Happy New Year!  We are all doomed!

And so as we close out half of this decade (am I the only one that thinks 1999 was like 3 years ago?) this evening, I thought I would offer a basic and easy-to-understand overview of the Presidential election landscape.  Politics is really not my thing – at all – but is this not the most bizarre field of candidates you have seen?  It’s more like a reality show than a run for the White House.

Anyway, here is a simple chapter and verse rundown of our future leader….


Supporting Hillary is like supporting that stay-at-home, overbearing, bitchy PTO mom everyone hates but no one will say it even though she will ultimately screw you over and give half of those brownies you made away to the lunch lady for free at the annual bake sale.

Supporting Bernie Sanders is like recreating Back to the Future. Doc Brown (Sanders) convinces naive Marty McFly (the American people) that stealing plutonium from Libyans in the name of scientific advancement could cost you your life. What does that mean? I don’t know either, but this guy is moon bat, shithouse crazy and needs a straight jacket.


Supporting Trump is basically sucking up to that snotty, pushy rich kid that had all the best toys, game and parties but you don’t really like him and he will inevitably screw you and everyone else over if given the chance.  HUGE!


Supporting Jeb Bush is the equivalent of becoming buddies with the head coach’s son cause you know you will make the team and get some varsity action. Just go along with what Daddy says and everything will be fine for you even if the rest of the team suffers.


Supporting Chris Christie is like supporting pizza. Always seems like a good idea til you eat the whole fucking thing alone and now find yourself filled with regret (not to mention pizza)


As for the rest of the field….might as well flip a fricken’ coin. Who “sucks less” in this race is what we have on our hands.

Insightful, I know.

Vote your conscience because logic and reason won’t help you in November.


HAPPY 2016!

Good night and God Bless, suckas!

I Fought A Dance Mom

Dance Moms.  Gross.  I have always heard bad things about your breed.  Then that eye-popping, nut-job reality show came out and it confirmed those rumors.  However, I have never had an up close and personal run in with you people until this week.  Hold that thought…

To jump into Marty McFly’s Delorean for a few seconds.  My only sibling and sister was big in to the dance stuff when she was young.  I (forcibly) attended more recitals than any boy should  – basically at the threat of violence from Dad and endless Irish guilt from Mom.  It was what it was.  150 girls ages 3-20 frolicking around a pressure cooker of a high school theater in June for what seemed to be days, but that would be an understatement.  The actual average length – start to finish – of a dance recital is a 13.5 days; on the low side.  Tell me I’m wrong?  Exactly.  Families and loved ones broil in their seats for seemingly an eternity to catch a whopping 4 minutes of  scantily clad 6 year old ‘Little Suzy’ spinning around the stage. It’s true, and you know it.

As I type this I realize some of my best friends are ‘Mothers of Dancers’ – BUT that doesn’t make them ‘Dance Moms’ – big difference.

‘Mothers of Dancers’ are just nice women that enjoy watching their little girls have some fun, learn a skill or 2 and have fun.  Did I mention “have fun”?  Women like my Mom and my wife.

‘Dance Moms’ are psychopathic, underachieving, soulless Nazis that are somehow living their “I always wanted to be a ballerina but My Mom never hugged me” dreams through their own kids.  Dance Moms are in it for the show.  Dance Moms are in it for themselves.  Dance Moms are in it to win it.  Excitedly slapping on enough makeup to embarrass Bozo the Clown coupled with an outfit that would make Lady Gaga blush…to a 5 year old.  Yes, you have some serious issues, madam.

Dance Moms are evil devil women.

I had an “encounter” with a Dance Mom 2 days ago.  My two daughters are taking a once-per-week class and having a ball.  It is leisurely and enjoyable.  This week is the Christmas show.  Awesome!  Excited to see them perform.  Wednesday was dress rehearsal.  Wife dropped them off and I was planning to pick them up.  This is when I met my new arch nemesis, ‘Debbie Dance Mom’ with the bad dye job and giant Adam’s Apple.

First off, I pull in to the high school parking lot and there is literally 247,000 cars flying in every direction.  Not only is dress rehearsal happening but every sports team from horseshoes to hockey  is practicing or has a game.  I am totally lost.  After unsuccessfully attempting to get in to about nine different entrances, I finally found where I needed to be.

Walk in and the hall is crowded with parents, volunteers and kids.  I notice the auditorium entrance is wide open and make my way inside to find my children.  Once inside, its total bedlam and I see the stage is flooded with kids including my 2.  Perfect, I’ll find a seat, watch the end of rehearsal and be on our way.

And then….

Here comes my new buddy ‘Debbie’ and here is what our “conversation” consisted of.

“Sir, sir….whar are you doing in here?” (in a loud angry voice)

“Excuse me?  I’m just here to scoop my kids, I…” I politely respond.

“Well, you can’t be in here.  There are girls changing and, and”

“OK, hold on,  I ‘m sorry.  I’ve never been here before.  Just looking for my daughters and…”

“Well, you need to get out of here, NOW.”

“Ok, ok I’m sorry.”

At this point she is throwing me out da Club, Gronk-style as if I had crawled in the heating vent with binoculars, a mustache and t-shirt  reading ‘Level 3, Yup, That’s Me!’)

But my embarrassment was starting to turn to anger.  My patience to frustration.  And her big, fat loud mouth was making matters worse.

As I exited the auditorium feeling like a Peeping Tom, I felt the eyes of these other parents wash over me as if I was headed for the Principal’s office.

I was almost in a state of shock.  What the mother effer was that?  There was no need for her to attack me?  And just as I was wrapping my brain around this episode, it continued.

‘Debbie’ did not realize I was still just a few steps away from her and she proceeded to relay what happened, again in that loud, assholey voice, to the entire atrium.

Do you believe this Dad just walked right in the middle of things?  There are girls changing and he paraded right down to the….”

And that is when I saw red and this slob was going to get piece of my mind.

Hey!”  I quipped as I ducked back around the corner in to her line of sight, “I am RIGHT HERE!”

Without a flinch, she comes back at me with “Yeah, I see you there.”

Oh man, I wanted to morph in to Ike Turner at that moment.

Look, lady (nothing more demeaning than throwing “Lady” at someone), I apologized.  I’ve never been here. The doors are wide open and none of these nice people corrected me.  NO need for this behavior.  Put up a sign or something!”

Well, guess what, I’m the sign!” she fired back.

Now I was having blurry visions of OJ.

BUT, before things got really out of hand, I simply smiled at her smug, ruddy face and excused myself from the building to cool off.  Also, I naturally needed to check my windowless, white van with ‘FREE CANDY, Puppies and Unicorns’ spray painted across it – cause, ya know, I am a pedophile according to this crazy broad.

Called home.  Exploded the story to the Mrs. and then I just let it go.  Went back inside, politely greeted my kids and headed out.

The ultimate validation was, as I was leaving, a “Mother of a Dancer” chased me down and told me how out of line ‘Debbie’ was.  I thanked her and never looked back.

Keep your head on a swivel this season, Debbie.  Christmas may come early for you, if you know what I am saying?







Not Your Father’s GINGER ALE = Life Wrecker

Small Town Brewery Not Your Fathers Ginger Ale

Not Your Fathers Ginger Ale is now available from Small Town Brewery.

Small Town Brewery is owned and operated by Tim Kovac, and made national headlines with the launch of Not Your Fathers Root Beer. The booze meets dessert brand has made millions this year as it has been rolling out nationally.

The next innovation is a ginger ale/addition is now available – Not Your Fathers Ginger Ale. A 5.9% alcohol by volume ginger beer meant to be served over ice. (Or with bourbon if it were us.) This new brand extension – described as “gruit-inspired botanical beer brewed with ginger”, is suggested for use Dark & Stormy & Moscow Mule cocktails.

We like to think of it as a refreshing ale brewed with ginger.

Not Your Fathers Ginger Ale is rolling out in 40 states through Pabst distributors, and nationally by February, 2016. ERP is $10.99/6 pack.

Style: Ginger Beer
Availability: 12oz Bottles, Cans
Release: November, 2015

5.9% ABV


You may recall the evil and delicious concoction released earlier this year dubbed Not Your Father’s Root BeerI wrote about it last Spring describing its tasty and un-alcohol-detecting awesomeness that was sure to push many of you (fine, me too) borderline drunkos right over the proverbial edge.

And now this?

Are you friggin’ kidding me?

When posed the silly camp fire question of “If you could only have 1 drink for the rest of your life, EVERYDAY, what would it be?”  I have always answered emphatically with “Ginger Ale“.  Ginger Ale is like the Holy Grail of drinks to me.  Its thirst-quenching, stomach-ache-relieving, and just, well, yums.  Christ, it even makes delicious whiskey taste even better.  Its the drink everyone loves from age 8 to 80.  Show me a person that doesn’t like Ginger Ale and I’ll point to a liar or a demon.

And now those Satanic geniuses at Small Town Brewery are clearly chasing a not so small town market with this new development.  Oh yes.  For every one guy or gal that likes root beer, I’ll show you 10 that love Ginger Ale.

I guess the good news (I pray) is that it won’t be commercially available until February 2016 which means I can roll through the holidays and the NFL post-season without having to describe to law enforcement officials why I skated across the Boston Frog Pond pantless singing dirty Christmas Carols or the reason I choked out a department store Santa Claus (pantless again, of course) in front of 1,000 believers.  

But, at the end of the day, its just buying me time.  That’s all.  Come Valentine’s Day when this anti-antidote product is available to me I will surely be found lying in the candy aisle at CVS eating a box of chocolates and writing an incoherent sex poem to my wife on the back of a Tampax box.  Its just simple math.

So, Mr. Kovac and your merry band of Not Your Father’s Assholes….thanks.  Thanks a Yahoo.  This should be the final straw (you can drink it with a straw right?) in my demise.

Merry Christmas!

#onceithitsyourlips #iamfrankthetank


Thanks for the memories Scott Weiland

(Dedicated to my moron buddies.  Pouring one out for you, Scotty Boy)

Chris Farley, overalls for men and now another 90s legend has left us behind on this earth.

Scott Weiland, long time front man of 90s rock band Stone Temple Pilots and later (underrated) Velvet Revolver is dead.

Was he an anorexic junk bag that looked like a human rooster most of his adult life?  You betcha! But I am not here to judge the man today; I am here to thank him because this guy was a key player in some of my favorite and funnest days of my life.

You see, the height of this guy’s success was also at the height of my and my jackass friends’ party days. Those care free 90s, baby.  Flannels, Doc Martens, fear of AIDS and Stone Temple Pilots; thats how we rolled.

And Mr. Weiland was a part of two of the best memories of my carefree younger days and so I tip my (sorry, its not filled with smack, Scott) cap to you, Sir.

Summer 1993, Gardener, MA

A beautiful Saturday afternoon in casual central Massachusetts.  A merry band of idiots from Lowell packed up their cars with enough beer to kill the Budweiser Clydesdales and enough weed to choke out Willie Nelson to see this exciting new band, Stone Temple Pilots.  After some “merriment” and tailgating, what of course naturally happens when you enclose a few thousand intoxicated 19 year olds in an area full of drugs and bad decision making?  You guessed it; a fight.  In the parking lot of some random ass park or whatever the modern day West Side Story breaks out between  the drunken Jets and more drunken Jets (The Sharks didn’t care much for hard core rock).  Ah, crazy kids probably disputing something critical like Roger Clemens ERA or who was funnier, Norm or Woody.  The memorable part of this entanglement was not the fisticuffs but rather how it all was settled.  Just as John Q. Law and his ‘friends’ were about to end our day abruptly before hearing one note of Plush, one of our creative friends took action.  Yes, just as we were all about to likely be whisked away to the glorious holding cell in East Bum, our buddy somehow finds a parking attendant vest, straps it on – to his shirtless torso, mind you – , poses as Security, and proceeds to inform the police that our crew had nothing to do with aforementioned disruption.  And, it worked.  An hour later, we were all moshing out to Sex Type Thing and attempting to make out with grungy looking broads.  Absolute Xanadu.

Summer 1994, Worcester, MA

Ah, Summer is here again.  Our STP boys released their second, and seemingly as awesome, album, Purple.  The Pilots were destined for our neighbor to the west – my beloved town of Woo for a couple nights at the former Centrum.  Let’s see, how can we get ourselves to the this show in the most stupid and dangerous capacity?  Yes, you, in the Kirk Cobain shirt  in the back?  Ah, a U-Haul?  Correct!  No joke.  My idiot friends decided to rent a U-Haul box truck to haul our asses 40 miles west to see a concert.  What could go wrong, right?  Well, I’ll tell you.  Number 1, you need to provide your owner driver, fellas.  And what does every 20 year old feel like doing when heading to a concert with 7 other guys?  Being the sober guy.  Sure (wink wink), someone will be the DD.  Number 2, where are we going to sit, assfaces?  There is no seating in these storage units on wheels.  No problem.  Grab the beach chairs.  Genius!  Number 3, picture turbulence on a plane only worse because the ‘pilot’ (pun intended) has a 6-pack and ounce of pot in his system before take off.  What’s better that flying around the back of a box with a bunch of jerk off buddies?  Flying around the back of it with NO LIGHTS.  Oh yeah, except for the lit joint and the crack in the back of the cargo van door, you could not see a damn thing!  Not sure how we survived that one – but what a show! (Look for yourself!)

Anyway, rest easy Mr. Weiland and Godspeed(ball).  Thanks of the music and the bruises.  I hear the smack in Heaven in MINT.

Elf Discipline: When Words Aren’t Enough

(Another re-blog cause I am creatively barren but this is a timely one.  Ho ho ho!)


December 2012

Elf on the Shelf.

Every half-wit Mommy blogger in the world has covered this subject ad nauseam over the past few years.  I do not intend to offer you the same silly jokes, observations, or suggestions about this Christmas phenomenon. I promise.  Instead, I am going to share some effective (perhaps a bit harsh and in some cases, outright sadistic) methods to leverage this magical little friend for disciplinary purposes during this joyous holiday season.

Before I divulge these techniques, let me take a quick step back to bring you non-Elf-owners up to speed.

Per www.elfontheshelf.com, here is the low down…(skip ahead if you must- it’s annoying anyway)

“The tradition begins when Santa sends his scout elves out to Elf Adoption Centers. Waiting for their families to bring them home, these patient elves hibernate until their family reads The Elf on the Shelf, gives their elf a very special name, and registers their adoption online. Once named, each scout elf will receive its Christmas magic and become a part of the family’s Christmas each and every year.

Excellent listeners and even better observers, these scout elves are the eyes and ears of Santa Claus. Although they cannot be touched, or else they may lose their magic, the elf will always listen and relay messages back to Santa. Taking in all the day-to-day activities around the house, no good deed goes unnoticed; these scout elves take their job seriously.

Each night, after the family goes to bed, the scout elf uses his magical Christmas powers to fly back to the North Pole. Once there, the elf will make his or her daily report to Santa and visit with elf friends where they will tell stories about their beloved families, play with the reindeer, and of course, sneak some of Mrs. Claus’ cookies!

Before the family awakes each morning, their special scout elf will fly back to their home from the North Pole. However, since these elves like to play games, don’t expect to find them in the same spot! While some like to hide in the freezer (probably because it reminds them of the North Pole) and others prefer to sit on the fireplace mantle or hang from the chandelier, these elves love to play hide-and-seek with their families.

On Christmas Eve, the scout elf will listen for Santa’s bell and then fly back to the North Pole until the next season, wishing every girl and each boy a Christmas of peace and a year full of joy. Join the tradition and adopt your own Elf on the Shelf now!”

Blah, blah, blah.  These Elves (in my family’s case, “Sanny”) are 12” dolls, for lack a better description that for some strange reason kids actually believe are magical.  I call it genius branding! But the fact of the matter is this little Elf on the Shelf-thing is making some guy or gal MILLIONS!

For a full month of the year “Sanny” becomes the in-house Gestapo at our house.  Every time one of my little cherubs screws up, uh oh, “We are telling Sanny!”

NO, NO…PLEASE…DON”T!  We’re sorry!  Please,” beg these small-minded simpletons.

“Ok, fine, but no more fighting/hitting/stealing/punching/smoking/whatever or we are telling Sanny who will surely notify Santa.”

And guess what?  It never fails.  If I am being very candid, the Elf is as good a disciplinarian as my wife or I could ever dream of being.  These kids are more scared of this inanimate object that any adult in their lives.

But, I got to thinking, what if it wasn’t enough to simply threaten to rat your little rats out to the Elf? What if we really needed to set an example of what will happen if they don’t wise up?  What if we, as parents, took extreme measures to enforce rules?  What if we treated the Elf with jail yard justice to make our parenting point?  Mob rules.  Violence.

While I would never endorse and certainly never partake in the following actions, I am confident they would result in some serious behavioral improvements and, for certain, cause severe childhood trauma that even Sigmund Freud could not rectify.

Level 1:  Exhibited Behavior – Not listening

You keep telling the kids to sit down/eat their dinner/lower their voices/hold the wheel.  Pick your minor infraction.  Instead of an idle threat to simply relay your discontent to your family elf; up the ante.

“That’s it, I told you to sit down and eat your brussel sprouts.  Now see what happens.”

Grab said Elf, carry his magical little ass to the children’s viewpoint (and they know you are not supposed to touch him), grab a pair of scissors and cut his hand off.

“How do you feel about your vegetables now, kids?  See what you made me do?  Now Sanny is headed for the North Pole Emergency Room instead of Santa’s Village tonight.  Hope you are happy with yourselves?”

Should carry some weight.

Level 2: Exhibited Behavior – Fighting

Should those tiny treasures of yours engage in physical violence with one another and your ‘use-your-words-crap-psychology-spiel’ does not resonate; set the stakes higher.

“How many times have I asked you to not hit your sister?  How many?”

“You don’t know?  Oh really?  Well, let me ask Sanny.”

Grab your foot-long-merry-muppet, bring him to the sink and create a make-shift Guantanamo Bay water-boarding exhibit (this technique works especially well if you have your spouse pretend to be the elf and scream for mercy in the next room).

Sorry, Sanny, but some people just won’t’ listen,” you sadly express to the elf as you simulate his drowning.

Trust me, this should break up the scuffle between Frick and Frack.

Once you believe this method had made it’s point, remove now soaked elf from water, wrap him in mini-blanket and place him on the heater as you apologize for nearly murdering him.  Visuals are killer lesson teachers.

Level 3: Exhibited Behavior – Stealing/Cheating/Bullying/Larceny

I realize most children that are still in ‘the believing stage’ will not likely get into this much trouble given their respective ages but let’s face it; there are some bad seeds out there.

If you just reach your limit and do not know what else to do to teach your child that you mean business then Level 3 should set Billy or Lilly straight for a long time.

“What do you mean you just took the candy from the store?”

‘What were you thinking when you looked at Shelby’s test paper?”

“You mean to tell me you pushed a girl at school because you didn’t like her headband?”

“Liquor store robbery.  Officer down?”

And here comes the dynamite.

For dramatic purposes, run away from your child in a frantic manner straight for the Elf on that Damn Shelf.  Be sure to run fast enough so the child can’t catch or stop you in any way.  Grab that cheery, smug bastard, bring him to the (lit) fireplace (If you don’t have a fireplace a lit cigarette/cigar can work.  If you don’t smoke a garbage disposal or blender can suffice) and throw him/her in.

“I’m sorry, Sanny, but ‘Sally’ just keeps making bad decisions.  This hurts me more than you.”

Stand in a serious, mesmerized pose as you watch the magical guy burn alive in front of your child’s eyes (again, if you have a spouse strategically planted around the corner screaming bloody murder (pun intended) than it will only punctuate this display of pure evil and ensure an incredibly repentful – albeit damaged -child).

Once again, I highly doubt that any of you loving parents will ever need to take your disciplinary actions to this level, but Dr. Frank is here to help if you do.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Put Me in the Bathroom

(Well, you can now add last night’s devastating Patriots loss to the Denver Broncos to the listing of Boston sporting events where I just should have been put in the bathroom instead of watching.  We would be 11-0 if I was sitting on the throne instead of my couch.

A little throwback blog from a couple years back since any creative thought is not entering this post-Thanksgiving depressed head case.)


May 2013

Can I Be Frank?: Put Me in the Bathroom

Another one for the ages in the world of Boston sports.  The Boston Bruins overcame a deficit that seemed conceivably impossible last night.  Trailing 4-1 with ten minutes to go in series clinching Game 7  on their home ice at TD Garden in the first round of the NHL Stanley Cup playoffs, many fans and believers, (including yours truly) was ready to throw the towel and “see ya next year.”  But this was not the case.  In magnificent fashion, the Bs turned this lopsided lead around, scoring three goals (two in the final 90 seconds of the game) forcing sudden death overtime which ultimately resulted in the winning the game 5-4 and taking them to the Eastern Conference Semifinals against the New York Rangers.


Well, the win was bittersweet for me, to say the least.  I have a confession to make and I truly hate to admit this but I shut it off literally seconds before the true excitement began.  With just under three minutes remaining in the game and the Bruins still trailing 4-2 I gave the proverbial ‘it’s over’, changed the station, rolled over and went to sleep.

Way to go Super Fan.  Way to go.  Aces.

I woke at about 3:00AM and decided to get a drink of water.  Made the critical mistake of taking a peak at the iPhone.  Quick check of email, texts and Twitter.  In my one-eye-open state of mind, I started to catch comments about a Bruins WIN??!!  What???  HUH? No friggin way!  I read on….

Texts from friends reading…”Greatest win in history”

Tweets from all walks of life…”#Bruins make historic comeback”

I won’t even throw out all of the frantic Facebook fodder.

And I missed it.  I missed it…again.

I’ll get to that in a second.

Mob movie classic ‘A Bronx Tale’ has a memorable scene where all of the gangsters are in a crowded back room gambling; specifically playing craps.  As the lead Mafioso, Sonny LoSpecchio, continues his hot streak he fears some of his observers could deliver some bad luck.  What does the Boss do?  Instructs that these so-called “jinxes” be ‘put in the bathroom’ while that dice is rolled.

Great movie scene that I recalled as I watched the incredible highlights of the game I purposely tuned out for lack of belief.  And then it became clear; I should be put in the bathroom too.  Put in the bathroom during all critical Boston sporting events.  I really should.

Not only was this evidenced in last night’s miraculous Bruins win, but it happened years back in, perhaps, an even more memorable Beantown moment.

Sunday, October 17, 2004.

Our beloved Boston Red Sox versus century old rival the New York Yankees.  Game 4.  Sox trail in the American League Championship Series 3 games to 0.  Facing probable elimination to their hated arch nemesis late in the game, I decided to do the same thing I did last night.  Quit.

“Bleeping, bleeping Sox.  Sick of this shit.  Breaking my heart again.  Not doing it.  Aaron Boone did it last year.  Not doing this again.  I’m not.  Not a chance,” my inner monologue screamed as I shut off the TV.

See ya next year.

And of course we call know what happened next.  Dave Roberts steals second base (perhaps the greatest steal in Red Sox history).  Bill Mueller singles Roberts in to tie the game 3-3 and it to extra innings.  David Ortiz hits a 2-run home runs in the bottom of the 12th inning leading the Sox to a victory.  All while I was watching the back of my eyelids and history wasbeing made.  This amazing win clearly shifted the momentum to the Sox that would ultimately carry them through not only the ALCS, but later to their first World Series title in 86 years when they uneventfully defeated the St. Louis Cardinals in just four games.

I should be put in the bathroom.

Amazingly, I never seem to ever miss a play, pitch, shot, hit or hoop when our team is defeated.  (READ: Superbowls XX, XXXI, XLII, & XLVI)  Never.  Ever.

But fear not Bostonians, this ‘jinx’ has made a conscience decision to CONTINUE to make this mistake again when the opportunity presents itself; only this time on purpose.  If I find the Bruins/Sox/Celts/Patriots in a dire situation that seems impossible to overcome I will do the right thing, quit on the team and head for the restroom.  For if I do so, I can guarantee victory.

So, best of luck Boston Bruins in round 2 and beyond.

If you need me, you will know where I will be.

Knock first.