Thursday, December 31, 2009
I will probably take a pain killer in a few minutes but not before I'm at least half way through this post; For I know it will be a race against time. This is a race I always lose. I will be unconscious shortly after. Unconscious is a good thing when you can't straighten your body. I have the posture of a giant prawn.
If I had to fight Estelle Getty in a cage match, I would lose miserably. I don't care if she's dead. It doesn't matter. I suck.
At this time last year, I posted: New Years Resolutions Are Stupid. I'm not going to get into it but suffice it to say, I botched just about every one of them. Isn't that what always happens to resolutions? We tend to make them for the wrong reasons, at our most vulnerable of moments. We put unrealistic expectations on ourselves. We never even give ourselves a fighting chance to succeed.
This year I promised myself that I would keep it simple and on the level. I will not place any unnecessary pressure on myself. What's most important this year is to be better, stay healthy and move forward.
I can throw some funny ass bullshit at you like last year, about fictitious resolutions that never get resolved. I could tell you that I resolve to create my own language, like in Avatar or that I'm gonna shave my pubes regularly but that's not being honest with you. I could also tell you how I am committed to vasectomizing myself this year, for the good of the planet and my wife's vagina. Except, I am too much of a pussy to go through with the procedure. I was thinking about resolving myself to learning braille, so that I could offer this blog to those who are living without the gift of sight. But that is just stupid talking. Shut up dickhead. You're too lazy and that's not funny.
Fuck all that shit.
I know what I need to do.
This summer, I got some new ink. It's a personal credo or a mantra of sorts. I put it on my arm so I wouldn't forget how important the words are. They have significance to me. It's really quite simple but I've always had trouble sticking to it.
WARNING! HOT SEXY JEW GUNS PICTURED BELOW.
Have Strength. Speak Truth. Give Love.
I figure that if I can do all three of these things, even just a little bit better this year, I will be a better man. I don't need to make a resolution this year. It will only get broken. What I need, is etched in my skin. A permanent reminder.
All I need to do this year is look in the mirror.
It's not a lot to ask of oneself.
Just be better.
Being Out-Numbered isn't so bad...
Oh and Happy New Year Peeps! I love you all.
While you're here, you might as well go check out my last Mamapop post of the year. Just click on the link below. It's like the cherry on top of your sundae.
Rumors Of Vision Quest Remake Are Giving Me Diarrhea.
Monday, December 28, 2009
- W.T. Ellis
"Cook a Glazed Ham on Christmas for a friend and you will never again, walk life's path alone. You also get to eat the ham."
Growing up, most of my close friends were Christians. When I was a kid, that simply meant that I celebrated Hanukkah and they celebrated Christmas. It was pretty simple. As a young child, I clearly remember being jealous of my friends come Christmas time.
There was no great logic behind it. It really had nothing to do with religion. None of my friends went to Church. I don't even think they went to Sunday School.
It was the power of Christmas.
It was the smell of the Christmas Tree.
It was the heat from the lights. The fabulous colors. The sheen off of the tinsel.
It was the music that filled the air; Right down to the subtle skip of the needle tracing across the vinyl.
It was a cozy fire, crackling on Christmas Eve and the anticipation of Christmas morning.
I remember how badly I longed for a red stocking of my own, with Jason written in script along the top.
But it wasn't meant to be.
I would sit at home and open my presents on Hanukkah or Chanukah or Hanukah or Hannukah or Chanuka or Chanukkah or Hanuka or Xanuka. WTF? There are at least 16 known ways to spell Channuka. How can anyone feel passion toward a holiday with that many spellings? Kids are smarter than that.
"But Hanukkah has 8 nights! That's 8 nights of presents. Far more lucrative than your Christian counterparts."
I'm not falling for that garbage. It's not the same.
We might have 8 nights but that just means, shittier presents, like mittens and UNO and stupid chocolate money.
It loses it's luster after the first night. It's like seeing the same movie over and over again. With all due respect, Hanukkah ain't no "Breakfast Club".
It's like comparing Atlantic City to Vegas.
They have a Christmas Ham. We have Latkes. How many spellings are there for that abomination?
Apples to Oranges.
Latkes to Ham.
About 13 years ago, all of this changed.
One of my Wife's best friends had started seeing a new guy. His name was Mike. We all liked him immediately. He was the kind of dude that could walk into a room and make you feel at ease. He was funny. He liked sports and he was Catholic.
One night when we were hanging out, we found ourselves talking about family. The holidays were fast approaching and he had mentioned to me that his family lived out of state. I asked him what he did on Christmas day. He said it had become too much to travel. We talked about how much he missed spending Christmas with his family and all the great things that came with it.
At that moment, it dawned on me.
Me - "Why don't we do Christmas day at my place?"
Mike - "You're Jewish."
Me - "So What?"
Mike - "You don't have to do that."
Me - "No. I want to. I'll even bake you a Ham."
Mike - "Seriously?"
Me - "With all the trimmings."
And so it began...
We did in fact have Christmas day at our place that year. About 12 people joined us. All of them Jewish. Except for Mikey. But he didn't care.
I even baked him a Ham.
Over a decade has passed since my first Christmas day at our home and the tradition has continued to thrive. At times, we've had upwards of 50 people join us.
It has nothing to do with religion. But it has everything to do with love, tradition and most importantly, friendship.
All those years ago, I wanted to make sure that a friend was able to spend Christmas with family.
In the end, I never did get a tree or even a Jason stocking for that matter but I did figure out what made the holidays so special. Ironically it had nothing to do with the Ham.
Or did it?
Over the holidays, I hope you were all Out-Numbered by Peace, Love and Ham...
Thursday, December 24, 2009
From our Out-Numbered family to yours...
Continuing on in the Holiday spirit of things, check out my New Years Post at Mamapop. Just click on the link below...
2009 Was Ass-tastic!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Ho fucking Ho.
About 5 weeks ago, I promised myself that I wouldn't drink for 100 days.
All I'm going to say, is it had something to do with a white pashmina scarf, a bar named The Cock and some vomit.
Nothing to see here.
Needless to say, the cheer in my holiday has been a bit, well, cheerless.
I don't think I've been dry at a party since my 8th birthday.
Don't get me wrong. I love people and I love parties but making conversation with drunk people when you're sober, is an art form. It's not dissimilar to engaging in conversation with your fat, annoying Aunt that smells like spit at your Bar-Mitzvah or having a catch with your retarded cousin. It's not impossible but you need to focus.
Alcohol is to a party like Auto Pilot is to an airplane. You don't have to pay attention after you hand over the controls. You just coast on through.
Last week I had three Holiday parties to attend. I didn't exactly have a game plan, or any game for that matter but I figured I'd give it a shot.
I banged out two of them back to back during the week. I'll be honest, I didn't miss the alcohol at all. As a matter of fact, I had a very nice time. I was coherent. I didn't hug anyone I wasn't supposed to and I actually got home when I said I would.
Ironically, the only part of my prohibition that might prove to be difficult for me, is the consumption of non-alcoholic beverages. I must have drank a liter of diet Coke, 5 or 10 Orange Juices (straight up) and a shit load of Club Soda. God that stuff is horrible. It's like drinking carbonated saline solution. I probably pissed a bucket each night. Oh and do me a favor. Keep your dirty lemons and limes out of my soda. I don't want your H1N1 in my drink. Thank you very much.
The third party was the one that had me nervous...
My 3 year old's, Pre-School Holiday party.
I don't think there is a parent in the lot that stays sober at those things. It's practically impossible to keep your wits about you. Nervous MILF's chasing after their kids. Toddlers screaming and shitting themselves underneath tables. Dads standing around drinking Coors Light, checking football scores on their Blackberry's. It's like a damn war zone and there's always a truck load of casualties.
I swear to God the DJ played Sir Mix-A-Lot's, "Baby Got Back". Who plays that song at a toddler party?
Excerpt, "Baby Got Back"
I like big butts and I can not lie
You other brothers can't deny
That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get sprung, wanna pull out your tough
'Cause you notice that butt was stuffed
Deep in the jeans she's wearing
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring
Oh baby, I wanna get with you
And take your picture
My homeboys tried to warn me
But that butt you got makes me so horny.
Takes creepy to a whole new level.
But the good news, is that if I had been drinking, I might have slapped one of my daughter's teachers in the ass.
Not the new Jay.
I only touch my own ass.
In addition to the dancing, my daughter performed in her very first dramatic role. She was cast as the Dreidel in the Holiday show. Kind of a shitty part. She's like the Oliver Platt of Pre-School.
She nailed it.
And it made me proud. I bet if she knew how many diet Cokes I drank, she'd be proud of me too.
The only thing that's going to Out-Number me during the Holidays, will be diet Cokes and smiles...
Thursday, December 17, 2009
When I started this blog a little over a year ago, my intention was to digitally archive the experiences I have with my family. It was to be a personal journal; One that my daughters could look back on, long after I am gone. I couldn't have imagined what an important role it would play in my life. Having a place to spew my thoughts, however random, has been nothing less than liberating. This space has provided me with an avenue of self discovery and an opportunity to grow, both mentally and spiritually. It has made me a better father, a more understanding husband and certainly a more humble person.
What I did not expect, is YOU. I have never felt such a strong connection with so many. I can't tell you what your comments, emails, phone calls and letters mean to me. They give me strength. They keep me honest and they provide inspiration on a daily basis. You have changed my life forever. I am grateful for that. It's hard to explain but one year later, I write this blog for many reasons. I'd be lying if I didn't say that I write a big part of it because of you.
I try to write about the things that matter most in my life. Sometimes I just write about farting and pooping. When I'm not writing about farting and pooping, I often look deep inside myself. I don't always like what I find. I've had a lot more of these moments recently and it makes me realize, that if you don't take the time to really look at yourself, then you can never really move forward.
Albert Einstein once said:
"How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he senses it. But without deeper reflection, one knows from daily life that one exists for other people."
I chose this quote because it was the first one to come up when I googled "Quotes about self reflection". The truth is, I have no idea what it means, nor do I know what "sojourn" means. So I googled sojourn.
This is what I found:
Sojourn: a temporary stay (a sojourn in the country)
I still have no fucking clue what the quote means and I'm not sure I am confident enough to use sojourn in a real conversation.
But I still think it is healthy to look at one's self and ponder who the person in the mirror really is and what he or she has to offer.
This is what I saw...
Not as productive as I'd hoped. I guess it's back to farting and pooping.
Self reflection makes me feel Out-Numbered, by myself...
As always, check out more of the nonsense at Mamapop. Click on the link below for my latest post...
Dee Snider Is Taking Back The Horns...
Monday, December 14, 2009
Last week after school.
3 Year Old - "Daddy, am I a nice girl?"
Out-Numbered - "Of course baby. You are the nicest little girl I know."
3 Year Old - "I'm not naughty?"
Out-Numbered - "Nooooo. You are a very good girl."
3 Year Old - "Then why won't Santa come to my house?"
Out-Numbered - "Huh?"
Wife - "They told her at school that if she's a good girl, then Santa will come to her house and bring her presents."
3 Year Old - "But I'm not naughty"
My daughter begins to cry...
Out-Numbered - "Oh Shit."
Wife - "Exactly. When I told her that Santa doesn't come to our house, she started hysterical crying. Now she thinks she's been naughty."
Out-Numbered - "Did you explain to her that we're Jewish?"
Wife - "She's 3."
Out-Numbered - "So?"
Wife - "So I'll give her a lollipop."
3 Year Old - "Lollipop!"
Wife - "Here baby. Have a lollipop."
3 Year Old - "YAY!"
Out-Numbered - "That's it?"
Wife - "Yep."
I'm sorry but this is Bullshit.
I have no problem whatsoever with Santa Claus. He's a good dude and he has a job to do. I don't blame him or my daughter's school for exposing her to this.
My problem is with my own people. The Jews have been around a lot longer than the Christians and we haven't had the wherewithal to come up with a good Holiday Marketing tool? That's messed up.
No excuses anymore. We need to get this done NOW!
I nominate Neil Diamond to be the Jewish Santa Claus.
You heard me.
1) Because he is Jewish.
2) Because he has experience spreading joy to the "Jewish" masses.
3) Because he has a gazillion dollars and a ton of clout in the industry.
4) Because Jewish people trust him and therefore would let him into their homes.
5) Because he has already penetrated the already saturated Holiday market.
Here's what I propose.
Neil Diamond assumes the title of Jewish Santa Claus. There would obviously need to be a denominational appropriate title. Like Jewey Claus or something to that effect.
During the eight nights of Hanukkah, Neil Diamond (Jewey Claus) would travel from home to home (Only in the Tri-State Area and Florida) and deliver toys to young Jewish children.
BMW would engineer a flying car, powered by the light of a supercharged Shamus candle. Not coincidentally, this would be totally green.
Instead of entering each house via the chimney (too dangerous), every home would have a temporary code for their alarm system. Only Neil would have access. This code could only be entered once (by Neil) and would expire immediately after he makes his exit.
Every family would leave out a plate of Macaroons and a glass of Seltzer for Neil as a snack.
Neil would have a signature sound byte, similar to Santa's "Ho Ho Ho". Perhaps he could customize one of his existing songs. For example:
Sung to the tune of "Heartlight"
Turn on your Jewlight
Let it shlep where ever you go
Let it make a shmaltzy glow
For all the mishpocheh to see
Turn on your Jewlight
In the middle of a young boy chick's dream...
And so on...
I know this seems like a lot and I know that it might be a bit too late for this year but WE CAN DO THIS.
Neil Diamond is on Twitter. Neil Diamond is a good listener and he cares.
So for the sake of my children and Jewish kids all over the Tri-State Area and Florida, please give them something to believe in, during the Holiday Season.
Re-Tweet this post to: @Neildiamond on Twitter.com
Let this site serve as an online petition. Leave a comment here for Neil. Tell him how important this is.
Re post this link on your Facebook page.
We will not let our children be Out-Numbered...
Shalom and Happy Hanukkah!
Thursday, December 10, 2009
This band was made up of an aging, guitar virtuoso and a talented, young, female lead vocalist.
He was hanging on to a fading dream.
She was ready for the spotlight.
Together, they collaborated for a fleeting moment in time.
And they left us, with but one song.
It turns out they both felt Out-Numbered.
Here are The Lost Sessions...
And for anyone who cares, here is my latest post at Mamapop:
Death Match: Lee Majors VS Patrick Dempsey
Monday, December 7, 2009
I am 39 years old.
My head is too big to wear those stupid party hats. The rubber band always snaps.
I can't eat my own fucking ice cream cake because I'm lactose intolerant.
If I get one more #1 Dad coffee mug, I'm gonna smash it into my own skull.
Don't sing Happy Birthday to me. That song sucks ass. Save it.
39 x 2 = 78 It doesn't take a mathematician to figure out that I'm almost dead.
Birthday sex. That's good.
My wife's birthday is in 2 days. That's a lot of sex for one week. I will take a vitamin.
Mom, Dad and Grandma, It's OK to stop sending me a check. We're square.
Pearl Harbor Day. I know. You're not the first to realize this. Save the "A day that will live in infamy" jokes. Not funny. Never was.
Yes I'm almost 40. I'm still a sexy bitch.
You will not see me in my Birthday suit. It is disgusting. If I could return it, I would.
My dentist never signs my card. You're a phony bastard. Floss my ass.
I will settle for nothing less than the Outback Steakhouse for dinner tonight.
I don't care if you're 3 years old. It's not breakfast in bed unless there's bacon. Now stop crying and get it right.
If you are Jewish and God hates you, he makes your Birthday the same week as Hanukkah.
If you are not Jewish and God hates you, he makes your Birthday on a Monday.
If he does both, you're fucked.
This year I am Out-Numbered by more than just candles...
Thursday, December 3, 2009
But it’s hard.
They are just kids.
These things take time.
Through time, we gain experience.
With experience, comes wisdom.
We are all cut from the same cloth. Most of the time, you won’t need to look for a “connection” with your kids. The connection, almost always finds you…
Sunday evening after dinner…
Out-Numbered – “Let’s go buddy. Bring your plate into the kitchen.”
7 Yr Old – “After my show.”
Out-Numbered – “Dude. Let’s go. I’d like to get this kitchen cleaned up, so I can relax.”
7 Yr Old – “When my show is over!”
Out-Numbered – “If you don’t get you butt off of that couch, right now, there’s not gonna be anymore show to watch.”
7 Yr Old – “It’s not my yob.”
Out-Numbered – “Excuse me?”
7 Yr Old – “IT’S NOT MY YOB!”
Out-Numbered – “You’re not even doing the accent.”
7 Yr Old – “What?”
Out-Numbered – “The accent. What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense, unless you do the accent.”
7 Yr Old – “Leave me alone.”
My wife is snickering at me.
Wife – “You’re doing great.”
Out-Numbered – “Shut up.”
Out-Numbered – “You have until the count of three to get in here.”
7 Yr Old – “ONE MINUTE!”
Out-Numbered – “One…”
7 Yr Old – “DAD! I SAID ONE MINUTE!”
Out-Numbered – “TWO…”
7 Yr Old – “Ugh. Fuck!”
My wife and I look at each other.
Out-Numbered – “What did you just say?”
7 Yr Old – “FUCK!”
Looking at my wife for help.
Out-Numbered – “Can you take this one?”
Wife – “Nope.”
Out-Numbered – “OK.”
There you have it. We finally connected. They grow up so fast.
Why am I always Out-Numbered by fucking dishes?
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
What do I know about Pop Culture?
Um... The 80's Rocked and Natalie Portman is smoking hot?
Anyway, the good news is that now you can get an extra dose of my bullshit, in addition to the crap I shovel over here. To make it easy for you, I've posted the link to my first column below. Just went live at 3p today!
Here ya go...
Dangerous Ball Tapping Practices Uncovered
I'll be posting there, every Wednesday at 3pm EST.
Please check it out. Do me a solid and leave me some comments over there. It'll make me look important.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
A child laughs up to 300 times a day. Compared to an adult, who laughs only 10-15 times a day on average.
Assuming this statistic is correct, I would probably categorize this as the saddest thing I have ever heard.
I can’t help but draw the following conclusion from the aforementioned statement:
When we are children, we are so happy and so free spirited, that we can’t help but express ourselves through laughter; Sometimes as much as 300 times a day.
With the exception of rolling my eyes or sighing, I can’t think of anything that I do 300 times a day.
What’s even more depressing is that somewhere along the way, society will deliver the inevitable kick to the nuts of a child. From that point on, little Huck Finn begins his slow, cold, spiraling decent into the dark abyss of adulthood.
I’m fucking pissed. You know why? Because it’s impossible to recapture that innocence. You can’t recreate it. It’s gone; Like a fart in the wind.
This also clears a few things up for me. Are you ever just sitting around the house and you hear your kids laughing uncontrollably?
This happens all the time around my place. Whenever I hear that sound, first I smile.
But then for some reason, I always get a little emotional and it makes me sad.
Not in a start bawling like a big pussy sort of way but my eyes well up a little and I try to hold on to the moment for a bit. I always thought that maybe that’s just what parents do. Maybe it conjures up some repressed shitty memories from my childhood?
It makes me sad because that feeling of reckless joy was ripped out of me like the gizzards of a chicken and inevitably will be ripped away from my kids as well.
There will be tests that stress them out, bullies that kick the snot out of them for their fucking Twinkies. Hell, they probably won’t even have Twinkies by then. Then they’ll grow tits and pubes and have to deal with zits and just when it’s about all they can handle? BAM! Some douche bag boyfriend will make them feel like a pile of garbage and I’ll be too fat, old and bald to kick his ass.
I don’t even remember what I was talking about.
Right. The saddest thing I’ve ever heard.
Well I have news for you.
The following statement is not a threat. It is a PROMISE:
I see your anger, your cruelty and your sadness; and I raise you joy, comfort and laughter. I will not allow you to bitch slap me or my awesomely happy kids, into submission any longer. I will fight your wickedly, complacent ways to the death and win. I will Out-Number you with humor and love.
I will start right now, with this blog…
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
3. My Mom
4. My Grandma
5. My Dad and Step-Mom
6. My In-Laws
7. My Brother and his family
8. My Sister
9. My Uncle
10. All of my cousins and my extended family.
11. My Friends
12. Public Restrooms
13. Cutis Sliwa and The Guardian Angels
14. My Armenian Barber
15. Lactaid Milk
16. Zombie Movies
17. Tube socks with the stripes on top.
19. Monster Energy Drink (The blue one)
20. My Co-Workers
21. Gefilte Fish
22. SARNA Sensitive Anti-Itch Cream
24. Baby Benadryl
25. Country Pork Ribs
29. Tanis Miller
30. People uglier than me.
31. Women Train Conductors
34. Comments on my blog
35. Hair Sculpting Cream
36. Alec Baldwin
38. Black light Posters
39. Captain America
40. The Ass of the Turkey.
42. Multiple choice
45. The Backstreet Boys
51. Backstreet’s Back (2nd International Studio Album)
52. Millennium (3rd International Studio Album)
53. Black & Blue (4th International Studio Album)
54. Never Gone (5th International Studio Album)
55. Unbreakable (6th International Studio Album – Not so much)
57. My Peter Gabriel, Painted Denim Jacket
58. Grey Goose
59. Grey Geese
61. Willem Dafoe
62. Penny Loafers and / or Tube Tops
63. Papaya King
65. Boners (My boners)
67. D Minor chord
68. Activision’s Kaboom (For Atari)
69. Activision’s Stampede (For Atari)
70. Boxing Gloves
71. Smurf Figures
72. Jo from Facts of Life
73. John Ritter
75. Open toe sandals
76. 70’s bush
78. WPIX's Pix TV Game
80. Kris at DaVinci Tattoo
81. Hash browns
82. Neil Diamond’s Mother
83. My first hand job (See #65)
84. Baskin Robins (All 31 Flavors)
85. My last hand job (See #1)
86. The guy who first said, “It’s not my yob.”
87. Fist bumps
88. Natalie Portman
89. French accents
90. Captain James T. Kirk
91. Crest White strips
92. Bacon cheeseburgers
93. My Sony Dream Machine
94. One Hour Photo
95. Sleeveless flannel shirt wearing dudes in Chelsea
96. Caller ID
97. Kosher Butchers
98. Vanilla air freshener
99. The Sad Trombone sound
100. YOU! Yes you...
Monday, November 23, 2009
I know you fellas are probably quite busy at the moment, on the heels of the big release of the new album, “This Is Us”. I just wanted to take a moment to reach out and discuss the possible merits of a mutually beneficial business collaboration between myself and the band.
My motivation for contacting you is two fold.
First of all, I realize that the sudden departure of founding Backstreet Boy member, Kevin Richardson, must have had a profoundly negative effect on the chemistry of the band. I am aware that he has not been replaced and for good reason. As the oldest member of the group, his patriarchal influence must have been an essential ingredient to the overall balance and order of the ensemble. He was like an older brother to the rest of you and quite possibly the strongest song writer. Judging by the initial negative reaction to the album, from both critics and fans alike, the void that Kevin has left, still remains unfilled.
And second of all, I am a loyal and longtime fan of the Backstreet Boys. I had front row seats for the Into The Millennium Tour back in 99'. You might remember me, as I was the guy with the beard and the Backstreet Boys tank top, that accidentally elbowed the young lady with the "We Love You Nick!" sign. Yes that was my underwear that hit Howie during "Show Me The Meaning Of Being Lonely".
Furthermore, I am a talented musician, break dancer, singer and songwriter. I have plenty of life experience and I know the catalog of material well. I am 38 years young. I can replace the empty space left by the older and wiser Kevin. With me, comes much needed leadership and guidance. I am an older brother to two siblings. I was a C0- Captain of my High School Wrestling team and Senior Class Historian.
Please allow me to present a brief synopsis of my background and credentials.
1982: Mrs Gart's Production of "The King and I" - Played Prince Chulalongkorn. Duet with Louis - "A Puzzlement".
1983 - 1984: Founding Member of the Merrick Meshuganas - Long Island's first and only, all Jewish, competitive, break dancing crew.
1985: Founding Member and Rhythm Guitarist of Black Diamond - Hard rock cover band, that performed in the Jr. High School Talent Show. Brian Bloom was our lead singer.
1990 - 1992: W.O.N.Y. Radio Station, Oneonta NY - Hosted Heavy Metal Radio show, "On Air Armageddon".
1998: Sweet Cherry - Supporting Role as "The Bad Boy" in the Independent Short Film, Sweet Cherry. Role was inspired by A.J. McLean of The Backstreet Boys.
1999 - 2008: Didn't do anything creative whatsoever.
2008 - Present: Out-Numbered - Author of the Dad Blog, Out-Numbered. Have posted several videos (2) of myself singing either Karaoke or Freestyle.
I am also happily married and a Father of two beautiful and popular daughters. I am confident that my strong connection (Via Out-Numbered) to the Parenting community and in turn their offspring, will help cast a wider and more diversified net, across what is currently, a modestly narrow demographic.
In conclusion, I'm not sure if you are currently taking unsolicited audition tapes. In any case, I am hereby submitting both a vocal audition tape and a dance audition tape. In the event that you are interested in meeting in person, please contact me via Twitter @Outnumberedisme or kindly leave a comment on this blog post. In order for me to verify the authenticity of your response, please leave your comment under the name of Nick's first puppy. I am certain this will provide you with the anonymity you most certainly require.
The Perfect Fan,
Thursday, November 19, 2009
I am silent.
I am deadly.
You can do nothing to stop me.
I will find you.
You will not see me coming.
By the time you realize I was in your midst, I will already be gone.
I do not know how to show mercy.
I feel nothing.
I will devastate the world around you.
You will be left in ruins.
The Ass Ninja.
6:18pm - Sunday Evening
I eat Roast Chicken and Brussel Sprouts. I leave the skin on. I chew the bone. I eat half the bird. I drink Diet Coke.
7:02pm - Clean Up Time
I clean up the kitchen. I sneak one more piece of Roast Chicken. Dark Meat. More skin. Two more Brussel Sprouts. My stomach rumbles.
7:15pm - Bath Time
You finish up with the youngest and take her to her room. You leave the oldest in the shower alone. She is vulnerable. My first victim.
7:16pm - Engage First Target
I enter the bathroom. The air is heavy. It is dense and humid. The perfect conditions. I creep up slowly, like an Ass Ninja dressed in black. I draw the curtain back slowly. She is not paying attention. She has shampoo in her eyes. Unsuspecting. I back into position. My ass is in the shower.
I am gone.
7:16pm and 26 seconds...
"EWWWWWWWW!!!!! DADDYYYYYYY!!!!! DID YOU JUST FART IN HERE? DADDYYYYYYYY!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! MOMMMMMMMYYYYYYY!!!!!!"
Direct hit. I must keep moving.
7:18pm - 3 Yr Old's Room
You stand at her changing table. You are drying her hair. So peaceful. There is laughter. I do not pay attention to laughter.
7:19pm - Engage Second Target
I must move quickly. Do not linger. In and Out. No distractions. No prisoners. Do not look them in the eye. It is not personal...
Wife - "Hey what happened in there? Why was she yelling?"
Ass Ninja - "Who knows?"
I approach them. I am close. I bend over to pick up something that isn't there.
Wife - "What are you doing?"
Ass Ninja - "Nothing."
7:19 and 48 seconds...
"UGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! JAY WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO? HOLY COW!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! GOD!"
I must lay low. Regroup. Recharge.
9:37pm - Docking Station
I head to the kitchen to eat more Dark Meat and Brussel Sprouts.
I am armed for my final mission.
Now I wait.
10:14pm - Bed Time
You lay in bed reading your "Novel". Beautiful and silent. Like a sitting duck. About to be roasted in a dutch oven.
10:17pm - Engage Final Target
Wife - "I'm tired. Come snuggle with me."
Ass Ninja - "Just brushing my teeth."
10:19pm - Lock and Load
I climb into bed and turn out the light.
Wife - "Good night honey. I love you..."
Ass Ninja - "I love you too."
Kiss of death...
Goodnight my sweet love.
I am sorry.
10:19 and 31 seconds...
ASSHOLE!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? C'MON!!!! GOD!!!! ARE YOU SERIOUS? JESUS, YOU STINK!!!!
My power is great. You are Out-Numbered. I am the Ass Ninja...
Monday, November 16, 2009
I have Black Sabbath playing in the CD player. I love Black Sabbath but it is obvious that my daughters do not share this passion with their Father.
Out-Numbered (Singing in Ozzy Falsetto)- "Nobody will ever let you know. When you ask the reasons why"
3 Yr Old - "You're the best singer in the whole world Daddy."
Out-Numbered - "Thank you sweetheart." (Continue singing) "They just tell you that you're on your own. Fill your head all full of lies..."
7 Yr Old - "No he's not. He's the worst singer in the whole world."
Out-Numbered - "That's not nice baby." (Singing louder) "Where can you run to.
What more can you do. No more tomorrow. Life is killing you."
3 Yr Old - "No. He's the best singer!"
7 Yr Old - "No! He's the worst singer and the person singing on the radio is even worse."
Out-Numbered - "Now stop that! Ozzy is the best singer of all-time and I'm a very good singer too."
(Making the radio louder and singing louder.)
Out-Numbered - "Dreams turn to nightmares. Heaven turns to hell. Burned out confusion. Nothing more to tell."
7 Yr Old - "He's terrible. He sounds like a girl and you can't even understand what he's saying."
Out-Numbered - "Let me ask you a question. Does he sound like any other singer you've ever heard?"
7 Yr Old - "No. He's annoying. Like you."
Out-Numbered - "That's my point."
7 Yr Old - "What? That you're annoying?"
Out-Numbered - "No, Dufus. That Ozzy is totally different than anybody else and that's why he's the greatest singer ever."
(Making the radio even louder and singing even louder. Trying to be annoying.)
Out-Numbered - "Sabbath Bloody Sabbath. Nothing more to do."
3 Yr Old - "I like OZBY, Daddy."
7 Yr Old - "It's OZZY dummy."
(Screaming over the music)
3 Yr Old - "I'm not a dummy. You're a dummy!"
7 Yr Old - "YOU ARE!"
3 Yr Old - "YOU ARE!!!"
Out-Numbered - (Singing) "Living just for dying. Dying just for you. Yeah!"
7 Yr Old - "I HATE YOU!"
3 Yr Old - "I HATE YOU!"
Out-Numbered - "I WILL PULL THIS CAR OVER RIGHT NOW!!! Just as soon as this song is over..."
(Turning it up one more notch...)
7 Yr Old & 3 Yr Old - (Screaming inaudibly behind a wall of Black Sabbath.)
I bet you Ozzy never felt Out-Numbered. He would have bit their little heads off...
Friday, November 13, 2009
OK, here we go.
If you somehow read that to yourself in that fucked up, disturbing computer voice from War Games, then you can stay.
There’s a game that I love to play with my friends. You can play it with guys, girls, transgender folks, whoever. The game is called “F, Marry, Kill?” If you don’t know what “F” stands for, then you probably don’t know what cock-docking is either. Don't worry about it. Not important.
Here are the rules:
1) You must have at least two people to play the game. It’s especially fun with strangers on Twitter.
2) One of the players must choose three random people. They can be celebrities, co-workers, your best friend’s Mother, your fat neighbor, the hot cheerleader you used to crush on or even some crazy cougar from the supermarket. Meow! Be creative. But all the players involved must be familiar with the people chosen.
3) Once the three people are chosen, the other players must assign each of the three people to a category: F, Marry or Kill.
4) Justifying your choices is not required but open debate is encouraged. There are no wrong answers. Only stupid ones.
5) Assume someone is holding a gun to your head. This is serious stuff.
Marsha * Jan * Cindy * (Teen years)
This one is deceiving. Don’t get suckered into the easy choice here.
F – You 100% F Marsha. She is by far the hottest of the three. She was beautiful with a killer body. She wore tight sweaters and drove all the boys crazy. She was a total tease but at the same time she was a colossal prude. She was an A-List score back then and chances are you wouldn’t have a cold shot in hell in real life, so go for it. Plus she was a complete narcissist and would drive you insane in the long run. The only other option would be to off her and that would be a waste.
Marry – This is where it gets tricky. Both Jan and Cindy were pretty annoying and neither was very good looking. You need to use a bit of foresight here. Everyone knows Cindy went on to become some kind of crazy drug addict and she never really lost her lisp. That’s way too much effort to expend as the result of a bad choice in a game. On the other hand, Jan was super homely and she tilted the creepy scale a bit too far at times. The key is the glasses. If you drink a few beers, remove Jan’s glasses and you squint a little bit, she jumps from a 5 to about 7.5. That’s good enough for a jerk off like me. You need to think long term.
Kill – Sorry Cindy. Unfortunately, you’ll be selling seashells by the seashore in the afterlife.
Get the picture?
Now you try it. I’m going to throw one out for the Men and then a separate one for the Ladies. Feel free to tackle both. Have fun!
Jewel * Tina Fey * Your Wife’s Best Friend *
Jimmy Fallon * Angelina Jolie * Scott Baio *
I know my answers but I don’t want anyone to feel Out-Numbered…
P.S. If you wouldn't mind, please take a moment to vote for me in the Blogger's Choice Awards. I know it's a complete pain in the ass but I'm pretty close to representing in the two categories below. I'm obviously worthy of both because I am able to weave parenting anecdotes with drinking games about fucking. Thank you.
Monday, November 9, 2009
My only potential conflict is that I loath the thought of being a complete bore. I’ve been laughed at and humiliated in these types of situations before (Don’t ask) and I refuse to let it happen again. So I have decided that instead of picking an existing story that the children are familiar with, I will write my own story. Those poor little bastards...
I present to you some rough sketches and my first draft of…
Do Witches Make Fishes?
There once was a boy who never ate dinner.
His Mother would kvetch, “You can’t get much thinner!”
And the Boy would reply,
"I hate all your dishes and besides,
I like candy not Carrots and Fishes."
Well the Mother would worry and then she’d get mad
But despite all her efforts, no meals would be had.
Then finally one evening after cooking a stew,
The Mother imparted a message brand new.
It wasn’t a question or simple request
But something much stronger than Mother knows best.
She looked at the boy and his half eaten plate
And said to him, “Boy! You’re tempting your fate.”
What he didn’t expect, is the words he heard next.
His ears were confused and his brain was perplexed.
The Mother came forward and put forth the notion
That she was a witch and the stew was her potion.
She went on to reveal, the frightening deal
That she’d make with the boy, if he turned down the meal.
If you refuse and say no,
Out the window you’ll go
And I’ll cook up a spell
That will fix you quite well.
I promise you this,
All the fine and the dandy
Will soon disappear
There will be no more candy.
You’ll land in a pit
Filled with Veggies and things.
With lollipops just out of reach, on a string.
You’ll spend all your time
Thinking thoughts about dishes
That you'll wish would consist
Of my Carrots and Fishes.
So eat or do not
My offer is clear
But whatever you choose
Choose wisely my dear.
Now the boy had gone speechless
And rightfully so
For he hadn’t a clue
About Witches you know.
Then it occurred to him, suddenly so.
That witches hate candy!
That much I know.
That always felt sticky
And pulled from it something incredibly icky.
He’d been saving it up
For a special occasion
And now was the time, for the Candy Invasion.
There were Gummy Worms, Candy Corns, Fun Dip and Charms.
Appleheads, Fireballs and Chocolate Yarn.
With his last bit of strength
He drew back his hand
And let go of a handful, of One Hundred Grands.
It hit her on target
Right in the belly
And she fell over backwards
Right into some Jelly.
She didn’t seem hurt but was certainly stuck
Thank goodness for that and a bit of good luck.
The funny thing is, after all the commotion
He heard some loud growling
And felt a compulsion.
"I AM HUNGRY!" He cried.
But I don’t want my sweets.
I don’t want these sugary, lollipop treats.
What I want is my Mommy
To cook me her dishes.
I want her to make me, her Carrots and Fishes…
I hope the kids will be hungry. I'm thinking of bringing in Gobstoppers and Talapia.
The teacher will have to decide which is worse; Being Out-Numbered by Kids or Fish...
Do Witches Make Fishes?
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Thursday, November 5, 2009
But be careful…
Youth is but another layer of skin, shed from the snake.
Your time will come. It always does…
And when it comes, it will be you who cries the tears of a clown.
My time came this week in the form of a Black Leather Motorcycle Jacket. The day started out like any other day. Zone Bar and Rock Star. The breakfast of A-holes. I showered, brushed and picked out my clothes. Jeans, a t-shirt and blue Adidas kicks.
Nothing to see here.
It’s my ensemble du jour. Axe deodorant and two sprays of cologne on the neck. Walk into the second spray. My brother taught me that. I’ll wear my contacts today because it’s sunny. I only wear my glasses in the rain. Should I sport my Francis Llewellyn 'Ponch' Poncherello style, mirrored, trooper sun glasses? Or shall I go Bono, lesbian sheik and don my white women’s Polo sunglasses?
Not many people can pull that off.
Like the triple Lutz of hipster cool.
White women’s Polo it is.
Then I made my choice. My self esteem lay dormant in a hidden sleeve pocket…
In a closet.
You know what they say. The devil’s in the details. God knows they were right.
Me – “Honey! What’s the temperature out there today?”
Wife – “It’s chilly.”
Me – “Like sweatshirt chilly or Jacket chilly?”
Wife – “Why don’t you just check for yourself?”
Good idea. I open the door and take a step outside. It’s brisk. A clear, Fall day. Fall reminds me of college and college reminds me of…
My Black Leather Motorcycle Jacket.
Oh sweet Jesus in heaven. Your zippers shine like the brightest star on the darkest night. Like old friends that have been out of touch, we pick up right where we left off. We never even skipped a beat.
I slip on my leather. It speaks to me.
What did you just say?
I know what you’re thinking. I can feel it too. We can take on the world together. One windbreaker at a time. Those posers are no match for our combined forces. Who cares if I’ve never ridden a motorcycle? No one will know. So what if it’s unconventional for Jews to wear leather.
Arthur Fonzarelli was a member of the tribe.
But it was just a TV show.
SHUT YOUR MOUTH!
Don’t ever let such blasphemy roll off of your tongue.
My wife kisses me before she leaves, like Michael kissed Fredo.
Wife – “Nice jacket.”
Me – “What?”
Wife – “Bye!”
What did she mean?
I walk into the den. I approach my two daughters. They are transfixed by the magic box of light that projects talking pictures. They do not acknowledge me at all.
Me – “Guys.”
Me – “YO!”
My older daughter answers without disengaging from her business.
7 Year Old – “What?”
Me – “Do you like this jacket?”
7 Year Old – “No.”
She has still yet to make eye contact with me.
Me – “But you didn’t even look at me?”
She looks at me for a moment and looks away.
7 Year Old – “No.”
Me – “That’s it?”
My time is up. What does she know? She’s never even seen Happy Days.
I arrive at the train station. I get out of my vehicle. I brisk walk. I maneuver in and out of parked cars in the lot, like a leather clad duck. I pass a Mini-Van and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I stop for a moment and stare at my reflection like a modern day Narcissus.
Is my hair too short? My head looks like a cone. I've never noticed all of these buttons. I need to catch my train. I move on.
I sit on the train, wedged between too fat ladies that smell like Nova, Coffee and Spit. I choke back the vomit. I fumble for my ipod and then my phone. My Black Leather Motorcycle jacket is squeaking with every leathery move. I am the annoying, squeaky, leather jacket guy. The fat ladies seem to be losing their patience with either me or my jacket.
I can’t tell.
I find a small, powder blue dreidel in one of the 8 zipper pockets, on my sleeve. I pretend to fall asleep.
My train arrives in Penn Station. I feel safe here. So many freaks. I will blend into a sea of Black Leather Motorcycle Jackets. I walk through the station listening to my ipod and I pass a group of college kids. I glance at them and they are staring at my jacket. I am positive I see one of them mouth the word LOSER and they erupt in laughter. My stomach feels weird.
I feel sorry for him and then I realize that HIM is ME.
I feel uncomfortable all of a sudden. I contemplate buying a sweatshirt and stuffing my Black Leather Motorcycle jacket in my bag. There's an American Eagle Outfitters right down 7th Ave.
God Damn, piece of Shit jacket!
I should have listened to my daughter. She's cooler than I am.
I arrive at work. I say hello to the Russian doorman. He has only 3 fingers on his right hand. He looks like Whimpy from Popeye. I wait for him to mutter his usual, lifeless greeting. It's always a "Happy ______ (Insert day here)."
Wait for it...
"Happy Monday. I like your Jacket."
I am through.
I slip into the elevator and remove my Black Leather Motorcycle Jacket. I crumble it up into a leathery ball. It squeaks with every wrinkle.
Everyone stares at me.
When I get home, I will put my Black Leather Motorcycle Jacket back in the closet and leave it there forever.
It is dead to me.
I suppose we were never right for each other. Perhaps there is someone out there who would want the jacket. Maybe a wayward Steppin' Wolf fan or a member of The Chai Riders.
I don't care. My days of being Out-Numbered by zipper sleeve pockets are over...