I love the Monkey's Uncle.. whoa whoa!

I suppose I’ll be the good son (not that hobbit, Elijah Wood), and wish my mother a happy 43rd birthday. SO….Happy Birthday, Maw-Maw (one year older and one year closer to my inheritance)! BooBAM(brough)!


Last night, out of sheer boredom (I assume), she decided to tell me the story of HER birth, not mine. Figures she would embellish and make her earthly entrance more thrilling than how it actually occurred. I was trying desperately to tune one ear to the Newlywed Game (Sherri Shepherd, you are one hell of a funny lass), and one ear to mom’s verbose poppycock. As soon as she told me she was born at 7:27 on 727 and weighed 7 lbs and 27 ounces, I suddenly lost interest, called her a liar and decided shaving my face with a cokehead’s pinky nail would be a drastic step-up from listening to her elaborate birthday fabrications.

I tried to calmly and tactfully remind her that no one cared if she was born on a Wednesday twenty-three years ago, and that I’m positive she’s had a few other birthday’s fall on Wednesday due to the earth’s orbiting path. With a quick whip of her hair, she got in my face and insisted I put a lid on it with the nerd talk. Not to mention she threatened that if she caught me watching The Sci-Fi channel again, she’d hack my Facebook and list it under my interest.

“Go right ahead, Bee-otch. Guys appreciate men with a point a view and superfluous knowledge of all things space! It’s a nostalgic reminder of childhood games such as capture the Ewok and assembling Jobba the Hut forts out of masking tape and cardboard boxes!”

Just as I was trying to simulate in my head a remote control to mute the babbling broad, my phone rang. It was dad, and he needed my help to surprise mom. I told him it would cost him and gave him the following wish list:

1. a Red-Velvet Cheesecake Blizzard…XX-Large!

2. The VHS of The Adventures of Milo and Otis (always had a crush on Otis…might be the name of my first born).



3. A license plate that reads, “DNIS DA MNIS” for my red Mini Coop (though the nickname dubbed by my dad was theoretically given to hold a negative connotation over me, I’ve grown to like it!... soooo, you’re dumb!).




4. DivaGel (for my new Faux hawk I’m working on....props, Sanjaya).



5. Pajama Jeans… acid wash. (Mom rants about them, and I think I might trust the hellcat on this one).

Although I was only halfway kidding about most of those, I knew good and well what to expect from his response:

“Dream big, Gayboy. A mini-coop? Wow, son. You know how I know you’re gay? Because you strive to be on the Canadian Olympic Curling Team…. The Women’s Canadian Olympic Curling Team.”



“I don’t need your harassment, lesbian! Stop stealing lines from my favorite movie!”

“It’s Lebanese, Joe. And you would like the 40 Year-old Virgin…probably because of all the gay references.”

“Whatever. You know that huge hole in your manties? Yeah. You’re welcome.”

You know if I didn’t love my mother as much as I do, I would have spoiled it for her and just told her dad was on his way over. BUT, I figured, what the hell. He’d probably sulk and cry if I tinkled on his dream, and I didn’t feel like hearing his terribly loud, screetchy voice on repeat “JOE! JOE! JOE!.” I’ll pass.

Enough about birthdays, because the only one that really counts is mine and that’s in October.

Here are a few things on my mind at the moment:

--Why won’t the Indian boys downstairs ever ask me to play cricket with them? I’m a fast learner and a speedy runner… whatever. Not to mention, I love anything British.

--How many balloons would I have to inflate to get myself on the doorstep of Vern Yip…The man can decorate. Ok?




--I know what G-mama means when she says run-and-run, so maybe I can ask her if I can dig-and-dig when I’m there this weekend?

--I can’t take it anymore: I have GOT to get Uncle Mauricio a new boyfriend… that’s top priority.

Well, I really have nothing more to say today. I’m busy plotting how to keep my parents from going out of town this weekend. Any suggestions? I’ve already tried to fit myself in dad’s man-purse (fail), tirelessly attempted to bite through a few cords under the hood of the Camry, and developed a huge sebaceous cyst on my butt…please tell me all this effort hasn’t gone unnoticed?!

Speaking of the cyst on my back, as soon as mom heard the doctor say “sebaceous,” her eyes were wide with this crazy look in them. I’m suffering from the aftermath of her meticulous plan to pop it and leave me with a hideous scar.

Oh! And speaking of scars, I have a huge one of on my face. Ever since Cooper ripped me a new one, I feel I’m channeling Scar from the Lion King. Not too shabby considering he’s one of my many idols, following close behind Neil Patrick Harris and runner up, Sean Hayes.



I’m done here.

Been planning it for years...

This is a true story:

Last night around 10:00, I heard a noise at the door. My intuition that it was for me kicked in, and I went to scope it out. Mom is as deaf as a leopard these days, so of course she didn’t even hear me grumbling, “old hag’s good for nothing,” as I pranced toward the door.



(I'd give both dew claws for hair that big and shorts that short...whew doggy!)


Behind door number 1 was a frightened mutt with leash still attached. I asked this puppy (who was 3 times my size, naturally):

“Whoa, I say! Who goes there!?” (I love using my Shakespearean accent every chance I get; makes me snigger every time)

Puppy: “I’m a run-a-way.”

Me: “Hate it for you. I’m a spoiled brat.”

Puppy: “I’m terrified of stairs and can’t get down them.”

Me: “Oh, a classic case of bathmophobia.”

Puppy: “My owner would beat me and throw me down flights of stairs, so I had to leave. I’ve been
up on the roof for about an hour, but I decided not to end my life.”

Me: “What do you want? A consolation prize? SCRAM!”

My mother immediately noticed I wasn’t up her rear-end and was about to make a mad-dash for the Moghul Sweets 2 blocks away

(tasty Indian delicacies…if you can’t beat em’, join em’!), when she came to assess the situation. Apparently, my mother has a much bigger heart than she let’s everyone believe and tried to coerce the gangly creature to the bottom floor with MY treats (like I said, good for nothing).

Forty-five minutes later after Sarah McLachlan strolled back in from aiding PETA,

all I heard was how big of a bitch I had been to the freakishly large puppy. Then she pulls out the ammo….The big guns… The one thing she knows will forever get under my skin follicles.

“You have the worst case of LMS I’ve ever witnessed, Joe…in my LIFE.”

I gasped for air. Mom took a concurrent hit to the nads, gut and face with the Little Man’s Syndrome remark..



(i had to put the DeVito in here...it just makes sense)

“WHAT THE HELL!! You know how I feel about that identifier, Mom!”

“You brought this on yourself, Julian. Bullying stray pets!? Trying to rip a hole the size of your dad’s monkey-ass into Cooper’s neck?! The constant need to be in the front of EVERYTHING and EVERYONE!?”

“I get that last one honestly, MOM! Spank you very much… I’m texting dad and telling him what you said.”

I methodically plotted the tactical strategy of using one parent against the other (anyone with half a brain knows 60% percent of the time, it works every time….<---I just made that up). I ran under Mauricio’s bed and began texting in a whirlwind of rage and exasperation. I was so caught up in tattling on mom I didn’t realize it was past my texting curfew… but it was too late.

Here was the conversation:

“Dad, I just wanted to inform you that mom’s talking mad trash about you, and since I’m your homeboy, I thought I’d let you know.”

10 minutes later….

“Joe, what the hell are you doing texting me at 11:30 on a week night? If this isn’t an emergency, your pimpled butt is MINE when I get home tomorrow.”

I had no other choice but to laugh at his comment seeing as how my mom hits way harder than he does (amateur..pshhht). His threat didn’t scare me the least bit. In fact, I laugh in his face every time he swats and misses… My friend’s call me whiskers, because I’m quick like a cat.



(That's right, Max. Read it and weep, gay-boy. Don't you think for one single second I'm jealous of your whiskers)



Speaking of whiskers, I’ve been thinking about growing a mustache. My beards the jam, there’s no doubt about that, but I think a stash would give me a little more edge. I asked mom her thoughts about this, and I think she said something like,

“Yeah, that’s the perfect way to get little boys in your time-out bed. Good idea, Joe."




Whatever, I’m still partial to the idea. I’d like to know what my followers think







Until next time, Sayonora, suckers!

Just like Fashion, it's a Passion for the with it and hip...

I’ve decided to dedicate this blog to all of my fellow fat felines and fence jumpers. Rather than grovel in disgust over my recent weight gain, I am instead embracing my pudgy lamp chops; I’m going to work it better than Precious did in her multiple hallucination dream sequences.


So here’s to my canine cohort and feline fat sickles who are suffering with swollen guts and limbs. You deserve to be recognized for your inner and outer beauty. Here are just a few of my friends I met in the “Nathan’s Juicy Plump Hotdogs” chat room:









well, well, well, would you look who it is... didn't realize Bailey was a chatroom whore.

...ummm, I think this girl just wanted to be a part of something bigger than herself.... hard to imagine...something bigger that is...(hehe)

You know, I don’t mean to start on a rant (because that never happens), but it’s really not our fault if we’re slightly plump, round, fleshy, curvaceous, tubby, portly, what-have-you. We eat just about anything you put in front of our faces, and aren’t allowed to eat it until after you say “uhnn, leave it!!” and then, “ok, now you can eat it.” (Exceptions for me include: grapes, Doritos, vegetables, Grade D meat from Taco Hell because that’s all they serve, anything Alpo, plantains, strawberries, fruit in general, and any/all leftovers…b/c microwaves cause cancer)… which brings me to my next rant.

It’s been brought to my attention that I have a repulsively huge boil on my beautiful, slick jet black body. A boil! (How ghastly, I know.) In the past few weeks, it’s nearly tripled in size. We thought it was a wart (um, eww right?), but this thing is massive, blood red, and hard. It needs to grow legs and skip on its merry way before mom’s attempts at popping it succeed, and I’m left with a fugly scar. (I have no clue what her fascination is with popping things, but boy does she get off to it).

I for one don’t think it's one of those things that can be popped necessarily. However, Mom continues her efforts in researching what it could be and how/if it can be ruptured. I don’t really think she cares exactly what it is, but is more fixated with how to get rid of it.

[Side note: If this lump is malignant or I die from a staph infection because my mother can’t get a handle on her pop craze (not to be confused with the other type of pop craze in which victims are fooled by mainstream bubblegum “artist” who miraculously top the pop charts with synthesized vocals, and make a stink with their excessive wardrobe selections, stank attitudes, easily forgotten interviews and need I say, terribly hilarious acting skills”) case in point: please refer to this blog.]

All I’ve heard come out of her loud mouth for the past month: “Damnit Joe. That thing is an eyesore. And not to mention, it’s getting in the way of your bi-weekly haircuts.”

I got on my laptop just the other day and she had intentionally accidently left this youtube video up.



Behind the video was a Word document that read:

“Oh… Poor Abby!! Joe, do you really want it to get to this point?....I kind of do….[insert evil laugh here: Muahahahahah.]”

……Speechless. I had no words. So, I quickly put on my thinking cap (it’s cute and pink and my Aunt Mrs. Suzanne bedazzled it for me) and decided to have my friend Luther over to help me stick it to the man (woman…mom, I mean). Instead of finding me in her bed when she got home, she found this picture of Luther instead…



And the note he was writing on my laptop?

“MaryClaire… look under your sheets. Love, Luther V.”



I decided to let Luther be the culprit rather than me, considering she can’t spank someone else’s child!! Sometimes my brilliance is overwhelming even to me. [insert evil laugh here:….muahahahahah!]

I’ll probably have my computer privileges revoked for that one, so until next time….
Joe.

Oh, Heavens to Betsey!

I’m sure inquiring minds would like to know why I have been an absentee from my own blog. Well even though I’d like to think of myself as perfection on four gorgeous legs, my parents would be in opposition to this.

Basically here’s the low down: I had my computer privileges taken away for a week because… because…? I think I was talking back??? Or could it be I snuck out after curfew? Wait! I think it was because I mumbled “child abuser” under my breath when Dad popped me for feeding Cooper my table scraps. Whatever the reason, I woke up to eat some Honey Smacks (love that Frog, dagnabit) and watch cartoons (Go Diego Go, to be specific) and my laptop was confiscated from my work station.


I immediately ran into my parent’s room, jumped on Mom’s face and shrieked, “Someone’s stolen my central processing unit and now I can’t blog!!! What the hell…” and was interrupted with, “Joe, it is 6 am. Your laptop wasn’t stolen, and you need to get off me.”

My rebuttal: “But but it was! And you guys need to get a security alarm pronto. I don’t know how it is in Mumbai, but in Atlanta, we don’t go stealin other people’s possessions; especially a little boy’s only communication to the outside world…which brings me to another point of concern I’ve been meaning to share with you both…I’m officially a PORKER.We never go running anymore! Hell, my neon pink headband, which is usually soaked with sweat, is dryer than a popcorn fart. Cooper keeps telling me to suck it up and stick my pawpaw down my throat (not trying to tattle, but I think he takes diet pills too…skinny bastard). I’d rather stick with an all-natural weight loss program. You know like, herbal remedies, exercise… that sort of thing. Not persistently purging chicken rice and water. I’ll pass, thanks.”

Silence…… snoring……drooling….rolling over.


“Mom!! Did you hear me? I’m a fat lard of pooh and everyone knows it! You know how Gmama gets on you about your weight because you’re abnormally short? And I heard her say that when short people stack on 5 pounds it makes it look like 20? Well thanks a lot for the genetics, Betsey! If I had just one inch of Grandma Sue’s height, I’d be cookin’ with gas.”

“Julian. First of all, don’t be chauvinistic towards our neighbors. I know there’s an overabundance of Indians living around us, but for the most part, they’re nice people. Secondly, Dad and I discussed how absolutely filthy your mouth is and how disobedient you’ve been lately, and we decided to take away your rights to blog for a week. You clean up that dirty-ass mouth and attitude, and you can get it back. Thirdly, you’re not a porker. The only weight you’ve gained is from the Leikenkugal Summer Shandy you steal from me when you think I’m not looking, and you pouting when we don’t give you seconds at dinner… so why don’t you build a bridge and get over it.”

Let me just say, I was revolted that my mother 1. Labeled me as racist. 2. Reaffirmed my fatness is from utter glut of beer, food and laziness and 3. Used a really lame comeback.

I could only respond with, “Well… I NEVER!!” and stormed out of the room in a fit of
rage to only indulge in my self-pity and an oversized bag of bagel chips (muy delicioso, [just a little glimpse of my Spanish. Thanks Diego!]).

I decided to show my parents that I’m not a brat. Just to prove how much blogging really does mean to me, I didn’t udder a single word about it during the holiday weekend.

Speaking of the holidays, here’s a slightly condensed recap:

Friday night, zapped a Hungry Man’s meal. Watched How It’s Made. Played online poker. Won twice, lost once. Had a few O’Douls. Put me to sleep. Dreamed about finding Max’s detached tail and leaving it in his water bowl. Saturday, woke up to Mom and Dad packing. Booked it to Griffin. Saw Gmama. Smothered her with meechums. Chased Mary. Cooled down. Chased Mary again. Slurped Bailey’s water. Nested in Bailey’s bed. Watched Bailey lose it. Went to see Aunt Ali, Annie and Ollie. Was mauled by Ollie. Cried. Cried some more. Went swimming. Met new friends. Did a little dance. Made a little a love. I got down that night. Sunday, snuck out of the house. Got in trouble. Sun-bathed. Went swimming again. Booked it back to Atlanta. Went to bed at 11. Woke up at 3 and puked. Woke up at 5:30 and puked again. Went to Grandma Sue’s for the 4th. Puked in Mom’s car on the way. Puked on Grandma Sue’s oriental rug. Puked on Grandma Sue’s outdoor rug. Puked on Grandma Sue’s mat. Napped. Woke up to sparklers in my face. Cried. Cried some more. Passed out.

Phewww! Hope everyone's 4th was filled with a little less pukage and a lot more pie! Just want to say thank you to my parents for allowing me to blog again. Guess I’ll leave you boys with one of my more thoughtful Julianisms:

“Get lifted from your soul. Top it off with sound, don’t you know.”

Oh.. and this... is America.