AJ's Piece o' The Web

Antz. Reduxe.

So, I'm an antophobe. Insectophobe? Anti-ant-guy? Whatever. I hate bugs.

My apartment in New York was "relatively" bug-free. But we know that "relatively" means: "Considered in comparison with something else." So compared with SOME Manhattan apartments, mine was bug-free.

Some.

In the bathroom, we had these teeeeeeeeny tiny roaches that would appear once a month or so. Very small. At first, it was GROSS. After awhile, we just kinda got used to 'em. They never ventured out of the bathroom. Apparently we had an unwritten agreement: "You never come out of the bathroom, and I'll never FREAK OUT."

Now, on THREE occasions we had BIG roaches.

Like... BIG.

Real big.

Even:  something-that-should-be-fighting-Godzilla big. Neighbors would say, "Oh, those are just water bugs." Ha! That's like saying those pubic lice are just happy-little-itchy-critters.

That was a poor analogy (simile?)

On those three times, I'm ashamed to say that I wigged. (Is that still a thing?) I'm not all "girly" or anything. Don't misconstrue. I don't jump up on the chair like women do when they see a mouse in a Disney cartoon.

I'm just...

not...

...impressive.

BUT, I don't mind snakes and Indiana Jones "hates snakes", so I figure every man has an Achilles Heel.

If you'll indulge me for a moment, I'll tell you why.

:AJ lies on couch:

:you take out notepad and start nodding every minute or so:

:cue harp riff to imply a memory/dream sequence:

When I was four years old, I was out in the backyard playing in my kiddie pool. You know the ones? Hard plastic? Easily cracked?  The ones Dad would buy at Toys-backward-R-Us and tie on the roof of his station wagon with "twine"? And then drive home with his arm out the window, valiantly trying to prevent his new purchase from becoming a sail and taking flight onto the Long Island Expressway? Yeah, those.

Anyway.

I'm in the pool and Mom sets up a picnic for me. She lays out my favorite blanket and gives me a plate of peanut butter sandwiches. Great spread. I don't remember what beverages I was into at the time, but knowing Mom it was probably milk. ("Vitamin D, Calcium, essential for strong bones and healthy teeth. But that's probably all Greek to you, Mr. Gingivitis")

So, I'm having my soak and feel like a snack. I hop out of the pool and plop my wrinkled caboose on my favorite binky and gobble down my sandwhiches and bone-building beverage. I scoop up my trash and wrap my soft blanket around me. Ahhh... who needs a towel? I make due with what's available.

So, I'm walking toward the backdoor to head in. Mom greets me at the door with a warm smile that starts to melt from her face. Simultaneously, my head feels itchy. I scratch my head and as I bring my hand down, I notice that it... er... *I* am COVERED in ants. Hundreds, maybe THOUSANDS of them. They are in my hair, in my ears, my face... swarming all over me.

I drop my blanket and look up at Mom just in time to see her face go

from SHOCK...

to HORROR...

to UTTER PANIC.

And then the screaming starts.

No... not me. MOM.

She flips out.

She is shrieking and screeching and completely losing her fecking mind. She starts flailing her arms and smacking at me like I'm on fire.

By now, I'm working on a pretty good anxiety attack myself.

I'm swatting at myself trying to flick off a zillion ants, and the same time I have to dodge and parry a fury of open handed bitch slaps from my screaming mother.

Not easy. That bitch is FAST.

Next, she grabs my tiny hand and YANKS me to "the hose."

Remember when Rambo is caught by Sherriff Brian Dennehy? John is stripped and thrown into that tiled cell and hosed down?

Yeah. Like that.

She stripped me down to my four-year-old bare ass and hosed me down in the backyard. All the while we are both wailing and howling and screaming bloody murder. It must have been a sight. It sounds like a screentest for Oz or something.

:shiver:

Ever since then, I don't like bugs.

So last night I take out the garbage. The dumpster is, what, 20 feet from my backdoor? I throw on sneakers grab the heftybag and walk it out to the dumpster, flip it in and return.

All told: it's a 20-30 second round trip.

I sit in my zebra-stripped computer chair, sit down to blog about *something else* and suddenly, I'm itchy.

ITCHY.

I scratch my leg and feel something odd. I look at my finger, I just killed a little ant.

Hmm.

Itchy.

I scratch. Another ant.

Itchy.

Another.

Again.

AGAIN.

A G A I N.

To self: "Don't freak out. Don't freak out. Don't freak out."

I didn't freak, but let's say that "I was upset."

I killed 22 ants over the course of the next few minutes. All that I picked up from walking to the dumpster and back. I guess it's because I walked on the grass. Apparently we humans should stick to the pavement and leave the ants to the lawn.

They've gotten in the apartment twice and I instantly ran to K-Mart for spray, traps, everything.

But this time the little bastards GOT ME.

They drew First Blood.

Next time, the blood with be theirs.

AJ Gentile Host Reel

Updated host reel.

My enemies dug up this outtake and put it on the internet

Happy Birthday

One more year. It doesn't get any easier.

Miss you, buddy.

See you soon.

Lost Blogs Found

Published author, Hollywood writer, television commentator. There seems to be no end to the list of accolades bestowed on our beloved Paul Davidson. Well, Pauly D can add one more feather to his cap: "back of AJs toilet."

Oh yes. The Lost Blogs have indeed been found -- in my loo, perched triumphantly atop the commode.

We have been unpacking this week and stacked our books on the mantle above our fireplace. It took a good 2 hours to sufficiently randomize the books and make them look "natural", as if to say, "yeah, we're smart. (we're not) we read all o' these (we don't)."

Well, one book was quickly promoted from "trophy" to "must read two to three times daily, depending on what I ate."

Roll your eyes if you must, but this is the PERFECT bathroom book. Each blog entry (one per page) is entertaining, educational and most importantly -- the perfect length! Just today, I have passed some gas time reading about William Hearst, Lewiss Carroll and John Wayne Gacy.

In all seriousness: it's a hilarious book for nerds, history buffs and bloggers. And being that I'm a combination of all three... gastric goodness, flatulent fulfillment, poop perfection.

Come to think of it, I feel my belly churning. Got to check out Davy Crockett's blog about The Alamo. Don't worry... I'll light a match!

Ezekiel 25:17

To all those who would wrongfully attack me, my family, my sweetheart or my friends:

I am a nice guy.

I am honest to a fault.

My family is the most important thing to me.

My greatest joy is in eliciting laughter from others.

I will not tolerate bullies.

This nice guy has teeth (and lawyers, and connections, and a temper, and steadfast resolve).

If you mess with the bull, you will indeed get the horns.

I shit you not.

I've touched someone.

You really know you've made it as a blogger when you receive hate-mail. Yes, I do receive nastygrams from time to time.

Surprisingly, my detractors are not Asian or Mexican as one would expect, but rather EMO.

I received this email the other day, I assume in response to this post.

Let's break this down, shall we?

First, Rick's last name is "Rapier" which I assume is his real name because it is certainly not a word one would use to describe his wit.

What's the next thing you notice? The handwritten font. Isn't it cute? I especially like how all the "i" characters are dotted with what look like diacritic acute accents. This font is very... very... French! Viva la Font! Le Font du Triomphe! Fly away with me! Casbah! Berets! Mimes! And what have you!

(I would make mention about his improper use of apostrophe's but that would just be childish.)

Now, let me ask this. Why do I need to copulate with a goat? How does that help enlighten me to the plight of emo's ... oops, I mean emos. Now I'm not saying no. In fact, I'm intrigued by the idea. I'm just wondering how sex with a farm animal makes me more sensitive. If anyone reading this has ever had relations with a goat, send me a note (no pics please).

Next Rick asks (rhetorically, I think) if I assume emo-boys sit around and cut themselves. I never said such things. I never implied it. I did, however, say that they spend too much time whining about their suburban, middle class existences while humming the Garden State Soundtrack and quoting Napolean Dynomite.

I stand by that judgment. (Gosh)

Ok, the next section really made me mad. He accused me of being a "jock" and a "prep." Dude -- did you see my nerd score? I'm a "geek", man. Label me appropriately. I did NOT sit at the cool lunch table. (Ok, maybe I did. But I was wildly good looking and had a car) Regardless, I will not be labeled a Jock, Prep, Crip, Blood, Shark, Jet, Capulet, Montague, Hatfield, or McCoy.

I will admit, this death by finger-cutting-gas-inserting-match-swallowing sounds painful. It also sounds like a pretty cool David Copperfield act.

Best buy me a new cape.

 

Schadenfreude

This is cool.

Who invented the logo/symbol for a Biohazard? I think it's really cool. It... well... it sorta looks Klingon. Which is awesome.

(It would seem that my blog has been commandeered by a 12-year old nerd.)

It's Alive!

When I eat food that is still alive I swear I can feel it moving in mouth. The tingling of acidophilus in my blueberry yogurt. The squirming of a freshly shucked Wellfleet. The wriggling of serpentine Filden Gagh.

This is all in my head, right? Is there other food that is eaten alive that I don't know about? What have you eaten?