I met two friends out for lunch. I spotted them from across the street, and we met in the crosswalk. I greeted them with a warm smile and an enthusiastic hello. They just glared at me.
Does Britney know you have her hat?
Great. Not a hello. Not a wave. Just a simple cut down at the knees to start the lunch. I happen to like my "gay commie hat" as my father calls it.
It didn't let up. They busted my balls throughout the entire lunch. Relentless ball-breaking.
A few days passed, when my guard was down, and I got an IM from Rachel.
R: Hey I saw someone with the same hat as you. M: Yeah? The commie hat? R:
When I was his age my cousin Eileen and I (allegedly) dialed the operator and yelled FIRE! into the phone. It was hilarious. So much so that we decided to repeat the stunt multiple times, but with each call, elevating our urgency.
FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!
My Aunt wondered what we were laughing about and Eileen, even at age 6, was quick to manufacture a cover story. Matt farted.
Awesome. She bought it, and left us alone in the parlor. We giggled and debated on whether we should call the operator again, but just as we were about to make the longest trip on the dial we heard the first wave of sirens.
We looked out the window toward M Street Park and saw a cavalcade of fire trucks racing down the hill. These trucks were in a hurry. You can always tell when they are going to a real call, and when they are going to a routine cat-in-the-tree sort of thing. This was the former because the firemen were hitting the get-the-fuck-out-of-the-way honk often. That's never a good sign.
I shit my pants. Eileen on the other hand was calm as a cucumber.
Look at all the fire trucks! she exclaimed to the entire family who were now all gathered behind us investigating the ruckus outside. Everyone wondered what was happening. Whatever it was—it was serious.
My heart exploded. My balls were in my esophagus and I was on the verge of tears. My uncle was walking toward the ringing phone, but his eyes were still locked on the scene developing outside on the street below.
The operator was calling back. She traced the number. Just like in the movie When a Stranger Callsshe knew where it originated from, and the call is coming…from inside the house!
Could they send a 6 year old to jail? They must. Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnn
Here goes. I'm done. It's over.
Yeah, this is crazy. I know. No, we are all OK. What do you think is happening? I know. I've never seen this many fire trucks in my life. I don't know, but whatever it is—it's serious.
OK, that wasn't it, but sooner or later they would come to get us. We were dead. I was going to jail. It was beginning to get intense. Three floors below, firemen and policemen were frantically racing to each house on the block asking residents if they had an emergency in their home.
Meanwhile, Eileen was talking freely as if she were completely taken aback, like the rest of the neighborhood, by the developing episode.
I wonder if Papa and Nanny are OK?
Nahhhh! She couldn't be THAT cold. My grandparents lived across the street, and it was at that moment I realized I was dealing with a pro. My cousin, just seven months my senior, was like a cocky drug smuggler toying with a customs agent. And I was on the verge of blowing our cover. I bravely retreated to the bathroom and hid in the tub. I began to cry.
The door creaked open and Eileen peaked her head from behind it, and shook her head at the sight of me cowering in the bathtub. She insisted that we had nothing to worry about. They can never trace it to us. We were fine, but I was going to blow it if I keep acting like a sissy.
Then the doorbell rang.
OK this was it. They've found us. I began sobbing.
My uncle skipped down the steps and met a fireman at the front door. He was told that there were several emergency calls, made by kids, to the operator. They couldn't trace the exact location, but they could isolate it to this block.
Discovering there wasn't an emergency at our address, the fireman moved onto the next house. I could hear my uncle walking back up the steps, and he announced to my aunt that it was probably just a bunch of kids making crank calls. And those kids should get their necks wrung. Little assholes.
Kids, what do you want for lunch? Do you want a grilled cheese? Or should we wait and go over to Papa and Nanny's for an early dinner? They are cooking a roast.
Last night I got caught jerking off. By a cop. In my home.
Allie and I were watching television, but apparently she grew tired of How Things are Made and decided to call it a night. She asked me if I was coming to bed, but I declined because I wanted to see how they put tinfoil tops on yogurt packaging. She asked me again, but this time gave me a look like "hey fat fuck you have an outside shot of tearing off a piece tonight so don't blow it. I'm only going to ask once."
Temptation got the best of me.
I kissed her goodnight and assured her that I would be up soon. Nope. Not too late. Love you too. Night. What? OK. I will. I said I will. OK. Night. I won't. OK. Night.
Why are all these manufacturing jobs in Canada, eh? It would be fun to work on an assembly line. Pulling levers (which I would pronounce leevers) all day long. Getting 15 minute breaks. Leaving work at work. Going on strikes. Picketing. Blaming the bastards in management! Joining a union. Going to meetings. And asking tough questions at those meetings. I would be loved. And hated. But always respected.
OK none of this is true. I would be a mediocre assembly line worker. At best. But I did get caught jerking off by a cop while in my own home. So let's stay on track here.
I too grew bored of How it's Made and decided to turn on the internets for some special alone time. Normally, I would go down into the cellar for privacy, but we are painting our basement so my computer is temporarily setup in the dining room. It isn't ideal for special alone time because, well, we don't have shades, blinds, or nary a curtain. It's wide open. And we live in historical North Quincy which means my neighbors, who are 3 feet away, can read what I am typing. Right now.
I decided to improvise and use beach towels and blankets for cover, but I soon discovered that I could only block 6 of the 8 windows. I thought about going upstairs to get more towels and/or blankets, but our stairs creak and the dogs would certainly wake up Allie. Fuck that. I blew it. That ship has sailed. No way I could get a piece now. I decided that 6 of the key windows were blocked, and the only way someone could see me working out is if they were actually standing on my front steps.
I confidently sat in the captain's chair, cracked my knuckles, stretched and got right down to business. I went to my favorite back alleys of the internets and began clicking away. Every now and again, I would peer at the windows to make sure everything was copacetic. It was.
Before long, I had completely transcended my reality, and found myself on a patio in Van Nuys hanging out with Vanessa and April. Or was it April and Vanessa? Either way, they both found me incredibly funny. And handsome. My oh my was this new calorie counting diet working out. It made my snake tattoo on my rib cage really stand out against my six pack abs. And I don't know if it was the light, but this was the first time I could actually get 2 and a half fists on the flagpole.
I was ripped out of my dreamlike trance by the closing of a car door. I leaned back. Pulled the orange, pink and yellow seashell towel aside and looked in my neighbor's driveway. Oh good, it wasn't her. If it had been, she would have certainly heard the cries of passion because Angela, I mean, April was a loud one. Or was it Vanessa?
Relieved, I sat back into the captain's chair and apologized to April and Vanessa. Where were we? Oh right.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure in blue standing on my front steps. I looked over, and saw him peering into the window. Before I could make eye contact, he had turned to run down the stairs. I jumped up. Tore the seashell towel from the window and ran to investigate. When I got to the front door I saw a police man jumping into his cruiser. He quickly put the vehicle into reverse. Hit the brakes. Put it into drive and peeled out down the street.
I was left standing there, confused, at the open front door with a seashell towel and half a boner. I decided to go outside on the porch and look through the same window. Just to make sure he had the proper vantage point from where he was standing. Unfortunately, he had a clear shot. Back and to the right. Back and to the right. In fact, because of the god damned French doors Allie insisted we install, the cop could actually see the reflection of the monitor.
And that got me thinking. What about April and Vanessa? I can't leave them hanging. Like a professional, I dusted myself off and sat back in the captain's chair and finished my business with the girls.
I creeped up the stairs like a dirty cockroach and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. And that's when the shame set it. While looking in the mirror I was forced to face myself and my demons. I felt like an animal. I was just caught jerking off. By a cop. In my home.
Was that illegal? Would there be a report?
I crawled into bed hoping like hell I wouldn't wake anyone up, but of course, the dogs were happy to see me and began wagging their tails. They were like "oh hey, I know you. What's up? Whattaya doing here? Good to see you. You hungry? We should totally go downstairs and open that thing. Get some food. I think you have some roast beef left."
Then Opie started licking his balls, and I curled up into a tighter fetal position praying that I would fall asleep.
Writing a new one as we speak. Type. Whatever. Should be up tonight. No, not this one. A good one. Maybe.
I had a nice talk with a friend about writing, and I told him that it was like heroin to me. He asked "Well is it? Because all the heroin addicts I know find a way to get high. Every day. What's your deal?"
Perhaps it was reading too many Ayn Rand books, the countless hours spent listening to talk radio (after Howard and the gang went off the air of course,) or the emotional shrapnel left in the wake of 9/11, but a few years ago my political views were slanted considerably right. I was never on-board with the Jesus train, but I was a zealot when it came to fiscal conservatism (even though I never followed that doctrine in my own life—like a fucking hypocritical asshole head—but hey, at least we have a name for this blog) and homeland security.
In 2002 I thought the world was going to end. Literally. I was convinced that we would be attacked at any minute, and more families would suffer like mine did on that otherwise beautiful Tuesday morning.
Not even living on the beach for a year in Hawaii could allay my paranoia. I remained firmly right of center believing the Democrats were handcuffing the Republicans when it came to our protection. The most outspoken opponent of my belief system was none other than Senator Ted Kennedy. Oh boy, did he piss me off.
So one day when a friend asked me to help him out for a Ted Kennedy protest I jumped at the opportunity. We waited outside IBEW Local 103 where he was giving a speech. We held up stupid handmade signs that looked like a 3rd grader with learning disabilities had created them. You know how you start your words off real big, but run out of room and try to make up for it by making each progressive letter smaller and smaller.
We stood out there like a couple of idiots getting verbally abused from people in passing cars.
Get a life! Get a job! (how did they know?)Fucking pussies!Nazi fucks!Get the fuck out of my neighborhood.
But this only strengthened our resolve. We were obviously making an impact. Causing a stir. So we held our signs even stronger. We held the shit out of our signs.
By the time the Senator's motorcade came zipping by we were worked up into a tizzy. God damn it, Kennedy would hear the voice of reason by reading my ridiculous sign. He would have an epiphany, or so I thought, alerting his staff to a compulsory meeting where he would reverse his policy. Someone call a press conference.
Well, it didn't exactly turn out that way.
As the motorcade drove by he looked right at me and waved. I responded by giving him the finger. It wasn't an ordinary flip-off, but one filled with vitriol. It happened in slow motion. I brought my fist up to my mouth and slowly extended my hand and middle finger as I mouthed a classy FUCK YOU.
He didn't miss a beat. He gave me a giant thumbs up, and smiled widely as if I were his biggest supporter. Before I knew it he and the motorcade were gone, and I was left standing there like the inconsequential piece of shit that I was.
Wow.
He was Mariano Rivera and I was some punk up from Triple A Pawtucket filling in a roster spot while getting my first at-bat in The Bigs.
High heat. Up and in. Called Strike One.
Cutter in the dirt. Swinging Strike Two.
Two-seamed fastball. Strike Three—caught looking.
It was over before I knew it. I was out-matched and out-classed. I sauntered back to the dugout with my sign hanging low. Boy was I humbled.
As time passed, my political views softened. I realized that the approach, I so ardently believed, with securing our safety was not working. In fact, it was completely misguided and flat-out wrong. More and more flag draped caskets were being brought home with little to no progress being made. The concentric circles of pain, just like with 9/11, were beginning to spread at alarming rates. Parents, spouses, children, and friends of these brave soldiers would forever be scarred from the physical and emotional wounds suffered on the battlefield. Meanwhile, I would continue to lead my carefree lifestyle yet shamefully sacrificing nothing.
He was right and I was wrong. Like so many other people I idolize for calling it like it is—Howard Stern, Adam Corolla, Kevin Smith, Bill Maher, and Sean Penn—Teddy Kennedy had the balls to stick to his convictions no matter how wildly unpopular they may have been.
The famous Ad Man Bill Bernbach, whose likeness is portrayed by the Creative Director Don Draper in the AMC hit show Mad Men, held a note in his pocket which read "They might be right." So now I try to listen more. And listen less.
What do you do when you own a mental dog? You get another one. Readers, meet Scraps. We got word this morning that they are going to let us adopt him.
He'll be flying in from California in 8 days which will give me a few more weeks of good weather to pick up chicks at the beach before I drown him in bathtub come Fall. Shhhhhh. Shhhh. Go to sleep Scraps. You did great. But you are 18 weeks old now and starting to lose your puppy looks. Shhhh. That's it. Go to sleep. Good boy.
We are really excited and can't wait for Opie to have a little friend to hang out with everyday. Opie is actually a really good dog, but the little bastard needs to exercise like a girl with an eating disorder to remain normal.
Oh hey Carol! 75 minutes on the stair master, eh? No, no you look good. Your abs are tight. I can still see the crouton you ate last week. Oh and your collarbone is sexy.
And sometimes we (read: Allie) can't take him for an Iron Man training session. Sometimes we (read: me) work 18 hour days. Sometimes we go to the dog park and nobody else is there which means he isn't running his ass off chasing, humping or sniffing other dogs. He doesn't chase balls. I'll throw a tennis ball and he'll just look at me like what the fuck do you expect me to do with that thing you fat fuck. I'm going to bring it to you, but then you'll throw it away again. Fuck that. Fuck you. That's stupid. You like playing chase the ball? Well, why don't you go run after that thing yourself. Asshole.
But you add another dog to the mix, like say a Labrador Retriever, and he'll chase that fucking ball like it's his job. All day.
Other dog owners have it easy. They don't have a dog with a 164 IQ who uses his intelligence for evil. They can take a walk down to the beach or park, off-leash, and play fetch for 20 minutes and call it a day. We need to lurk out at the dog park, like male prostitutes chumming for cock at the Fens, waiting for other people to show up. Or else, we're walking for 5 miles to wear the little mother fucker out.
Also, he's like Houdini. As soon as he is contained he tests the perimeter for weaknesses like a raptor trying to find his escape route. He's escaped from the dog park at least a dozen times. There are small openings at the bottom of the chain link fence that even a Dachshund would have difficulty fitting under yet he manages to make it somehow. Then he's off to the races—running for Nova Scotia.
Just this past week he had another incident. Allie dropped me off at work. After she left me she pulled onto Congress St., one of the busiest avenues in Downtown Boston, and Opie jumped out of the window while she was driving. She stopped in the middle of street abandoning the car so she could chase after him. He bolted down the sidewalk while several passerby tried to stop him. He was deaking them like LaDanian Tomlinson rushing for the end zone, and they were unable to grab him. He sprinted across Franklin St nearly getting clipped by a speeding cab as he ran toward the pregnant building. Fortunately, he smelled something of interest, probably a bum's piss, and decided to leave his scent. Allie managed to catch up with him. She grabbed him and walked him back to the car which was left idling with the driver's side door wide open creating havoc on traffic flow.
She decided to roll the windows up, despite the oppressive heat, for the rest of the ride home lest he decide to jump out again—especially because she was on the highway. Moments later, he was panting uncontrollably and pacing back and forth in the backseat. He clearly wasn't happy about the windows being rolled up. Then, in an instant, it happened. He had an explosive diahrrea shit. He sprayed the entire backseat. Runny dog shit covered the seat, rug, door handles, windows, seat belt clips, and ceiling. It was a mess. She said it looked like Pulp Fiction. Somebody call The Wolf.
So you are probably wondering what the hell I am doing getting another one of these creatures right? Well, I am fighting fire with fire. As you know, I am not that great at math, but I do remember that two negatives makes a positive.
I would kill to see the uncut version of this profoundly important testimonial. I've watched this seven times today, and I plan on watching it seven more times.
1) I am so horny right now. I am way into old man arms. I just want those puppies wrapped around my body while we watch a Rom Com on AMC under some blankies. 2) Or even better getting help opening a pickle jar. Honey, can you give me a hand? 3) And lastly, an embarrassing encounter I had a few years ago when I was at the gym in Kenmore Square. It was a no-frills joint on the second floor of the building across from the Citgo sign. I signed up at this place instead of the nearby, and superior, Gold's Gym because I could save $4 a month. Plus, the kid who showed me around really sold me on the personality (read: glaring shortcomings of the physical plant) of the place.
Here were the selling points: It's not a chain. We're a mom and pop shop. Who needs A/C when you are working out and trying to break a sweat? Towels? Wouldn't you rather use your own towel? Not much has changed in the past 30 years as far as equipment goes. This isn't a pussy Nautilus gym like the chains down the street. This is a gym for us guys.
Sold. One year commitment. Direct deposit.
One humid August night I was sweating my balls off, while dabbing myself with my own towel, using the preacher curl bench that was held together by wire and duct tape. It was one of the few machines that wasn't a free-weight setup, but had the stacked weights on the pulley system.
I sat down and began eye-balling a girl no older than 20 years old (I was 26 so no EWWW you dirty old man comments. Those are not applicable here, but are probably warranted on every other post. I just want to maintain my innocence when in fact I am innocent.) who was stretching out on the mats across the room. She was one of the five female members, but the only one without an adams apple. On top of that, she was really attractive—by any standards. She would still be considered a knockout at LA Fitness—in LA. She wore yoga pants (God's gift to men since the end of the spandex era) and a sports bra. Her body was rocking. And unlike most gym rats with slamming bodies she didn't have a busted face or a lazy eye. She was hot all around.
I was using the double mirrored approach while stalking her. It's a move that guys think make them invisible, but the reality is we aren't behind two-way mirrors looking at a police line-up. Like a trucker, if you can see his mirrors then he can see you.
By that same logic, well, she could see me. I got caught. Badly. I panicked and picked up the bar and began curling whatever weight was left on the stack.
It was too much.
I was struggling after 5 reps. Although I am ripped, or as some say shredded, I am not very strong when it comes to bicep workouts. I just can't lift a lot, but my form is fucking pristine.
Textbook curls.
Despite having too much weight on the stack I managed to get 12 reps in, but I was completely fatigued by 10 and barely managed to eek out the set. On the last curl I dropped the bar and the stack of weights made a loud crashing sound that reverberated throughout the gym. I stood up. My vision was blurred and I was completely out of breath. I tried to play it off like I was in control and just had a very productive workout. I did some fake stretches and looked off into space hoping my body would somehow recover. Moreover, I was hoping nobody, especially the hot chick, would notice that I was in trauma and on the verge of passing out.
Not so much. Not only was she looking at me, but she was walking in my direction. At first I thought she may have been walking toward the water bubbler (fountain for those of you outside 495,) but realized that the preacher curl setup was in the corner. Also, there wasn't a clock above my head. I know becuase I turned around and checked. She was coming straight for me.
I smiled at her, and as she approached I introduced myself like the suave mother fucker that I am.
Me: Hey, I'm Matt (I put out my hand so she could have the honor of shaking it) Her: (confused)…you mind if I work in? Me: Huh? Her: (annoyed) You mind if I work in? Me: Oh! Yeah, sure. I just started. Of course. Let me wipe the… Her: It's OK.
She sat down and in an instant completely emasculated me with one fell swoop. She took out the pin in the stack of weights, and added a couple of plates. And for those of you keeping score at home, she was beginning her workout with more weight then I maxed out with just moments before.
Naturally, she had perfect form. She knocked out 12 reps without any visible signs of distress. She stood up and gave me the nod that the bench was free.
Still reeling from the first set, and hoping for more recovery time, I awkwardly sat back down and realized my dilemma. What do I do about the weight? I barely got the last set off and should probably go down a plate or two if I were going to lift responsibly.
What did the shithead do?
Swallowed my pride and scaled back on the weight
Kept the pin at the same weight as her and hoped the adrenaline would help me bang out 10 reps
Added another plate to the stack so I could impress the shit out of her with my braun
Naturally, I chose option 3. I took the pin out and added another plate. Like tipping a bartender, I made sure my timing was just right so she could witness my heroics.
I made some adjustments in my seat, exhaled deeply, and began lifting the bar. Instantly, I felt a sharp pain in my left elbow. I didn't experience the burn in my bicep muscles, but instead felt like something was off mechanically. I powered through the pain and brought the bar up to my neck.
ONE.
I lowered the bar slowly and felt sweet relief as I let the tension go. I paused and knuckled up the second rep with a loud grunt. I felt my tendons tear. To compensate for the lack of power in my biceps I contorted my back and flailed my legs.
TWOOOOO.
Unlike the slow descent on the first rep I let the bar fall a little faster and clanked the weights again. I took an extra moment before making my third attempt. Again, I clenched my fists and pulled the bar toward my chin. As my forearms became parallel with the floor I wondered if it were possible to completely tear off a tendon. I showed good form by once again leaning my hips and lower back forward. I had a searing pain shoot from my shoulder to my elbow. I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth.
THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Oh fuck. The bar made a free fall back to the starting position making an especially loud clanging sound. I was beginning to do simple math. I have 7 more to go. I have done 3. If I double that effort I will still have 1 more to go. I don't even think I can do one more let alone 6 more on top of that. I began to feel the sweat pouring off my brow and into my eyes. I resumed my good form and went for number four. This time, I yelled like I was being tortured as the bar crept up slowly to my chin. My arms were shaking and I was rocking my back to and fro. Both arms were now in complete trauma.
As the plates crashed down once again, I looked in the mirror and saw that my face was beat red. I wasn't even halfway. I was fucked. Completely and utterly fucked. Failure wasn't avoidable. The only thing I was shooting for was how badly I was going to fail. I wondered about a brain aneurysm as I attempted to go for number 5. I got the bar about 1/4 from the resting point and hit the wall. Like an arm wrestler I held my position for as long as I could, but physics would eventually prevail. I was exhaling so loudly that I was making raspberry sounds that little kids do while pretending to ride motorcycles. My entire body was convulsing. My face turned from red to purple.
I buckled. The bar fell and the weights crashed back to the stack. The sound wasn't as bad this time because I was only a few inches off the stack.
I literally started blacking out. My vision narrowed and I began to see stars. I was dizzy. As I stood up I nearly fell. I turned my back to the machine and the hot girl in yoga pants and made my way to the exit. I descended the stairs, one step at a time and with the assistance of the handrail, and spilled out onto Comm Ave like a drunk who was just thrown out of a bar.
Tickets?! Who needs em? Tickets here! Got' em? Need em?
It didn't let up. They busted my balls throughout the entire lunch. Relentless ball-breaking.
M: Ouch.
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