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.

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.

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.

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 boston.com 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!

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.

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.

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!"

Married (to sausage fingers)

Blog monster at bravo sierra zulu six niner

I can't seem to get motivated enough to post. This is evidenced by the 14 posts I've been working on that are in various stages of not appropriate to release into the 'sphere. I'm not sure where this blogger's block is coming from, but I guess I have to accept the fact that it's a hairy bugger that apparently means to give me the business if I attempt to post.

When to Use Your Words

I'd like to send a big fuck you to the dick who decided while walking towards me and realizing that I'm a new guy, that he'd put his head down and walk right by me rather than say, oh, i dunno, "hi" or "welcome" or even "eat shit buddy". nice. little does he know that i run this here semi-anonymous blog, and the shit is on him.

In other news, I'm glad to see how much you all care about my dying tree and the pain it is causing me to have to part with it. Really, I'm ok, and I won't be discussing its fate here anytime soon. I did manage, however, to "borrow" one of the neighborhood kids and, well, let's just say that Rob will be impressed.

I do have this exciting bit: I'm using yet another work from home day well, as I'm off to the dentist.

UPDATE

I'm back from the dentist. Truth be told: I hate the dentist. In fact, I think I'll hook him up with sir shit head of the hallways.

File under it's news to me and other useless thoughts

I'm the kind of guy who focuses too much effort on [useless] details. Consequently, I miss much big picture stuff. I like to believe that I am always aware of all things around me, alas this is not the case. Take, for example, my last post.

It has been brought to my attention by those of you who left comments and some who haven't that the post was a tad depressing. While typing, I didn't feel any sadness, nor was I striving to evoke such emotion in readers or elicit sympathy. I simply thought of a few words that, in my small brain, seemed to fit together and tell a bit of a story.

In other news, I've got a new job (week three is well underway). It's the same job I just left with better salary. I still get to write "may cause gas with oily discharge," which is still disgusting and funny (ok, ok, I don't feel badly for folks with this condition, in fact, I'd love to meet someone with such gas, invite them out for fried clams and milkshakes, and watch them squirm from trying to hold it in). The work space is nice and the window in my office is faced toward a wildlife sanctuary, but I don't think I'll find zen anytime soon. The commute sucks, but what commute that ends up at, well, work doesn't (hooker, movie star, band member (not marching), and bar fly don't count). Nice thing is that I get to work from home a couple of days each week. Like today. Although, I must admit that I've done about 10 minutes of work today compared with the two hours of surfing the net for porn and another two hours spent scraping and priming a section of trim above our back door that was ravaged by the winter weather.

In yet other news, the tree in our front yard that we thought was a cherry tree turns out to be a flowering crabapple tree, and it's dying from fire blight.
This is the latest home-owner's bummer we're faced with. Once again, there's no landlord to call to have things fixed and/or replaced. No, I have to have three different companies come out: one to cut down the tree and hall it away, one to grind out the stump (there's porn in there somewhere, I'm sure), and the third to deliver a new tree. We're thinking of putting in either a yoshino cherry tree or a mount fuji cherry tree. Exciting, I know.

Recently, our dishwasher died, we replaced it with a lovely fridgedaire stainless number. Also, the future Mrs. Fondleberries, fell in the shower and got herself some fabulous bruises on legs and arms (I've been telling folks that I beat my old lady, which makes me laugh).

Lastly, I'm told there are now 17 days until I'm married.

Once

I once was young and had a lifetime ahead of me. Everywhere I could see, I was told, there would be doors through which my future lay. I had time to make choices. I had time to do nothing at all, or everything I could. I had little experience and less knowledge, but I thought that I knew it all and was willing to say so to anyone who would listen.

I once was cool and hip and thin.

I once had hair. Long, flowing hair.

I once had only myself to worry about or care for.

It seems that at once all of these things changed.

I am now middle-aged. Most of my hair has decided to part from me. I've gone up at least two waist sizes. I still belt Smiths lyrics while driving, which, I'm told, makes me less than cool (and likely a bit gay). I have a house and bills and a job. And I'll be married in less than a month.

Back in Black

Or back in the States(?), and wearing pink, whichever comes first.

I'm working on the trip review post, but guarantee it will suck (almost as much as I do).

In the interim, here's a bit of conversation I recently had with a work colleague (WC, not the closet, Jesus, pull your head out of your ass):

Lord F: I would very much like to visit France at some point.

WC: France isn't a country, it's a restaurant.

Lord F in Slough

Well kids, I'm taking my nappy head across the pond for a week of work (-ing on hitting every pub in sight). I'll have updates on your love life, pimple-faced toads, and not wearing socks while jumping in puddles when I'm back.

Cheers.

Go Sox!

Enough said. Even though the Sox will lose to the Yankees. Again. And I'll bitch them out for it. Again.

Realize, folks, that we're keeping it light this week. But I do hope that I've misspelled at least one wrod.

and so it goes

it's odd to type, but i have a hero.

i had a hero.

my hero died this week.

i'm older, but not wiser. and he's dead.

my hero wrote. a lot.

he wrote:

"Listen:
When I was a younger man---two wives ago, 250,000 cigarettes ago, 3,000 quarts of booze ago . . .
When I was a much younger man, I began to collect material for a book to be called The Day the World Ended."

and so it goes.

The Weekend and a Volkswagen*

If I weren't so tired or bored or angry or disappointed so much of the time, I might venture outside of the small bubble that surrounds my immediate self.

I might take up drinking with the homeless-Americans in Boston's quaint public alleys.

I might hang glide or balloon or join the North Shore kite-flying society and spend time complaining with my fellow upper middle class dribs about those eye-sore homeless-Americans littered about the streets and abandoned buildings.

I might take long road trips along the coast and land at the breakers in Rockport and eat steaming bowls of New England clam chowder with bikers and tourists.

I might buy or even make some form of art.

I might Ralph Waldo Emerson and walk into the woods, searching for a strong, old tree to stop at and sit to read labels on old wine bottles.

I might do nothing.

I might commute to work every day and sit in my dull cubicle*, staring out the window, wondering what it would be like to venture outside the bubble that surrounds my immediate self.

*Typos corrected, thanks for noticing, I'll remember you when I'm dead.

Bringing Suck Back

Hidey ho, bloggeroos.

I haven't posted here in a while because:

1. Sinus infection. This is my second such infection since January. I'm starting to finally question my "immune" system: the dirty bastard is getting me into all kinds of trouble. The head-pounding pressure had disallowed seeing and typing as well as breathing.

2. Work. My fabulously boring job has decided to unfuck itself momentarily, which has put me into a world of shit trying to clean up the dribble on the mattress, so, no bloggy there.

3. Detoxification. By far, coming off the sauce is the least fun I've had in some time. The shakes have kept my sausage and peppers fingers from settling down to blog.

4. Commuting. I spend at least 2 hours each day in my car driving to and/or from work. I don't mind so much as the music is good and I'm certain to spill most of my latte thanks to the incredibly unmaintained roadways in and around Boston. Alas, commuting leaves little time for blogging.

5. Douching. Or should I say, "sucking". Either way, it's got nothing to do with cleaning or a good time, rather it merely sums up my normal activities of daily living.

What will I do about all of this non-posting? Probably nothing.

Hi. I'm Lord Fondleberries. And I'm a Blogger

I am a Blogger. There, I typed it.

I'm not sure what that means, really. Does it mean that I should don a white frock and smile down from some virtual throne at the small following who, desperate enough to worship the garbled and largely unintelligible words spewn forth from my sausage and peppers fingers, sip from goblets brimming with my killer Koolaid recipe? Does it mean that I'm a cat person (I am: my kitties are better than yours)? Does it mean that I have unique or begged or borrowed or stolen musings on the minute details that comprise This [my] American Life? Does it mean that words that flow every few days from some misfired synapses out into the 'sphere have relevance or meaning or context [apparently the cult thinks yes]?

Alas, I think that my being a Blogger may mean, in simplest terms, that I am one who longs for the affection of those whom I don't and won't know, like you, my fake internet friend.

Over the very long four months that I've blogged, I've learned that I do not meet most criteria for having a blog worthy of a Koolaid following:

I have nothing to say
Interesting things rarely happen to me (drunk driving accidents and premature ejaculations in the presence of my own hand aside)
I cook, but follow the recipes of other bloggers or actual cooks
I write very bad fiction
I am no longer a waiter
I just learned that control + g is the Blogspot shortcut for Hindi transliteration
I post on my blog randomly
And etc.

So, what [the fuck] is wrong with me? Why [do I] Blog? Why are we [here]?

Forty-two.

Since I am such a slacking (lack-lustre) Blogger, I feel that I owe [you] some personal tid bits. Here goes:

1. I will never turn down a drink (whether or not I'm buying).

2. Those angioplasty and stent procedures that were all the rage on NPR today, I wrote the clinical study reports to get quite a few of those devices and procedures approved.

3. I'll be married in June to this great person that I do not deserve (it would be funny [or sad] if I could truthfully type that she is mail-ordered).

4. I'm a sucker for a grande non-fat late, especially every dehydrated hung-over morning.

5. I much prefer commenting on blogs than making original posts on mine own blog.

6. I am a self-professed Anglophile, though I've never been to the UK.

7. I know that three of four people prefer Rice Crispies to Raisin Bran for breakfast.

Glad to meet you.

My Kingdom for a Plunger

I truly wish that the highlight of my day could be that feeling I get when I arrive at the bathroom at work to have a piss, only to realize that the toilet is chock full o nuts with someone else's shit and toilet paper. Again. Oh, and that first deeply drawn breath of the incredibly pungent accompanying odor. Alas, I cry a bit from hooking myself firmly in the zipper of my trousers, and walk, sulking, back to my cube with my back teeth floating in the piss I should have had.

Yes, I realize that I am a guy, and that yes, I should pee in urinals like my big-boy counterparts; but I am very afraid of germs. I don't even like to shake hands, and I certainly don't let most people touch me. I am especially afraid of those germs that might be found in and around public toilets: quite simply, I do not want any of what I send forth sprayed back at me, covered in friendly hangers on; sue me for desiring to remain clean. Ergo, I choose to pee in a regular toilet; and, no, I don't sit when I pee.


But, why is it, that invariably, after my fourth cup of coffee of the day, when mister bladder has had his fair share and tugs gently at my coattail to relieve him of his duties, I casually make my way into the bathroom at work, open the stall door, and find mister hanky the poo swimming in the deep end of the bowl with his toilet paper buddies? I am sure that when I was 10, I would have found this very amusing and gathered all three of my friends into the bathroom to see the dookie; but now, at 33, while taking a biobreak from my fabulously boring job, a bowl full of semi-digested waste is not something I look forward to, albeit, this is a regular occurrence at my office.

What's that, oh, it's a bit of throw up in my mouth. Yay!

What in the fuck is wrong with people that they think it's super ok to explode all over a public facility and walk, anonymously, away (without washing their filthy, shit-laden hands, I'm sure)? Perhaps I'll set up a hidden camera and record these bastards in the act, then upload the video to our corporate intranet under the Press Release section with the headline, "CEO Dumped, Stocks in the Shitter".