that I still don't take his death well, and I have to convince them that that song reminds me more of the Red Sox at this point then of the old man.

Yes, I been drinkin.

Never Say Die

Strange things get to me. The scene in last night's "Rescue Me" where the probies cancer ridden mother is begging him to kill her so she can die with dignity... a commercial that shows a typical hospital monitor beeping, and then shows it flat lining (it was something to do with finances, of course)... the fact that when I was driving to Thatcher's (an Irish bar where I live) I passed an old Dutch Reformed Church, and realized for the first time that it has a massive graveyard in the back.

It is hot and humid in Jersey tonight, and the haze was rising off the road in a form that made it foggy on this one street. Through this fog, I could see the headstones rising up from the ground, and just knowing that there are dead people that lay there, so close to the bar I frequent so often, unnerved me. A chill ran up my back as that knife was dragged down my spine again, I realized that there are so many people that have lived before. It seems that way sometimes, that we are the first ones that have loved so passionately, fought so mercilessly, and held the hope that we will one day be better then we are. The rest of the world's history fades from view, and we only have our little lives, our little microcosms, to deal with. We think that none before could ever feel the way we feel, do the things we do... but it has all happened before. In all liklihood, there is a man buried somewhere that lived nearly the exact same life that I led- the same heartbreaks, the same triumphs. He may be famous, or he may be obscure. Either way, he is there.

During that commercial last night, a thought crossed my mind that I may well one day be in a hospital bed, and watching my own heart monitor beep, the last semblances of my life raging to keep alive. I hope one day that I can be like my buddy's grandfather, an old WWII ranger who watched the blood come out of him, but was able to smile and say, "I'm ready to meet God." My own grandfather will die like this, as do all men with heavy religious convictions. They are more fortunate than those of us who doubt, who realize that we are but a heartbeat away from hell, and that I could well die tomorrow and, if the haggard priests are right, burn in hell for eternity for not believing, starting tomorrow night.

Sometimes I think that this life is but a short one, but then I realize how much I have seen in my 23 years, and decide anything much longer would be murderous. My own best friend, my brother, lies under a headstone that I have never seen, never visited.... he knows all the secrets that I so dearly covet, all the answers to the questions that drive me to the bars every night. I imagine it sometimes... I think it is dark gray, with the words neatly carved in, a testament to my friends existence. Never have I seen a family member's name on headstone- my Irish grandmother seems to refuse to recognize that people die, and so is more than willing to ignore the gravesite altogether, only finding it because she knows that they're "buried between two Italians." Her father used to take her for picnics in the graveyards when she was young girl, walking between the headstones with food for the dead.

Does it seem like I'm obsessed with this? It should. I'm fucked up. The reaper hangs his schythe over me, I see it's shadow everywhere I go. Never wonder why I am as intense as I am- I have learned too quickly, too many times, that there is no tomorrow. God may not love you tomorrow, your parents may be dead tomorrow, the things you love dearest could be gone forever tomorrow.

I could be gone tomorrow. What comes after, what this life means, what it does, why it happens how it does.... these questions are why I drink.

Fuckers

When they say "camera" they mean "pipe" and when they say, "numbing agent" they mean "hahahahah."

I already knew to never trust a hooker... now I'm never trusting a urologist either.

Drunk Ramblings in the Early morning

That fucking Rocky song was right: some feelings never die. And that makes life tough.


On a related note, I really can't imagine how anyone past my age sleeps at night, given all the bullshit that life throws at you all the time. I think this is why man invented beer so quickly after he came around- a thinking mind is an unhappy one, and beer makes it happy. It also makes fat girls look thinner and your driving ability go through the roof. Although I do wonder how well chariots handled as opposed to cars... and I doubt DUIs were as prevalant in the old days.

"Where'd you get pulled over dude?"

"Right next to that pyramid their building. Who'd have thought they'd have a check right there?"

"Yea man, if you have a cat with you they don't bother you though."

I'm Dying. Seriously, this time.

I have cancer.

Alright, maybe not. But I think I do. I think this because that fucking urologist has no idea that I am a hypochondriac of the severest sort, and every time something is mildly wrong with me I become obsessed with it and swear it will kill me. The fact is, I've been pissing blood on and off, and after investigating it halfway a couple years ago, I had pretty much decided that it was just one of those things my body does. Some people smell terrible, some sweat a lot, I bleed on the inside and piss it out. Whatever.

A month ago, though, I pissed black, and that scared the ever living shit out of me. So I headed to the nearest urologists office and tried to figure out why I'm dying. There is something a bit off about people who make a living playing with dicks... the only other ones I know that do that are prostitutes, and I don't think that bodes well for the reputations of urologists.

"Have you taken any shots to the kidney area?"

"Not that I know of."

"Are you a smoker?"

"Yea."

"OK, so- oh wait, you are a smoker?"

"Yea." There's a lot of us, asshole. Don't sound so surprised.

"Ooohhh. Well, in that case we have to do a (insert fancy medical term) and make sure there's no tumors or cancer anywhere."

"What's that mean?"

"Well, it's pretty much the worst fucking thing you could, as a male, ever imagine." OK, he didn't say that. But that's more or less the gist... Yup. He's got to shove a camera up my cock. I am not nearly comfortable enough with this guy to let him do this, and the first thought that comes to mind is if the... whatever... is long enough that I can strangle him with it Syl-style if something goes wrong.

I can see it now, the scene straight out of Braveheart. I will be sitting there, shirt half open, eyes bleary and bloodshot from whiskey, and the room will be filled with four or five Jewish men. One will walk forward with the camera, see the look of absolute rage in my eyes, and turn to the nearest compatriot and yell, "Chutzpah! I will hold him down. You do it!" This man will walk forward, and then stop, and turn to the next guy. "Shalom! I'll hold him down! You do it!

I don't know any more Jewish words, so I don't know what the third guy will say, but whoever actually goes through with it is going to catch a wicked haymaker as soon they all let me go.

Now, I know that the odds are that I don't have cancer. If nothing else, the fact that I've been doing it for two years and am in exactly the same shape as I was then speaks to me- if I was really rotting on the inside, I'd probably have seen some side effects by now. Hopefully this goes the same as that time that I had a lump on my neck and was convinced that it was neck cancer (I don't know if that exists either) and it just turned out to be nothing, or the time that I pinched a nerve in my neck and became convinced that everytime my hands went numb I was having a heart attack (which, if I did, I survived about 3,245 of them). Yes, I have a history of overreacting.

But let me tell you... just in case... that doctor better have a cement jaw, because if I have cancer he better be quicker than Mayweather in getting the hell out of there.

Whoops

Me and Frank are walking back from the pisser, both a bit drunk... alright, fucking tanked. In front of us is a short guy wearing jeans and a black t-shirt with the words, "When in doubt, knock'em out" on the back. He has gray slicked back hair, and a graying mustache that gives him a slight hillbilly look.

"Hey man, where'd you get that fucking shirt? That's badass! You work at that bar in Lincoln Park? I think I saw them wearing those shits when I was there," Frank says.

The guy turns around, looks him up and down, and stone dead soberly says, "There's only one way to get this shirt." He's leaning on the bar, and does not want to talk to us. There are a couple of bikers that he's hanging with, but you can never tell in Jersey whether they're actually bikers or doctors and lawyers who like to play dress up in leather and act tough on a Saturday night.

I glance at the front of this shirt, and there is a gray skull on fire along with a banner that says, "Support Local 81". Fucking christ, I know how you get that shirt.

"Ha, I know what that is," I say to him. "Frank, let's get movin', this guy just wants to be left alone." He always gets a bit intense when he's been drinking, and I really want to get him away from this guy before he gets any more pissed off.

Why, you ask, was I so wary of this stranger? Well, if you look at the alphabet, H is the 8th letter, and A is the first, and when you see something that says, "Support Local 81," it means that the guy supports the Hell's Angels. I don't what this guy did to get it... but whatever it was, it was fucking bad, and he would put a beer bottle through our throats in a heartbeat.



I am still extremely drunk, and it's 1 o'clock on a Sunday. Yippee kay yay motherfucker.

How many times did I leer at that globe
With tearful eyes, and held laid low.

The same that Achilles beheld,
ere the day Patrocles was felled.

Oh, that I knew the course of time!
If God spoke to us all, through your shine.

If the white that spears the night,
Could illuminate the path of right,

How much simpler of a life I'd have,
Not having to hear that devil's laugh

Every time that I fucked up,
And left in the dust ones I loved.

Happy Birthday to me

Wasted youth and mad as hell
My friends keep asking me
Are you ok, man, you're eyes are blazing
I can't get over it
This shit is killing me
My body's achin, hands are shakin

I'm cutting down you heard the line
Whiskey in the morning one more time
Hit that cigarette, Colt 45
Whiskey in the morning
Can't stop drinkin gonna die.

I can't stop thinkin of
Where I was before the drugs
A young daydreamer, fixed on screaming
Still really love the life
Drinking, snorting, smoking eyes
Super jaded, loaded, hated

I go out every night
Helpless secrets, lifeless eyes
Tore up, faded, no give taken
Still really love the life
Drinking, snorting, smoking eyes
Sweet leaf space case, hands are shakin'

Can't stop drinkin, gonna die

Work

My Army buddy walks into work for the first time in a week, no doubt to get his last check.

"Where the fuck you been? I thought you were working your last two weeks."

"Dude, I got drunk on Saturday night, and woke up in Philadelphia. I don't know how I got there, or why I was there."

"You get locked up?"

"I don't think so, but there may be legal repercussions for something from that night."

"What'd you do?"

"Don't know. Can't remember. All I know is my parents threw me the fuck out of the house, and I been living with my buddy, working with him and shit. I really gotta stop drinking, because I get so fucking belligerent. I think I told them to fuck off, and that's when they told me to not come back."

"Wow."

"Yea. But hey man, I got your number, I'll give you a ring sometime soon."

"Yea dude. Give me a call when you get your shit together."



Later on, I will bullshit for 20 minutes with two guys who build ponds that I know pretty well. One tells me how he very nearly spent 20 years in Riker's Island for cocaine possesion, but got off on a technicality, and the other will tell me about the time he got an in house sentence in jail, and then, when he appeared before a judge, the judge tried to get him to pay money to the court.

"I said, I been locked up for two months, I ain't got any money. He told me, "There's an ATM out there, go use it". So they put two guards behind me, but they stop in the hallway and aren't really paying attention, so I just kept walking... right out the door. They caught me, but it took the bastards two years."

He crushes his KOOL out on the ground, and then gets back in the truck. If you're a felon, building ponds is the way to go, evidently.

How did I get here?

Boycott?

There is now the question of whether or not to engage in a boycott of China P. because of the firing of Bill. Some will not go there, because Bill was our guy, and I can understand that. Howewer, it has gotten out that the motherless cunt that owns the place wanted to get rid of us because we are "rowdy", and evidently the place is supposed to be a restaurant. She figured she could do this by firing Bill... and that means that if we boycott, she wins.

I would much rather go there constantly, still be a pain in the ass, and be a gentlemen every time I go to the bathroom (this means pissing all over the toilet paper).

Fuck'em.