Take A Report

Know what didn’t bode well for my trip to Disney? The week before we left I had developed a rash on the right side of my crotch. It looked like the early stages of “flesh eating disease” wedged in the crevice where my ball-bag meets my upper-inner right thigh. It itched like hell and the resulting dead skin mixed with sweat made my undercarriage smell like a corpse - just in time for 5 days chasing after 2 kids in the Florida sun, right? The vacation was doomed from the start.

The flight down was fine and everything was on time. Got to the suite at the Polynesian, and it was pimped-the-fuck-out…which was nice. We decompressed for a while, grabbed some lunch, and
headed out to the Magic Kingdom. And that’s where everything fell apart.

The Magic Kingdom is a fucking abomination. I spend a lot of time on the web and can’t figure out why nobody has created “freaks-i-saw-at-disney.com”. I wish I had my wedding photographer with
me because every third person looked like they came straight from a carnival sideshow. Apparently my visit coincided with “Inappropriate Tattoo Week” because that place was filled with bad paint on bad people.

You want specifics?… I watched in awe as a 400 pound black woman tore into one of those gigantic smoked turkey legs. By the time she was finished, that bone looked like it was sandblasted, bleached, and ready to hang in a museum… There wasn’t a trace of grizzle or fat on the thing. And as soon as this savage was done picking this bone clean, she turned, dropped it on the floor, and walked onto the spinning teacup ride… Fucking disgrace.

And you know who else scares the balls off of me? The below-middle class from middle-America. People who are insulated from any major cities, and rely solely on cable TV as their source of culture.
Tank-topped, mulletted, and fatter-than-hell white trash who ride around on those motorized scooters while leering inappropriately at their own slutty daughters… That whole sub-culture creeps me out. I wanted to dip my kids in Purell after every ride we shared with these cretins.

More specifics?… I swear on my kid’s life that this is an actual picture of the “woman” that was standing behind us waiting for the Dumbo ride…

So, to sum up the Magic Kingdom: Thousands of dollars spent… to wait on 90 minute lines… with the absolute hairy underbelly of the human race… in 95 degree heat… in a black felt hat with giant mouse ears on it? It’s fucking insane.

On the other hand, I got little problems with Epcot. Spent a full day there. Here’s my only complaint…

I had dinner reservations for the family in Morocco that I was starting to second guess for 2 reasons:
1) Morocco was a long walk away, and I was hungry now.
2) It’s Morocco, so I am assuming they serve Moroccan food, and I have a recent history of stomach ailments.

So I am in front of Canada, and notice that their restaurant is a steakhouse. And after 4 days of burgers and funnel cakes, the thought of a nice porterhouse next to an ice cold goblet of vodka appealed to me more than anything that Morocco could provide. I figure I might as well see if they have a table without reservations so I walk up to the young girl at the front door and ask if they are accepting walk-up’s. And here’s what the little condescending clam says to me…

“Sir, we don’t have ANY available tables… And just so you know, people make reservations here 6 to 10 months in advance.”

Now a simple, “I’m sorry, we have no tables.” would’ve sufficed. But this little girl decided she needed to teach me a lesson about being better prepared for my Epcot experience, which I took umbrage with, so I go back at her with…

“Listen, Mindy… I’ve been lucky enough to have eaten in some of the finest steakhouses in the world. And to be 100% honest, not a single one has been either Canadian OR located in a theme park, so pull back on the maitre d’ throttle just a little bit, because your only 3 months removed from working in a job that requires a paper-fucking-hat.”

And I know the whole “eaten in some of the finest steakhouses in the world” sounds pretentious, but this business provides you with only a couple of things, and although muscle tone isn’t one of them, the opportunity to eat well is. Plus, I felt compelled to make this 16 year-old punk feel as low as possible. Fuck her.

By the way, don’t bother asking me how I can spend a week in Florida and be paler than when I left. I put the SPF 55 sunscreen on with a trowel… Fuck the sun. I was walking around Disney looking like I had just been through the glazing machine at Krispy Kreme.

Thanks for listening, and here’s a little Florida inspired cheesecake…

Take a report.

-Large

Did I ever mention that I’m an asshole?

Sometimes I get people on the phone who are incredibly helpful, and I take advantage of them comedically (or at least what I consider comedic) for no reason… Case in point: You know I am about to go on a trip to Disney with the family. So the other day some lady calls from the hotel and asks if there is anything she can do prior to my arrival that will make my stay “extra special”. She seemed like a real sweetheart, and I honestly had nothing for her because a few people had already warned me about setting up meals and stuff in advanced. But instead of letting her go, I started requesting extra shit for no reason. I told her I would need at least 20 pillows in the suite. I requested as many towels as possible, because I have this “thing” about damp towels that just sets me off emotionally.

And then I may have crossed the line.

I told this absolute stranger that I use a “personal massager” every night, but was unable to travel with it because it’s “dagger-like” appearance never gets by customs, and I didn’t feel comfortable mailing it to the resort ahead of time. She immediately put me on hold, and about 30 seconds of listening to the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack later, a decidedly older sounding woman got on asking me if I was the guest requesting a personal massager for the room. I was mortified, but unlike most prank calls, I was unable to hang up because THEY called ME. So now I am left talking to an old woman about a vibrator I don’t need.

HER: “Excuse me, Sir. Are you the guest requesting a personal massager for your stay?”

ME: “Uh… Yes… If it’s possible. It really helps out my lower back… Especially if I play tennis.”

HER: “Sure it does… It is a charge of $89.90, it will be wrapped in brown paper and left in the Master Bedroom armoire, batteries are included, and it’s yours to keep.”

ME: “Umm… Okay… And how will that charge show up on my bill?”

HER: “Sir, I can title the charge anything you want.”

ME: “Anything?”

HER: “Yes sir… I’ll enter a title for the charge on your bill right now if you’d like.”

ME: (giggling) “Uh… Sure… Can we call it ‘Goofy’s Tail’?”

HER: (not giggling) “You got it, sir. One ‘Goofy’s Tail’ for $89.90… Now is there anything else I can help you with?”

ME: “No thank you… Good-bye.”

So now I have essentially taken a wholesome Disney vacation with the family, and turned it into a covert mission to destroy a vibrator named “Goofy’s Tail” before my wife and kids find out that I’ve been acting like an asshole to another person over the phone… All for the low-low price of just $89.90. And still, I cant stop wondering what a Walt Disney personal massager looks like. Hopefully it’s just a run-of-the-mill phallic shaft with a set of mouse ears at the base where the balls should be.

Man, am I an asshole.

Take a report.

-Large

I am taking the whole family down to Disney in a couple weeks.

I might buy a small notepad to keep with me throughout the vacation because, even though I am excited for my 4 year old, I can’t imagine that shit-show isn’t going to provide me with a bible full of content.

I haven’t even left yet, and I am already fully prepared to complain about one thing… Walt Disney World is fucking EXPENSIVE.

I saw a commercial on TV where a young couple are at their computer and the Disney website spit out a price for a week for them and their 2 daughters. I’m pretty sure either the wife or husband said, “I can’t believe it’s only $1600.”

Sixteen hundred?… Really? Unless they just built a Disney World in Myanmar, there is no fucking way a family of 4 can do a week in Disney for sixteen-hundred-fucking-dollars.

— SIDEBAR: I really shouldn’t use Myanmar as a punch-line because what is going on over there is a legitimate tragedy… Over 43,000 dead, and another 23,000 still missing. I’ll tell you what. I talk about how much I look forward to our soldiers coming home from overseas, but I would be 100% behind sending some of our biggest military bad-asses into that region to fucking wipe out the corrupt military junta that is prohibiting foreign relief agencies from delivering Gatorade to villages who only have drinking water from lakes filled with dead bodies. If there was a time I’d like to see the Pentagon show that United States of America has the biggest cock on earth, it would be now. I don’t claim that every nation needs to be civilized, but if military “leaders” are selling Red Cross granola bars while children are starving to death, then someone should go in there on behalf of those children and make those same military leaders eat a big fat dick. —

But back to Disney.

My one kid is almost 4 and the other is almost 1, so I am starting to have second thoughts about flying with such an unstable crew… Maybe the bus is the way to go. Gotta remember to run that one by the wife.

And if anyone is down there same time as me, feel free to buy an oversized smoked turkey leg for the 300 pound, sunburnt, bald guy who’s wearing the fanny-pack with takeareport.com embroidered across the front.

Take a report.

-Large

Was in Boston last week for a combo dinner-then-breakfast meeting with 2 clients, and flew back mid-afternoon on Thursday. Didn’t really kill myself with booze on Wednesday night, but still felt like Eight Belles sitting at my desk on Thursday right up until four o’clock.

Quick rant… Basically a two-parter:

The shuttle to Boston is less than an hour. No sooner are you bringing “seat-backs and tray tables to their fully upright and locked positions for takeoff”, then you find yourself doing the same for arrival at Logan.

Here’s my point — Some douchebag brought McDonald’s on board.

I was maybe 2 rows behind this tool. And before the cabin doors closed, he had a full spread in front of him… Filet O’ Fish, fries, large Coke, and I think a 9 pack McNuggets splayed on his lap and tray table. Now I happen to be one of the few fat guys who despises McDonald’s to begin with. It’s the “food of savages” if you ask me… Absolutely fucking disgraceful. And the one or two times a year I eat that slop while driving home drunk, it turns my stool into spackle. But regardless, even if you’re a McDonald’s lover, I think you’ll agree that there’s no reason to eat that shit on a crowded airplane when you’re less than an hour away from eating it at an actual table in your destination airport’s McDonald’s… Like a gentleman.

Now I’ve brought a coffee on a flight before. And I even brought a ham and cheese on a flight to Vegas once. But there’s no fucking reason to make the whole cabin of a plane smell like the back seat of a white-trash mini-van because you couldn’t wait an hour before strapping on the feedbag. The Filet O’ Fish alone almost drowned out the bomb I dropped out of my ass as I crop-dusted First Class.

So if you’re the seemingly Irish guy in his mid-30’s, who was sitting in Row 11 on Wednesday’s 2:00 shuttle out of LaGuardia, then “Congratulations!” ‘Cause …

Second thing… I stayed in the Millennium Hotel while in Boston, and it was a fucking horror-show. They are remodeling must of the hotel, but are still keeping a third of it open while construction is going on for some reason. I checked in at a folding table in the “Lobby”… there’s no restaurant, no ATM, and the bar is like the one that’s set up in the corner of a Brooklyn reception hall. The remote control for the TV in my room was broken, which basically means I couldn’t watch TV. So I had time to take a shower before meeting clients for dinner that night.

As I walked out of the bathroom… Dripping wet, buck naked, and eating a Snickers bar (You know. Since I didn’t fill up on McDonald’s on the plane)… I didn’t realize that I was in front of an open window on the 2nd floor overlooking a very busy Faneuil Hall. I ran to close the shades, but the damage was done… At least one school trip and a dozen construction workers saw my “3-piece”. Thank God the shower was hot, so at least I had a decent “hang” going.

So now I gotta pay attention, because if there is some sociological study done on Boston lesbians 10 years from now, I bet there will be a distinct group that were turned off by men forever after peering into Room 206 of the Millennium Hotel one early Summer’s evening way back in 2008.

And to that Boston construction worker who keeps mailing me love letters taped to Snickers bars… I aint gay, bro. So try paaarking your caaaar in someone else’s gaaaaraaaage.

Take a report.

-Large

I am happy to report that the flight home from both Houston and Atlanta were much more enjoyable then the abortions I had to sit through on the way down. 

Was waiting in line for a bottle of water in George Bush Airport when 2 different pockets of Puerto Rican sluts walked by.  Now Houston is a huge airport servicing hundreds of travel destinations, and I was traveling at peak hours.  But when I arrived at my gate 20 minutes later those same 2 pockets of sexy “mamacitas” were on my flight… Renewed my confidence in New York still being the Puerto Rican slut capital of the world… I mean, outside of Puerto Rico, of course.

And then walking through the Atlanta airport on the way home I noticed these random display cases they have in the concourses throughout the place.  Each display was encased in what was probably bullet-proof glass, and contained actual articles that Atlanta security had confiscated from people trying to board their planes.  Alot of the shit you would expect: food, knives, fireworks, etc., and each item was cataloged with a small index card pasted at it’s feet.  But in one of the cases there was a strange jar in the corner of the display.  Kinda looked like a rattlesnake suspended in pig urine.  So I got right up to the glass to read the index card, which of course read “RATTLESNAKE SUSPENDED IN PIG URINE”… Had to belong to a Chinese guy, because those fucking animals will make soup out of anything.

And I finally had a good looking stewardess on that same flight. And it was interesting to peer around the cabin and watch every guy ogle her inappropriately. I got a kick watching male passengers as they cowardly looked directly ahead into their tray tables until she was half-way by, then craned their necks around to leer at her ass once they were safely out of her peripheral.

I was even more of a coward in making eye contact because the glance of disgust that she threw me during the seat-belt demonstration confirmed my suspicion that she heard me “drop-ass” as I walked through First Class during the boarding process. But, fuck her… She knew the risks when she signed up for the job.

Have a Boston trip in a couple weeks, then down Florida next month, and maybe off to Dallas late-summer… I’ll keep you up.

Take a report.

-Large

And here’s another generalization I have unearthed after my latest Southern tour… Southerners (God bless their hearts) eat like shit. Everything is spicy and/or fried. I was paying for my breakfast on Saturday at a place in Buckhead called “The White House”, and there was a small candy dish next to the register. Now being a tri-state resident my whole life, I am no stranger to the candy dish next to the register. They are usually filled with those disgraceful mints that are soft and white on the outside with a chewy fruit center. But this Southern joint had a dish by the register that was filled with jalapenos. Not pickled or roasted, just plain old raw jalapenos sitting in a dish.

So I ask the cashier, “What’s with the peppers, Flo?” And she says that people eat ‘em on the way out, which I didn’t believe until some Southern gentleman reached by me, plucked one off the counter, and ate it down to the stem… Fucking animal. That would run through me like hot glass.

By the way, leaving the restaurant I got into a cab being driven by this man (taken with my phone)…

And I know I touched on this the other day, but who the fuck names their kid “Thermidor Belony”?

One last thing… Does anyone know if there are any accounts I can visit in Kentucky?… Why do I ask?… Ummm, no reason.

FINAL CHAPTER TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW

-Large

Getting away from the airport now for a sec, I’ve developed a new general travel corollary: The finer the hotel I stay in, the less clothes I wear while in my room. Me and my brother did a golf weekend in Atlantic City with a couple guys from his Local (IBEW in the house, bitches!), and we shared a room in a dive hotel that had only one towel that smelled of equal parts smoke and semen. Wound up drying myself with golf towels all weekend. I can only imagine the Rorschach test those sheets must’ve looked light if I hit them with a CSI black-light. In a room like that I went to bed in a fucking suit of armor. But since my Houston and Atlanta trips were on the company tit, I stayed in the Four Seasons and Ritz, so I spent entire time in my rooms as naked as the day I was born.

And when you think of it, who am I really hurting by being nude? Well, except of course for the poor bastard who delivers my waffles in the morning. Sometimes I’ll answer the door buck naked when he knocks, and sometimes I’ll put on the robe provided by the hotel. But here’s the thing — the hotel robes are apparently designed for their Japanese clientele, because the hemline only reaches my upper-thigh… Like a terry-cloth kimono of sorts. It is juuuuuust short enough that my left ball always manages to hang out juuuust enough to say hello. And I say specifically my left ball, because my right ball has the better sense to stay tucked up closer to my torso at all times (except of course, when I take a hot bath, then both of them become “pendulous”). But the general dichotomy between my left and right nut has become so pronounced, that I’ll only shave the left one if pressed for time… I figure if a bellhop has to see a testicle, it might as well be a freshly-shorn testicle, as opposed to an overly hairy one that looks like a wad of chewed gum that was rolling around a barber shop floor.

TO BE CONTINUED

-Large

By the way… The Houston flight I started to tell you about yesterday had a meal service, and let me tell you something right now — If you eat the little bullshit meals they throw at you on an airplane, then congratulations, you’re a fucking animal. They handed out these little Tupperwares that had on one side a couple leaves of tannish-green soaking wet lettuce, and on the other side they had one of those mini-chicken sandwiches that you might find in a microwave at your local 7-11. I politely declined the meal when the male stewardess came to my row, opting instead to finish my complimentary ginger ale followed up by a fresh piece of Trident. But these two brutes on either side of me were absolutely voracious as they wolfed down whatever was laid before them. The fellow on my right actually ran his finger around the inside rim of the dairy-creamer-size container of ranch dressing that came with his “salad”, a truly disgusting spectacle to behold.

And that’s the funny thing about flying… It changes you. The most demure push-over turns into an “armrest hog”. The most picky of eaters become ravenous slobs. That’s why when dozens of people forwarded me that American Airlines story a couple of weeks ago about the woman who fell asleep on an empty flight, and woke up with cum in her hair and a man masturbating next to her, I barely blinked an eye. Under normal circumstances, your Average Joe is just that… average. But once those cabin doors close, I could see Average Joe beating off in some chick’s hair. Especially if he was one row behind her in a dimly lit plane, stewardess nowhere to be found, and she was in a deep slumber with a couple buttons open on her blouse just so a little bit of the rack was exposed. Or… I don’t know… maybe she shifted in her seat mid-nap and now her bunched up skirt is exposing a tiny patch of red silk panty. I mean it would certainly be tough to launch a deposit over her seat-back and into her hair with any real accuracy, but it’s not impossible, right?

TO BE CONTINUED

-Large