"The Cockroach, Such a Disgusting Little Bugger"

I was born and raised in New Jersey, where we had our fair share of disgusting bugs (and people).  Surprisingly, our cockroaches, as nasty as they were, weren't really all that bad.

They were small in size, hid when the lights came on, and, for the most part, only frequented dirty places.  When stepped on, they blew up like little jelly and cream filled donuts. A nuisance, yes . . . disgusting, yes . . . but nothing that a can of Black Flag or Raid couldn't handle.

Then, in the mid-90s, I moved to Florida. It was the land of palm trees, beautiful beaches, and the industrial size cockroach. Florida doesn’t want to scare people, so they call it a palmetto bug, but trust me. It's a cockroach.

The first time I came across one of these monstrosities, I had to do a double- take because I thought I was seeing things. The thing was the size of a freaking peanut butter jar and looked just as crunchy.

I kept my distance from it while trying to find something to smash it with, believing that I was fine, as long as I kept an eye on it. Boy, was I wrong. As I was scurrying about, trying to figure out what household item I should choose to become the bringer of death, the bastard started to move.

Being startled, I jumped back. Keeping my eye on it, I thought I was safe, as long as I could see where the little bastard was. Then, all of a sudden, the creepy brown bug of doom opened up its wings and took flight.

I stood there in awe, as if I were witnessing the second coming of Christ, while not moving a muscle. The nasty thing flew right at me and landed on my chest. I did what all grown men do in that situation. I ran out of the room screaming.

With that freakish critter clinging to the center of my chest as I ran, I looked like a white-trash version of Superman . . . Cockroach man.

It finally fell off of my chest and landed on the floor. Now, with tears running down my face, trying to catch my breath, I went into the kitchen and grabbed some roach spray. I was done playing around.

I came back to find it still sitting in the same spot on the floor, as if it were taunting me and telling me to make my move. It was like we were in a Wild West standoff. I unloaded, spraying nearly the entire can on it, the whole time laughing maniacally like a mad scientist and feeling vindicated. I got the last laugh!

The can was about empty, the cloud of poison was settling, and I was ready to see the dead body lying there so that I could pick it up, flush it down the toilet, and send it to its watery grave.

When all was said and done, it was still alive and kicking; staggering like it had just come home from the bar and had too much to drink. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was freaking out trying to kill this thing, and it was living it up. Partying like it was 1999.

I now had an intoxicated roach on my hands, who was no doubt getting a good laugh at my antics. I must say, I now know how Wile E. Coyote felt . . . stupid Road Runner.

Finally, having had enough, I decided that I was going to step on it and end it all. I didn't have shoes on, so I thought about dropping a piece of paper on it and then jumping on the paper with it under it, but I had a bad feeling that I would jump on the paper, he would take off, and leave me on a roach-powered skateboard. I wasn't having that.

I figured I would do the next best thing. I called the cops and waited outside until they showed up.  I had the officer go inside and kill it for me. The moral?  My tax dollars are working.

MJM

“The Heart of the Matter”

Mine has been broken…and even burnt (especially after eating spicy food)…but now it also beats to its own drum. I found out a few years ago that I have a fib…and at first I was scared…but then I realized maybe it’s not all that bad. Sure it’s not good by any means…but it’s also not the worst thing known to man.

A fib…also known as atrial fibrillation…and unfortunately a condition I suffer from. Basically all that means is that my heart jumps out of rhythm…for no reason whatsoever…other than just being a real pain in the donkey.

I can be lying in bed…not doing anything fun and/or exhilarating (get your mind out of the gutter)…and my heart will start beating like I just ran a marathon. Sometimes it goes real crazy…just like Ricky Ricardo on the bongos…and makes me feel like a cartoon character in love, where their heart is beating out of their chest.

Thankfully it doesn’t last too long…most of the time only for a few minutes or so…but I must admit, sometimes it does get a bit alarming. I was told it could be fixed with surgery…something about cutting a hole in my heart to make it beat regularly…which by the way, doesn’t sound fun and not really something I want to do.

I was also told that it could be shocked…yes you heard right…shocked back into a regular rhythm…using a defibrillator. Unfortunately this method doesn’t last; eventually my heart will jump back out of rhythm…it’s kind of like those girls on the playground playing double dutch, waiting for their time to jump in a join in on the fun.

There may be some other ways to fix the problem…but after hearing the first two options…the two options they so nicely decided to share with me…I didn’t stick around to hear anything else. Actually to be honest…I ran out of the hospital screaming like a young girl at a Justin Bieber concert…because that’s just how I roll.

I know a fib puts my at a higher risk of stroke and heart attack…but I guess that’s just par for the course…something I have to live with. I just have to take better care of myself and hope for the best…it’s the only thing a man can do.

Now I’m not complaining…because I know there are others who have it a lot worse than I do…but I just figured I would share. I have never met anyone else with a fib…I know I’m not the only one…but it does seem to be a pretty rare thing…at least here in my neck of the woods.

Well my friends…me and my crazy heart…(or as I like to call it my meth head heart, because just like a meth head when the bastard is sober he is nice and mellow…but once he gets some of that junk in him he’s bouncing off of walls)…have to go, so see you next time party peeps.

MJM

“A Side Effect of Getting Older”

As I write this I am sitting here in pain…I threw my back out and it is hurting like a mutha fracker. This is why I hate getting older…things just don’t work like they used to. Things snap…crackle…and pop like crazy now…sometimes I don’t know if I’m a person or a box of Rice Krispies.

When I was a kid I could get hit by a car…which by the way happened many times…and just get up, shake it off and go about my business like nothing ever happened. Now however…I bend down to pick something up…which was not heavy by the way…and my back goes out and leaves me looking like Hunchback of Notre Dame.

I really wish I could tell you I hurt my back doing something cool…like wrestling a bear…or even while having some wild and crazy adult fun…but unfortunately I can’t, I would be lying…I hurt my back bending down to pick something up…something that weighs probably as much as a case of soda. I know I’m lame…but what can I say…things popping out of place and hurting yourself while doing absolutely nothing at all is just a side effect of getting older.

  I should probably just go out and get myself a walker…and not the kind with the tennis balls either…I’m going to get a motorized walker…kind of like a cross between a walker and a scooter…a wooter if you will. This wooter will also have to be part forklift…that way I could pick stuff up without feeling as if Mike Tyson just punched me in my back…so I guess now we have a wooterlift.

For the record, when it comes to back pain…pain relievers do not work…not at all…at least not the OTC brands.  All that crap you see on TV about two pills and the pain is gone…that is such bullcrap… I’ve been popping them like M&Ms and nothing…not even a buzz.  I have so much of the garbage in me that if I was swallowed by a whale I would probably be its recommend dosage.

I thought about going to the liquor store and stocking up on some high octane alcohol…and just drinking my pain away…but with my luck I’ll probably get drunk and fall down a flight of stairs or something…sobering up to find myself even in more pain then when I stared.

I don’t know…what am I to do… should I head to the shady side of town to see if I could score some of those “good” pain relieving drugs…or maybe ever just lay in bed with an alcohol IV…or I could just man up and endure the pain and stop whining about it. Well obviously the latter option isn’t going to happen…no big surprise there am I right…so I have to figure something out…I’m just not sure what.

MJM

“Difference Between White-Trash and Redneck”

I am sick and tired of hearing people misuse the derogatory terms redneck and white-trash! Believe it or not there are differences; they are not simply interchangeable as one would think. Granted the differences are few and far between, but nevertheless they are still there.

Yes there are also some similarities between the two, for example the mullet, using automobile parts for lawn decorations and of course Walmart, but even with that said they are not one in the same.

I feel as if I'm an authority on the subject because my family is as white-trash as they come, and on the flipside to that, my girlfriend's family is as redneck as the Clampetts from the Beverly Hillbillies. My credentials speak for themselves as you can clearly see.

Now for all you ignorant laypeople out there in cyberspace, here are a few of the differences between the two to help you decipher just who is who:

Most, if not all white-trash are poor, however, you can have rednecks who are tiny like Tim or large like Trump. Wealth, or the lack thereof, does not signify a person being a redneck.

When it comes to sisters, white-trash are typically known to beat theirs, while rednecks on the other hand, are typically known to sleep with theirs. That’s why people say a redneck’s family tree goes straight up, no branches what to speak of.

Rednecks attend NRA meetings, white-trash attend AA meetings. Rednecks worship their firearms, white-trash worship the alcoholic beverage they happen to have enough change to buy at that moment, or steal when times are really tough.

White-trash wash laundry in the sink and hang it out of their window to dry, rednecks just cover their dirty clothes up with a fresh pair of overalls and go on about their business as usual.

Rednecks almost always vote Republican, white-trash doesn't vote at all, that is unless it's for America's next Idol or for a new flavor of potato chips. It’s not necessarily that white-trash wouldn’t vote, but unfortunately their massive criminal records are keeping them from doing so.

White-trash know the American flag flies high above the building where they go to pick up their government assistance, rednecks live and die by the Rebel flag, even though it was for a war they lost. Rednecks take pride in that thing, and they don’t care what it symbolizes, they plaster it all over the place like bumper stickers on a jalopy.

The outfit of choice for white-trash is normally a T-shirt with a rock band or derogatory expression on it and a pair of stained up sweats. Rednecks love camouflage, it doesn’t matter what it is as long as it’s camouflage.

When it comes to shoes, rednecks love cowboy boots, even when wearing shorts. White-trash don’t normally worry about footwear, because their feet are protected by a thick black crust that has formed over them due to may years of walking barefoot outdoors.  

Rednecks drive pickup trucks, normally with fake testicles (but I’m sure if it were legal they would be real ones from their latest kill) hanging from the bumper, or while sporting mud flaps with either Yosemite Sam or Calvin on them. White-trash normally don’t have cars, at least not ones that are safe and/or environment friendly. Most of the time their vehicles are parked on the front lawn on blocks, and they are left taking the bus or walking.

Well there you have it...

These are just some of the differences between the two, which should show you that they are in fact not the same thing. I mean you wouldn’t call an Irish person a Guinea, or an African-American person and honky, so why call a redneck white-trash and vice versa? Come on people, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.

So please, the next time you're about to call someone a redneck or white-trash, evaluate the situation and use the correct term. Think before you speak, hate is not good, but when it’s done wrong it’s even worse.

Forget "Ebony and Ivory" by Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder, we need someone to sing a song about Rednecks and White-Trash, maybe we could get Larry the Cable Guy and Tommy Lee of Motley Crue to sing it…what do you think?

MJM

“If I Were Stuck On an Island, I Would Like to Have…”

Well this question is not as easy to answer as one would be lead to believe…there are many ways you go could go with this…you could always choose the responsible adult direction and say something mature and well thought out…or you could go all out and party like it is 1999…like as if you were Ferris Bueller and this is your day off.   

I could say I would like the Professor from Gilligan’s Island and zombie Bob Vila…to help me turn the island into a place where people could live and prosper and live in peace…or they could help me build my lair of evil…where you would hear conversations such as this…

MJM: We must prepare for tomorrow night.
Zombie Bob Vila: Why? What are we going to do tomorrow night?
MJM: The same thing we do every night, Zombie Bob Vila - try to take over the world!

I could always turn the island into some wild and crazy beach resort…where we could have a “Weekend at Bernies” style good time with Elvis and Tupac…we could be jamming out to  “Don't be cruel…or I’m gonna cap yo ass”…a good old Elvis and Tupac coloration…while we’re rocking the place like a hurricane.

 

I could go the route of a prepubescent boy…and take with me the Swedish Bikini Team and The Baywatch girls…that way we could play team beach volleyball of course. They would all also have a bad case of irreversible laryngitis…and there would be a nasty clothes eating bacteria on the island…which I guess would have us playing skins vs. skins when we get our volleyball on…but for the good of the island I would be willing to ref every game…and rub sunscreen on all the contestants (boi oi oing)…we couldn’t have the girls getting sunburnt now could we.

I could bring with me all the supplies necessary to turn this island into the next Disney World…where people from all over the world would come to visit…leaving me piles of money and children’s puke. I would come up with my own cast of colorful and annoying characters to roam the park and scare the children…I would have people dressed up as all the classic horror movie characters like Freddy Krueger and Jason…wouldn’t that be adorable…and oh so much fun.

But knowing my luck…what will most likely happen…is I’ll be like Tom Hanks in Castaway…spending my days losing my mind and playing with my good friend Wilson. We would never get off the island though…we would die there…only to find out in the afterlife that we were actually in Hawaii…just on one of the empty side of the island.

Some screwball tourist would find my skull…and with it being all enormous and stuff…think they stumbled upon the remains of a bigfoot or the elephant man…so even in death my bad luck would continue and instead of being buried and set to rest…my bones would be on display for people to ohhh and ahhh over.

I tell you...just like Rodney Dangerfield...I get no respect. I’ll probably end up on an island the size of a manhole cover…surrounded by a bunch of homosexual cannibalistic Chippendale (and I don’t mean those cute little chipmunks either) dancers…and I would just so happened to be wearing my barbeque sauce scented cologne that day.

 MJM  

“Stop Pointing Fingers”

I just read an article about how video games cause violent behavior and I have just one question...are people complete idiots. They tried the same crap in the 80s with rock music, remember, play it backwards and it tells you to kill your parents or worship the devil. It's not any form of entertainment medium...it's not even the guns...some people just do wicked things because...wait for it...they're crazy.

People...stop being sheep...wake up and smell the manure that is being spread around and passed off as truth. Stop blaming movies, music and/or video games for the evil things people do...believe it or not crazy people do exist....it's not like we're talking about Bigfoot and/or a government for the people here.

Wise up and realize that some people are just plain old nuts...we are living in a can of Planters mixed nuts people...and the sooner you realize this the better...of course some people are nuttier than others…and they are the ones you have to watch out for. Regardless of what they read, play and/or listen to, they are going to do crazy...and sometimes even atrocious things…it’s just who they are.

With all the crazies running rampant nowadays something needs to be done, but pointing the finger and blaming something else for all the wrong in the world is not the way to go…whether it be video games or weapons. We need to allow parents to punish their children without the fear of repercussion…now of course I’m not talking about child abuse here, but a firm smack on the backside when your kid does something out of line is not a bad thing.

Also, we need to make the penalties harsher on the people who commit these crimes and not broadcast it all over television and sensationalizing it…ultimately making stars out of them. We need to lock these morons away…somewhere way out of the reach of the media…let their trials run their course and if they’re innocent release them back into the wild…but if they’re found guilty then they need to be thrown down the garbage disposal…that or but in a supersized cannon and shoot into outer space.

We also don't need warning labels on music or video games, we need them on people. Everyone should have to submit to a psychological evaluation on a regular basis and depending on the results, should be slapped with an appropriate label. We will have only two labels…which would be an   "S" and an "I"...basically sane or insane.

All the people with an "I" label should be avoided at all costs...and for the safety of others, should probably be sent to Afghanistan or some other terrorist-ridden country, where if they do decide to go postal and/or blow something up, they would fit in just fine.

MJM

“A Michael Keaton Kinda Life”

I sometimes feel as if my life mirrors Michael Keaton’s movie career, now by this I mean there are a lot of similarities between my life and the parts he plays.

With my attitude…and my off-the-wall sense of humor…I am constantly fighting with a bunch of “stiffs” to show them even in the gloomiest of situations we can find humor and a reason to party like its 1999…like in his movie Night Shift.

Being out of work… with my girlfriend working and two kids to look after…I have found myself playing the role of the mom…which I totally suck at but I am getting better with time if I do say so myself…like in his movie Mr. Mom.  

Speaking of working…I tried, I did my best…I always put my best foot forward and tried to do what was best for the company…but then, for no reason whatsoever I got the axe…not just once, but twice…so yes I’m a little bitter and I really hate to go back to work for the “man” but unfortunately my electric company doesn’t take IOUs…just like in his movie Gung Ho.

I sometimes try a little too hard to be the life of the party…the class clown if you will…and it always ends up backfiring and pissing the people off around me. I don’t know…it must be a birth defect or something…but I seem to find humor in just about anything. I know one day my antics will end with me getting my head shrunk…which in all reality wouldn’t be a bad thing because then I could put on a hat without the use of a shoehorn…but eventually I am going to annoy the wrong person…just like in his movie Beetlejuice.

I wish I had some really cool overcoming addiction story which would make me seem more manly…but to be honest I’m a complete wuss…the hardest thing I do is Tylenol…like in his movie Clean and Sober.

And I am an escaped lunatic from the mental hospital running from the law…just ask my family…and the voices in my head…I’m sure they would all back me up on this…just like in his movie The Dream Team.  

 

I also go around fighting crime dressed like a bat…hiding in the shadows and keeping the streets of Gotham safe…oh man who am I trying to kid…I would just love to have Michelle Pfeiffer sitting on me in the tight black cat suit and licking my face…like in his movie Batman Returns.

I am a blog writer…which is not as easy as it seems…well okay it is but there’s always that desire to be the best, to top the other guys and of course to come out of this on top and to be a success…like in his movie The Paper.

I have a lot to do…I’m a busy man…and the day never seems to be long enough for me to get everything done…so needless to say I need some more Michaels. I thought about making copies of myself…but knowing that the copies are never as good as the original…and also knowing that the original is already a few eggs short of a dozen, like thirteen to be exact…that may not be a good idea…I may end up with some Walmart shoppers on my hands…or worse yet politicians…like in his movie Multiplicity.   

I guess when all is said and done…I’m just plastic man who is trying to take over a Barbie world…like in his movie Toy Story 3.

MJM