If you ask me, we are doomed, because if the children are our future, we are seriously screwed.
What’s that you say? I’m being harsh and overly judgmental? No, I’m not, and I’ll tell you why. In recent weeks I’ve had the opportunity to look the future in the eyes, (and eavesdrop on its conversations) and let me tell you, it didn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling. I got that feeling from a nurse in a bar in Portland, Maine, but that’s a different post all together.
Now, to be clear, when I’m talking about the future, I’m referring to teenagers. Even more specifically, I’m referring to my 18yr old niece, my 15yr old nephew and a modest sampling of their idiot friends.

Here are three things I learned.
1. Despite being connected on a Global Network in the most technologically advanced society the world has ever known, EVERYTHING is AMAZING! Their boyfriends are AMAZING! Their girlfriends are AMAZING! Cheesy pop singers are AMAZING! Facebook is AMAZING! Youtube videos of morons crashing into walls are AMAZING! Apparently, the threshold for teenage amazement is pretty friggin low.
Here’s a tip. When hearing that a teenage girl’s boyfriend is AMAZING! It is not advisable to ask, “What, are you dating a magician?” Because, clearly, you need to lighten up and you are the only one who thinks that’s funny.

2. The rules of common sense regarding the wearing of clothes do not apply to teenagers. Look. Ol’ Rod is by no means some kind of fashion template for the hordes to follow. However, call me crazy but when it is 10 degrees Fahrenheit, to me it seems perfectly logical to wear a jacket. Additionally, when I leave the house, I don’t wear pajamas and slippers. When did that become ok? I suppose in the future we’ll all be walking around with our bathrobes open, with our teeth chattering in the coolest of ways.

Another tip. The question “That’s what you’re wearing?” will always be replied with a rolling of the eyes and the word,” Why?” Furthermore, I don’t advise answering the why with,” Because, you look like a mental patient out for a walk.” If you do say this, expect to be asked what your fucking problem is.

3. The future is hairless. The only exception here is for boys. In their case, growing a wispy gaggle of chin hair sans moustache only adds in making them AMAZING! The rest of the body must be shaved smooth, a la pornstar style, lest he be denigrated by female teens for having “O.M.G. hair on his balls, ewwwww!”
Final tip. Don’t eavesdrop on a teen’s conversation unless you are prepared to hear shit that will blow your freaking mind.

Bonus tip. Don’t refer to a teenage girl’s AMAZING! boyfriend as Amish Dave unless you want to be told “Jesus, would you let it go!” and again…. “You are the only one who thinks it’s funny.” (My personal favorite)

Maybe it’s just me. But I kind of long for the days when I would trim up the goatee, take a Sassoon jean wearing girl out on a date in my “Totally Rad” Mustang with the hope that she might be into fondling my hairy nutsack. LOLZ Bitches!

Time Is Not On My Side…

Posted: March 25, 2011 in Uncategorized

So, I’m back. Kinda. 

Life threw ol’ Rod a couple curveballs in recent weeks and though I could be a wuss and complain about how I’ve been beset by a series of unfortunate events, I won’t.

I will, however, briefly describe them.

1. Family illness – Apparently my mother is not an inhuman she-devil destined to live forever. In fact, as the last few weeks have proven, she is quite human and just as susceptible to cardiac disease as the rest of us.

2. Family mental breakdown: I’m being a bit flippant here but Mom’s extended hospital stay and subsequent dance with death served as the proverbial straw for my sister, who’s been dealing with a couple of shit teenagers for the last few years and dealing with my parents while I have been living in relative safety several states away. To say I feel a bit of guilt is probably the understatement of the year.

3. The joys of a new jobs: Nothing makes a new boss happier than telling him a couple of weeks after you start that you have to leave for an extended period of time.  He was not psyched about it in the least and is now making me ‘pay’.  Funny thing about the new job, I actually have to work…. WTF is up with that?

I guess those are the big three that have been eating my time. It sucks, but sometimes life sucks…Nothing funny about it.

If anyone was wondering what happened to the crazy lady who took up residence in my house after three dates…. I very calmly and without making any startling movements told her that it was probably a good idea that we didn’t see each other again. Then I changed my locks and hid the knives. I did that before I had to leave so I was fairly certain that I would return to find my house burned to the ground or a giant dick spray painted on my garage door.  To my surprise, I returned to find the house still standing and the door dick free. Small victories.

So folks, life goes on.

Man, a lot can happen in twenty days. That’s how long it’s been since I last posted, not that it matters.  Hmmmm… where to start?  Let’s see. I switched jobs. Yup, just like that. I don’t know what everyone is bitching about. It was pretty easy to get a new gig, especially when you have a particular set of skills like me.  Kidding… sort of.   Actually, I am working for the company I worked for before I left to take the job I just left. Get that?  Try to keep up. The great thing about it is the guy who I “worked” for last time now works for me….. It’s called Karma, dude, and she’s a miserable bitch.  So now I’ve got about 6 people who aren’t real happy to see me around.

What else?  Well, Ol’ Rod’s love life has been a bit ….oh let’s call it…. interesting.  There’s actually some funny shiz here but before I post about it I’m going to ask you a question.  How much time should elapse from the time you meet a woman to the time she feels it’s perfectly ok to enter your house while you are at work and make herself at home for the entire day, to include inviting two girlfriends over to ‘talk and watch TV’ ?????  I’m seriously asking, but I’m pretty sure the answer is longer than three dates.  My life is like a bad comedy.

Next up, got another call from the Army, more to follow on this.

And finally, I lent my services to one Denny DelVecchio over at YourNewBADHabit.blogspot.com and wrote him the consummate personal ad.  And while I certainly think there were better entries, he picked mine to help him score tons of Wisconsin Trim.

Bonne Chance, Senor!

Somebody pass the Prozac…

Posted: January 5, 2011 in Uncategorized

So yeah, it’s a new year. Whatever.  If you ask me, the holidays are overrated. Christmas? What the hell was that all about? The highlight of mine was fielding a drunken phone call from my sister complaining that her two shit for brains kids don’t appreciate anything and blaming me for moving away and leaving her to deal with my mother.  If that doesn’t scream Seasons Greetings, I don’t know what does.  She’s still pissed I bought her son a drum set when he was nine. It’s been 6 yrs, jesus, let it go already. And I’m still waiting for thank yous from the two shit for brains kids. Well, not really. I know they aren’t coming, because the two cretins don’t appreciate anything.

How was Rod’s New Years you ask? If you consider drinking a six-pack in front of the tube while telling two confused dogs what’s wrong with people today a good time, then it was awesome.  By the way, somebody please do Dick Clark a favor and put the poor bastard out of his misery. I mean, really what is he, 175 yrs old? Somebody put a pillow over his head and get it over with already. Christ.

So, Ol’ Rod is feeling a bit out of sorts. I’m not sure what’s going on but I’m not feeling like myself. Maybe the near death experience with last month’s illness messed with my brain. I don’t know. Maybe it’s man-o-pause.  Whatever it is, I’d like it to be done now, please.

I start a new job in a couple weeks. That should be fun. My current job is moving to an Army post in New Jersey and well, Rod ain’t moving to fucking New Jersey so that’s that.  No offense to Senor DelVecchio, but  NJ just isn’t my cup of tea. I also received a very weird phone call from a General I used to work for. I say weird because:

1. I’d like to know how the hell he got my cell number. He wouldn’t tell me.

2. He was all like, So…you done hiding in the woods and playing civilian yet? And I was all like…Uhh what the hell’s that supposed to mean, Sir.  And he was like…you’re still commissioned you know… and I was all, yes Sir I know that.
And he was all… I could really use you over here ( Fudgepackaboyistan) And I was all… uhhh no thanks, Sir… and he was all… I could just have orders cut for you, you know… and I said, I know.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, going back to active duty. Anyway, now I half expect a certified letter to show up at my house any day now.

So I suppose that’s it for now. Good times.

X+Y=Z (hint Z is around 2hrs)

Posted: December 14, 2010 in humor, true story

Keep the questions rolling in.  Don’t be bashful about putting them on the other page though, unless you think the email route is the way to go. Then do that. I promise I won’t publish your email address or give your real name. Here’s the latest gem.

Q. Ken asks, ” Rod, I hate math. What’s the answer to:  T = d + D = sqrt [ x 2 + 5 2 ] + sqrt [ (20-x) 2 + 10 2 ] ?”

A. Ken, I’m no mathamagician. In fact, that doesn’t even vaguely resemble anything I ever did in a math class. Like any sane person would, I googled it, and apparently it’s something called calculus and it relates to minimum distance. Ken, are you a nerd? If so, I recommend that you get one of your nerdling friends to help you with this. If you are not a nerd, find one fast. It’s your only hope.

However, I’m not one to leave you hanging. Here’s what I know about minimum distance.

  If X is equal to a bottle of Dr. McGillicuddy’s Mentholmint Schnapps that you purchase at a liquor store in Montpelier, Vt.,  and Y =  Greyhound Bus travelling East at snail’s pace toward my parents house in Maine , then Z is = to the amount of time it will take you to drink X and be kicked off the Bus (Y) somewhere near St. Johnsbury, Vt. for trying to get a hippie girl to give you a hummer in the bathroom. Hope that helps.

I’ve made a pretty lofty claim by saying I know stuff. It was only a matter of time until someone took me to task on such outrageousness, and it seems like that day has arrived. So, it’s time to go where the rubber meets the road in a matter of speaking and actually answer a reader’s question. Again, if you have a question you need an answer to you can post it in the comment section of the Got Questions? page or you can send it to the email address also found on that page. I actually check that thing once in a while.

Via email reader Joyce (fake name to protect her identity) asks, “Rod, if that is your name, my 14 yr old son doesn’t listen to a damn thing I say. He doesn’t budge when I ask him to clean up after himself. His room is always a mess and smells like feet and dirty underwear. He treats me like I’m his maid not his mother. How do I get him to respect me and do what I ask him to?”

Dear Joyce, Let me start by saying thanks for the question and yes, Rod is my real name. I’m confident I’ve got the answer to your dilemma, but  first may I offer some advice of a related nature? If you care at all about preserving your identity it’s  generally a good idea not to send a complete stranger an email using your primary email address, especially the one you used when you signed up for Facebook. While I don’t have a hmmm.. let’s call it ‘real’ Facebook page, I do have a fake one so I can stalk keep up with old ‘friends’. By pasting your email address in the search tab I was able to not only see your page but those of your friends and family and were I not an all around good guy, I could be sending all sorts of weirdo shit to your friends and family instead of trying to help you out with your problem. Jus’ saying. By the way, by looking at your pictures I can say that. 1. You have a very nice bathroom. 2. Your grandparent’s 56th wedding anniversary cookout looked like a blast. Seriously, so many happy faces. And your captions? Classic!

Ok, let’s get down to business. There are basically three answers I could give you. First I could tell you that since I’m a childless recluse I don’t have to worry about shit like that and you’re on your own. I mean face it, I’m never going to fret about saying the wrong thing or wonder if I’ve set the right example or if my teenage daughter has sent pictures of her cooch to the entire lacrosse team. Why? Because I’m Child Free! I’ve got a life. But no, Joyce. I won’t tell you that.

I could tell you that I checked out your son’s Facebook page and honestly, Travis seems cooler than you. I mean, hey, he’s got like 500 friends. What do you got? 42? Lamo! You’re lucky he even acknowledges you as kin. You should seriously count yourself lucky and just do whatever he wants and ride the dude’s coattails lest he Unfriend you. You don’t want that do you? No, Joyce. You don’t.  So just ignore the problem. Let the boy do his thang and pray to God it all works out in the end. This second method is what I refer to as My Sister’s Plan of Action. But, as my Mother has pointed out to my Sister, thousands and thousands of times over the course of 18yrs, this way of doing things is going to Bite you in the ass, and then you’ll be sorry. Coincidently, my Sister is in the midst of having her ass bit viciously to which my Mother says,  I told you. Did you think I was talking to the fucking walls?  But would you listen???? Noooooooo not you. Well now you know.  Anyway, Joyce. I don’t recommend  you go this route.

Which brings me to what I think you should do. Joyce, my mother was not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. What she was good at though, was keeping her word. So I have to go with what she would do in this case. Warn the boy that he will lose his shit if he doesn’t take care of it.  If Travis doesn’t clean his room, tell him pigs don’t have nice things and while he is at school take his shit and get rid of it. I don’t mean hide it. I mean throw it away. If he leaves soda cans lying around. Don’t buy soda. If he has clothes lying around on his floor, then the boy clearly has too many clothes.  You see Joyce. You are the fucking ADULT! He is the child. You control his destiny, not the other way around. When he learns that you mean what you say he will come around, if not out of respect then out of a good old-fashioned healthy fear of losing his shit. Trust me. 13 yr old Rod learned this the hard way, but I only had to learn it once.

So there you go. Question asked and answered. You are most welcomed. Of course, judging by your photo album entitled… Goin 2 da club… I suppose you’re going to take my Sister’s Plan of Action and run with it. Good luck with that, let me know how it works out for you.

To say that I’ve been ill the last three days does not even begin to describe it. This was simply by far this sickest I have ever been.  The only time that I can remember even coming close was in 2003 when I ate a Lamb kabob bought from a street vendor in Baghdad. Despite the fact that said Lamb kabob was delicious, during the two days that followed my digestive system revolted and decided to teach me a lesson. The only time I was able to stop vomiting was when I was tearing at my belt and trying not to shit my pants.

The past few days were far worse than that. Tuesday morning I felt fine, but by noon I had a killer headache. Somewhere around two in the afternoon my eyes started to hurt so bad they felt like they were going to melt out of their sockets and I could feel the chills setting in. So, for the first time in as long as I can remember I left work early and headed home to ride it out.

Usually, I can suck it up and still get things done but not this time. I spent the rest of Tuesday afternoon and all of Tuesday night in bed buried under three blankets shivering uncontrollably. The shivers got so bad I pulled a muscle in my back and couldn’t even stand up without looking like an eighty-year old man.

It got worse. I only remember pieces of Wednesday. I remember the room spinning like I was drunk and trying to pass out. I remember searching frantically for a thermometer to find out if I was just dreaming that I was on fire or if my fever was anywhere near as high as I thought it might be. I remember it being 104.56  and thinking that sounded pretty high. I remember my two dogs whining and crying and then at some point howling like wolves. I think I was delirious for a while and remember some crazy dreams which might not have been dreams but I’m not so sure. It’s too nuts to try to explain, but trust me they were in the realm of schitzo.  I really thought I was gonna check out for a while there and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I couldn’t even lift my arms or my head off the pillow never mind get out of bed. I remember thinking they’re going to find me here melted into the mattress in a couple of weeks.

I don’t remember calling my sister in Maine at 4 in the morning, but I did and left a goodbye voicemail.  She called back at 11 am on Thursday and gave me hell for leaving a drunk voicemail on her phone in the middle of the night. When I told her the situation she said,” Huh, really? ummm well, glad you’re not dead.” Ya, Sis. Me too.

The fever broke sometime Thursday morning and I spent the rest of the day sweating and drinking water and eating Advil like candy. My dogs were in a considerably better spirits but they were watching me pretty closely, like they weren’t so sure they weren’t going to have to find another meal ticket.

Today, I’m a little weak but I sort of feel like my usual self.  And I’m like ten pounds lighter, which pretty much makes the whole experience worth it.

Have a great weekend.

On Second Thought… no.

Posted: December 6, 2010 in Random weirdness

 I wonder what I did in a past life to deserve being a weirdo magnet. It must have been bad, or pretty weird, because I swear I’m like the Pied Piper of certifiable nutjobs.

I was going to post this morning about my most recent brush with weirdness, but I’m not going to because the more I think about it, the more I just shake my head and ask myself why me. It’s a little depressing, really.

So not a complete post but here’s the jist. Saturday morning I helped a guy by pulling his truck out of the ditch on a back road pretty deep in the Adirondacks. That led to many thank yous from him and a short polite conversation.  When asked where my place was I should have lied, but like the fool I am I told him.  Cut to about 10pm that night when he and his wife show up at my place. They were normal looking people even though they were both completely shit faced. Drunk off their asses!!!

They proceeded to 1. Drink all my beer. 2 knock my radio off the table and break it. and 3. Here’s the good one…. offer to have a Three -way with me, or barring the three-way, have me just tag the wife while dude watched, I guess.. WTF!

My response?   Ummmm Jeez thanks, but uhhh …No thanks… 

That is all…

Dear snow plow driver,

Hi there. It’s me, Rod. The first snowfall of the year is upon us and I just wanted to drop you a line or two in order to clear the air about how we ended things last year in hopes that we can move on from those unfortunate events.  I’d like you to know that if there is a way to create some harmony between us, I’ll do it.  I’m all about building bridges.

  1. No matter what I said, I do not think your mother is a godless whore.  I don’t even know where that came from.  Jeez, ya know, I really regret saying that.  I’d had a long day, maybe even a few beers. I’m an idiot and sometimes I say hurtful things I don’t mean.  I’m sure your mother is a God fearing woman whose reputation in the community and the local church is beyond reproach.  Along the same lines, I’m sure your wife is a handsome woman and not the ugly, three- toed, swamp pig I referred to. I have no idea what her ass looks like, but I’m confident it isn’t fat. Can we just chalk that up to a heat of the moment mistake and move on? I’d like that.
  2. You are an excellent driver, skilled in your chosen profession, and I’m sure that it isn’t easy to get a snowplow driving license.  I know it’s impossible to get one of those licenses in a gumball machine, and I’m fully aware that the training to drive a snowplow is not part of a county social services program designed to give slack-jawed retards something to do.
  3. I know that you are on a pre-determined route with the roads you plow and that you are most certainly not ‘lying in wait’ for me to clear the berm at the end of my driveway. That’s just ridiculous, and I’m ashamed for being so paranoid and adolescent in my thinking. I know you weren’t laughing maniacally as you buried me in for the fourth time. I needed the exercise anyway.
  4. That ice chunk I threw was not aimed at your open window. Sometimes the magic of a winter wonderland brings me back to my childhood and I get the itch to toss a snowball or two. That one got away from me. Seriously. I hope you didn’t need stitches.
  5. Don’t worry about that mailbox. It was ugly and needed replacing anyway. 

Wow, talk about coincidences. As I type this I can hear you coming down the street.  I’m gonna go out and wave to you and then later when you read this you’ll smile. It’ll be like a special moment captured in time, fostering our budding friendship. Be right back.

Listen and listen good, you miserable prick! It’s way too early in the season for the type of shit you just pulled.  Are you too fucking blind to see where the road ends and my lawn begins? And the mailbox? Again? Really?  Hey asshole, why don’t you put the beer down for five minutes and join us in the land of the living? Mark my words. I’ll fix your ass, loser. I know where you live.


The guy five minutes and a couple smokes away from a shoveling induced heart attack

If you ask me, the time between Thanksgiving and New Year’s  is my favorite time of the year.  Now, nevermind all the waxing poetic about the magic of the holidays and family get togethers and reflecting about the turning of the seasons and another year past, because I’m not talking about any of that crap. As I have referred to previously, I spent the better part of a decade as a Teacher and, as any Teacher knows, this part of the year is the Sweet Spot in the calendar.

Why do I call it the Sweet Spot? There are several reasons. First of all, as a Teacher if you’ve done things right, by now you have set the tone in your classroom and by that I mean that you have instilled fear into your students and the certainty that you will lay the smack down for any transgression of the rules hangs over them like a heavy cloud.  I made it a point to be serious as a heart attack for the entire first quarter. No jokes, few smiles, firm but fair with no bending of the rules. In short, I was a huge prick from Day 1 to Parent Teacher Conferences and the message was clear; Do not fuck with Mr. R. 

With the proper tone set, I entered  a period of time within the Sweet Spot I liked to call the Season of  Asskissing.  Why? Because Christmas was in sight. (I taught at a Catholic School. If you aren’t Catholic replace Christmas with whatever Heathen Holiday you celebrate. It doesn’t matter, you’re going to hell anyway.) My students knew if they screwed up now, the potential for a shitty holiday was a very real thing. I taught middle-schoolers for the majority of my tenure as the fool talking to the walls.  Middle-schoolers like to try to make everyone believe that they are mature and worldly and full-grown, but secretly a good many of them still wear footed pjs and cuddle with mom on the couch before bedtime.  While they might not completely believe in Santa, they haven’t yet lost their innocence (except Jasmine, she was a total ho at 13). The bottom line here is that they were always on their best behavior to secure a spot on the nice list. They washed boards and took out trash without being asked.  Homework was neat and completed on time. Even the smelly kid turned his act up a notch and bathed a little more regularly. (quit picking your nose, Ryan).

It’s not just the kids who took part in the Season of Asskissing. Being the only male on the faculty and a very snazzy dresser, I found that during the Sweet Spot/SOA I was beset by a bevy of middle-aged cougar moms wanting to help me with everything from decorating the classroom and organizing the class act for the Christmas Play to finalizing all the details for the pinnacle event of the Season; The Class Christmas Party. Being a straight male, and therefore lacking any panache whatsoever when it comes to interior design, I would sit back and ‘supervise’ as the ladies descended upon the class with their decorations and Thermoses of Hot Chocolate. One year, the principal poked her head in to see what was going down and shot me a look mixed with shock and admiration. I winked and nodded at her and held out my mug for a cocoa refill. She walked away shaking her head.

With the classroom aglow and the details of The Party set, it was pretty much smooth sailing in the Sweet Spot. It’s the shortest ranking period of the school year so being a lazy  smart teacher, assignments were doled out at a minimum ensuring little in the way of  my time spent afterschool grading papers and much in the way of visiting the local watering holes for Holiday Happy Hours. As a result,there were a few extra Movie Days during the Sweet Spot.  This is also where I’d loosen the noose a little as well. A joke here or funny story there went a long way in getting the kids to see that I wasn’t a complete ass and it also primed the pump for receiving gifts at the Classroom Christmas Party.

Look, I’m not a total dick. Every year I would put out a letter to the Parents stating matter-of-factly that I did not expect to receive any gifts and that the opportunity to shape the young minds of their fine children was in itself a Christmas Miracle.

And every year they bought that shit, Hook. Line. and Sinker.   When the day of The Classroom Christmas Party arrived,  students with cougar moms in tow would arrive bearing extravagant gifts for yours truly, but before you get all indignant on me, realize that the gifts weren’t as much for me as they were to show up the other moms. If I got a ten-dollar paperweight from Derek’s mom, I could be sure that I was going to get a twenty-dollar paperweight from Renee’s mom. One year I got a pair of very expensive silk boxers and a personal letter smelling of perfume from Jasmine’s mom, but that is a different post all together. All in all the competition for out doing each other in the gift giving department was ridiculous, but I made out like a fat rat and I friggen loved it.

Once the Party of the Year was over and the kids were sent home the best part of the Sweet Spot started. Winter Vacation; Ten days of bliss and family get-togethers and reflecting on another year gone down the crapper and all that happy shit.

This is the only time of year that I miss teaching and the Sweet Spot between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, not counting Summer Vacation of course.