My Valentine’s Day Cards To You

By Andrew Blumetti

I love you all.

Seriously.  Well, not the whole “like-like” school of brilliance dolled out by the Winnie Cooper-ed mind of Kevin Arnold, but you all who read, follow, and support my blog really are the bee’s knees.  I sincerely appreciate and thank anyone who’s taken time to read, enjoy, or roll their eyes at the cornball absurdity that fills this page on a relatively frequent basis.

Ok, enough of this gooey shhhh….ow of emotion.*  Let’s get down to brass tacks here.

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Before we continue, a favor first—  If you reside in the Northeast or Mid-Atlantic portion of the United States, please do me a solid- take a second and go to your window and look outside.  I’ll wait.

Back yet?

Ok, I’ll wait more.

How about now?

Good.

See the Everest-high mountains of white stuff?  There’s more snow out there than in a used CD bin.

Screw you, Blumes.

Yeah, this brutal winter is crawling by with all the lightning-quick speed of Artie Lange’s metabolism, but believe you me fellow snowed-in’s, as hard as it seems to believe, our ‘ol pal spring will be here soon, and before you know it, you’ll be itchy, watery-eyed, and sneezing your head off like the Queen of Hearts was demanding it.

But hey, even in two feet of snow, life would be nothing without small victories- my birthday is only 10 days away, pitchers and catchers are about to embark to Florida and Arizona for Spring Training, The Walking Dead has returned in all of its brain-munching glory, the Winter Olympics are running full steam, and the new Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition should show up on my doorstep anyday to make me feel pretty awkward in front of my mailman.  February is truly the month that keeps on giving.

“This cover needs more Kate Upton”- Kate Upton, Blumes

Of course mid-February ain’t all AMC-zombies and Abe Lincoln’s birthday cake.  Even if you’re still frostbitten from endless shoveling, you’ll still be sleeping on the couch if you forget the holiday that’s redder than Russia, circa 1960…

Conversation hearts?  Fat baby Cupid?  All-day Julia Roberts movie marathons?  A remarkably thinner wallet?  Make no mistake, make-no-mistakers, Saint Valentine is here with a bright red vengeance and he’s ready to kick yo keister up and down the snowy block.

For some of you, it’s a chance to take out a much-needed second mortgage for a dozen stupid red roses, boxes of mystery heart chocolates, and giant teddy bears the size of Delaware.  For others, it’s an opportunity to throw Adele on repeat, curse the Hallmark holiday for shoving your blatant singledom in your face, and chow down on your emergency stash of Ring Dings while you feverishly refresh your OkCupid profile for new messages till the clock eventually hits midnight and February 15th comes to save the day.

“This guy’s coming with me in the carpool lane!  I’ll just tell them it’s Robin Williams!”

That’s where I come in.  Whether you’re single, taken, married, or a cyborg, I’m here to boomerang back all that amazing support and positivity to you on this Valentine’s Day, Twenty-fourteen.  If it’s Friday and you’re in love, or maybe not so much, I want this day of hearts and crap to be your happiest and heartiest yet.

So, for a few short minutes, put that adorably plump Adele on hold, slam the flap on that box of uneaten Ring Dings, and pause those insufferable “Every Kiss Begins with Kay” commercials… Here’s my personal valentines to you rad readers-  feel free to print and snip.

Happy V-Day.

Love, Blumes

(* If anyone recognizes this quote, I’ll come to your house, hug you, and make you a B+ dinner.)

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Tricks and Treats and Booklets of Satanists Sacrificing Cats… Oh the Things You’ll Get on Halloween Night.

By Andrew Blumetti

Yes, that classic old story again.

So, it’s November (or as I call it, “Not October”) and alas, Halloween is sadly over.

Back when he donned the eclipse-causing high hair and rat’s-nest-mullet like a first-rate 80’s champ, Jon Bon Jovi may have semi-eloquently declared, “Never say goodbye.”, but Jon, you schmaltzy-optomistic nut, the calendar says we have to.

Oh, don’t worry Bon Jovi, I’m just TEASING you…

Don’t get me wrong, Christmastime has this indescribable feel of childlike wonderment, whimsy, and snow-filled magic, and I cannot wait for the smell of freshly cut evergreens, peppermint and Nat King Cole’s gravely pipes belting out beloved yuletide carols while I spend 45-minutes searching for a parking spot outside Best Buy just to have to deal with the brainless derelicts inside.   Nonetheless, Halloween still holds a special place in my heart which is difficult to recreate no matter how many times I watch Rudolph gleefully reach for the heavens after dreamy doe, Clarice, says that she thinks he’s cute.

I love working on my lawn display, frequenting crowded haunted houses with fellow-ghoul lovin’ friends, and browsing Halloween stores complete with massive lines of shoppers snaking out the door.  And even though the 160+ candy-hungry trick-or-treaters didn’t leave me with an ounce of sugary junk to snack on, it was still a blast and a half.

…but much like that rascally ragamuffin Gary Coleman taught us—  different folks, different strokes…

“What’chu talkin’ ’bout Blumes?”

History Time:

My neighborhood, a small and quiet tree-filled suburb in Northern New Jersey is a safe and delightfully boring little town that has not just one, but two CVS’s and now two 7-11’s.  I’ve had the same neighbors since I can remember, the parking is ample, the lawns are lush and green in the summertime, and everywhere you look, a playful bunny is hopping around freshly-planted vegetable gardens like a delightful children’s book with a well-worn spine.

With a few exceptions, we’ve had very little changeover in the neighbor roll-call over the years–  most of the families are longtime residents who’ve now had their children grow up here and start adorable families of their own.

And I suppose with that kind of boring consistency, you don’t really get around to greeting the new folks as fast as you should when they actually do move in.

Mr. Rogers would be so disappointed in me.  That’s not very neighborly after all. You should really take a few minutes to welcome your neighbor, because who knows?  They could be Kate Upton, they could be your new best friend, or maybe, just maybe, you may want to keep an eye on them cause they could be just a bit odd.

But hey, who amongst us isn’t a little bit?

“Sorry Blumes, maybe next time.”

Well, that fickle little needle on the odd scale went from “a bit” to “Holy crow, it’s Christopher Walken after a dozen Mountain Dews” this past Thursday, October 31st.

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It was an unseasonably mild and relatively overcast Halloween afternoon. The breeze was nearly non-existent, and the weak late-October sun had given the ‘ol college try attempting to dry up the shallow puddles of collected rain that had fallen earlier in the morning.  After the schools were dismissed, my nephew and niece were in the area to do some trick-or-treating with my family to the local neighbors’ houses while I manned the door at home.  As it usually goes with the kiddies, excited spirits and happy feet soon turned to exhausted spirits and fatigued feet, as the joy of a spooktastic day soon began to show its age.  They returned home, and being the generous and giving uncle I am, I volunteered to help “sort out the candy”, which in layman’s terms, means “vulture-pick the kids’ freshly-earned candy stash”.

After laying down some immediate damage to a bag of Reese’s Pieces, I looked down, where amongst the crinkly piles of Butterfinger and gummy bear wrappers, we saw this staring back at us…

Holy moly on toast with jelly, what is this we have here?

My taste buds did a backflip cause- hey, isn’t that one of those Wendy’s coupon books for ten free Frosty ice cream treats?  Oh glorious day!

But no, this find should not be so sweet.

One peek inside, and we were greeting with lecturing, the cornerstone of any fun-filled Halloween.  Which is kind of an odd choice, considering we decided to give out Cheetos, M&M’s and Swedish Fish.

Now, for the record, I don’t have any problem with any kind of religion whatsoever.  My family is Catholic, and whatever floats your boat is cool with me.  I couldn’t care less if someone’s Christian, Jewish, Muslim, or if they pray to photos of Sofia Vergara’s bowling ball-shaped kid from Modern Family.

“BLOOOOMS, don’t you make the jokes on your BLOGGG about HEEEMM!”

All sensitivity aside, and with that being said, this beaut was too unsettling and gaul-darn hilarious to not share with the world, cause man alive, we apparently have some new neighbors who are borderline bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

This is still better than finding Mary Janes in your bag though…

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You may come home, tired from a long night of trick-or-treating, dump out that heavy bag full of sugary candy on the floor and count seven Milky Ways, five Snickers bars and a couple of Dubble Bubbles, but really, how many preachy books of cats about to be sliced up on a pentagrammed-alter do you have?

Not enough, right?

Now I know why there’s no cats around the neighborhood.  …and less cats means more mice… which means LESS CHEESE!!!!   Now they’ve gone too far…

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Twick or tweet! (apparently Satan is on Twitter now)

Just remember, Halloween’s no joke kids.

…except for this one:

-Why did the ghost go to the bar?

For the “boos”.

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Common sense would tell you, being the devil, you wouldn’t need a scary costume, cause ya know, you’re the evilest thing in existence, and the culmination of all the world’s hatred, malevolence, and terror.  Heck, people shell out a pretty penny just to dress like you on Halloween.

…but hey, that Party City coupon for that killer spooky pumpkin costume was just too good to resist.

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Bad news:  Human sacrifices will increase, so you’ll most likely be hacked to bits by guys in scratchy-looking cloaks who moonlight as roadies for Zakk Wylde.

Good news:  You won’t have to sit through another season of The Neighbors.

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Did you know?:  Witchcraft is “exploding” among teens today?  Looks like Bieber Fever is quickly being replaced with “witch itch”.

Blumes note:  Don’t mind that sour drawing of John Favreau.   He’s just bummed cause he blew a first-round pick on Ray Rice for his fantasy football team this year.

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Oh Satan you soulpatched-silly goose, the last time I trusted you, you pranked me by unscrewing the cap on the salt shaker.

Ruined my dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets…

More like TERROR-dactyl!