Last night after my extreme bogging in the markets, I ventured off to dinner for my wife’s birthday. I had talked about the place we were going to dine for weeks, perhaps even months. I showed everyone pictures and told them of the highfalutin status of this esteemed establishment. Expectations were sky high.
When we entered this esteemed establishment, we were greeted coldly by 3 women awkwardly positioned behind a desk — as if they were security guards. In the adjacent room was a Christmas party, the raucous type in what must’ve been an ALL BLACK company. We were seated in the main dining room, which was entirely empty bedecked in 1980s decor. We sat down and were left to rot at the table for a good 10 minutes and then a haggard waiter came over to us and asked if we “wanted anything to drink.” My impression of this middle aged black man was negative. We later found out it was his first day on the job and I suspected it was his first day inside of a restaurant.
After I informed him we hadn’t received our menus — he brought over a cocktail menu and gave it to me alone, the patriarch of the table. I should’ve walked out at that point — but it was 8pm and my wife’s birthday, so options were limited. Plus anyway, we had all dressed up for the fancy dining experience.
After he took the drink orders he turned to me about 15 paces from the table and told me “let me know when you want to see a food menu.” My wife and I locked eyes, bewildered by what he just said. I shouted out “you can bring them now.”
I peered over to the bar and saw his manager teaching him how to wait a table, basic stuff. Soon after he came back with drinks. My daughter was quite parched and took a large gulp of her lemonade, which, incidentally, was seasoned with SALT instead of sugar. I called the waiter over and asked him to take it away and then followed him with my eyes back to the bar, where his manager then took out the pitcher of lemonade and tasted it and then spit it out.
My youngest and most rebellious son, ANTIFA FLY, came back from the bathroom and said “some stupid waiter was in there blasting his YouTube video while taking leak and he didn’t wash his hands.”
I said “was it our waiter?”
He shot back coldly “no.”
Dinner was served by what must’ve been every employee at this shit hole — a very promising sign of professionalism in what was, thus far, a ridiculous experience.
My eldest son ordered fish and one of the waiters offered to “clean it” for him table side. I think he meant “debone” but was too stupid to use that word. He then proceeded to mangle the fish in his plate until it was completely mush — leaving at least half the bones in it for what seemed like an eternal struggle session. My wife was holding in her laughter.
As my son took his fist bite of the mangled fish, ANTIFA FLY yelled out to my eldest “hey remember that waiter I told you about in the bathroom? He just mashed up your fish.”
ANTIFA FLY took one bite of his filet mignon and said it tasted “like fish” and refused another. My food, on a scale of 1-10 was a zero. When the bill came I figured I’d exact some sort of petty revenge via the tip — but a 22% gratuity was added to it and I didn’t want to make a scene with everyone there, especially on my wife’s birthday, so I swallowed my manhood and paid it with a mean smile.
Oh, and when I got home, I was entreated to two dogs with food poisoning, which kept me up all night with walks at 2am, 3:3am, 5am, 7am, 9am 11:30am and 30 minutes ago.
As you well know, I was the chef in the kitchen for the dogs yesterday.
There I was, oh indeed there I was. Markets were up sharply in the pre-market and I was quite pleased with myself, quite pleased indeed. I went on over to he kitchen to make some coffee — scrubbed my stainlesss steal French Press and even shined it to perfection. I brought some water to a boil and dropped 3 tablespoons (rather precise) of Cafe Du Monde half chicory, half coffee blend into the container and then poured the water in, gently.
My oven was ringing. Must be the mini chocolate croissants I heated up for myself. Rather delicious treat on a day like today, dare I say. I grabbed a plate and placed the warmed croissants on them, took a large mug and poured a little milk in it and then balanced all of it onto my laptop, in addition to my iPad and iPhone and then descended downstairs into my walk-out basement — where I keep all of my monitors and PCs humming for trading.
With one arm balancing all of that, hot teeming coffee inside of my wonderful stainless steel French press, I took the other hand and slammed the door shut behind me — because the fucking dogs. I entered the office area downstairs and felt like classical music. “Why not?” I asked myself.
“Alexa — put on WQXR.’
She complied.
I walked over to this round mini table where I usually place my coffee, it’s up against a wall which is sandwiched between a large window and the walkout door to the yard. A wonderful view of the water is just ahead and the climate was nice and comfy this morning, so I was feeling good, in both mind and spirit.
I leaned over to place this Rube Goldberg contraption down onto this book I have on the table, a book about castles in England and Ireland, and what happened next is something of a tragedy.
THE ENTIRE FUCKING FRENCH PRESSS LEPT OUT FROM MY HANDS, as if I was a waiter in a scene out of a bad comedy, and it crashed against the wall — disconnecting and spilling in its entirety onto the floor — Cafe Du Monde grinds FESTOONED all over the walls like I killed a bag of Folgers with a log splitter. Then my laptop fell into the coffee traveling fast towards my area rugs and then my iPhone. It fell face down into the coffee spill and then a chocolate croissant (I saved one and ate it) and finally my iPad.
I ran into the bathroom and took one of Mrs Fly’s favorite towels and sopped it alllllllll up. I took the towel and sopped it up!
I have been cleaning Cafe Du Monde coffee grinds for the better part of the last 30 mins.
July 4th is a day for white trash to bask in their undignified glory. For those of you living that sort of lifestyle, oblivious to how one might throw a proper white trash 4th of July party, “The Fly” is here to help. With the assistance of my readership, as well as many other people who I’ve met growing up in Brooklyn, this is your “how-to” guide on having an ‘un-gentlemanly” Independence Day.
When you wake up in the afternoon, after a solid night of drunken debauchery, you should feed the children something sugary, like Captain Crunch cereal and/or frozen panned cakes (extra syrup).
Now that your parenting for the day is done, you can prepare for the 4th of July BBQ and drinking extravaganza!
Head on over to the local liquor store and buy a few kegs of beer, several bottles of Jack Daniels and a whole lot of cases of budweiser (CANS ONLY!!!).
After hauling in your treasure, prepare the old charcoal BBQ by spraying massive doses of lighter fluids on it. Have the kids throw things at the flames and play with the fire. Prepare to welcome some of your guests.
After your guest walks through the open screen door, welcome them by saying “what’s up bro” or “yo, man, have a bud”, then carelessly throw a frozen aluminum can of budwesier at him. Every once in awhile you will errantly strike his girlfriend in the head/face with it, so have an extra frozen can aside for the purposes of suppressing swollen bumps about the face and head.
As the party progresses, it’s time to serve your guests of dishonor food. Grab some styrofoam plates and slap a few hotted dogs on them, preferably with bun. If, by chance, you do not have buns, as they weren’t within your budget, feel free to use Wonder Bread as a substitute. Some people actually prefer good olde fashioned white bread anyways. Be sure to douse all hotted dogs with copious amounts of generic ketchup.
As the day drifts on, and the beer cans begin to pile up around the house and yard, ask the children to pick up the cans and place them into the giant black garbage bag that you have hanging off the side of your metal fence. The kid who picks up the most cans of bud gets to drink a can of their own!
FIREWORKS TIME!
You and your friends should now head on over to the front of the house to light some fireworks. It’s important that 90% of your fireworks be of the deafening loud, explosive, variety and not that “color crap.” You will light all fireworks with a lit cigarette butt and be sure to let the children light and toss M-80’s too, as it is their right of passage to do so.
After the fireworks, the real party begins. Parenting is over and has been over since breakfast, so feel free to let the kids roam off into the woods or nearby junkyard for a little childhood curiosity. You and your friends will begin, in earnest, drinking excessive quantities of Jack Daniels, while decrying how “fucked up” this country has become, especially honing in on the immigration issue and how people who don’t speak english should be deported and/or killed.
After 1am is the witching hour. By now, you and your guests should be comfortably buzzed. But it’s time to take it to the next level. Marijuana filled “joints” should be passed around at this time and a side table filled with lines of cocaine should be displayed, for all those interested. Shots of tequila with slices of lemon are appropriate chasers after “partying”, so be sure to have that in stock.
By 3am, 70% of your guests will be asleep (including the children), strewn out across the yard and furniture. Now would be an excellent time to partake in a little innocent adultery. Anything that transpires now is subject to denial and is easily excused, as everyone was “so wasted” that he or she could barely remember what happened.
By 11am on July 5th, most of your guests have woken up and should be asking for coffee. DO NOT PROVIDE THEM WITH COFFEE. By failing to provide them with coffee, they will be forced to leave your residence and find it elsewhere.
The party is now over. It’s now time for you and the kids to clean up the vomit and bottles of Jack Daniels and prepare for the hangover to come.
FUN TIP: Storing beer in aluminum trash cans is good, but getting rid of the water can be a hassle. ENTER BATH TUB.
Last night I was entreated to a most unusual event. During my life, I’ve been plagued, harangued even, with the specter of gloomy forecasts. I once fell from a tree and broke nothing but all of my bones. This cloud has followed me for my entire life — an affliction that is almost offset by the winship enjoyed in the market. I say “almost” — because the emotional toil and tumult endured during these episodes have shaven decades off my life expectancy. My private actuary is now forecasting my graveyard arrival in exactly 3 years hence. In order to best describe what happened last night, I will attempt to re-create the dialogue.
Late at night at House Fly, the dominus of the estate was in his living room, partaking in a little entertainment via the television — creating variations of the world famous cocked-tail — The Manhattan. Much to his chagrin, an in-law who was staying at the manor alerted him of a most grave and ghastly circumstance afflicting the building.
His mother in law — Victoria, spelled out downstairs, thru the palm trees and the crystal chandeliers, through the Persian rugs and deep library of leather-bound books, “Sir Fly — there isn’t any hot water. I’ve just showered in bone shattering water. What sort of house is this?”
Alerted by this emergency announcement at such an odd hour of the night, Sir Fly put down his Creme de Cacao version of the world famous cocked-tail, The Manhattan, and raced downstairs, into the cellar, where his thousand bottle wine collection resides — alongside his make-shift gym, and entertainment center — fixed with games for the plebs — such as darts and foolsball machines.
Upon entering the water heater room — he stepped into a soggy part of the rug and heard a thunderous, yet calming, flow of water emanating from the room. He opened the door: “HOLY FUCKING SHIT — COCK-SUCKING FAGGOTS!”
He yelled up and his voice bellowed throughout the darkened house: “Honey — the entire basement is under siege. It appears the black cloud found me again and the water heater has busted loose and out again.”
Jackie replied, “What did you say? Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
Fly, now recoiled in shock and a bit of horror, decided to reclaim his cocked-tail — then yelled out: “get me some damned towels — AT ONCE. Need to protect the foolsball table stat — else the idiots won’t have anything to do when they visit us next.”
Jackie, “What?” The lady of the manor was now annoyed by the flippant sounds coming from downstairs.
“Listen to me, damn it, and listen to me good. The house is done for. Grab the kids and head on over to the summer home in Newport. I’ll hold off this deluge as long as I can — but I promise you nothing but my sincerest efforts.”
Jackie, now curious about the raucous behavior of the dominus — raced downstairs to bear witness to Le Fly sitting on a comfortable chair — overseeing the water heater flow wonderfully and energetically throughout the basement.
“What the hell are you doing?”, said Jackie.
“Having a night-cap, enjoying this variation of the Manhattan and the view. It’s quite wonderful.”
“But why aren’t you turning off the water and saving the house?”
“We’ve been sacked — Jackie. A man should know when he’s conquered. It’s clear to me that the black cloud needs its pound of flesh out of me. I figured it’d be nice to see this play out and flood the whole damned house away.”
“Cut it out — Fly. Damn it. Where is the cut off valve?”
Fly got up, almost heroically, as if called upon to save the earth, “I’ll see to it.”
Quickly, Fly raced to the cut off valve, placed the cocked-tail down again, and completely shut the water main off. In an instant, the water stopped flowing — leaving a deadening and most awkward echo of silence in the cellar, amidst wet bottles of aged Bordeaux and soggy boxes of toilet paper.
“What the hell, Fly!”
“Well, now we might need to sop this up and prevent the rugs from getting damaged, eh?”
“You think, Fly. YOU THINK!”
“Pfffffff.”
“How wonderful”, exclaimed Fly. “Now we won’t have any water for several days. Should I grab a bucket and ask the neighbors for some water”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Didn’t you and Dave just fix this damned thing during the summer?”
“Yeah — we fixed it all right. We fixed it to explode in the middle of the winter — leaving a house of 7 without hot or cold water.”
“Let’s just clean this mess up and call someone in the morning to fix it.”
Fly gallantly got up again, placed his cocked-tail down, and went upstairs — grabbed 10 towels, a large red bucket, and then scurried back down into the crevices of the basement to sop up the iced cold water off the basement floor — for the duration of the night. His only solace was knowing, such an affliction, such a hardship — could only lead to a grande and eloquent upsurge in his share prices.
“Hey Jackie.”
“Yes, Fly?”
Kneeling down in a grey puddle of frosty water in a dimly lit boiler room of the manor — Fly looked up at Jackie and said sincerely with an expressionless candor “well, at least my fucking stocks are going to barrel higher soon, eh?”
“Why do you always say ‘barrel’? Your stocks aren’t barreling anywhere. Just clean up this mess.”
There’s something inherently wrong with people who insist on serving their dinner entrees on paper’d plates. I can understand the need for brevity during breakfast and maybe a quick afternoon snack. But, woe is me to tell you that serving dinner atop of a paper’d plate is not only wrong, it’s wholly degenerate.
Let me explain.
Back when the Pilgrims came to America, they prepared their 200 calorie suppers on wooden plates and ate with their hands, like savage animals. The natives were even worse, opting to eat from the carcasses of dead animals and the skulls of enemy tribesmen. Then England began to export proper dinnerware and the rest is history.
The Pilgrims would soon farm better and learn how to kill animals in a more efficient way. It wasn’t long before 1,000 calories were enjoyed by all during supper. To celebrate this great and most fortunate bounty, they took their old wooden plates and cracked them over the heads of the natives for looking at them sideways, and then started to eat on the plates imported by their motherland.
Dinner was not only a time of sustenance, but a celebration of bounty and the creativity of mankind. Traveling across the dangerous waters and into savage territory, dodging arrows and spears whilst trying to farm, was an arduous task and it took many men and guns to solidify European dominance over the barren lands of N. America.
This is why, when sitting at the supper table, you should not sully it with cheap and piece of shit paper’d plates; which, by the way, is a derivative of the wooden ones used by the original Pilgrims. If you’re taking the time to cook a good meal, and by this I mean a properly prepared meal, serve it on a nice dish — god damn it. Pageantry is everything and you’re only here for a finite amount of suppers and your forefathers cracked those wooden bowls over the heads of the natives to establish your way of life here — gently cavorting around this giant mass of land in your faggot pants, hooked into your electric devices.
I know what you’re thinking. How does demographics play into this fine thinking?
“What about me — I am from China, or Brazil, or Saudi Arabia, and don’t give a shit about English settlers and their dinnerware in infant, baby America.”
You don’t have to be a distant relative of the original settlers in America to appreciate the sentiment. As I understand it, over in Asia — if you’re caught eating a fine meal on a paper’d plate, they cut your fingers off. In the Middle East, dinner on the birthday of the King cannot ever be served on paper’d plates. Those found doing so will be decapitated.
And let’s not get into what they do to you in Brazil. It’s too grisly a punishment for this PG-13 rated blog.
The next time your wife or husband serves you supper on a paper plate, take my advice, believe me, and simply get up from the table and throw it in the trash, telling her/him ‘I refuse to sully the efforts of my forefathers by dining on this flimsy piece of wood. It is a meal best designed for a reprobate. GOOD DAY TO YOU.”
Yesterday afternoon I was informed that a childhood friend of mine, one of my very best friends growing up, had taken his own life. The juxtaposition of this news against the backdrop of the beautifully catered party I was attending couldn’t be more drastic. There I was engorging myself with an array of delicacies and my good friend was gone — because of years of addiction, which led to the disintegration of both his body, mind, and his soul.
The first time I met him was in 2nd grade. It was the first day of school and he had just urinated all over himself and was crying because of his shame. The teacher consoled him and asked how she could make him feel better. He turned around from his first row seat and pointed to me in the back and said “I want to sit next to him.” From that day on, we became best friends. His parents always sheltered him and never let him outside. He once reminded me of a story I had forgotten about how I freed him from his parental captivity.
One day I visited his apartment, which I did at least 5 times per week and grabbed him and looked at his Mother and said ‘we’re going out.’ His Mother turned to us and said, ‘wait just a second. He can’t go out.’ And I said, ‘I am taking him out to play with us and there’s nothing more to be said’ and we walked out. He always liked to tell that story and it made me feel good that he remembered me so fondly.
When we were 11 years old, we became obsessed with ninjas, to the point where we dressed up like them and even made Chinese stars out of wood and ran around the neighborhood hitting other kids with our swords, which were stickball bats. To make a dashing escape, we’d light a smoke bomb and kindly ask our enemies to wait the allotted time for the smoke to disseminate before we disappeared into the thin air. We even went to school dressed like ninjas one day, much to the chagrin of our principal.
In our early teens, we used to chase down girls and he always thought every one was in love with him. It could be 10 of us in a group and one girl glancing over at us and he’d say ‘look, she’s checking me out. She wants me.’ And we’d say, ‘how the fuck do you know that — there’s 10 of us here?’ Then he’d reply with a smirk, ‘trust me, she wants me.’
When the neighborhood got bad, his parents moved him to upstate NY. One of the funnier moments I can remember when we visited him up there was when one of our friends was sleeping, he said ‘watch this’ and proceeded to place a hot sauce bottle in his mouth with his zipper down. He nudged my friend awake, and immediately zipped up his pants and said ‘thanks bro, good looking out.’ Bear in mind, this sleeping teenager was a giant, maybe 6’3, 220lbs. He shot up and chased him down the hall, kicking couches out of the way like they were small toys. We quickly diffused it and told him it was a joke and only hot sauce and laughed until our stomachs hurt for a solid 20 minutes.
He was the type of person that everyone liked, easy going, funny, incredibly generous, and kind hearted. He was the life of every party.
Years later when I was starting out in the business and enjoying some success, I hired him to work under me as a stockbroker. We had great times — because he was always adventurous and brave enough to go for the kill. At one point he became slightly obsessed with the movie American Psycho, which spilled into his demeanor at work. After seeing the movie, we both went to the local print shop to upgrade our business cards, in order to attain supremacy over the other plebs at the office. One time during lunch, someone made the egregious error of complimenting him for his dashing navy suit, and actually touched his right shoulder to get a better feel for the high thread fabric. Channeling Patrick Bateman, he looked at this gent dead panned and said ‘the suit, look, but don’t touch’. We then laughed to tears, from the harrowing expression on the face of the poor man who merely wanted to pay a nice compliment.
We had big dreams of making it big on Wall Street, our kids playing together, and growing old with an empire underneath us. He looked up to me like an older brother, always eager to learn and follow in my footsteps; but after the market had crashed in 2001-2002, and the bills started to pile up, he couldn’t stay in a commission only business much longer and he quit the business in favor of a salaried job.
My wife and I used to take the kids and visit him during his summer BBQ’s, which were attended by all of the people who loved him. He’d meet people on the bus and take them home to dinner on the same night. I thought he was crazy for doing that; but he loved to meet new people and really get to know them, not just superficially.
When I moved into my Staten Island home in 2003, he helped me lug my furniture out from Brooklyn, and even drove the truck for me. All he wanted was a few beers and some laughs. When I needed a new bannister sanded and stained, he came over and showed me how to do it. He was a good man and could be trusted with things, but he also had this burning desire to fit in, which I believe was the nascency of his downfall.
I used to compare him to a chameleon — because he’d mimic whoever he was around. When with me, he was Mr. Professional stockbroker. When with losers at a strip club, he acted like them, and so on and so forth. He started smoking weed at any early age, which was encouraged by his parents. We always felt that was a super cool thing, being able to smoke pot with Dad — but with the benefit of hindsight and some years of maturity, I know now it was dysfunctional.
He’d ‘party’ on occasion, dabbling with cocaine, and it got to the point that by 2006 I didn’t want to bring my kids around him anymore. We kept in touch by phone and I was pleased to find out he entered a new career and enjoyed varying degrees of success. With his new found money, he bought a modest home in NJ, a few cars, and a boat. He was very proud of his possessions and his family, and was always entertaining, cooking steaks and lobsters for his guests, denying his 3 children nothing. Then out of the blue, sometime around 2009, he got fired from his high paying job and had to find a new one. Resilient and always up for a fight, my friend hit the pavement and found a new gig within a month. It didn’t pay as much, but it was a job and he was glad to have it.
Money was always a struggle for him, partly due to lack of income, but mostly because he enjoyed to spend whatever he made. He was a pleaser and he really liked to throw big parties.
In 2014, like a complete maniac, he was speeding out of his companies parking lot, and crashed into a car backing out. The subsequent result of this accident led to a serious back injury, which required surgery, and a prescription for oxycontin. The details of what transpired from 2014 until now are somewhat murky to me, mainly because I had not been in contact with him much. But from what I’ve gathered, the injury led to an opioid addiction, which led to him losing his job, his house, his wife and kids, and eventually his life.
When money ran out, he was asking all of his friends for loans, myself included, which were denied because everyone thought the money would be used for drugs. I’m very good friends with his wife’s brother and knew the issues he was battling, but I never reached out because I felt he needed tough love. Everyone struggles and who the hell was he to deserve special treatment? He needed to wake up from his slumber, get back to work, and provide for his family.
His Facebook timeline is the saddest thing a person could ever see — the slow, but subtle, degradation of a once proud and handsome man — reduced to an avatar of his former self.
The last time he asked me for money was in a text and it read something along the lines of ‘hey Fly, I hope all is well with you and your family. I hate to ask this from you — but I really need to borrow some money. I am getting a job in a few weeks and I’ll pay it back. I want to show my children that I can provide for them, pay some bills, and put some food on the table. I love you man.’
At the time my Mother was undergoing open heart surgery and I was in a panicked state for her health. I asked his wife’s brother if any of this was true and he told me it wasn’t — he was merely using this lie to get money for drugs. I can’t say for sure if he was lying or not, but I denied him the loan and said sorry.
On a side note, for those of you who read my books, he was my cold caller named Eric.
About a year ago, he reached out to my former partner and said he was going to kill himself. He said that he had a gun and was in the woods and didn’t want to live anymore. My former partner contacted me and I immediately tried calling him, but my calls were rejected. He instead texted me and we had a sincere back and forth and he told me he wasn’t going to do it. He explained how losing his family was the hardest thing to deal with and that life wasn’t worth living anymore. I replied with the typical platitudes, telling him how much his kids needed him to be strong — not only for clothes and food, but also to be a role model for them.
His Facebook posts have been scarce the past year and the only photos he posted depicted a person I didn’t recognize. My friends told me he had been trying to borrow money for years and that suicide was regularly discussed and one of his very best friends felt he was a lost cause.
Yesterday, on a beautiful spring day in New Jersey, he took his life in a quiet park by strangulation. I can’t help but to feel like I failed him when he needed help most. It’s hard to say, especially since I’ve been a hermit for nearly a decade now. But the signs were everywhere and he was never entered into a drug rehab program, or provided with the level of care a person in his condition required. Instead, he was treated like a malcontent and whisked away.
His favorite foods were filet mignon, lobsters, and carrots with ranch dressing. He sucked at sports and threw like a girl. He loved motorcycles, skateboards, and being outdoors with his boys and dogs. He considered his daughter a princess and wanted only the best for her. He was misguided and too eager to please. In the end, his addiction to opioids led to a nightmarish life and a bad heroin addiction, and his pride didn’t allow the two to coexist.
If by chance you’re reading this my friend, I am sorry for the way things ended and I hope you find the peace in death that you couldn’t find in life.
First off, it’s important to remember that the 4th of July is a holiday designed for bomb throwing trash. With that in mind, you’d be wise to deter any and all people from wanting to visit you on this indecorous day. Henceforth, I will teach you how this is to be accomplished.
Shop at your local discount store for hotted dogs. If you can grab them in the 99 cents store, fantastic. Be sure to BBQ them to a nice smokey char and serve them with gobs of generic mustard. Really layer it on thick. It’s rude to assume everyone would like generic mustard on their hotted dogs. Therefore, that’s exactly what you’ll do.
Announce to your guests, ‘my refrigerator is on the fritz’, to explain why your beer is so damned warm. You’ll try to succor your guests by providing a singular styrofoam coolers, but it’ll have an inadequate amount of ice in it. Plus, there will be a small hole on the bottom of it that will cause the ice to melt at twice the rate (trust me, I know).
Don’t bother visiting Whole Foods for the beer stock. Play the dietician and place yourself on the moral high ground, towering above your slobbish guests, by serving lite gluten free IPA, which actually tastes like someone mashed up a pined cone, mixed it up with some rubbing alcohol, then tossed into a really cool bottle and sold it for $20 per 8oz.
While your guests attempt to enjoy the swill, you will, repeatedly, tell them the virtues of a gluten free diet and how wheat gives kids cancer. This will make them feel like baby killers, bad parents, and like morons, generally speaking.
The hotted dogs will be served a little too hot, dripping with hot mustard, on a gluten free bun — hard as a hand grenade. You might as well substitute it with two pieces of cardboard, in the event you run out. They will taste dreadful, which is the point.
Side dishes include coled slaw, served hot with cold mayo, potato salad mixed with salsa and corn (mexican style), and potato chips, gluten free of course — and stale. Let the bad ‘air out’ for a few days prior to the event. Be sure the chips are salt free too — because salt causes heart attacks and you’ll have none of that at your fucking party.
Also, entertain your guests, especially the out of shape ones. Offer an enormous amount of helpful health tips — and workout routines. They’ll love that, as the generic mustard drips from their chin and into their lukewarm cup filled with pined cone tasting swill.
With regards to music, declare punk rock and ‘hair rock’ to be the predominant form of “Americana” — blasting the very worst of the hits from the 1980’s. You must play lots of KISS. The ladies go nuts for those guys.
Inside of 1hr, your guests will begin to become irritated, so you’ll need to increase that discomfort with a little outside assistance.
Before inviting your guests, be sure to sprinkle your lawn with sugar and have a kiddie pool filled with water, just to the side of your soiree. By dusk, your lawn will be festooned with swarms of mosquitos, literally eating your guests alive. Suddenly, your central cooling system will be on the ‘fritz’ too — transforming the the inside of your house into a boiling hell-pit. The walls will be dripping with agony.
Since outside will be morbidly uncomfortable, a cartoonish display of nature having its way with your 4th of Joolie bash, coupled with the sweltering heat inside your wonderful and inviting home — causing some to feel nauseous, you will have no choice but to call it a night — pleading with your guests for their forgiveness, as a set of ‘black swan’ events beset you on such a joyous day of fired crackers, pomp and lots of circumstance.
As they get into their expensive cars, bidding you farewell, some cantankerous teenagers will begin firing bottle rockets at your direction, expediting the departure by a factor of 10.
You will tip your hat to the fine young lads from across the street and declare the party over.
I’m sure plenty of you homeowners out there deal with the incessant parade of two bit salesmen coming to your door in search of a sale. Recently, I was entreated to a very special Bernard Maddof character, who was from the solar company VSLR in search of personal fortune.
He was most likely employed straight out of a prison facility, white male , mid 40s, wearing an orange and black construction vest.
Upon opening the door, I saw that he had a Pg&e (my local electric utility) clipboard with him, with an official document facing me, from Pg&e, attached to it.
He asked me ‘ hello Sir, have you seen the construction trucks passing by the neighborhood recently?’
Because I have an aversion to door-step salesmen, immediately, I denied seeing anything. Had God himself been down the block creating humans with a magic staff, I’d deny seeing it too, if asked by a fucking porch planted salesman.
Then I spotted his ID tag and it said Vivint Solar. I shot back with force “not interested.”
He responded, wearing a fucking construction company hard hat, “excuse me? What do you mean? I’m from the local utility and we’re seeing if you qualify for renewable energy.”
I interrupted him and said “you’re from a solar company, selling those hideous panels and sticking them onto innocent people’s roofs. Again, I’m not interested.”
He shot back in a smug, condescending manner  “you’re not interested in green energy, even though it’s paid for by the government?”
I said “yep, not interested.”
In a valiant last ditch effort, with a chuckle that he probably learned in prison, he said “I don’t even know if you’re qualified. That’s why I’m here, to assess your home. We have a contract with your utility, Pg&e.”
I interrupted him again and said that I didn’t like ‘green energy’ (extra Cat in the Hat) and that ‘I Â loathed solar panels with every fiber of my existence.’ Moreover, and indelibly so, ‘had you offered to pay for those panels and then continue to pay me a monthly fee to store those blights that you call solar panels on my roof, I’d still tell you that I wasn’t at all interested.’
Many years ago, I kept a small blue radio on my kitchen counter, so that I could listen to NY Met games. Why?
Because, I’m old school like video music box, classroom beatings, and dangerous Halloween nights.
I grew up immersed in baseball. I played it every day of my life, up until the day I quit varsity baseball–because I’d rather spend my time chasing girls than balls. I was always a Mets fan, because my grandfather had been a NY Giants/Brooklyn Dodgers fan, until “those fucking bastards” stabbed him in the heart, as he liked to say. It’s worth noting, Grandpa Fly would argue until he was blue in the face that he never cursed, while cursing during his heated defense.
“I don’t fucking curse; you god damned liar.”
At any rate, I was very content with the Mets of the 80’s, cocaine addicts playing ball hard, punching the opposing team in the face, just because they could.
Then 2007 happened, a collapse of biblical proportions. The NY Mets ceded a 7 game lead with just 17 games to go, to the bastard Phillies. I will never forget the anguish I felt when they were eliminated from contention. It was like a death in the family occurred and some Yankee traitor, Willie Randolph, was presiding over the funeral arrangements. It was a dark time for Le Fly and his blue radio.
The following year the Mets collapsed in almost the same end of year fashion. After that, I was no longer a baseball fan. I stopped listening to games and I haven’t visited the field since. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been to Citi-field. People have offered me free tickets, field level, and I told them to fuck off. You couldn’t pay me to go.
Now the Mets are trying to rope me back into their snare. They are playing an elimination NLDS game tonight, versus those ‘fucking bastard” Dodgers and I am secretly rooting for the Mets to succeed. I want to believe. Hell, it’s the Mets’ stupid slogan, aside from the juvenile “Let’s Go Mets” chant.
If the Mets win tonight, I will take out the blue radio, dust it off, and place it back onto my kitchen counter top. I will wear old jerseys and talk shit to my fellow Yankee fans, who, by the way, were unceremoniously escorted out from playoff contention without a fight.
Two thousand and fifteen has been a year of false starts, faded momentum, and trickery. Let’s see if the Mets can provide me with a much needed respite from the drudgery of this God forsaken stocked market.
July 4th is a day for white trash to bask in their undignified glory. For those of you living that sort of lifestyle, oblivious to how one might throw a proper white trash 4th of July party, “The Fly” is here to help. With the assistance of my readership, as well as many other people who I’ve met growing up in Brooklyn, this is your “how-to” guide on having an ‘un-gentlemanly” Independence Day.
When you wake up in the afternoon, after a solid night of drunken debauchery, you should feed the children something sugary, like Captain Crunch cereal and/or frozen panned cakes (extra syrup).
Now that your parenting for the day is done, you can prepare for the 4th of July BBQ and drinking extravaganza!
Head on over to the local liquor store and buy a few kegs of beer, several bottles of Jack Daniels and a whole lot of cases of budweiser (CANS ONLY!!!).
After hauling in your treasure, prepare the old charcoal BBQ by spraying massive doses of lighter fluids on it. Have the kids throw things at the flames and play with the fire. Prepare to welcome some of your guests.
After your guest walks through the open screen door, welcome them by saying “what’s up bro” or “yo, man, have a bud”, then carelessly throw a frozen aluminum can of budwesier at him. Every once in awhile you will errantly strike his girlfriend in the head/face with it, so have an extra frozen can aside for the purposes of suppressing swollen bumps about the face and head.
As the party progresses, it’s time to serve your guests of dishonor food. Grab some styrofoam plates and slap a few hotted dogs on them, preferably with bun. If, by chance, you do not have buns, as they weren’t within your budget, feel free to use Wonder Bread as a substitute. Some people actually prefer good olde fashioned white bread anyways. Be sure to douse all hotted dogs with copious amounts of generic ketchup.
As the day drifts on, and the beer cans begin to pile up around the house and yard, ask the children to pick up the cans and place them into the giant black garbage bag that you have hanging off the side of your metal fence. The kid who picks up the most cans of bud gets to drink a can of their own!
FIREWORKS TIME!
You and your friends should now head on over to the front of the house to light some fireworks. It’s important that 90% of your fireworks be of the deafening loud, explosive, variety and not that “color crap.” You will light all fireworks with a lit cigarette butt and be sure to let the children light and toss M-80’s too, as it is their right of passage to do so.
After the fireworks, the real party begins. Parenting is over and has been over since breakfast, so feel free to let the kids roam off into the woods or nearby junkyard for a little childhood curiosity. You and your friends will begin, in earnest, drinking excessive quantities of Jack Daniels, while decrying how “fucked up” this country has become, especially honing in on the immigration issue and how people who don’t speak english should be deported and/or killed.
After 1am is the witching hour. By now, you and your guests should be comfortably buzzed. But it’s time to take it to the next level. Marijuana filled “joints” should be passed around at this time and a side table filled with lines of cocaine should be displayed, for all those interested. Shots of tequila with slices of lemon are appropriate chasers after “partying”, so be sure to have that in stock.
By 3am, 70% of your guests will be asleep (including the children), strewn out across the yard and furniture. Now would be an excellent time to partake in a little innocent adultery. Anything that transpires now is subject to denial and is easily excused, as everyone was “so wasted” that he or she could barely remember what happened.
By 11am on July 5th, most of your guests have woken up and should be asking for coffee. DO NOT PROVIDE THEM WITH COFFEE. By failing to provide them with coffee, they will be forced to leave your residence and find it elsewhere.
The party is now over. It’s now time for you and the kids to clean up the vomit and bottles of Jack Daniels and prepare for the hangover to come.
FUN TIP: Storing beer in aluminum trash cans is good, but getting rid of the water can be a hassle. ENTER BATH TUB.
