Salsa Con Queso

Enough said!

Birthdays Are So 20th Century!

I had a revelation this weekend. I realized that everyone celebrates birthdays. It is so unoriginal and played out to have a "birthday". How boring is that?

What are you really celebrating on a birthday? It's the anniversary of the day that you flew out of your mom's ill nana covered in God only knows what. You got slapped and cried, your mom was screaming in pain and your dad was left wondering how he is going to provide for another mouth to feed. Happy birthday? I think not.

Then it hit me. Why not celebrate the day you were conceived instead?

It's the anniversary of a day when both your parents were in a much better mood and it's the day when you became a zygote! I mean your parents were probably drunk and listening to Barry White on 8 track. And you know the odds of fertilizing that egg? It's like winning the lotto. You could have ended up a stain on the couch but are reading this blog now instead.

That sounds like a much better day than your "birthday" to me. And I mean everyone celebrates their birthday. Talk about played out. Why don't you be an original and start celebrating your Conception Day instead?

Conception Day is the new birthday. All the cool kids are doing it.

My Dad Loves Queefs

It was the summer of 1996, and I was listening to an ex convict telling my dad an off color joke about a woman of ill repute and a man of the cloth. I remember tensing up as I braced myself for the tongue lashing my father was about to give this man for his lack of moral fiber. To my dismay my father belted out a healthy guffaw.

I was shocked! My father had a sense of humor.

So we were headed out to a job, and I was tired of listening to 1010WINS. I turned the channel to Howard Stern and heard them hyping up a world record about to be broken. I turned it up only to hear that this talented athlete was about to break the world record for squeezing gas out of her vagina. I learned that the technical term in the sport is "queefing".

Years before my father would have turned the radio off and dropped me off at confession. He feigned disinterest but his smirk told me that he was full of glee as we were about to witness "queefing" history.

I felt the chills run up my spine as the first queef squeaked out and each succeeding queef after sent me into a frenzy. I couldn't contain my euphoria as she squeezed out the record breaking vaginal emission. I pumped my fist in celebration.

I looked over and saw my dad's face full of a joy. It was the first bonding experience we had as grown men. I have spoke to guys that talk about having their first beer with their dad, but my dad doesn't drink. We bonded as men listening to world queefing history being made.

A few days ago my sister's lapdog was having some digestive problems and broke wind in my face. My eyes filled up with tears, and it wasn't because of the gaseous fecal matter sprayed in my face. It sounded like the record breaking queef that I heard that day bonding with my father.

Hey, call me an old softy but the sound of weak flatulent emissions of any kind gets me nostalgic.

"Your face is a _____________"

A few years ago my friend had a verbal altercation that changed our lives forever. It seemed like your garden variety ranking session but the ultimate comeback was born. Let me show you a reenactment:

Friend 1: "I think Joan River's daughter Melissa is smoking hot."

Friend 2: "Are you on crack? Melissa Rivers is busted. You have no taste in women."

Friend 1: "You have no taste in women."

Friend 2: "That is a lame comeback."

Friend 1: "Your face is a lame comeback."

Friend 2: "Ummmm......ummmmm.....what?!"

See the brilliance in the "your face" comment? It is so incredibly dull and unfunny that it's absolutely devastating. You have such a short window of opportunity to comeback with something, and you're sitting there dumbfounded by how apparently bad the comeback is that it's actually brilliant. You actually flip the script on them by coming back with what apparently seems to be the worst comeback ever.

My friends told me about the conversation, and I instantly knew what Benjamin Franklin must have felt like when that kite with the key singed the hair off his balls.

I instantly waited for my opportunity to put it to the test.

Friend: "You look gay in that pink shirt."

Declan: "Oh, do I? I think I look rather fetching?"

Friend: "No, you looking like a flaming homosexual."(I knew this was my shot)

Declan: "Your face is a flaming homosexual!"

The dude looked like Chuck Norris kicked him square in the temple. His brain was on sensory overload. It was insanely clever in its simplicity.

Friend: "Umm....uhhh...what? My face is a homosexual? That might be the worst comeback I ever heard!"

Declan: "Your face is a worst."

Friend: "THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE!"

Declan: "Your face is a sense."

Now he was irate, but his mind tried to fight fire with fire.

Friend: "Your face is a sense."

Declan: "Your face is a face."

His eyes got misty. I never felt so powerful in my life. This was some Jedi mind sh*t. He looked like Glass Joe getting hit by Mike Tyson punches.

For years we used the "your face" comeback and there was simply no retort. We tried focus groups and think tanks of some brilliant minds but there was no comeback.

Then one day we were talking to a young intern when he told us about a poor young adolescent who was having his sexuality questioned in a public forum of his peers. He raised up as rehearsed many times in his bedroom when someone called him gay and said, "You're gay in your pants."

EUREKA!!!

A comeback to rival the "your face" comeback! Jonas Salk cures polio and this girly guy comes up with "your ______ in your pants". Quite frankly, I don't think Jonas Salk has anything on this girly guy. That is simply brilliant. Just look at it in action:

Friend: "You're gay."

Declan: "Your face is a gay."

Friend: "Your gay in your pants!"

Normally I would be pushing over the other guy with a feather and collecting high fives after the "your face", but that was completely neutralized now with the "your gay in your pants" comeback.

The interesting thing is that it doesn't have to be "your gay in your pants". It is completely interchangeable. The one catch though is that it doesn't bridge the gender gap. It pretty much only works on other guys. It just doesn't have the same feel when referring to women unless it's a trans-gender.

The search goes on to bridge this gap. I will put in the hours until I find the solution.

The fact is the "your mother" comeback is just overplayed and not very creative. Plus, you're going to feel like an ass if you find someone who is motherless. Everyone has a face though, and you take a swing at their vanity. It's brilliant in it's simplicity.

The comeback has been mostly predominant in the northern NJ/NYC area, but has made its way to Ireland and Texas most recently. My eyes well up with pride when I think of the day when I turn on the nightly world news and see Arabs telling a Jew that his face is a Zionist and the Arab yelling back that he is Zionist in his pants.

I will know that I have made my impact in the world.

Dew Point

One of my biggest pet peeves is when the weatherman gives the complete weather forecast and neglects to tell me the dew point. It makes me so mad that I have a hole in my wall because of it.

You couldn't find two seconds to tell me at what temperature that the beads of condensation will be forming on my soft drink so I can set my thermostat accordingly? Hey Willard Scott, why don't you forget about these wrinkled old wastes of space for one minute and tell me what the damn dew point is! I mean is that asking too much?

I am so blind with rage right now thinking about all the times that these narcissistic pretty boys chose to banter with the anchorman rather than give me the damn dew point. I need to go self medicate. All of this could have been avoided if you just told me the damn dew point.

Boob Honk Saved My Life

It's almost 4 years to the day that a simple quick grab and release of an acquaintance's mammary gland while mimicking a car horn saved my life. Let me set the stage for you.

It was a cold February day as I went to my local watering hole to wet my whistle until my friend's were going to meet me there to celebrate my friend's birthday. I figured I would moderately sip on some suds while I waited for the party to arrive. However, the bartenders were experimenting concoctions of alcohol and decided to use me as the guinea pig, not in the Richard Gere gay way, but in the experimental way.

I had already reenacted my 21st birthday by the time the rest of the party arrived and was feeling rather merry. I then drank enough shots with the rest of the party goers that would have taken me into my golden years. The bar portion of the evening was rather splotchy to say the least but recall slurring grunts at a young lady that caught my eye.

I once heard of a theory that if you gave a bunch of monkeys a typewriter that in time one of them was bound to type a work of Shakespeare. Well my incoherent babbling must have rivaled that because the exact combination of slurred grunts helped make me a new lady friend.

The festivities came to an end as we went outside to hail a cab. My friends were shocked to see me behind them as they thought I was a sure thing to escort this young lady home. We disagreed strongly as to the possibility of that happening to the point that they were physically pushing me back towards the bar. A cab pulled up as my friends jumped in.

A size 16 shoe kicked me in the sternum as I tried to get in. The door closed, and I jumped on the back of the cab and banged on the back window begging them to let me in. I later found out that my friends told the cab driver that I was some crazy street urchin and didn't know who I was. I found it ironic that the very friends who begged me not to procreate were now practicing tough love so I could fornicate with a young lady.

As I dusted myself off, I noticed that my new lady friend had followed me out of the bar and was now watching me. She looked rather confused and said, "Do you want to get something to eat?" Sounded like a great idea to me.

I guess the sight of me eating a reuben grill kicked her libido into overdrive. She reached over to wipe the thousand island dressing off my chin and soon we were making out like a bunch of drunken freshmen at a frat party. She suggested we take a cab back to her place, and that sounded better than my suggestion of splitting some pecan pie.

She pealed my face off of the taxi window when we arrived at her block which appeared to be in the middle of downtown Baghdad. I had some more reservations when we got to the door of her apartment which was guarded by an extra metal gate and numerous locks.

Things picked up in her living room. I was rather inebriated and stumbled out of the batters box, turned my ankle rounding first base but was heading into second when I got the stop sign. "Do you know my name?"

I'm guessing at some time during the night she had told me her name, but I had no idea for the life of me as to what it was. Her eyes soon began to fill with rage with each passing second as I stared blankly at her. My first reaction was to laugh and lunge in thinking she might forget about it as soon as she tasted my Thousand Island drenched tongue in her mouth again.

I judged wrong. She was irate. My next plan of action was to guess her name by what she looks like. She looked like a Deborah to me but soon found out I was mistaken.

Now this Deborah-looking girl lived up to the Shakespeare saying that hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn. I knew that if I didn't act fast that I would be sent half drunk and dazed onto the streets of what appeared to be Baghdad.

I had to act fast.

I instantly grabbed her boob and squeezed as I said, "HONK!"

She glared at me with death in her eyes as she said, "Did you just fu*king honk my boob?"

"Yes," I said. "Get it? Like it's a car horn? Isn't that hilarious?"

"Are you mentally challenged or something?" she said.

"Come on," I said. "That is hilarious." I then grabbed it again and said, "Honk."

By now she was irate. However, she was so stunned that I honked her boob that she had completely forgotten about the fact that I forgot her name. I then yawned as she was still dazed and suggested we go to bed.

There would be no fornication for me that night, but it saved me from walking through downtown Baghdad in a heavily inebriated state. I am sure I wouldn't have been typing this now if it were not for my quick thinking and boob honking.

I then waited until she was out for the count and searched her house for any clues as to her moniker. I found a diploma on the wall of her room and found out that her name was Michelle, and she was none the wiser. I slept like a baby that night.

The next morning, she woke up and asked me if I had really forgot her name. I said, "Michelle, do you honestly think for a minute that I forgot your name?" She then even felt a little guilty for accusing me and then made me eggs.

Moral of the story: the next time a woman is mad at you, honk her boob. She will completely forget what she was mad about or at least buy you some time.

Cat Calls Are a Hoot!

Back in my college days I worked summers humping furniture(both figuratively and literally) with a moving company. My dad got me the job, but every other guy there got the job through their parole officer. They often sat around and told old prison stories, and my stories of office detention for tardiness didn't quite measure up to their stories of anal rape and shankings. I had no street cred.

Then one day I found a way I could bond with them. I noticed that they like to shout lewd comments to women that passed by. I guess years of being locked in prison makes your standards drop significantly because it appeared that their only criteria was that they couldn't have a Y chromosome.

I observed a morbidly obese woman pass by as a co-worker by the name of Crackhead Daryl told her that he would manipulate the folds of her cellulite so that he could perform a sexual act on it. He then slapped me five and told me he wants to impregnate her. Crackhead Daryl's cousin suddenly took a liking to a senior citizen passing by on a scooter and painted quite a colorful picture as to what he would do to this lady and had rather creative ways of incorporating an adult diaper, colostomy bag and surgical tubing. I just hope that her miracle ear wasn't working

I was very careful to point out that their close rate didn't seem to be too high, and they told me that it was a numbers game and one was bound to eventually say yes. I then asked them how many they have closed in this manner. They instantly got mad and said that I would be sold as someone's bitch for 2 packs of cigarettes in the pen. I think I blew up their spot but felt it was a compliment in a weird way that they thought I was handsome enough to be somebody's bitch. Was I growing on them?

It was coffee break, and I was drinking some Mountain Dew and munching on my coffee cake when I saw a middle aged woman with varicose veins and a cleft pallet roll by. It was my time to show my co-workers that I was what they called "hood". I strolled out there and yelled to her, "I WANT TO DATE YOU EXCLUSIVELY!"

I thought I could be direct without being so vulgar, but the middle aged woman was less than impressed and laughed at me. My co-workers laughed at me and called me Opie Cunningham. I never did fit in that summer.

I am 0 for 34 so far with that line, but Crackhead Daryl said that it's all a numbers game. I know that it is due.