Summer Suffering

Before I begin, thoughts and prayers go out to those killed in Orlando, their loved ones, and the wounded. As for the shooter, I hope you died in absolute agony, you donkey-fucking shitstain.

No, onto our regularly scheduled post . . .

It’s summer. Yay. In Baltimore that means humidity turning the air into a soup that reeks of sweat, dead bodies, spent gunpowder, and spilled blood. Yummy. Talk about steamy! It’s worse than Da Nang in August.

Summer means vacations. And that sucks. Here’s what vacation used to be 26 years ago when I was 21 and stupid as fuck:

• Drive to beach
• Drop bags in room
• Drink face off in my favorite bayside bar
• Chase women, fall into bay
• Pass out
• Wake up
• Repeat

Today vacationing with three children and Mrs. Fozz, the scenario is entirely different – and it sucks donkey balls. Forget the packing, that’s her job. Forget taking care of the dog, she might not be around when we go on vacation, and that sucks even more. I’ve had her since she was a pup and she’s now 13. (Takes moment to wipe away man tear.)

The drive is an exercise in misery that is a notch below what the average soldier experienced at the Battle of the Somme. A crowded, overloaded car filled with the Fozz Spawn who want to recreate key scenes from Gladiator. Meanwhile, you’re trying to avoid similar miserable dipshit dads driving their squalling family. It’s a brotherhood of misery, out there on the road . . .

Last year, we stopped at Jimmy Johns because it was either that or go Donner. And as my son passes me my sub, he drops it on top of the divider in the front seat. Do you know how hard it is to clean up shredded lettuce from under a car seat?

DO YOU? IT’S LIKE PICKING UP GRAINS OF SAND WITH YOUR ASS CHEEKS.

And getting there is half the misery, because you’re not going on vacation, you’re just going to a different place with the same people who drive you nuts. Here’s the added bonus, we go on vacation with family – those people you try and avoid year round. Wasn’t Christmas two weeks ago? Who are these idiots? No way we share the same DNA and family tree.

To me, vacation should consist of chugging contests by the pool, hangovers solved with greasy food, lots of tits, and no pants. This shit don’t fly in a household of crabby old people who think your children are brutal freaks raised in cages by the Cenobites from Hellraiser. (This is slightly accurate.)

Finally, you unpack and then the money starts gushing out of your wallet to disappear into a Jerry Jones glory hole. You gain nothing. Novelty t-shirts, junk toys, sand toys, rentals for chairs, food, more food, even more food, and maybe sunscreen. (We don’t use a lot of it because we’re Italian and produce copious amounts of grease on our skin.)

So you spend a week in hell. There are a couple of bright spots – like sleeping and doing drugs with your cousins and brother in law – but not enough to even out the glaring bad spots.

Having to deal with other people’s idiosyncrasies eats shit. “Well, in my house when I make the coffee I add a pinch of salt to the grounds.” Well, we’re not in your house and what in fuck does that even mean? I should force feed you these fucking coffee grounds, followed by the egg shells you left in the motherfucking sink.

This year, it’s going to be different. I scored from Hobo Ed Reed – who was on vacation and sleeping in a tent outside of Ravens Stadium – and found a yummy summer cocktail that mixes the tang of Mad Dog 20/20 and cheap tequila in a glass that is rimmed with crushed Demerol. I’ll be tripping balls the entire time, there’s no hallucination scarier than any interaction with my family or in laws.

On A Lighter Note
(Each post will end with an event that made me happy.)

Nothing is more hilarious than white trash dipshits with scorching sun burns. Bonus points if they were wearing wife-beat t-shirts when they got torched.