Then, they send you home with a weeks worth of leftovers. Then, as the Christmas seasons hits full swing, you go to at least two or three parties where they serve (you guessed it) more Mani-gotts.

By time Christmas day rolls around, you have had Mani-gotts out the ass and your are about to flip out. Right now, today. December 28th, I have about six pounds of mani-gotts sittin’ in my fridge. The thought of eating them makes me sick, and the thought of throwing them out makes me sick too — So they’ll sit there…..And sit there, until my wife finally throws a fit and forces me to toss them.

Like with anythng else, too much of a good thing is a bad thing. I love mani-gotts, that is until I hate them. And right now I hate them. And I won’t get past that hate until maybe next Thanksgiving. Although it is quite possible that I will eat them again this spring when Aunti Jen tries to force them on me over Easter dinner.

Happy New Year.

Is It Time To Eat Yet?

Cheer Up, there are only 4 more weeks left to this holiday season — Whoopie!!! Every year this joyous time begins with my nightmare — Thanksgiving.

Bring on the extended family and the in-laws and lets get this party started — Only it’s no friggin’ party to me. Throw a few glasses of Vino in the old man, let the Puerto Rican brother in-law (who everyone pretends is Spanish) get juiced up, and you got the makings of your own personal OJ trial.

The “Ah-vest” goes down the same way every year. The day begins with polite hello’s and gracious two cheek kisses, and usually ends up with broken dishes, crying women and someone with a boot stuck in his ass.

Isn’t that what family is all about? — I wish everyday was Thanksgiving — No, fuck that. Once a year is enough for me.

Do me a favor…. Hit me in the head with a drumstick and wake me up on New Years.

Please, whatever you do, do not call Pasta Sauce "Gravy" when in my presence. Thank You.

It annoys the hell out of  me. The first time I heard it I was living in Los  Angeles when a friend of mine named Pat from New Jersey first uttered the word. I was like “Pat, what did you say?” And he said “Gravy”. “What the hell is gravy?” I asked. The context in which he said the word was odd. But what Pat was referring to was pasta sauce, or tomato sauce. “I have never heard of such a thing” I told Pat. And he said that in Jersey, everybody calls it gravy.
My best friend Joey chimed in — “That’s stupid!” Joey and I grew up together in the same neighborhood in New Haven. “Yeah, stupid” I concurred. Why would someone call tomato sauce gravy anyway.

Who would have figured that this word would cause an all out war between the Connecticut Italians and those bastards known as the Jersey Italians. And yeah, I guess that includes you Frankie Valli.

Tomato sauce is tomato sauce — It is not “gravy” Gravy is for the fricken turkey on Thanksgiving or the white stuff on top of biscuits when you are having breakfast in Alabama or some other jamoke town down there. You want gravy — go to Kentucky Fried Chicken and have Colonel Friggin Sanders hit you with some.  But please, do not order a dish of ziti meat gravy, cause I might just have to kick your ass.