"Interrupting the Band": A National Scandal

This weekend I learned two things: it’s almost impossible to find a black vest for under sixty dollars and when you give my mother five Captain Morgan’s she flirts with the bartenders and makes a complete fool of herself.

We’ll start from the beginning. I called Macy’s three days before I started because I wanted to know if I could wear colored collared shirts. They said sure only if you wear something black over it. Okay so I got to thinking about vest, jackets or coats. It’s way too hot for a jacket or coat and I didn’t want to look like an idiot. I thought the only way I would wear a jacket or coat was if I was working in the New York City Macy’s. I remembered that my fashion icon Carrie Bradshaw wore a white vest with pants so thought why couldn’t I wear a black vest with pants.

I went to Goodwill’s all over fucking town and found nothing! And to add more embarrassment I couldn’t fit into an extra large vest! I wanted to cry. I couldn’t fit in an extra large vest!!!!

That night, in order to get out of my “I’m too fat for an extra large” slump, my mother and I went out to dinner. She invited her friends, well, the ones who answered her. It was at the restaurant that she had her first two drinks- a Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. We met up with her friend from work, a Russian. We got our food, talked about Halloween costumes (praying I don’t work because my costume is absolutely fabulous!) when the Russian looked around for someone who was smoking because she forgot her lighter at her place.

I noticed that the lead singer was a smoker, after every bad rendition of an eighty’s song he took a cigarette break, so I told the Russian to “Interrupt the band and ask for a light.”

“I can’t do that,” she said with her thick Russian accent.

“Why not? It’ll cause like a national scandal,” I tell her.

She shakes her head no.

“Hey this is a good song and you’re doing a real good job but I need a light.”

Still no.

My mom suggested that we head over to the hotel behind the restaurant because they have Saturday night black-light parties. I mean, what else do you do with your kids? The black-light party was on the rooftop, complete with DJ and a bachelorette party. This is where my mother had three drinks- again, Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. The Russian had three beers and I had a Shirley Temple.

You don’t know how much you want to kill yourself until you see your mother and her friend line dancing to Ke$ha with a bartender from New York. It was when my mother started hitting on an older man that I knew it was time to go home.

“Can you imagine sleeping with someone from Canada?” she asked me in the car.

“No I can’t.”

“They’ll probably be like Oh, Oh, Oh, Sorry. Thanks.”

“When they climax they’ll be like ‘Oh CANADAAAAA’,” I say.

Oh and the next day I found a vest. A black sweater vest from Dillard’s that cost me eleven dollars.

Attack of the Virus

Can you fucking believe I got a virus! Yes a virus! I was checking the blog, thinking about one-liners about my high school and the people in it, normal, when my computer froze. I nearly fainted. I couldn’t move my mouse, I couldn’t log out or shut down and I couldn’t force quit. The screen that came up yelled YOUR INTERNET HAS BEEN BLOCKED. YOUR INFORMATION HAS BEEN SENT TO THE POLICE AND FBI FOR CHECKING.

Oh boy. The lock screen I was on, well locked on, said that this could’ve been for numerous reasons, most likely I was browsing pornographic sites. I wondered if they count my blog as pornographic. I mean I write about sex, but not in detail. Anyway, this screen terrified me. It said I had twelve hours to pay a six hundred dollar fine so my Internet can be unlocked. Six hundred dollars are you kidding?

So I went to the Internet, not on my computer obviously, but in my iPad. So I browsed and found four sites that basically said the same thing, THIS IS A SCAM. DO NOT PAY. Well now I’m confused, I mean this was the FBI. I could be fined a hundred thousand dollars and imprisoned for six years, or so my locked screen told me.

So I went to the only place I thought I could go: the Apple Help center. And boy did they help me. They said to go to my spotlight, on the right hand screen, and type in safari and hit the folder not the app. Okay easy enough. Then erase all of your history, all of it, and then head back to the folder app and click on a bookmark. That should lead you to a clean safari page and you can rest your safari back to factory settings.

Thank god it worked. I spent the last few hours wondering who could do this and I blame the gays. I make one joke about them and they take control of my Internet. I was shocked I didn’t get a purse full of dead birds wearing last year’s cashmere scarfs.

You can bet, tomorrow, I'm heading to the nearest store to get anti virus protection shit. Bastards thinking they can control my Internet…

You wanna hear that one-liner now? Too bad I’m gonna say it anyway.

Our school is so gay we’re called the bottom eaters. Our mascot should be a crab, mainly because most of us have it and because its a bottom feeder.... Okay I'm still working on them. 

Lip Singing my Way Through High School

Tonight I went back to high school. I cam rushing back, actually, because tonight was LipSync, a competition held between classes and clubs where they lip sung a song, or a couple of songs stitched together, to create a story. As the sets were changed, the Emcee’s performed sketches, on par with SNL themselves. I also had to come running back because, see, I was an Emcee my senior year and I have to make sure the new kids are keeping up with our legacy.

Can I be a little narcissistic? A little selfish, maybe borderline, douche bag? I’m going to do it anyway. The skits I performed where a little funnier because we made fun of ourselves, and a few teachers. I performed a skit with a bear, not getting into details about the girl who carried this bear around, and we sang “A Whole New World”, horribly of course. Everyone loved it, they were laughing for days and days. It was so good I could’ve gotten the Oscar.

So anyway, LipSync, was fabulous. The classes and clubs were great, the sets were great, the costumes, the lip singing was a little off but who cares. Two stood out to me; the GUTS club and the sophomores. The GUTS club is a club for the gays, to “accept acceptance” whatever. I told my friend, prom date, that “You could literally see the rainbows coming out of their asses,” and that “This is the most movement from a woman these gays have ever seen.” I only liked the sophomores because they had a boy, dancing in the front, to Ariana Grande. I told prom date, “He’s so good we should call him Ariana Pequeno.”

I talk a lot about high school I know. Its just seeing my babies, the ones who were little itty-bitty freshman three years ago, on stage making people laugh, on stage dancing, or acting, makes me cry. I feel like I birthed them, like I’m the mama bird watching them fly. Don’t even get me started about them applying to college. Just tonight I watched as one of them got into her car, I cried for twenty minutes, I also wasn’t that sexually aroused since Les Mis at the Oscars.

Again, borderline douche, everyone, at the end of the show, came up to me. “Joe?” “Is that Joe Russo?”

“Hey fag face get your ass over here.”

“Okay Mrs. Waters.”

The only problem I had tonight was that asshole at the door, taking tickets. “Hi I’ll buy two please.”

“Two? That’ll be fourteen dollars,” he said.

“Fourteen? I’m an alum and past Emcee I should get in for free,” I told him.

“That’s nice. Fourteen.”

“Well I only have ten?”

“Then you can only buy one… NEXT,” he took my money, handed me a ticket and I walked away with a new sense of shame. Now I know why he’s only a sub.   

"Ghosts are Sexist...?"

I was at the corner of Yankee Candle and FYE when I ran into my old friend from high school. She was with her boyfriend and I was with my mother, surprise surprise. This old friend moved to Tampa after high school to attend USF or UCF, FSU, UGT, GSYW, SHDSGD, whatever the fuck school is in Tampa.

“We’re going to see Annabelle. I read online that it got really bad reviews so I said ‘Sign me up’,” I told her.

“I would see it but I’m afraid of dolls. Especially dolls possessed by some creepy bitch,” she told me.

“How scary can it be? I would just put the doll in come cage, lock that bitch up, she can’t haunt when she’s locked in a small cage can she? Maybe drop kick the fuck out of her.”

We hugged and kissed goodbye, four times, twice on each cheek and my mother and I went to our movie. The movie was on the corner of Box Office Smash and Teenage Hideaway. We were the first ones inside; again that time thing that I always talk about. We waited…and waited… and waited… and no one was showing up. This movie came out three days ago! Was it that bad?

It was right as the lights dimmed that the horde of teenagers came in as loud as can FUCKING BE. Can we talk about teens? Cane we talk about kids? Tell me why a parent would bring their child to see a scary movie? What is the point? “Hey honey I have a great idea lets scar little Jimmy for fucking life.” How can teenage boys wear skinny jeans? Where do they put their penis? Don’t tell me its tucked under cause that shits a fucking lie. Next time look and maybe ask them where they put it cause I’m dying to know.

Actually don’t. I just realized how creepy that would be and I don’t want any of you to get arrested.

I’m not going to get into detail about the movie, it’s the same ghost story/movie shit, some bitch gets dragged, someone shouts “I want her soul,” and then a priest comes in and gets killed. Whatever. It had its small scares that worked and, in my opinion, was definitely worth watching. I called it a “Modern retelling of Rosemary’s Baby.”

Which brings us to our next point: why do demons, ghosts, the devil or a witch want only women or children? Is it some sexist thing? Is the devil some sort of feminist? Is he lacking in other areas (between the legs?)

I say the next ghost/haunting movie should go for the men. Or the gays. 

Riddle Me This....

Here’s a riddle for everyone: name the movie where two seemingly gay men create a monster that hates her mate? Let that one sink in for just a moment as I tell you another: what do a gay man, a straight woman, a lesbian and a bi-sexual do on Sunday night?

           

It all started this morning, with a phone call from Macy’s, yes Macy’s, and if everyone remembers that I had an interview with them a couple of days ago. I was so excited to answer.

“Hello? Is this Joe Russo?”

“Yes it is.”

“I’m calling from the Macy’s customer service desk and is pleased to announce your recent hire for our store.”

Say it with me everyone, one, two, three JOE RUSSO HAS A JOB. I can finally get out of my house and interact with people! Yay me!

“I’m pleased to say you’ll be part of the recovery team.”

The recovery team? Instantly my mind started going. Am I going to be Macy’s spy? Am I going to go after people who didn’t pay for their Prada? Will I get to wear a Fendi suit?

“How cool! I’m so excited!”

“Yes. It’s very exciting. You start Monday the 13^th at eleven A.M. Wear the black dress code policy.”

I hung up feeling even better about myself. So good, in fact, I wanted to go out and celebrate. I called up GBF, BF, Ex-boyfriend 1 and 2 and my prom date. Some had prior plans, one didn’t answer me back (ex-boyfriend 1) and GBF, who also likes women, wanted to see a movie. I didn’t want to see a movie.

Turns out prom date, who happens to be straight, wanted to see The Maze Runner. She invited her friend, who happens to be lesbo, to see the movie with us. Which was basically The Hunger Games that involves a maze and the raspy voice Dylan O’Brien. I loved what the whole theme was though, putting teenage boys in a camp and make them survive. I, after the movie, told GBF that we should do that with the gays. He didn’t like that so much.

“We’re not putting them to work, we’re turning them straight!” I tried to tell him.

“They’ll get so tired of each other they’ll want to screw a woman,” still nothing.

“Or they’ll run out of cum and have to use water you know? Spray that onto his back,” these comments were not hitting well with him.

“We could put a mall in the middle of the camp?” He walked away then. Whatever.

Drum roll please. The answer to the first riddle is The Bride of Frankenstein. The answer to the second riddle is buried deep within this post like the rainbow's coming out of every gay mans ass. 

20 Questions

This morning I had an interview at the classiest most elegant place: Goodwill. No I’m kidding, it was at the next best place though: Macy’s. Macy’s is so classy that I didn’t fill out a job application I filled out an employment application. I was so nervous, like this is an amazing job, better than the dead end jobs I had before. If I get it, I would be working at the perfume counter/men’s department.

My interview was for 2:30 and I got there a little early, about 2:13. I waited around, waved to my soon to be fellow co-workers and started sweating. You see, I went out and bought a whole new outfit for this interview, a baby blue long sleeved shirt and khaki pants. I looked hot,; I was hot. It was about 2:25 when the manager walked out. She asked how long I was waiting and I told her about twenty minutes.

“You should’ve knocked on my door. I’m sorry,” she said, waving me inside her office, which smelled like Chick- Fil- A.

“Its okay. I didn’t want to disturb you,” I told her.

Interviews, for some reason, make me feel like I’m playing twenty questions.

“Why Macy’s?”

“What would you do…”

“How would you behave…”

“If we hired you…”

“Rock or mammal?”

Back and forth with seemingly fake answers that impress no one. But the question I hate the most is, “Tell us about yourself?”

This question always gets me off guard. Do I say everything? What do I keep out? What do they want to hear?

“Well, I’m a writer.”

“A writer very cool.”

“Yeah I go to school for it. My degree is Creative Writing with a focus on the screen.” LIE. If I learned anything it’s that lying gets you ahead look at Shia Labeouf.

So the interview went well, lasting only eight minutes and we parted on good terms. “I’m sure you’ll get a call by Tuesday,” she said as she led me out of her chicken smelling office.

“Okay, great. Thanks.”

“Now, you have to remember that this is a seasonal position so by April you could be in or out,” she said extending her hand.

“Like the gays in high school,” I say, grabbing her hand.

Then this asshole on OkCupid came in and shit all over my good day with the other question that I hate, “How big is your cock?” That word is just nasty, it just hangs there, lingering in the air almost like its real counterpart. I always imagine, whenever someone says that word, that a blonde sorority girl is saying it. "How big is your..... YASSS" 

I still haven’t answered him. 

The Housewife Lifestyle

Yesterday I realized something. I realized that I am not cut out for the housewife lifestyle. It started that morning, as I past the third streetlight and wondering what was on the grocery list that I left on the counter. I wasn’t in a rush, you see, I just literally forgot to grab it.

“String cheese, milk and eggs. What the fuck else?”

Inside the store, I was caught behind three teenage girls, their stomachs showing, wearing snapbacks and shuffling their feet. Every time I tried to move past them, they would stop and look at some stupid freaking thing that they wanted and had to pay for with daddy’s money. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, stop, gawk and then text. “Oh my gosh, Jessica, Brady just asked to hang out.”

It was at this point that I wanted to say, “Move any slower for Gods sake.” What I REALLY wanted to do was pull them aside and smack some sense into them but I was afraid they would yell back at me with some Justin Bieber lyrics. “These your best friends, Jessica? Say bye to them when high school ends. Once graduation is done they are on the first trains outta here. You have a boyfriend? Say bye to him as well."

“But we’re going to college together.”

“Oh, please. Name me one relationship that lasted throughout college.Jessica listen to me you only have one friend in high school and that’s Jesus.”

 I soon lost them in the toy section where they wondered which Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle they were.

I got home, forgetting about half of the list, and put the oven on. I was told to bake the chicken, to put some spices on it and let it sit in there for about thirty minutes. I let it sit in there for over an hour. It was only when I smelled the smoke that I remembered and it was only when the fire alarm started that I knew I fucked up.

I ran into the kitchen, opening up the oven door and a gust of fucking heat came out and steamed my glasses rendering me blind for ten seconds. “Shit!” I grabbed a potholder, something, and it fucking dropped in the chicken! I swatted at it, trying to grab it, hoping the firemen don’t show up and ask what happened.

"Oh, its okay Mr. Fireman, I'm just trying to bake some fucking chicken."

I finally grabbed the chicken, burning my poor little finger in the process, and started to run water over it WHEN THE FREAKING FAUCET BROKE OFF. “Are you kidding me!” I yelled.

I spent the rest of the day on my ass, watching Netflix. I figured that would be safest place….for everyone.

But, on a side note, my mom said she liked my burned chicken and asked what I did to it.

Joe Russo, writer, blogger, burn victim, and chef.

Sacrifices

I promised my roommate two things the day I left Orlando: to come back at least once a month and to bring someone with me so I don’t have to do the three-hour drive by myself. Tuesday morning, I awoke with the promise of adventure and a longing of wonder at what my ex-boyfriend was doing.

Turns out that was the worst mistake of my life and I know about mistakes I was in theater for four years and turned gay. We got on the road about eleven, we had to stop for breakfast, soda and gas, and he never shut the fuck up for the remaining three hours. The longer he talked the longer I realized the reason we broke up wasn’t me, it was his mouth.

“You should’ve made that right.”

“This is the wrong highway.”

“This is south Orlando is north.”

I kept my thoughts to myself because the truth was I missed him. I figured this road trip could salvage that relationship that ended back in high school. I knew it wouldn’t work but what’s the worst that can happen?

I told him that we’re going to see my old friends from school, but we spent the most time with the roommate. She told us that she was looking for a new place and she was still wondering if she would bring the new roommate with her. See, when I moved out a new roommate came in under my name, which in some cases is illegal. But what’s the worst that can happen? They get evicted? They have other friends they could stay with.

We, the ex and I, spent the rest of the trip with newly not single. She moved to Orlando the same week I moved back home. She has five other roommates and sleeps in the living room, on a pullout couch, with her boyfriend. I told her that sometimes we have to make sacrifices.

“Sometime we hear the other couples having sex,” she tells us, bringing out pizza that cost her her last amount of money. The poor thing doesn’t start work until Friday and I couldn’t help but imagine her walking the highway and stopping by a homeless person, “Spare change?” He’ll ask.  “Do you?” she’ll ask back.

“That’s not bad though,” ex-boyfriend says.

“Yeah you can join in. Or have like a shouting match,” I say.

As we walked back to my car she told us that the apartment place had a really good security system.

“Oh, yeah? Does it?” I ask.

“Yeah, whenever a gay walks in the alarm sounds and says ‘Ooh watch out he’s stealing your TAMPINS.”

That night, I dropped off the ex at 9:53. We spent a total of thirteen hours together, the longest we’ve been together since high school. I came home and went to bed at 11:34 wondering when I could make the next trip up.

Old Friends

This afternoon I had dinner with an old friend; my high school prom date. We met at the mall to showcase our newly rekindled relationship. We were always together in high school, always laughing and having fun, and always had each other’s backbone. Then we all went off, or away, to college and everything went downhill. The typical everyday text message turned into a weekly text message that turned into a monthly text message. Then no text messages.

We met at the mall, like I said, to showcase our rekindled relationship but it actually showed that nothing has changed between us. We were still angry at the same things, I’ll get to those in a few, and we were still “Hella cute.” We were also extremely sexually frustrated and at one point I told her, “That my frustration is seeping out of me like pee. I’m like Jean Grey from X-Men, I turn into the Phoenix and everyone gets disintegrated.” We walked the mall for a bit, I had to spray my perfume on me, gossiped and sipped on our discounted Starbucks frappicinos.

“You know who finally came out?”

“Please don’t remind me. He has got to be one of the worst things to happen to the gay community. His hair looks like the Wendy’s girl but split down. Like Jesus and the red sea, just split right down the middle,” I tell her.

We got on the conversation about gays, shocking, after she told me her co-worker has a fiancé. “But he’s not like a typical gay, you know, like he’s different,” she tells me.

I start to laugh because I feel that there are two forms of gay and we all know the second form. You know the gay guy that just looks sticky. He wears his sex episodes like a scarf. I have a friend like this and he posted a photo a while ago and my fingers got stuck to the keyboard. YES, they did.

“You know what else I hate?” she asks right before we get seated at Perkins.

“What?”

“Sororities.”

“Yes! I hate them too. Rush Thi Omega O. Rush Delta Alpha Pi. And every one of those bitches are skinny! Their main question is, “Does this dick make me look fat?”

The main point is that we stayed ourselves. We didn’t let the bad things (horrible breakups, dropping out of college or moving back home) hurt us. If only we could get everyone back just like in high school.

To Joan

It’s a sad, sad day ladies and gentlemen. I logged on to my OKCupid account to a whopping message from someone who is twenty-four and pansexual. A pansexual is someone who loves everyone, literally, someone who likes to have sex with a man, woman or pan. Anyway, he messaged me this question, “So you watch sex in the city?”

I had trouble breathing for a short three minutes. Sex in the city? Sex IN the city?! Who the hell doesn’t know sex AND the city?! I wanted to scream, bash and punch. Instead I messaged back, “Its Sex AND the City you uncultured swine.” He hasn’t answered back. I figure now, as I write this six hours laters, that I was maybe a little harsh on him. I mean, how could he not mess up the name of my favorite show when he can’t even figure out what he likes to sleep with?!

Here’s a dirty little secret about myself; I like Chinese food. I like Chinese food, cake, ice cream and soda. To cope with this horrifying message I got my Chinese food and a pecan pie. I was eating my Chinese food and pecan pie when I heard another piece of devastating news; Joan Rivers has passed.

Joan Rivers was-still is- my icon for both fashion and comedy. She taught me to not be afraid of the truth and to not give a crap about people because, honey, people WILL talk. She taught us to keep working and to never, ever give up. She kept us laughing for years and still will. She will be missed and her family are in our prayers. You and Robin will keep heaven laughing. 

RIP Joan.