Archive for the ‘vacation’ Category

>Ren-ASS-ance Faire

Posted: October 14, 2010 in kids, parenting, vacation, wtf

>Thou art strange.

Eth.

I recently took the kids yet again to the local New England Renaissance Faire called King Richard’s Faire which also goes by the name:

“Boobies Boobies Boobalicious Boobfest, 2010.”

(Trademark Pending).


If you’ve ever been to these things they can be kind of cool especially if you like looking at lots and lots of breasts or – going the other route – have never seen a breast because you’ve been playing Dungeons and Dragons and, that’s right Nerdy McNerderson, this is your moment to shine.

And by ‘shine’ I mean ‘dress up like a complete ASSHOLE.’

Freak.

Here are just a couple of things I captured for your entertainment:

The Torture Show

So, our very first stop when we walked through the gates at 10:30 in the morning was a show called The Torture Show.”

It was at this show that we saw the guy literally put HOOKS INTO HIS EYE SOCKETS AND THEN PULL ON THEM WITH A CHAIN OMG ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME.

So, you know…

That was awesome.

On a related note, I’m pretty sure Matthew Broderick feels like doing this every single morning when he wakes up and rolls over.

Other People Can’t Take Pictures

So, the kids and I go take a seat near the Jousting Field and this guy in front of us with some weird accent (not the Walmart-Stock-Boy-attempting-to-do-a-British-accent-like-everyone-else-here kind) asks me to take a picture of him and his family.

No problem. I mean, even though I’m a Republican and you have an accent which means I probably shouldn’t like you it IS a Sunday and even racism and intolerance needs a break every once in a while.

Man. Sometimes I’m so philosophical it’s ridiculous.

So I ask him to return the favor and take a pic of me and the kids.

Here’s what I get when I look at the photo:

WTF, dude.

Apparently, he translated “Would you mind taking our picture now?” into “Please take a picture of everything EXCEPT us and even if you DO manage to capture us in a tiny portion of the picture can you make sure that you don’t get all of me, too? Because I would hate to have any long lasting memories of this day that actually show that we were in attendance. That would be great. Thanks.”

Meengya.

The Velvet Asshat

So we’re sitting there and to my immediate right is this asshole:

Let’s break this jackass down for you:

Dude.

At least put your teeth in.

The King is here, for Chrissakes.

The Discounted Asshat

Then just when I don’t think I can be surrounded by any more weird people dressed in this crap FOR FUN this guy sits to the right just behind me:

So I took this picture kind of secretly and when his head was turned because he actually had weapons on him and I’m not so sure you can trust the mental stability of any asshole who dresses like this on a Saturday.

That’s when he PULLS OUT A MACE and not the spray kind that only stings for a little bit and you can continue with your assault if you build up enough tolerance but the kind with SHITLOADS OF SPIKES on it that has to be wrapped up in bubble wrap lest ye kill someone with it.


As he’s showing it to the people he’s with (I find it hard to say ‘friends’ here) he goes:

“They gave me $50 off this because I was already wearing two of their swords.”

*blink

And, scene.

Then some jousting happened and there was blood and yelling and then we got the Hell out of there because, you know, THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO LOOK LIKE PIRATES WITH MACES HERE.

Screweth that shit.

Moog outeth.

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I have good news and bad news.

I’ll be out of town for a couple of days, folks.

That’s all I got. Depending on who you are, that may be good or bad.

I’m on my way to Delaware with a car full of Whiskey Girls en route to a celebrity golf tournament called:

The Drive for Autism


This is an event that’s closed to the public, yet The Whiskey Girls and a wonderful woman who pulled it all together invited me along to hang out, help out, and write about the event.

Kind of like I’ve done twice before but this time I’m in Delaware.


Yeah. Those are the girls and what they’ll be wearing.

I’ll be tagging around holding a High School Musical notebook jotting shit down because it’s the only one I could find in the house that would fit in my pocket.

Manly.

So, I won’t be around to comment or abuse because I’ll be asking NASCAR drivers shit like, “So..you drive a car? Huh. I guess that’s okay.” because – seriously – NASCAR?!

I used to commute 35 miles to and from downtown Boston every day. Watching a NASCAR race is like going in on a fucking Saturday.


But these guys raise a shitload of money for a really great cause and I guess I can put aside the fact that they make millions DRIVING while I’ve made a total of six dollars selling shirts here.

I’m not bitter.

If you want to be a good soul and send some money to help fight Autism, click here.

Under ‘Notes’ just mark that your donation is for the “Drive for Autism.”

I’m sure it will make you feel better.

Just save money to buy a shirt or a mug.

Yeah. I can be charitable AND a dick if I want.

See you on Friday, people.

Moog out.


Alternate Title for this post:

How to Freak out a Bellhop

Let me explain.

On my recent family vacation, our last travel spot was the lovely city of Toronto, Canada.

When I say ‘lovely’ I mean ‘shithole.’

When I say ‘city’ I mean ‘fucking dump.’

When I say ‘Toronto, Canada’ I mean ‘accumulation of urine.’

Seriously…

…I haven’t seen that many homeless people since I went to Seattle for the distinct purpose of making fun of them.

SO worth the airfare.

(FYI: If you’re going to throw rocks at them, it’s best to bring your own. They’re hard to find on the city streets)

I’ve digressed.


(yep…one of mine)

Regardless…

When booking the hotel, I discovered that I could get the cheapest rate at the hotel I was looking at if I went with the “Romance Package.”

Yes.

The Romance Package.

Let’s see:

Two adults…two children…?

Um..DUH.

Obviously, I’ll take the Romance package, please.

No brainer.

At least, for people from Kentucky.

People from Kentucky bang their own kids.

It’s true.

I read it.

I wrote it down and I read it.

I believe everything I read.


(Thanks for the bit, Bob Saget.)

Sorry…where was I?

Oh.

The Romance Package.

Here’s why I took it:

*******************
Your Romance Package Includes:

1) Two splits of sparkling wine
2) A sumptuous welcome treat at check-in
3) Valet parking included
4) Massage oil

*******************

* blink

VALET PARKING INCLUDED?!?!?!?

Sign me the fuck up!


I mean, the massage oil and wine and sumptuous treat shit is cool…

…but when you’re over 40 and you get FREE VALET PARKING?!?!?

Jesus H. Christ…it’s like I hit the fucking lottery.

You know.

If the lottery sucked and the grand prize was a Latino guy parking my minivan.

Don’t judge.


So, we booked the hotel room with the Romance Package.

We checked in.

We did some shit in Toronto.

(read: kicked hobos)

But on the last day, we realized that:

1) We did not get our fucking ‘scrumptious welcome treat at check-in’

2) No massage oil!!

3) We did not get our splits of wine

Side note: what the fuck is a split of wine?

I once got a split of atoms, but it resulted in horrible, horrible devastation and millions died.

Kids…be careful when playing with nuclear fission.

The more you know.

Basically, all I got so far out of this fucking Romance Package was free parking.

Free parking!

Oh. Look at that.

I have a boner.

Free parking does that.

Hey..looks like I’ve gone off-topic.

Again.


So, I went down to the front desk and told the guy that I had not received any of the shit I was supposed to get.

He told me he’d call me in ten minutes…

…so I went back to my room…

…took my shirt off and put on some “XBox Live” silk jammy shorts…


(LOOK OUT, LADIES!!)

Then…it came:

* Knock Knock Knock

Um.

Uh oh.

I open the door.

It’s the Bellhop from downstairs.

He’s smiling.

He’s brought me my Romance Package.

In his hands…he’s holding:

1) A small bottle of wine

2) Two cookies

3) A black box.

The cover of the black box is showing a painting to two Japanese people getting freaky with the words:

***************
Your Sensual Kit Contains:

Edible body powder, Scented massage oil, Flavored Shower Gel, Erotic Feather Tickler.

***************

As he’s handing this over…I notice the smirk on his face.

The smirk says (say in 5 year old taunting voice for best effect):

“You gonna get some vagina…you gonna get some vagina…you gonna tickle it with a feather…you gonna tickle it with a feather…”


It’s at this exact moment, as I reach out my hands to grab the stuff…

…that my daughter yells out:

Daughter: “Who’s that, daddy?”

* cricket

I look up at the bellhop…

…my hands now grasping the wine and cookies and ‘Gonna Get Laid Freaky Style Kit’

..and he no longer has the smirk.

Nope.

Smirk. Gone.

Instead…

…he has this horrified, wide-eyed look of…

“Um…what…the..?”


Yeah, dude.

Because now he thinks that I came down and specifically requested my Romance Package of wine and cookies and slippery sexytime tools…

…sharing the same room with my kids.

It’s okay, though.

I’m originally from Kentucky.

Just a shorty today.

* shows penis

This can also be considered another Conversation Piece article.

During the 20-hour fun-filled stick-me-in-the-eye-with-a-knife road trip called ‘my summer vacation’…

…my wife and I passed by a road sign that stuck out from all the others.

It was a sign for this place:


The Gaylord Rehabilitation Center

* blink

Aaaah….

The Gods of Unintentional Hilarity have shined upon us.

As we pass the sign…

…there is silence in the car.

An eerie silence.

But we know we’re both thinking it.

That is…

Until my wife speaks up:

Wife: “You think that’s where they go for treatment?”

And…bam!

There it is.


For the rest of the vacation we’d point out people who we thought…you know…

…needed ‘treatment.’

Because, really….

No summer vacation is complete without a decent dose of homophobia.

I’m totally making that into a Hallmark Card.


(yep…one of mine)

Not that there’s anything wrong with being homosexual.

Some of my best friends are gay *.

* that is a lie

If you want to send hate mail, get in line.

Line forms at the rear.

(I’ll give you a minute with that one)

Yeah, I said it.

At the rear.

Come on…

You knew it was coming.

That’s what he said.

I mean, she.

That’s what SHE said.

Moog out.


I’m not sure why anyone would want to just give it away.

Let me explain.

When you’re in a fucking car for 20 hours going all over the goddamn Northeast of the United States for ‘vacation’

…you realize something.

You typically run out of shit to talk about with your wife within the first, like, 10 minutes.

Unless you’re talking about shit like:

“Do you want to just take off running and leave the kids in the hotel with a return address?”

“Hey..is this a zit?”

OMG WHAT IS THAT SMELL?! Did you fart? It smells like death!”

(yes)

“Do we even NEED to leave a return address with the kids? I mean, it’s not like we’re going back there. FLOOR IT!!

That kind of stuff.


Unless, you’re crossing into the Canadian border.

As you’re crossing into the Canadian border…

(Canadian Motto: We have great big giant fucking coins instead of nice, thin, paper dollar bills that actually make fucking sense to carry so I hope you are going to be wearing something with seventeen goddamn deep fucking pockets you stupid American! Oh…Hockey is great! Poutine!)


…you come across…

..this:

The Duty Free shop.


This prompted this exchange:

Wife: “What’s ‘duty free‘ mean?”

Now, let me preface this next part with the fact that I know almost everything.

Seriously, I’m really fucking smart.

I tell myself this every day.

Someone has to.

On a related note:

I cry sometimes.


But, to be honest, I wasn’t sure what ‘duty free’ actually meant.

All I really know about ‘duty free’ is what I learned from the song Kramer sings in Seinfeld.

Mmmm…Elaine.

Seriously…shave off the sharp edges of her lower jaw and she is, like, unstoppably hot.

But, Jesus…that fucking jawbone could cut glass.

I think that Julia Louise Dreyfus’ husband has cuts on his inner thighs from blowjobs.

I’m going to ask her that question.

As soon as they lift the restraining order.

Helpful stalking tip: Hedges provide almost NO cover for you during the fall months.

You’re welcome.


Where was I?

Oh.

Duty Free.

This question prompted this exchange:

Wife: “What’s ‘duty free‘ mean?”

Me: “I think it means you don’t have to pay taxes or something on it.”

* pause

Wife: “Maybe you just can’t take a shit in their bathrooms.”

Ah.

As in:

This place is DOODIE free.

Nice.


Me: “..or maybe they just give away free samples of poop.”

As in:

Come in and get doodie…FREE!

Doodie Free.

And if that’s the case, I’m totally outta here before they do the ‘but wait, there’s more’ part.

I’m just pissed that it’s free poop.

I was looking forward to getting rid of these stupid fucking two dollar coins.

Fucking Canadians.