“Enough already.  That’s like the longest orgasm of my life.  So what can I tell you?  Let’s start with Facebook and every other social media platform out there.  Do you know how many people are on Facebook? 2.8 billion! Are you fucking kidding me?  What makes so many people think other people are going to be interested in their hobbies? Or what they post? When did everyone become a successful content creator? I mean, half-naked girls I understand.  That bikini aint hurting anybody. They always get a pass. But who cares about the posts with the photographs and the flippant one-liner beneath it?  Oh, you like to fish?  Good to know.  So do all the rednecks in America and half of the general population.  I’m glad you’re letting us know about your embroidery.  I’ll share that with the elders at the next church banquet. You’re going to have your daughter over this weekend with those grandkids of yours?  Those filthy little crumb snatchers. Couldn’t be more helpful.  Oh, you got your teeth whitened?  Lemme see.  Oh, you sure did. Damn! Look at those chompers!  If they were any whiter they’d be racist. I don’t know, I guess people just need attention. 

Let me tell you about myself.  I’m older now.  I used to be young, hot, and brave.  Now I’m just old, fat, and scared.  I have a temper.  Got that from my dad.  I’m 55, I was a land surveyor most of my life and I’ve never been caught masturbating.


  The first porn movie I ever watched was, “Anal Inferno.”    It took about 8 firemen to put it out.  By the way, you know you’re watching too much porn when you recognize the goat from another movie. There’s a little tip for you guys.

  I’m single, have never been married, and I have no kids.  I’m going to tell you some secrets now.  Like the Illuminati.

I’m going to talk about sex toys, woman according to today and the bible, their sexual power, my father, and other stuff.

If you’re a guy and you’re dating a woman, I’m going to clue you in on something, their true intention.

Do you want to know what women are out for in a relationship in case you don’t all already know?  Let’s just jump right into it.  Money may be part of it, of course.  Sex, probably not because they’re getting it somewhere else.  I’ll tell you they want, what they want.  CONTROL. Yup. They want absolute control of you and that pathetic thing you call life.  You’re their rehab project.  Think of women as a salvage company. They want to tell you what to do, how to do it, and when to do it.  They are the master puppeteers in this life.  You’re just some kind of worn-out, little horrid circus monkey that needs to be retrained by her.  “Stop doing that.  You’re drinking too much.  You’re not going to wear that shirt.  Throw it out. You don’t listen.  Pick that up.  Take it out, I don’t want to do it that way.  Don’t gain any more weight. You better not be looking at porn! We’re going to start putting your paycheck in my account.”  Every woman I ever dated was cool as shit in the beginning, and then when they moved in they wanted to control, like a politician or a gangster, just without the violence.

I know I’m not perfect.  Nobody is.  So I was plowing my girlfriend’s beanfield one night, missionary style, and out of nowhere she just started sobbing.  Great!  One night I get to fuck her, and she cries. I mean balling like a first grader losing a soccer game.  Can’t she just say stuff like, “Oh, yeah, that’s it, harder, harder!”  I mean she was crying hysterically.  I kept asking her what was wrong, do you want me to stop?  Look, I’m not from Havana and I’m not black, so I knew my stinger wasn’t that big or fat, so that wasn’t hurting her. She just kept crying without saying a word.  Go figure that one out, Riddler.

So the question for you the audience is what would you do guy?  Keep going or stop?  I made her pay for her making me throw that shirt I loved.  I plowed extra hard, not like hate fucking or anything, but you know?

Before that I figured I had two choices.  One, stop altogether and hug and hold her, or two, continue to plow on.  Finish the job, soldier.  It’s not done until I get my flag on that hill. I thought she was going to go all Britney Spears on me and shave her head. You remember that one, don’t you? 

 If your girlfriend ever starts crying about anything in front of you and you don’t catch it in time, you miss your chance to diffuse the bomb.

So when a girlfriend of mine ambushed me by crying, I would have two choices.  One, I could flip out and get angry because I didn’t want to deal with it.  You got to understand I was just too emotionally immature to deal with it.  Or, two, I could become . . . a car mechanic.  That’s right.  Somebody grab me a crescent wrench and let’s figure out what’s wrong with this fucker.  It’s got to be a bad part somewhere.  Maybe it’s the alternator.  Could be the head gasket.  I just hope the engine aint shot on this P.O.S.

There is a third option most shrinks will tell you about.  Lovingly engage them and help them.  Be gentle.  Are you kidding me?  Do I have to do that with my guy friends too?    That was just too much for me emotionally.  I admit.  I am weak in many ways.  This meant you had to hold ‘em, and hug ‘em and hold ‘em some more, and tell them that you love them.  And that’s only good if you didn’t CAUSE her to cry.  If you caused her to cry, then that’s a whole other ball game.  Talk about bombs!  Who KNOWS what the fuck will set them off.  It could be the lack of cinnamon in her latte.  Or you don’t want to go to her parents for dinner again, and why would you? They never liked you. Or it just may be a classic, her panties really are in a bunch.  Just making things impossible for that crack of hers.

 I don’t know, it just wasn’t my thing.  But I’m probably in the minority.  Girls always get what they want.  Did you ever notice that? It’s flippin historical.  And good for them.  I’m jealous.  I mean, you can’t miss it.  It’s biblical.  Look at Adam and Eve. She’s the one who got him to try the apple after she was practically seduced by a talking serpent?  I can’t think of anything more disgusting than vomiting. What?  First off, if I’m in paradise, I’m asking for another drink with an umbrella in it.  If I come across a talking snake, I don’t know about you, but I’m not sticking around to find out its name.  Don’t you think a talking serpent would have freaked her out?  Even a little?   Where in the hell was good old-fashioned sense back then?  I guess the old man didn’t create the first two people with it.  “Oh, look sweetie, the animals even talk!”  I guess there was no human instinct in the Garden.  I mean, that much is abundantly clear.  Okay, I hate to say this, but God created them and he created them stupid.  Any talking animal, but a snake?  Looky here, if I’m in paradise and suddenly a talking 25-foot reticulated python rolls up upon me one day, saying stuff like, “Man are you are one handsome devil, by the way, are you hungry?  Don’t listen to that other dude, you’re not going to die if you bite that apple. It’s just Apple, don’t listen to that other guy.  How can one single apple ruin eternity? You can eat it. He’s just a jealous God,” then I’m gone.  I still hate snakes.  But he got her to listen.  Are you fucking kidding me? Game over. Once she started listening, it was doom.  Now that’s a fucking salesman.  Just get them to listen.  ABC, Always Be Closing.  That fucker came prepared.  Do you know how fucking confident you have to be to look like a talking snake and win a human being over?  I don’t think the bible says what kind of snake it was, but who cares?  But he got her.  She took a bite and said to Adam, “Yeah, just take a bite out of that sucker.”  And then doom descended. 


 Furthermore, your honor, I point out exhibit B, Samson, and Delilah from the Old Testament in Judges 16. What about Samson and Delilah?  Samson, God favored Samson and blessed him with superhuman strength so he could conquer the pagan Philistines, an unrepentant, nonchristian enemy of God.  The secret to his strength was his long, luscious hair.  What?  Let’s question God for a moment, why associate his strength with long hair?  Wouldn’t plain old muscles do the job?    Samson is handsome, young, long-haired, and a sucker for twat.  You remember Samson from Sunday School, don’t you?  Legendary Israelite with immense physical strength derived from his uncut hair that God graced him with.  Yeah, God graced me with fat. He fucking kicked the shit out of the Philistines for 20 years by the thousands.  The Philistines absolutely hated him and would do anything to destroy him.  Samson won a war against them with nothing but the jawbone of an ass he killed the Philistines, probably by the hundreds.  And then that hot-ass cockroach Delilah came along.  The Philistines got wise and sent Delilah to seduce him.  Delilah!  Some women are just arrantly evil.  No man can match an evil woman.  If you remember nothing from this stand-up, remember that conniving bitch, Delilah?  All we know is the enemy sent her and her big tits and little ass to seduce Samson to figure out the secret of his strength.  So what does Samson do when he meets Delilah, he says with a raging boner let’s hit the sack.  Okay, so she’s a whore, right?   Or a harlot as the bible calls her.  She fulfilled every lustful desire Samson had.  And that was his weakness.  I mean, God blessed him with ungodly strength against the Philistines, but he just couldn’t resist the clam.   So Delilah asked him three times what the secret to his strength was and each time he lied.  So she cried those alligator tears and said you don’t love me, and finally on the fourth time he told her that it was his hair.  IDIOT.  Don’t ever tell a bitch what cards you’re playing even after the hand’s over! She stayed on him and got him until he finally gave up the secret to his strength, his long, wavy, thick hair.  Then, as the poor bastard slept, Delilah had all his hair cut off and he became a weakling. In the morning they took him captive The Philistines took him prisoner, cut his eyes out and made him a fool to appear in their main complex that held thousands so he could entertain them. They made him a circus event.  I told you! Circus monkey! They claimed their God, Dagon, gave them victory over the great Samson and during their pagan festival.  They demanded he be brought out from captivity and amuse them.  But Samson had one more trick up his sleeve, thanks to the real Christian God.  Samson was brought into a gargantuan structure, we’re talking massive, supported by two pillars and he was placed between them by a young boy, because Samson couldn’t see, and in that moment he prayed to God and asked for one last time.  And Samson put his hands between the two pillars and screamed to the Heavens, and God granted him one last moment of strength.  In his effort, he brought the pillars to collapse.  The entire structure came down in detritus, dust, and ruin.   3 to 4 thousand alone were on the roof alone, untold thousands inside, more than Samson had ever killed during the sum of his battles did perish in that moment. 

I guess I’m lucky.  All my girlfriend stole my Bare Naked Ladies disk.  It could have been worse.

Women!  Guys, let’s face it.  It’s a losing battle.  We can’t compete with them.  They got what we want.  Getting on one knee to ask them to marry us?  Have we not learned men from the bible?  What the fuck is that all about? That vagina of theirs is like a flipping Costco card.  You can get anything you want with that sucker.”

I guess I’m like a girl because when I go into a public bathroom I want to look at my hair in the mirror.  I demand to see myself when I’m done urinating all over the toilet seat.  Did you ever go into a public bathroom and notice there’s no mirror?  Anywhere?  You got your sink, and your toilet, but no flipping mirror. It’s not the end of the world, but what the hell?  I notice little things like that.  Even I need to look at myself in the mirror after taking a shit. Did some big-haired slut steal it?  No mirror in the bathroom?  It’s Like the time that no good whore girlfriend cheated me with an older man who was a multi-millionaire.  Yeah, I notice stuff like that.  No mirror.  Hey, I’m not the best-lookin’ cat on my street, but I still want to make sure that hair is okay.  I want to make sure there’s no snot under my nose.  Seriously, it’s like you’re getting ripped off.  Who doesn’t put a mirror in the bathroom?  Construction workers, and how bright are they?  Let’s just say a candle puts their mental intellect to shame.  It’s not a port-o-let.  Probably the same guys who forgot to put a plunger in there.  What is that?  Just laziness?  I know they didn’t run out of mirrors or plungers at Home Depot or Lowes in aisle 8.  It’s a mystery, like Bigfoot.  I can only imagine how you women feel, “Somebody’s a fucking asshole.  What are we supposed to do now? How does my hair look?  Do I have any coke on my nose?”

Currently, I’m working two jobs.  I’m a pizza maker and security officer . . . security officer.   I think they’re playing fast and loose with the term security officer.   Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  It wasn’t always this way.  Making pizzas is one thing.  You get to eat some free food, horse around with the guys in the kitchen, and stuff like that.  And by the way, I’m the oldest fucker in there by 35 years.  Now that’s taking a step backward.   Do you want to know who makes your pizzas back there?  Kids, teenagers, potheads, vapers, shallow thinkers.  The manager is their grandpa at the ripe old age of 25.  They only joke about one thing…. gay humor, “Okay, so you got to suck some celebrities dick, who’s it going to be?”  “Do I have to swallow?”  “What the fuck, Connor, of course, you have to swallow. Of course, what kind of question is that?” Moments like that are so jejune and ineluctable.

But a security guard?  I don’t think my brother’s 5-year-old would let me tell him what to do.  I’m pretty sure he would say, “Fuck off, fatso.” I got no gun, no taser for fat Jesus, no baton….I don’t even have a radio.  Did you hear what I just said?  I’m a security guard and they gave me a T-shirt.   Let’s say a bunch of criminals are heading my way looking for a homosexual gangbang and a severe beatdown on somebody.  I don’t even have a radio to radio in my fear.  I’m not a deterrent.  I’m a fucking target.  “Let’s head for the fat guy.  Grab his wallet.”  Then they beat me within an inch of his life.” Seriously, I bet it would go something like that.  And then when they discover I have no cash, that’s when the real beating starts. I suppose I could assert myself and try to break things up before they began.  I could say something like, “Okay fellows, let’s break it up over here.  Why don’t you guys head for McDonalds and get some milkshakes? Isn’t it past your curfew?”  I will say this, they did give me a badge to display prominently on my chest.  It’s heavy, too, it’s not made from plastic or tinfoil.  How’s that for impressive, huh?  All right, give it up.

All right. I bet you didn’t know hell is really on Earth, and not just one place.  It’s in millions of places all over the planet.  Hell is located at your local deli counter at the supermarket. I’m beside myself. I disdain to wait of all kinds, waiting for a fucking haircut or cold-cuts, I hate them both. I don’t know where to fucking begin with this one.  Every time I walk into the market I look to my left and spot the deli counter 75 to 100 feet away from me.  I’m sorry, but old people are the new zombie apocalypse.  Old people are everywhere in recent times.  They’re living older because of science, technology, and the health field.  They creep along without a clue, too old to remember Sinatra. Usually, there are one or two of them waiting for help, popping medication pills as they wait..  Sometimes it’s basic chaos. Zombies!  I don’t know how they’re cheating death so far, but good for them.  I always grab a ticket from that numbered ticket dispensary thing. Some don’t.  In my opinion, if you grab a ticket and some other customer doesn’t, you should get served first.  Right?  And Sometimes at the deli counter, no customers are there, like yesterday.  I go in, I look over, and nobody’s there. BAM! That’s my time, fucker. I check my account at the ATM, and by the time I’m done with that, there’s one zombie waiting for help.  Now this fucker was truly about as old as Methuselah from the Old Testament, in case you don’t know that’s fucking 936 years old!  Did you hear what I said?   That’s 936 years old years for you sinners that don’t know the bible. So I start heading that way in earnest and wouldn’t you know it? Some other elderly broad squirts in ahead of me.  Now I’m impatient, cussing under my breath.  I grabbed a ticket though and she didn’t, so if they called my number, I would beat her.  Ha.  Smart thinking.  Well, the idiot, mother fucking, monkey, no good, dipshit employee behind the counter takes care of the old man and then says, “Who’s next?”  Of course the little shit didn’t say, “Serving number 63.”  Which of course was my number!  I just threw it on the floor.  Now I'm flippin infuriated.  So I waited for this dry, vapid, crotch to get done with her orders that kept on going on and on.  “I’ll have a quarter pound of the Black Forrest ham.” It was like a knife in my heart, not even in the back, “I’ll have half a pound of this and a quarter pound of that.”  At one point she yelled at the employee to slice her meat a little thinner than he was.  I thought, are you out of your fucking mind?  Usually, every time I come in some stupid teenager is back there with his company baseball on backwards.  Looking like hell, like he just came off a bender or the little shit’s still on a bender.  A real hot mess.  I always order Sarah Lee Honey Turkey Breast, one; pound, and I always tell the little shit to slice it very thin, very thin, shed that shit, you fucking dirtball!  Yet each slice comes back at least an eighth of an inch thick.  I get like 4 slices per pound. What am I supposed to do with that? Save it for Thanksgiving dinner? It reminds me of a TV Dinner which I don’t fucking want.   I could slap you in the face with a slice like that.  Just take what you get lady.  I do.  You don’t see me complaining about it until now, do you?

You know what else I hate?  People that take themselves seriously, and I’m not just talking about everybody here. Seriously?  First, they act like you’re lucky to be around them.  They’re they type that have all the answers.  They’re just so fucking confident.  They got their nose up in the air.  You try and crack a joke, they don’t laugh.  And the way they all walk, they walk like they have a wooden peg jammed in their ass.  God forbid if they ever had an orgasm and loosened up. They’re full of unsolicited advice.  That’s the worst.  Did I ask you?  Then I don’t care and I don’t want to hear it. They think they’re so important and relevant.  Opinions are the worst, but they think theirs is the best.  I don’t know what goes on in that head of theirs is the gold standard, but they think they’re some kind of Hollywood big shot or deity.  And stop telling me how to do things I already know how to do.  Vladimir Putin is a good example of this.  I wish I were president so I could say to him at the next politcal meeting, “Will you just chill the fuck out already?  Have another drink, get laid, take some molly or ecstasy, and get the fuck out of the Ukraine. Stop invading countries.  Go out to a discotheque in that frozen wasteland of yours. I don’t know.  Listen to Pussy Riot more.” Shit, there’s a dude who truly needs to find a higher power. One thing’s for sure, we all have to pay for our sins after death, and the wages of sin IS death.  I have to admit, my old man was this way.  Control freak, full of advice you didn't ask for.  Hardly ever smiled or laughed.  Thought he had it all figured out.  Though his shit didn’t stink. He was so serious, I never figured out what made him so unhappy.

Speaking of Russia, doesn’t it always seem like it’s winter over there?  Do they go through seasons?  I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but it always seems like the motherland is going through another deep freeze.  Maybe it’s from television movies, like that one Rocky movie or those old black-and-white documentaries of World War 2 when Germany was invading them.

And for the love of Christ, will you please try something other than vodka?   Stolichnaya, Smirnoff. Why don’t you get your frozen little fingers around The Glenlivet? Or Jonnie Walker? Come on, fuckheads, a change will be good for you. That must be a state thing. I don’t know what it’s like in your country, but here, in the free world, we have millions of choices, suckers.

Speaking of Russia, doesn’t it always seem like it’s winter over there?  Do they go through seasons?  I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but it always seems like the motherland is going through another deep freeze.  Maybe it’s from television movies, like that one Rocky movie or those old black-and-white documentaries of World War 2 when Germany was invading them.

And for the love of Christ, will you please try something other than vodka?   Stolichnaya, Smirnoff. Why don’t you get your frozen little fingers around The Glenlivet? Or Jonnie Walker? Come on, fuckheads, a change will be good for you. That must be a state thing. I don’t know what it’s like in your country, but here, in the free world, we have millions of choices, suckers.

I told you about my temper, and that I got it from my father.  So true.  Luigi Gino Leparulo.  Full-on, hardcore Italian.  From the old country. He’s gone now. COVID.  Boy, what times we had.

 Times of glory and happiness did this man make, have ye not heard?  Gather ‘round for many a story there is to tell about this figure.

 Back in the day, he was just an angry dude raising 4 brats.  Married to my mom who was faithful, kind, and loving.  Simple truth? She was a great mother, and he was a poor father, especially to me.  Luigi was cut a little differently.  He used to slap me around all the time.  I was the lucky one, none of my siblings ever got hit.  I don’t know if it’s because I was the youngest or because my attitude or what.  I just remember thinking, “I didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m getting smacked around again.”  I think sometimes he just had a bad day and just had to smack somebody….me.  He used to drop the eff bomb left and right ever since I could remember.  Of the four children, I was the only getting hit, running some errand for him, or being his little white slave  It was weird, because he liked hitting me, but I was also chosen by him to do an array of assorted shit. I wanted no part of it.  For instance, as soon as I got my driver’s license he made me drive him from Philly to Tallahassee so he could see his clients along the way and his brother and his brother’s family.  Folks, that’s 1,100 miles from Pennsylvania to Florida in case you didn’t catch it.  And the fucking road rules, my God.  He sold insurance so it wasn’t a clear-cut drive, it wasn’t a red eye.  We had stops to make along the way so he could see his clients in Virginia, D.C., and faggot Atlanta, Power’s Ferry Road.  I couldn’t play my music or fucking drive over 55 the whole way.  So I would wait for him to fall asleep and just floor it.  I couldn’t listen to music.  We had to listen to power speaker motivational tapes.  Shit. I could have done that. Talk about queer, he’d rent a motel room on the way, one fucking bed.  There I am 16, thinking, “Is this normal? Shouldn’t we have two beds?”  He had to save money. 

I guess he was both tyrannical and a fascist.  If you made some kind of critical mistake there was no such thing as a time-out.  You just got hit. He came from a different era…..he was from the old world, just issue a beatdown.  You know he made me cry when I got cut from 6th-grade basketball tryouts?  He was just yelling at me when he got home that night from work. There I am just sitting at the kitchen table trying to eat a ham sandwich, still in my shorts and sneakers. You know, I was a kid. I was 12 for crying out loud.  I already forgot about getting cut.  I was already over it.  Kids never take long to get over stuff.  He was standing over me just yelling and screaming at me in his business suit and tie a foot or two from my face, demanding answers, demanding to know why I didn’t make the team and why I wasn’t more like my older brother, Paul. I guess he didn’t get to fuck his secretary that day or something.   That one is still a mystery.  Normally you could tell when something was going to piss him off.  Not that time.  Finally in my teenage years after he and my mom divorced, I came into manhood or so I thought. But once again the sniper showed up.  He was still talking to me like I was some kind of savant who only understood one thing—punishment, Nietzsche's style.  He used to tell me all the time that I had a thick skull and didn’t understand much.  I was wasting my time studying English in college. I was never going to amount to much, at least not financially.  He had this thick, heavy Italian accent and would talk down to me when I was with him in public.  “My son is not very bright and needs help.”  I remember he said that to the lady behind the counter in the fall at college when he took me to matriculate at the bursar’s office.  He was always into Peugeots which are shitty French automobiles and German Shepards.  He loved those dogs. Galen and Sheba were their names, and he was forever yelling at them!  My dad, the dog trainer, the first Caesar Milan.  His preferred method was to smack them over the nose and just haul ass and yell at them.  He had one phrase in particular.  He used to yell at them and say, “Get in the kitchen.”    Oh, those poor beasts.  I don’t know what it was, but it was always “get in the kitchen.” Like that was going to magically settle them down so they could learn something. . . . something in the kitchen.   I don’t know what the fuck was so great about the kitchen or what made it the most important room in the house to give dogs a time out.  Yet there it was, for decades.  Dog after dog.  And that’s the way it was until the bitter end.  I never got treated that way.  Now that’s philosophical, beast over man.  He was something else.

And I’ll tell you one more thing, ultimately, he was clueless.  I told you he used to sell insurance, and was very successful.  The company used to send our family to Boca Raton annually for fun and their events.  So there was my mom, my dad, and us, four children.  Now I hated to fly.  I was terrifiend.  I was 12 and Boca Raton was coming and that meant I had to fly.  So the time came and my mom and 3 of my older siblings all ready left and took an earlier flight.

So I’m with my dad at the airport and we board the plane all the way in the back.  And suddenly right before fucking take off on the runway I asked him why mom and the others took another flight.

And this is what he said to someone who’s scared to fly, ever the insurance salesman, “Well, if the plane crashes and they die, then at least half the family survives.”  WTF?????

And wouldn’t you know it, as soon as we took off we had to make an emergency landing.  One of the doors on the airplane was not properly closed.

My old man was rough, but I always loved him and now I Just miss him.  It think he also missed some Sunday School lessons along the way.

My life, if nothing else, always feels like it’s falling apart like wet bread.

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