I’m on the dance floor grinding on my date and I have a four-year-old wrapped around my ankle. Get them the fuck out off the dance floor! I have to punt him across the room.
Weddings should be an adults-only zone. There’s enough shit for kids everywhere else. Can we have one day without them around?
Some adult shit is about to go down. I have my date in the bathroom stall and some guy is changing his kid’s shitty diaper a foot from me. It is tough to keep an erection when you have some douchebag dad talking baby talk next to you. You already dropped a grand on the wedding. Drop another hundred on a babysitter. YOU CHEAP FUCK!
Caught on Camera
In the past, couples would put out disposable cameras so guests would take candid photos of the celebration. That may be the one good tradition at weddings. I seriously miss those cameras! As soon as my friends got one we went in the bathroom and took pictures of our penises, balls, and assholes. If we had to drop a deuce we took pictures of that, too. Then, we turned in the cameras like nothing happened.
After one of my friend’s weddings, this backfired. He was in a rage when he got back from his honeymoon. Apparently, his new mother-in-law was tasked with developing all the film, and that didn’t go well.
“I can’t believe you fucking guys did that!” He yelled. “My mother-in-law was disgusted by those pictures!”
He didn’t talk to any of us for over a year.
A similar thing happened when I was in my close friend’s wedding party. One guy took a picture of his dick and left the camera on the table for the family. The groom’s mother got it developed and sees the penis and fucking flips out.
“This has to be Jim Florentine,” she said. “None of the other men would do something so disgraceful!”
When my friend returned from his honeymoon, his mother confronted him with the picture and her theory about me being the culprit. He analyzed the picture and noticed that the guilty man was wearing a suit.
“It can’t be Florentine. He wore a tuxedo during the ceremony because he was in the wedding party.”
Later, he did more detective work and found out the guilty party was a cousin of his. He was a married doctor who had three kids.
Here’s another story like that one. My ex-girlfriend’s brother had a great job as a hotel general manager. He heard about my antics with the throwaway cameras and thought it was funny. At his Christmas office party, he decided to have his friend take a picture of his dick in the bathroom. Problem was they took the picture wrong and got his face in the picture too. When the pictures were developed he lost his six-figure job, all because of my childish behavior. Maybe weddings are good for something.
Hair Up, Hard-on Down
Why do the bride and the chicks in the wedding party all put their hair up in a ponytail or a bun on the wedding day? Stop doing that.
Girls never look good with their hair up. In fact, they look terrible! You’ve got big fucking Dumbo ears. Those ears are usually covered up so they are super pale. They don’t match the rest of your tan. Always remember, there isn’t a single chick with nice ears. No guy ever dated a chick because of her ears unless she couldn’t hear out of them and he can say whatever he wants to her. Women spend $300 on makeup and fucking hair dye so they don’t have any roots. You girls did all of that shit yet you fucking twirl it up in a bun so everybody can see what your mediocre face looks like?
You go down three notches when your hair’s up. Any girl who’s a nine and puts their hair up slides down to a six. If you’re a seven, now you’re a four. You waited your whole life for this day and you look like shit. The only time a chick should put her hair up in a bun is if she’s going to clean the garage.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MY FIRST MURDER CONFESSION
The first time I confessed to murder, I was working for my brother. As I said in an earlier chapter, my brother Joe works in the real estate business. When he started out, he flipped houses. He would buy a shitty property, demolish the inside, and rebuild them to the point he could sell them for a higher price.
My job was demolition. I didn’t know how to build things so I did the crap jobs like picking up garbage, painting, or ripping the sheetrock off the walls. One time, I was working by myself at this old place. The house stood on stilts over the water. The kitchen had developed mold and was gutted. During the remodel, my brother asked me to hang new sheetrock and close off an old pantry right off the kitchen.
It didn’t take long before I was bored. The wheels of my awful mind started spinning, and I came up with a prank to pass the time. Before I closed off that area I decided I’d leave a note. I got a Sharpie and before I hung the last piece of sheetrock, I wrote a note inside the wall:
Hi, my name is Stewart. I lived here with my grandmother. She was poor and couldn’t afford her medications anymore. While I was here, her pain got a lot worse. I hated seeing her like that, so I killed her. I wanted her to be at peace! I didn’t have money for a funeral so I buried her under the house. If you are reading this note, please give her a proper burial! You will find her grave marked by a cross of two sticks. I hope whoever finds this understands that I tried to do the right thing.
I signed it with Stewart’s name and nailed up that last piece of sheetrock. I crawled under the house and stuck a cross made from two sticks into the ground. I finished up and called it a day.
Awhile later, I told my brother all about it. He just shook his head in disgust and told me I had problems. The whole joke seemed to fall flat and after that, I forgot about it. My twisted little prank sat behind that wall like a hidden bomb. It took a long time before someone lit the fuse.
Sheetrock C.S.I.
Many years later, I was living in Florida. One afternoon, I got a panicked call from Joe.
“Jim, you have to fly back to New Jersey, right now!” He said. My heart dropped. I was sure someone in our family had died.
“Oh, no! Why? What happened?” I asked.
“Do you remember that prank you pulled? You wrote a crazy story on the pantry’s wall about Stewart killing his grandmother. Well, that house sold to a new owner, and they remodeled the kitchen and found your story. The owner called the cops and now they have an investigation team at the house as we speak. They have backhoes on the way and they’re going to dig for a fucking body!”
“That was over five years ago! How did they trace it back to you?” I asked.
“Supposedly, they traced the code on the sheetrock. They know the year it was bought. Then, they looked up the records and saw I owned the house at the time.”
Joe went on to tell me that officers showed up at my parent’s house asking for him. My mother was the one that answered the door and asked what it was about. They told her it was regarding a murder investigation at one of Joe’s old investment properties. Needless to say, my mother started freaking out thinking her son must have killed someone.
“Mom told them I didn’t live there anymore but then the cops threatened her with obstruction of justice if she didn’t turn over my new address. She was in tears, Jim!” He said. “But, I had no idea what was going on until they showed up at my house!”
The police officers surprised Joe that same day. It was Saturday morning and he was home with his two little kids.
“I answered the door and they had that fucking piece of sheetrock with them. They showed me your note and wanted to know what I knew about it.”
Joe said he laughed and told them one of his construction workers was responsible for the sick prank. “Sorry, officers! That was five years ago. I can’t remember who was working for me then but I’m a hundred percent sure it was a joke!”
I laughed as Joe replayed the story for me. Then, his tone changed.
“Look, that’s what happened but I left out one thing. They kept pressing me for a name. They wouldn’t leave until I gave them one. I’m sorry but I told them it was you.”
I freaked out, “WHY WOULD YOU GIVE THEM MY NAME?”
“They we
re going to charge me, so I had to tell them! They want you to fly home immediately and meet with them.”
“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” I yelled. I hung up on Joe mad as hell. I was completely freaked out and didn’t know what to do.
A few minutes later, Joe called me back.
“I’m just fucking with you!” He said.
He was laughing hysterically while I stood there with my mouth hanging open in shock. Holy Shit! Joe pranked me! The only false part of the story was him giving them my name. I was mad he turned the tables on me but I was also relieved that I wasn’t on my way to prison!
“I GOT YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!” Joe was so damn proud of himself.
KETCHUP IS FOR KIDS
Recently, I read about a restaurant in Florida that banned ketchup for anyone over the age of ten years old. I LOVE THAT!
Ketchup is for kids, not for adults! I know you’re a creature of habit and you’ve been putting ketchup on your food for years. GET OVER IT! It’s for kids.
If I get a fresh hamburger off the grill, the last thing I want to do is put liquid sugar on it. I actually want to taste it. Ketchup is liquid sugar and a bunch of strange chemicals. That’s all it is! There are over fifty teaspoons of sugar in a bottle of ketchup. There’s no reason for that!
I went to lunch with my friend the other day. He got his meal and asked me to pass the ketchup.
I said, “If I’m going to pass the ketchup to you, I’m asking for a booster seat. Because that’s what you should sit in if you’re eating ketchup at forty-two years old.”
NO MORE FUCKING KETCHUP!
Awful Relationships: Man Caves
Man caves are one thing that contributes to awful relationships between men and women. Grown men don’t need man caves! When you’re a teenager, you hate your parents and you need a lot of space, a place to get away from them. The typical teenager might convert a basement or attic into a private place to smoke pot, play video games, or bang his girlfriend. No problem!
Adult married men with a family don’t need a special room to play video games or design a fantasy football team while Mumford & Sons plays in the background. A grown man shouldn’t be playing Wii Golf or Call of Duty. I realize you can’t play that shit in the living room because your wife doesn’t like it, but guess what, nobody else likes it, either!
Any guy who hides from his wife and kids in a little fucking room has serious issues in his marriage. If you want to be alone, get in your car and drive around the fucking neighborhood. Don’t hide in your little playroom because your life is miserable!
Mancavolution
Our dads didn’t have man caves. They didn’t have a special room for watching TV. They used the living room or den. Dads didn’t need separate space, you know why? Our dads were not afraid of our moms! Not that they acted like dicks, but they saw no reason to sequester themselves in a little fucking room downstairs. They hung out in places like the garage where they repaired cars and built shit. They didn’t need to prove they were men, they were men! They didn’t think about it, they just were!
Today’s men grew up being pampered by their mothers and some of them haven’t outgrown that. Back in the day, Mom didn’t like to have a messy house, so she set aside one room for the kids and called it a playroom.
The playroom was filled with toys, Play-Doh, trains, and plastic dinosaurs. You’d go in there and play or color with your crayons. If you marked on the walls, it didn’t matter. The playroom was meant to be a place little boys could do anything they wanted. While that was good strategy for a busy mom, it turned many children into mamas’ boys.
These mamas’ boys didn’t learn how to share living space with other people. They didn’t know what it was like to clean up for themselves, then they went to college and repeated the same cycle. They lived with four other guys and became even worse slobs. When they got out of college, they moved in with their girlfriends and got married.
Because these guys are complete disasters, they can’t take care of themselves. They still need a mommy so they marry their moms. They let their wives take over the house but they still want that playroom they had in their childhood. They beg permission to take over the basement or a room downstairs. They give their new playroom a more masculine name and instead of Play-Doh they hang up sports posters!
WHAT A BUNCH OF PUSSIES!
Honey, I’ll Be in My Homo Fort
There’s a lot of gay stuff that goes on in man caves. It shouldn’t be called a man cave. It’s a fucking homo-fort. I’m not putting down gay people when I say that. I’m pointing out there is a lot of overcompensating going on when you have a guy who can’t stop telling anyone that will listen that he’s a man! No, you’re not. If you have to prove you’re a man by having a man cave you really are a pussy! It’s that simple.
When I was younger I built a fort and all the boys in the neighborhood would come over and we would hang out. It was a strict no-girls-allowed club. Even though no girls would’ve wanted to be in there. We were a bunch of losers playing with our wrestling action figures.
In the same way, these pussies love man caves because it’s usually the only place in the house they can completely control. Most man caves have a special chair for the dude, collectible toys, stupid sports memorabilia, and dumb man art. In other words, man caves are disasters just like the men that hang out in them.
Hanging up manly art is meant to be one of the big freedoms a man cave gives a guy. Women control the look of the rest of the house. They get one small room or a basement to decorate. They put up shit like posters with hot women, half-naked and bent-over, holding cold beer. Or, the famous velvet painting Dogs Playing Poker because dogs smoking cigars is meant to be hilarious. Except no one has ever laughed at that painting. More people have laughed at a mass shooting.
A guy with a man cave will say, “You know what I’m going to put in my man cave? I’m going to hang up a dartboard because we’re guys, and real men like dartboards, we play darts.”
Stick that dart in your eye, motherfucker!
“I might even have a dart tournament. Hey, you want to come to my man cave this weekend and play darts?”
No, because I’m afraid you will try to play with my dick while I’m in your man cave.
Easy Chair Idiots
Man caves always have a special chair. The chair serves as a throne and no one else is allowed to sit in it without special permission. It’s usually a comfortable recliner with two cup-holders for beer.
One of my friends was bragging about this. “You know what I have right next to my easy chair?”
“A box of tampons?” I said.
“No asshole. I have a KEGERATOR!”
“What the hell is that?” I asked.
“It’s a refrigerator with a beer tap on it. You tap a small keg and place it in the refrigerator, and then you just pull the handle on top of the kegerator to refill your beer.”
While he’s down in his man cave, licking foam off that stupid fucking kegerator, some guy is tapping his wife.
Dicks with Dolls
Man caves are famous for having toys and action figures in them. Toys have no place in a grown man’s life. Your mother threw out your stupid toys when you left home. She did that for a reason. Women don’t want to see men playing with children’s toys unless they have been diagnosed with Asperger’s.
Another popular man cave decoration is the sports-themed bobblehead. Man cave guys will line their shelves with them. Why the fuck do adult men have collections of dolls?
Do you know why those fucking bobbles are shaking their heads? They’re judging you! They’re saying, “You’re a fucking grown man with dolls on your shelf. Go put them in your toddler’s room where they belong.”
Bad Memorabilia
The number-one decoration you find in a man cave is sports memorabilia. That’s sad because all sports memorabilia is fucking stupid! For instance, there’s no reason to have a little frame with a World Series ticket stub from game three in 1998 when th
e Yankees played the Braves. NOBODY GIVES A SHIT!
It doesn’t matter that you saw Scott Brosius hit a double off the wall. WHO GIVES A FUCK?
I bet Scott Brosius doesn’t even give a shit! He probably can’t remember it. I can hear a fan asking him about that play.
“Oh really? I did that?” Brosius asks.
“You don’t remember that?” The fan says.
“No!”
“How could you not remember that?”
“Because it’s been fifteen years and I have a life! You should, too! Get the fuck out of here weirdo!”
I can’t believe guys buy shit like Derek Jeter baseballs off eBay. Nothing against Derek Jeter, but he cranked a hundred of those out in twenty minutes to make his house payment. There’s nothing special about that ball. That ball doesn’t belong on your man cave wall; it belongs shoved up your fucking ass! Get some lube and work it right in there! Now you have a memory worth preserving! When you take it out of your ass it will look like Jeter’s biracial skin.
Hanging a bunch of sports memorabilia on your wall is dumb. I have a huge basement but I don’t want it cluttered with that kind of crap. I don’t need to hang a Willie McCovey poster up to remind me he was my favorite player. I know I like the guy! I watched Dan Marino play for seventeen years. I have those memories with me. I don’t need his jersey on the wall in a fucking frame! I like eating hamburgers but there is not a picture of one hanging on my fucking wall.
Fuck You, Rudy!
Everybody Is Awful_Except You! Page 19