Monday, October 29, 2007

Hey Snapcracklefantasticpapelbonbonarooinskidoesitlikedoinyourmotherhard, that's either a bit of poopy in your pants or a hardon. Either way, you just won the world series. Good for you.

Thursday, August 9, 2007

there's always nothing much to say

thanks j dot mascis. thanks for everything. like puppies and spring time, and that annoying little kid across the street who says only the letter d. but he owns that letter.

since i haven't posted in a bit, here's the news in brief.

chapter one.

i still hate everyone. everyone.

chapter two.

after not hearing from my fabulous family in nearly two [blissful] months, dear old drunken mom checked in yesterday. only now, with the aid of my little orphan annie decoder ring, a box of cracker jacks, and some mind-expanding nail polish remover fumes, am i beginning to suss out what the hell she was mumbling and drooling about in an oddly high-pitched voice.

the first few letters spelled out genius dad's most-recent brilliant idea: painting their house. for those who don't know, the genius is not in the best of shape or health, and shouldn't be anywhere near activities more strenuous than having a poo. and for those who don't know of my parents' incredible sense of style, their house is a study in bland. every wall, inside and out, is the same shade of beige. no, mum, there aren't any hints of green or blue or yellow in them there walls, they's all beige, kind of like your personality. yeah, so, the genius picked the hottest day of the year (so far), rented himself a cherry picker, and bought all the battleship gray paint in the state of new hampshire. in the immortal words of the gap band, the genius got down on it, and painted the house the loveliest shade of gray. interesting note: dad hates gray. apparently, in the heat, he lost 20 lbs and 13 of his remaining 42 brain cells. go dad!

the next couple of letters are debatable, but i'm leaning toward the suggestion that mum is less than thrilled about her 50-somethingth birthday (i'm such a great son that i can't remember which anniversary of her luminous birth it will be), which will occur on friday. hey, if you're in the area, pop your head into that bbq place in bitchin slummerville, i'm sure you'll witness a real hootenanny. we'll be that group who's staring at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, hell, at anything but each other, and we won't be speaking. fun, fun, fun. ugh.

chapter three.

the end.

Thursday, July 5, 2007

porn chops and special sauce

i understand why the it department has to lock down administrator rights and software downloading capabilities, but please, for once, can't they ease up on the flash player? seriously, how the hell am i supposed to watch high-quality porn at work without the flash version 8 upgrade?


the third through fourth of july proved much too strong for the end of my 15-year binge drinking.

tuesday night, our hood closed itself to the public for a block party that featured some stellar burgers and spicy italian chicken sausages obtained from the local whole paycheck food store. these were ever so lovingly chased with how many??? of harpoon's summertime offering (a light yet rich ale with hints of lemon and oh so yummy drunkenness).

after chow, we headed to the lil beach at the bottom of our street, chairs in hand (somehow i forgot beers for the walk), to watch the town waste who knows how much money on the fantastic fire works display. as i sat with my feet in the sand and my head in my lap, ocean waves rolling gently toward me, i could think only how fabulous it is living by the ocean, especially on a perfect summer night. i also thought of the relatively long and interesting road i took to get to that spot in the sand, and how i could not have got there without the kindness, guidance, and kicks in the ass from the many people i'd met along the way.

after the fire works finale, we headed home, and i had a beer in salute of all those who've put up with my shit over the years. cheers mates.

after almost not waking up wednesday and trying rather feebly to sweat out the booze with a long bike ride through the coastal 'burbs, we found ourselves in some strange company (friends of my cousin) and some not so strange company (many, many drinky poos). i'm still unsure as to how or where i went to sleep last night, but i remember mrs. fondleberries and i belting journey lyrics at the tops of our lungs (while driving home???), a random phone call to a guy at roof deck party in boston (he sang journey along with us over the cellular airwaves, it was beautiful), and something mrs. fondleberries said that has to do with pastel colors and circular objects; i'm told i can never repeat it.

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

on wanting to be more left-handed

i believe that onomatopoeia should be spelled more like it sounds, and have something to do with peeing on people in public. i also believe that farting in a crowd is perfectly acceptable, and that trans fats are oh so yummy and delicious, hey rachel ray, is yummylicious a word (i hate that bitch).

that said, i've (sadly) arrived at the tail end of a 15-year bender. does my mood reflect the withdrawal? it's been a pretty good run, filled with nonsensical conversations with ????, hilarious blackouts, and oh so many times waking up alone on the couch (my couch?), fully dressed. but it's high time that i step away from the bottle and into a smaller waist band. holy shit, i've become something of a poster child for a) not having kids, b) the big and tall (minus the tall) men's shop, or c) raising the legal drinking age to 72. also, my new best friend forever, harry the broken blood vessel, has moved into my left cheek; quaint. and, i think the rest of my skin is permanently tinted yellow ochre (thanks to bob ross for the lesson in color).

i'm pretty sure i shouldn't have that constant sharp pain in my lower right abdomen (ehem, hepatitis anyone?).

nor should i have that constant throbbing coming from the right and left sides of my back (renal failure?).

but, i digress.

what i'd really like to talk about is bringing an end to world hunger, or paris hilton, whichever comes first (and likely miss hilton will come first, given she's now free from that incredibly unfair and unjust jail time, you go girl! straight to fucking hell. and fucking die.). i raise my hatred for paris hilton only because the fuckwits at thought it fitting to juxtapose the unfairness of her trial with senor bush's commuting of scooter libby's sentence on their home page today. (uses valley girl accent) seriously? omg! and, uh-uh, oh no they di-int!

Saturday, June 23, 2007

bloggerdom and springer spaniels

every now and again, i fancy myself a famous white rapper accepting an mtv music award: "first of alls, i gots to praise jesus for giving me the strengths and wills to being here, now, with the power." then, i realize that i'm hammered. again. yay me!

in current events, mrs. fondleberries and i are off to martha's vineyard (the vineyard, as it's referred to up here) for a week of honeymoon/relaxation/anything but work. we've got the old mini cooper sled stuffed with beach chairs, blankets, and sunscreen---not that we'll actually get to the beach, given it rains, heavily, on us every time we're there. [insert new favorite retarded phrase here: it's all good, yo.] i'm hoping to catch a glimpse of a kennedy in its natural state, drunk and/or raping and killing local girls.

Friday, June 22, 2007

episode 1

so i've decided that my posts will be of the diary variety from now forward. what the hell, it's the internets and only a few of you freaks out there really know who i am.

be warned:

1. posts will likely be typed using only lowercase letters and very poor grammar.

2. posts will likely read as though i'm a 14 year-old girl (which i just might be, i'm awaiting csi crime lab results and digestion of the ham sandwich i just had for lunch).

3. i live a very boring and utterly suburban life.

4. i have cats that will probably be posted about quite often.

5. there isn't a number 5.

episode 1.

as shown below in the horribly accurate picture of my sausage and peppers fingers, i got married. the event occurred last saturday (in salem, ma, for those who might give a shit), and was a decent time, thanks in no small part to the open bar and the many folks who felt compelled to ensure that i always had a full glass of wine. it was, however, a tad anti-climactic, given the now mrs. fondleberries and i have been together for a coo's age (which, quentin tarintino (spelling?) tells me, is 12 years).

we planned to do this thing about 10 years ago, but for various reasons never got around to it. the mrs. had even bought a dress, we got rings, scouted locations, etc. alas, nothing. however, since we bought a house a couple of years ago and we're not getting any younger (and i'm certainly incapable of dating or being sought after by anything but a cheesesteak and a sixer of beer), we figured what the hell, and jumped in feet first (i'm not a good swimmer, and yes, i held my nose).

so, we spent the last year planning for what i lovingly referred to as the first real step toward divorce. we selected a nice little library venue for the ceremony and a restuarant we both like for the reception. that's where our paths diverged.

the mrs. took up dieting and twice-weekly trips to the gym (personal trainer and all, fancy), while i took up beer and wine, by the truck load. i watched her health and wellness increase, and tone develop in her itty-bitty muscles; she watched (in horror?) my stomach "muffin top" over my now size 34 jeans (i should really be wearing a 36, but fuck that). i chewed my finger nails to nubs, she had manicures.

the days rapidly ticked by. before i could lick the cheese wiz off the plate, i'd become the fattest bastard i've ever been, and was standing in an empty room, wearing a tux with a pink vest and tie tucked neatly inside it, and being photographed from all possible angles (to get my good side, i dunno). being completely absorbed by holy shit i'm a fat fuck (and oh, by the way, i'm getting married) thoughts, i paid little attention as folks began filling the room. i think i said hello to some and hugged others, it's all a bit unclear. but i had a good excuse for being aloof: i was, after all, a fat guy in a tux.

mrs. fondleberries, on the other hand, looked great.

at some point a guy in a robe pronounced us married, and the mrs. planted a wet one on me (that's hot). thereafter, i vaguely remember, in no particular order: the sounds of clapping and shoes clicking on stairs, more photographs, being creeped out by my mother grabbing my hand, more kissing, thinking that a little kid was likely to get sick from pressing his face against one of the restaurant windows, dancing, drinking, more drinking, some nice words said by my brother, more drinking, eating, cake, more dancing, and that i had finally understood what it meant to be loved.

when i awoke the next morning with a headache, i knew that although things would be different, nothing had really changed, and that i am very lucky to have mrs. fondleberries by my side.

Monday, June 18, 2007

the glowing red star at the edge of the universe (part 1)

"the hardest part is always the title," jim quipped and dropped a half-smoked cigarette from his nicotine-stained fingers. he watched it fall for almost too long, as though hoping an infernal blaze would be the consequent result of his careless act. the glowing orange-red-amber tip spun end over end, and the butt hit the floor with cosmic force, scattering hot embers and cold ash like the debris of exploded stars across a galaxy.

he was tired from sleeping only four hours in the last few days, while working to meet another ridiculous deadline for another ridiculous client. "fuckers," he though aloud; "the lot of them." his normal, if they can be called normal, sleeping habits weren't much different from those he'd had when under the stress of a deadline, but he felt nostalgic for un-deadline sleep now.

he removed his gaze from the floor and scanned the room. it was well lighted, clean, small. furniture was sparse: his working desk and chair in the corner by the only window; a leather recliner in the opposite corner; the couch sprawled across the back wall; a set of bookshelves, stuffed with books and loose papers, opposite the couch.

seeing now her figure, he remembered that jamie had been sitting on the couch. she sat with one leg dangled over the arm, the other tucked so awkwardly under her ass, jim thought, that she must be comfortable or in the throws of some depraved fettishist act. he thought fleetingly what it would be like to have her. then the deadline swarmed over him: he slouched. "shit."

he reached at the floor and grabbed the filtered end of the still-burning butt. he lifted it furiously to his lips. he breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. he felt every chemical-filled fiber of the smoke coursing through his body. the skin on his arms and neck raised. he held in the smoke until it choked off the last bits of air in his lungs; he pursed his lips and spit the smoke into the air. jamie winced. "why do you still smoke," she stated rather than asked. clinging to the warm tingling sensation in his body, he closed his eyes tighter and chose to not acknowledge her.

he walked back to the desk, sat again, and pushed the cigarette carefully into the corner of his mouth. the swirling smoke stung his eyes. he pulled his chair closer to the desk and leaned forward toward the black antiqued smith-corona typewriter (how pretentious) that sat, waiting anxiously for the calloused massaging of jim's fingers on its keys. he reeled a leaf of paper forward and returned the carriage. he tapped a few of the keys, trying to string the letters and words together in his head before hammering them onto the page. he noted the empty bottle of white out now tipped on its side and rolling back and forth on the desk like a fish out of water gasping for air, wanting to be filled again with the goopy white heaven that lay in a cracked, dried pool underneath it.

jim pulled his hands into fists and smashed them against the keys. jamie flinched, but said nothing. "she laughs at this, my impotence," jim thought. "it's only a title," he thought. He raced through the card catalogue of words in his head. "all i need is a title. a title. give me the fucking title!"