The Big Daddy Buck Show

    You know when it comes to food I’m not especially paticular about what I’ll put in my mouth. (Although, I’ll never stick my hand in a mint bowl at a diner. Those things are covered in fecal matter.) I’m not easily grossed out by fear of germs and such. I know they are everywhere and I accept that. If I drop something on the floor, I’ll pick it up and eat it. Having worked in restaurants for so many years I’ve seen a lot of foul shit. When I was sixteen, I worked at Roy Rogers for about two weeks. Once during a rush, I dropped the filter above the grease bin into the grease. I stared at it blankly wondering what I should do. The manager said, "Michael, it’s called FAST food. Get it out." So with that, I pulled the filter which is designed to keep dust and flies and whatever tiny airborne objects people don’t want on their french fries and chicken nuggets and continued dropping fries into the bin as if nothing had happened. 
    There was one particular incident from my childhood that really grossed me out. Someone had flushed a plastic cup down the toilet. (Okay it was me. I was administering drug tests for my imaginary wrestling federation and accidentally dropped my sample into the toilet. But that’s an entirely other story…) My father tried in vain to remove the cup and realized that he would need someone with a skinnier arm to reach into the depths of the toilet and grab it. I did as instructed and held the cup in the air, my arm covered in shit up to the elbow. I was mortified. I froze in place and for some reason put my hand near my nose to verify what was, in fact, all over my left arm. My dad said, "Michael, you know what that fucking is. Now go wash your hands and meet me in the kitchen for lunch." Wash my hands? This was a job that required complete sterilization. A mere meeting of soap and water would not put my mind at ease. I needed a shower in bleach. So I washed my hands. Repeatedly. Five minutes later we were sitting in the kitchen eating lunch. Of all the days to be eating sandwhiches…And potato chips (another finger food.)
    The "shitty armed sandwhich incident" was mentally unsettling sure but everything tasted fine. So what was the worst tasting item to invade my mouth?
    Picture it New Year’s Day 2004. I was new at the resaurant and, as a result, had to work bitch shifts like New Year’s Day. In the weeks leading up to New Year’s stern warnings were issued about the importance of arriving to work sober and on time. "Anyone showing up smelling of alcohol will be sent home and terminated. Ditto for anyone who is late." I figured I would have no problem getting up on time seeing as I didn’t go out the night before. No, I worked a catering job on a party boat. It was awful. When the clock struck midnight, everyone started screaming and yelling and enjoying themselves which just really pissed me off. Why can’t these people be as miserable as I am right now? I felt like the losing team at the Super Bowl. I got off and met Sam, my girlfriend, at her apartment. We had A glass of champagne to toast the New Year, got freaky and went to sleep. I was soundly asleep when I felt Sam rocking me violently, "Baby! Baby!" She frantically pointed to the clock. It was 9:55. I had to be at work at 10. Shit! I threw on jeans,grabbed my bag (which luckily contained a full set of toiletries) and hauled ass to work without even taking time to take my morning piss. I got to work, clocked in 10:02. Late, sure but not enough to get me fired. I headed for the bathroom and took what had to be a 90 second piss. Alright, I’m here. Time to start primping for the ensuing 14 hour shift. I washed my armpits, face, crotch and ass with the hand towels we provide our guest with at the end of their meal. I deodorized, moisturized and styled my hair. I had pulled it off. I looked relatively presentable. Now if I only I had something to clean the moss off my teeth. I had a toothbrush in my bag but no toothpaste. I asked around. You never know who has a slight case of OCD and travels with toothpaste. Finally, one of the bartenders told me that he had toothpaste. I went upstairs and applied the paste to my brush and started brushing. Ugh! It tasted awful. I started to notice a tingling sensation along my gums. What the fuck? I glanced down at the tube. I had just brushed my teeth with Preparation FUCKING H!!!!
    This tasted awful but what’s really disturbing is the following: when one is applying hemhoroidal cream, one takes a little dab and applies it with one’s fingers directly to one’s pooper, one then presses one’s finger against the opening of the tube to reapply another dab again directly to one’s shithole. This proccess is then repeated several times. Think about it. 

HOW I SPENT MY SUMMER VACATION
    I spent the summer doing a show at the NYC International Fringe Festival for a 200 dollar stipend for the entire run. Meanwhile, I’m still in rehearsals for the kickboxing video, which I won’t get paid for until the shoot. In order to make sure I didn’t starve completely, I had to pick up lunch shifts at work at 50 bucks a pop. Add in my auditions and coaching sessions and Daddy was a busy boy throughout the month of August. Busy but broke. As a result of this, I’ve been working like a rock-jonesing crack whore at the restaurant since the show ended (without the job-related perks of getting high or you know, getting laid).
    Here’s a little anecdote to illustrate just how chaotic my month was:
    I was coming off a week that looked something like this. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday: work at the restaurant,hit the gym, rehearsal 7-11, sleep, repeat. Saturday: kickboxing in the morning, work at the restaurant, sleep, work a double on Sunday. Monday: hardcore workout, followed by audition in wife beater, run errands, rehearsal. Tuesday:work at restaurant, workout, rehearsal, party like a rock star. Finally  I was going to have a day off on Wednesday. Sure, I still had rehearsal that night but I would have plenty of time to sleep off my hangover. So Tuesday night after rehearsal BDB did his best Tara Reid impersonation and got soundly fucked up.
    I had no intention of waking up before noon and at approximately 1 pm Eastern Standard time on Wednesday, I rolled out of bed. My mouth tasted like someone had taken a shit inside of it and my throat felt as if I had been gargling a cup full of teeth. I was in no condition. I walked across the room and saw that I had 4 missed calls on my cell phone, which had been on vibrate. I checked my voice mail. Oh shit. My manager had been trying to call me all morning.
    "Michael, it is very important that you call me ASAP. I have an appointment for a Robert DeNiro film at 2PM TODAY." I called her back and got the details. DeNiro had gone through some old tapes in the casting office and had hand selected a bunch of young men to audition for the role. The tapes were being Fed Ex-ed to DeNiro personally that afternoon. This was a big deal.  Surely, I could pull myself together in the next hour and at least appear presentable. My speaking voice should return to normal in the next half hour. But it was worse than I had anticipated because this role was a young music student and I was being asked to prepare a song from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. I had to sing legit! I sounded like Tom Waits and I needed to sound like Josh Groban.
    So what did I do? I thought back to an old (former pro wrestling champion) "Nature Boy "Ric Flair interview from the 1980s. He had just broken "The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes’ leg and went back on tv the following week to say, "When you’re a man, you don’t cry about it."
    I got my ass in the shower, did the 3 s’s(shit,shave,shower) and did my vocal warmups in the cab on the way over to the audition. I actually got to my audition 5 minutes early and sang like a bird.   
    So it was an exciting, albeit not financially rewarding, month. So how broke am I?
CREDIT CARD COMPANIES WANT TO MARRY ME AND HAVE MY BABIES
    If I were to die tomorrow the biggest legacy I will have established would be the amount of credit debt I have accrued in my time on earth. It’s amazing. I’m dodging calls from Capitol One, yet receive pre-approved credit card offers in the mail  every day. The worse my credit gets the more desirable I am to the credit card companies. It would be like if I received a 300 combined score on my SAT’s and then started being courted by Yale and Harvard. (Meanwhile, the only people trying to recruit me in high school were the good folks in the U.S Army.)          
   So my mom calls me one day and says there’s a message on her machine at home and that I need to call some number because I owe New York Sports Clubs over $500. Instantly, I knew what had happened. I joined NYSC in 2001, while living with my parents and had it hooked up to one of my credit cards. At some point in 2003, that card exceeded its limit yet I continued to use the gym without incident. One day they went to swipe me in and told me that my membership had been cancelled. I talked to a sales associate and he told me my credit card wasn’t working yadda yadda yadda. If I rejoined today, he’d wave the intiation fee plus they’re doing some promotion and the first month is free blah blah blah. Signed,new credit card info imparted, done deal. I left that day thinking sweet, I just got 6 free months of gym use. Thank you, New York Sports Club.
    I talked to my mom and she offered to lend me some money. I told her, no, I’m an adult and eventually I’m going to have to grow up and face the music and all that shit. I called the collections guy and he told me basically that if I ade a payment today, this matter wouldn’t go into collections. I told him my mom would pay the balance in full and we called her on 3 way. I had to explain to my mom, with this guy on the line, that I would in fact be taking her up on that offer for a loan.
         This was humiliating for me. I pride myself on my youthful appearance and exuberance but I really do have to grow the fuck up and get my shit together. As my mom relayed the expiration date on the card, someone could be heard audibly sobbing on one of the lines.
    The conversation more or less went something like this:
    Guy: Thank you Mrs. Buckley, let me just verify that number.
(Pathetic sounding whimpering.)
    Mom: I’m sorry. Excuse me. Are you fucking crying?
    Guy: I’m sorry… Ma’am?

    MOM: Michael, I hear you sniffling. Come on what would Ric Flair say? If you’re a man you don’t cry about it.
    GUY: Ma’am can I please verify that credit card number?

    Just wanted to let everyone know that I have not been in rehab. I have not been in Africa working with a shaman. I am not pregnant. I have just been very busy. I know waiting for the next episode of The Big Daddy Buck Show has been like waiting for the new season of Curb Your Enthusiasm (which is coming at the end of this month) or Chapelle’s Show (which is probably never returning to the air.)
Be patient BDB will be back soon to crack your shit up.

• The (UN)Natural

     I was always picked last in gym class. Even after the fat kids and the girls. My father, who was my Little League coach, used to instruct me to throw myself into the ball because it was the only way I’d get on base. He actually showed me a way to throw my shoulder into an incoming pitch in a way which would do the least amount of damage to my young body. Of course, not being coordinated enough to make contact with the bat meant that I was destined to fail at being beamed succesfully. I accidently took most of these shots to the ribs. I always felt guilty when the opposing team’s pitcher would apologize profusely after the game. All the kids would line up and slap hands and go down the line, "good game, good game, good game, etc." For me it was usually, "good game, good game, sorry I hit you, good game" and so on.
    Freshman year of high school I signed up for the wrestling team. (To wrestle at 112 pounds! I was a scrawny little bastard.) When I discovered that wrestling season would conflict with rehearsals for the Spring musical  I had to quit. The coach basically called me a faggot without calling me a faggot. "So you’re not going to wrestle becuase you’d rather sing and dance?" (Come to think of it, singing and dancing doesn’t sound nearly as gay as rolling around on a mat with another sweaty guy.)
    Junior year I was cast as Lun Tha in "The King and I." This is basically the lover boy part and I was told I’d be going shirtless. The guys playing the King and the Kralahome and myself joined a gym in preparation for our roles. While doing bench presses, I strained to lift the bar by itself so much that some meathead in the gym came over . "Alright guys stop fucking around. Someone’s going to get hurt." When the day of the first costume fitting arrived, the director asked the costume lady, "Um…do you think we can get him a shirt?"
    My point is, I was not an athletic child. In fact before the age of 21, I barely did anything physical at all.*

• DADDY’S GONNA BE A FITNESS MODEL

    It’s official. I am going to be fitness model. I have been cast in a kickboxing video. (I have never kickboxed in my life but most of the people cast are "athletic enough and look good on camera.") I’m going to be taking kickboxing lessons twice a week until the shoot in September. An episode of a tv show I shot a couple of months ago aired recently in which I was supposed to be an awesome raquetball player. I got paid to take raquetball lessons for a couple of days and due to the magic of editing looked like a pro on camera. In the past two days, I have auditioned to be a runner and a basketball player. I am constantly going in to play "the jock." I am on the verge of making a living as a professional fake athlete. Not bad for a kid whose mother made him quit soccer because they make you play in the rain.

    Exercise has changed my life. Seriously. I feel better. I have more energy. I look better. I’ve actually become quite disciplined (not just in the gym either. It has carried over into all aspects of my life.)I don’t smoke as much weed because it fucks with my cardio. I don’t
drink as much because well, empty calories. I make sure to eat my body weight in grams of protein every day. I rarely get sick. I’m a million times more confident. It has done a lot to better me as a person. I am like the proverbial 98 pound weakling in those Charles Atlas ads.
    But it is not without it’s dark side.
    You know who I think is on steroids? Anyone who’s more muscular than I am. (Which would place about 60% of the regulars at my gym on the juice.) I have become one of those people who sees people one of two ways; you are either a hardbody or a fat ass. I  tend to see not going to the gym as a moral deficit. I lose sleep at night over missed workouts. I was much more likely to take my shirt off when I had a beer gut. Now I have "fat days" days in which I feel bloated or just not in tip-top shape. When I was drinking a 12 pack and smoking an ounce of weed a night, I never had "fat days." I am pretty fucking obsessed. How did I get to this point? I think it’s being reminded of where I am from.
    And now, boys and girls, all together now, A STORY TO ILLUSTRATE MY POINT:

• THE RED MONKEY   

  *I mentioned earlier that I"barely did anything physical at all" during my childhood and adolesence. Well, I did have one consistent form of activity: My wrestling matches versus a giant stuffed red monkey. For years, I had a series of epic battles with this stuffed animal.  I’d suplex him, come off my dresser onto my bed with flying elbow drops, piledrive him, and just generally beat the stuffing (literally) out of this poor, defenseless child’s toy. I’d love to say I hit 10 or 11 and outgrew this stupid hobby but that would be a lie. (What can I say? Not having any friends makes a kid do strange things.) By the time I was 15 (yes, 15!), the Red Monkey was a shell of his former self. His face was covered in red Magic Marker from matches in which I had bloodied his cotton/polyester blend forehead. He was missing an eye and stuffing leaked from holes under his armpits and on the back of his neck. He was sick and tired and wasn’t going to take it anymore. The Red Monkey sought vengeance against Big Daddy Buck (all 112 pounds of him)for the years of merciless pummelings.
    I’ll never forget the match. Big Daddy sent the Red Monkey into the ropes (or the closet door as it were) in preperation for a flying forearm smash a la Tito Santana. Big Daddy tripped over his younger brother’s foot en route and ended up hitting the bedpost elbow first. In the first time in wrestling history, the champion cried in the middle of the ring in the middle of the match. Snot dripping from his nose and unable to move his forearm, the stoic gladiator sat in the living room  wondering what he’d tell his parents. Crying like a little bitch the entire time.
Finally I worked up the courage to go into my parent’s room. "I can’t move my arm."
My dad was totally calm and collected and wanted to let me know that everything was going to be fine. "Jesus Christ! He broke his fucking arm! Was this that wrestling shit?!! I knew it was a matter of time before something like this happened. Jesus!"
    We had to go the hospital. I told the doctor that I tripped over my brother’s legs (which was true, although I omitted some key details). I felt like the guy wasn’t really buying it. For all he knew, my parents beat the shit out of me with a tire iron (or told me to throw myself into a 70 mile per hour fastball). I had a broken elbow and had to wear a cast. I wouldn’t be able to return to the ring for at least another 3 months. And you can rest assured that the Monkey felt my wrath upon my return.  Powerbombs off the bed. Figure 4 leglocks. Chairshots to the foam stuffed head. It was payback time.
    So now every time I think about quitting before banging out that last rep or ending my run early or skipping a workout, I see that scrawny little kid getting his ass whooped by a stuffed animal.

Allow me to re-introduce myself my name is Buckley
B to the D-B
Like Kevin Smith born and raised in New Jersey
I guess even back then you could call me
Master and Commander of the C-L-I-T

Out the Garden State and onto 44th Street
I’m cuckoo like cocoa puffs and shredded like wheat
cause I got abs of steel and I gots guns that kill
and if the guns don’t getcha my bazooka will

That’s right! Buck or Mr. Buckley
still sippin on my fotey high on THC
Bitch I’m back and I’m lean and mean
my veins are pumpin sex appeal and creatine

Like a white Jay Z but I never sold cocaine
I rock the man in the boat like a motherfuckin’ hurricane
I got a big, fat dick and a freaky eye
I’m the cracka Tupac but I’m still alive

Peace.

•     MARK BURNETT CAN SUCK MY DICK

    I hate reality television. I fucking hate it. I consider it to be the single biggest reason why I am not famous. There are simply no jobs left on television for actual actors.  You see, in the past 3 years (while Paris Hilton has become famous for being a vapid cunt), I should have been racking up guest appearances on television shows which would have led to a recurring role on something which would have led to my own show which would have led to film roles which would have led to paparazzi hiding in my driveway. But thanks to Mark Burnett, that British fuck who created Survivor, I am waiting tables and auditioning for Red Lobster commercials(to play a waiter nonetheless. I got called back but didn’t get it. Maybe they read the "Marinara Incident" and felt I was ill suited to BE a waiter nevertheless play one on national television.) The worst part of the thorough cultural saturation of the reality craze is the rampant overuse of the phrase, "They should totally do a reality show about this..fill in the blank (job, family, shit I took this morning, etc.)" No, they shouldn’t. How many times have you heard someone refer to their apartment or doom room or any sort of communal living arrangement as "totally like the Real World?" I’m sorry. You are not that interesting! (Not that most of the people on these shows are exceptionally interesting.)MTV has the Road Rules/Real World challenge; a reality show about people who have been on  other reality shows. These motherfuckers have gone too far and I am not gonna take it anymore. THIS HAS GOT TO STOP!!!!!
    Now I know you’re reading this and thinking, whoah Buckley you’re all fired up. Settle down. Cut back on the creatine, big guy. But, for me, this is personal.

• MY CONFESSION

    I was on Blind Date. There I said it. How did this happen? I have this bad habit of allowing my ego to fuck me over. I’ll explain.
    I was walking down the street one day and this attractive woman came up to me and asked, "Excuse me. Hi. This is going to sound weird. I’m supposed to meet  a friend but she’s running late and I saw you walking by and thought, hey he’s really cute" Seriously, this is what she said. It was like a scene out of a porno. And the follow up line was even better. "Do you want to be on television?" This was getting better with every word that came out of her mouth. "Yeah." "Are you an actor?" "I am." "Have you ever seen the show ‘Blind Date?’" Before I knew it I was filling out the 15 page questionaire and taping my interview. I’d say something and they’d ask me things like, "OK say that again but phrase it like this…" They coached all of my answers and more or less fed me lines for a lot of them.  At the end of the interview, it was official; I was going to be on Blind Date. All because I was flattered that some chick thought I was cute.

• HOT TUB READY ABS

    I spent the next couple of weeks hitting the gym hard. Doing extra cardio, extra crunches, running through the streets of Philly in my grey  hooded sweat suit with a group of well wishers congregating behind me (oh wait, that last part was Sylvester Stallone in Rocky). I had heard the camera adds ten pounds and dammit, I wanted to be ready for the requisite hot tub scene at the end of the date.

• THE BIG DAY 

    The big day had arrived. I went home to my parents’ house because my mom wanted to take me shopping for new clothes for my national television debut. So I left from my parents’ house for the city leaving my laundry behind (this detail is important later on in the story.)
     The first thing the producer told me when we got in the van was, "did they tell you not to say you’re an actor?" "No. They didn’t." "Yeah. Basically everyone who appears on the show is an actor. They don’t like people announcing it because it makes the date seem fake. What else do you do? When you’re not acting?" "I’m a waiter. But I really don’t want to say that?’ "What do you want to be? Say you’re an astronaught. I don’t give a shit. "I used to work in a gym." And with that, I became a certified personal trainer.
    So we went to meet my date. We shot the first time I’m seeing my Blind Date, the single most important aspect of a Blind Date is this moment being caught on tape is crucial right? We shot the introduction 5 times!!! So much for authenticity.
    We went to the first location in seperate cars. You see, they don’t tape this part and they don’t want us to say anything potentially interesting to each other without the cameras on. The first location was an empty night club where they made her bust out a classical piece on the violin she just happened to have with her and asked me to sing for her. The thing is, you have to sing something they have the rights to. My choices were slim. Did you know that even "Happy Birthday" is copyrighted? Well, I guess you do now. So after I listened to her play while trying to look interested(she played beautifully but we did shoot this 3 times), I busted out one of Big Daddy Buck’s original rhymes. (And, of course, I was ripped apart when the show aired.) Here’s the fucked up thing and I think this explains the actions of a lot of people on reality tv; I knew I was making an ass of myself. I just wanted to do something memorable. (What I didn’t anticipate was one of those captions that said I had a big nose and skinny arms.)
    Next we went to a chi chi hair salon on the Lower East Side. Who goes to a hair salon on a date? People who need to fit product placement for Herbal Essences into their plans that’s who. She washed my hair and as she did, we started talking about the commercial where the woman has an orgasm from washing her hair and I started to imitate it. The producer loved it so much they had me do it 4 more times so they could shoot it from different angles. Of course, this moment was taken totally out of context when the show actually aired and I was made to look like a fool yet again.
    Different cars. Next location. Costume change. Time for dinner. Ethiopian food. Great. I had tried Ethiopian food before and was not a fan. There is a reason why those people are starving. It’s by choice. We actually had a nice conversation over dinner but every time we started discussing the food, or the wine or the ambience or any of the things you would actually discuss on a first date the producer would yell out, "Boring. Talk about sex." Somehow the conversation turned to sex toys. I told a story about how my mom gave my cousin a vibrator to my cousin for her college graduation. Now that was something he wanted to hear about. So much so that he made me repeat it multiple times until i had phrased every detail exactly how he wanted me to. Another key detail about dinner: We polished off 3 bottles of wine.
    So we get to our final location which is a bar. Immediately, they start feeding us shots.Our glasses were never empty and within twenty minutes we were positively trashed. My date went to the bathroom and the producer cornered me. "So you two really seem to be hitting it off. She told me she’s just waiting for you to kiss her. Come on, DON’T YOU WANT TO BE THE MAN IN FRONT OF YOUR FRIENDS ON TV!" In my drunken state, this seemed to make perfect sense. So we made out.
    I walked her to the door of her apartment (which was actually just the producer’s office building) and we said our (on-camera) good nights. Then they put us in a cab together, where we proceeded to get freaky. I had to go back to Jersey to get my laundry so I boarded a bus, passed out and woke up 3 towns past my stop. I would have ended up in Atlantic City if I hadn’t woken up when I did. I had an awful feeling about the entire experience. Oh my God, I got drunk on  tv, I rapped, I told a story about my mom and a sex toy. What the fuck have I done? I got  on another bus and got back to my parents’ house. I told them about everything. My mom began crying fearing that she would lose her job as a second grade teacher due to the actions of her deviant son on national television. My dad started yelling at me. Now I was crying. It was a pretty intense scene. They should make a reality show about my family.
      After the show aired, the casting director from Blind Date, who had now moved to Elimidate called me about appearing on that show. "So do you think you’d be interested in doing our show?"  "No, I don’t think so." "Really? Why?" She couldn’t believe I was turning her down. And I have to admit, the girls on  Elimidate tend to be pretty hot.
"I just don’t like the way I was portrayed on Blind Date." "But our show is different. We don’t have  pop ups."  "No that’s ok. Besides I really mean I didn’t like the way I portrayed myself." 
    The show aired. I looked like an idiot. They made the story of the
date that I was an awkward loser white boy rapper who got the girl in
the end when he dropped his Vanilla Ice facade. They did make me look stupid but not like a drunken asshole. That’s good I guess. Thankfully, there was
no mention of sex toys and my mom still has a job. But you know what really pissses me off about the whole thing? NO HOT TUB SCENE!

    In my last blog I referenced the Mangina, when a man sticks his penis and scrotum sac in between his legs giving the appearance of female genitalia. This act has probably existed for as long as men have had penises. (Adam was probably running around doing it in the garden of Eden. At least he would have if he weren’t a fictional character in a fairy tale. But I digress…) It gained mainstream attention when the character Buffalo Bill did it in front of a mirror in the film Silence of the Lambs and asked, "Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me." I saw this film at about the time I started to sprout my first pubes and had to try it (in private of course.) I have been doing it ever since.

Birth of A Legend: Mangina The College Years
    I will never be able to run for public office. The main reason (in a long list) is that there are dozens and dozens of photos from college parties of me doing the Mangina in various states of inebriation. Understand this about my college experience; when I wasn’t stoned I was drunk. When I wasn’t drunk I was stoned and when I wasn’t drunk or stoned I was drunk AND stoned. (This probably explains why I never graduated.) But the fact that I wasn’t sober has nothing to do with the fact that I would go to a party on a Friday or Saturday night (or Thursday or Wednesday or Tuesday, you get the point) and walk into a room full of people with my pants around my ankles and my man junk between my legs. I suppose the drugs and alcohol lowered my inhibitions a bit but the truth is, my lack of sobriety was a convenient excuse to become the center of attention. It’s true, I am a glory-hungry, egotistical  motherfucker and any time when all eyes are on me is a good time.
    You have to understand that I was a theater kid in high school. Sophomore year of high school, I wore a Les Miz t shirt when I got changed for gym. I was not cool. But a weird thing happened between  the summer of my freshman and sophomore  years in college. I left Rutgers that June as mild mannered Michael Buckley and returned as Big Daddy Buck! I moved into a house in a great spot off campus, which lent itself to the throwing of some amazing parties. Early in the fall semester of that year, Mangina started popping up at our parties. It always got a reaction. I’m sure some people were legitimately offended, although they were overwhelmingly outnumbered by those who found it hilarious. Mangina started making appearances at parties throughout the campus. He had become somewhat of a Rutgers celebrity. I remember when my brother moved into the freshman dorms and brought his friends over to see his brother’s house. I wasn’t home so my brother led his new floormates on a tour of the house where he had access to all the parties. Sure enough, there was a picture of Mangina on the fridge. His friends couldn’t stop talking about it. "What the fuck is that?!!!" "That’s your brother?!!" "He must be crazy!"  They were introduced to the Mangina before they were even introduced to me. My legend was preceding me.

A LEGEND RETURNS

    Fast forward to my brother’s wedding. A beautiful ceremony followed by a kick ass reception. My family is made up of two kinds of people: a)those who don’t drink because of the copious amounts of anti-depressants and/or anti-anxiety medications they are taking and b)those who drink DESPITE the copious amounts of anti-depressant and/or anti-anxiety medications they are taking. Plus we are Irish. And so is my sister-in-law’s family. Needless to say, most of the guests were shitfaced before the appetizers were even put out.
    I’m doing my thing at the reception. I’m dancing like a coked up Chippendale’s dancer, leading the conga line, basically doing anything I can to get the wedding videographer to keep the camera on me. At one point, a female guest of the bride came up to me and slipped me a piece of paper. I figured, this was a chick who was feeling my dance moves and wanted to slip me her room number. It wasn’t. It was a note that read:
Dear Mangina,
Your presence is requested tonight at the after party.
Signed,
Table 27
    My brother’s wife went to Rutgers as well and Table 27 was made up of her friends and their dates. A table equally consisting of people who had been lucky enough to witness a Mangina sighting at a random party and those who had only heard about it.
    Sure enough, the Mangina showed up in the flesh at the Ramada Inn on that fateful night. It was glorious! A crowd of people gathered around chanting "Mangina! Mangina! Mangina!" As I write this, I’m actually tearing up a little.
DON’T BELIEVE THE HYPE
    A few days later, I received a frantic phone call from my mother. She was unhappy with me.
"Your Aunt Lainey told me that she heard you got drunk at the after party and were flailing it about."
"What?"
"Were you whipping your dick out and twirling it around?"
    Somehow the recounting of the Mangina sighting turned my 40 second display of pubic hair into a full on production of "Puppetry of the Penis."

"Mom, that’s ridiculous. I only did the Mangina."
"Oh. That’s fine. I could even deal with the fruit basket (the reverse side of a Mangina)." My mom was relieved to hear this and demanded that I call my aunt immediately.
    So I called her and explained that, "Yes Mangina did make an appearance but no, I was not flailing my weiner about. I didn’t even do the fruit basket."
    "I’m glad to hear that, Michael. I actually wouldn’t have even minded the fruit basket."
    EPILOGUE
    The Mangina is currently retired and living peacefully in Boca Raton, Florida. However, it may not be today, it may not be tomorrow but you can bet your ass, THE MANGINA WILL RIDE AGAIN!   

• Oprah Ain’t Got Shit on Big Daddy Buck!

    The official Big Daddy Buck Book Club Selection of the Month is The Dirt by Motley Crue. This book ranks up there with Howard Stern’s Private Parts and Jenna Jameson’s How to Make Love Like a Porn Star as one of the best/worst/best again books I’ve ever read. My brother, Matt, who has read maybe 6 or 7 books in his life, recommended it to me. (Even though he added, I quit reading when they got sober. I asked, at what point was that? Seriously, they were sober for 2 chapters tops.) The book is loaded with stories of debauchery and decadence. Their  world consisted of drugs, alcohol and pussy with an occasional concert thrown in. And you know what? It sounded awesome. (Is it fair that Tommy Lee has fucked Pam Anderson, Heather Locklear, Carmen Electra and the Cherry Pie girl all in the same lifetime?Oh yeah and he has a huge cock. Life just isn’t fair.) They’ve all lived through overdoses, divorces (Vince Neil dealt with the end of one of his marriages by installing a mud wrestling pit in his living room), and failed albums yet through it all they all survived unscathed.  (Vince literally got away with murder.) It really made me want to do some coke and wreck a hotel room. A cautionary tale, this book is not.
    You wouldn’t expect The Dirt to be a catalyst for introspection or self-analysis but….. O.k it’s not. However it did prompt me to ask myself, what was the most fucked up I’ve ever gotten in my life?
    I mean I’ve never taken a piss by a hotel pool and had Ozzy Osbourne lick it up. I’ve never brought a bunch of girl’s back to my hotel lined them up on all fours facing the wall and fucked them assembly line style. I’ve never done a line of coke the length of my body (including glammed out, 80s hair).
    But I have had my share of decadence and debauchery. At least, by suburban New Jersey standards.

• My Motley Moment

 It was the summer after my freshman year of college. I was dating a girl who was a year younger than me, and this all transpired on the night of her graduation from high school. After the ceremony, we did the obligatory dinner with her parents followed by the pre-party which was to be followed by a huge bash at the house of some girl I din’t really know well at all. My girlfriend didn’t drink so I figured I had to pick up the slack for both of us.
    The Pre-Party: The activities for the evening began in a suburban basement. At first, I was partaking in the usual fare: shots, bong rips and wine coolers. (What do you want it was a high school party in an upper middle class suburb?) But where I started to run into trouble was with the funnel races. In the bathroom, two beer funnels of equal length were being filled and the person who downed the contents of their funnel first was declared the victor. The winner stayed on to face the next guy. Now I was a college boy and I would be damned if I was going to let these high school boys beat me. So I took them all to school. I think I must have won about a dozen races. My girlfriend came to tell me it was time to leave so I mixed myself a to go drink for the (5 minute, if that) ride to the party.
    The Party: Ok. Most of this stuff is what I was told later because my recollections from the party itself are hazy at best. Apparently, my girlfriend had already had it with me and left me alone. I guess at some point I was chasing the family dog around the laundry room on all fours. I met some guys who thought it was hilarious how drunk I was so they kept feeding me beers and would chant, "Chug, chug, chug" as I downed them as quickly as possible. I might have busted out one of my favorite party tricks, the Mangina. (When you tuck your cock and balls in between your legs a la Buffalo Bill in The Silence of the Lambs.) In any case, I was dangerously fucked up at this point and someone went and got my girlfriend.
"You better get him out of here before he ends up with alcohol poisoning."
    She stormed up to me, pulled me outside and began punching me.  (This girl is 4′11" and 90 pounds so this must have actually been a pretty funny visual.) "You fucking asshole!" She was shouting. A crowd had gathered and this had become a full on spectacle. I wasn’t really sure what was going on and, in my drunken confusion, began sobbing uncontrollably IN FRONT OF EVERYONE!
     This tiny girl and her tiny twin sister threw me in the back of their Honda Civic. Her sister drove, my girlfriend berated me and I cried all the way home.
    The Worst is Yet to Come:They drove me back to my parents’ house and I headed for the bathroom still in tears. My girlfriend was actually afraid for my life at this point so she woke up my mom. My brother had his two best friends staying over and the three of them were witnessing this fiasco unfold before them, enjoying  every moment and mentally recording my antics for future black mail. (At some point, I guess I was telling my brother’s friends that I was going to fuck their mother and eat her ass. This woman is one of my mother’s good friends and, although she’s a lovely woman, is not someone I would ordinarily consider performing analingus on.) So, my brother, his two friends, my girlfriend and my mom were standing outside the bathroom waiting for me to emerge. Finally, I made my grand entrance sans tears and naked as the day I was born. I spent the next thirty minutes babbling incoherently, running around and pawing my naked scrotum sac. At one point, I had to pee but I was too inebriated to stand up. So I sat down and when I was finished fell foward, hitting my face on the ground, with the toilet wrapped around my ass. That’s right, I was face down ass up and the fucking toilet seat had come off.
    At this point, my poor mother had seen enough. So she got the one man she knew would end the shenanigans in a concise and effective manner. She got Jimbo, my dad. He chased my naked ass all around the house and cornered me into my bedroom. It only took three words bellowed at the top of his voice, while every vein in his neck bulged through his skin.
"GO TO BED!!!!!"
    And with that, I did.
    I woke up the next morning on the floor. I was still drunk and I had to be at work. I was working a summer job as a receptionist at a local business. I had to walk to the office, where I spent the first half of the day discreetly throwing up in the bathroom while trying not to slur my way through phone calls with clients and the second half of the day blatantly hung over and miserable. Five o’clock finally rolled around and I was able to convince my girlfriend to pick me up from work and drive me home. When I arrived at my house, I opened the car door and proceeded to vomit all over the front lawn. I went into my room. What the fuck was that smell?  Unbeknownst to me, I had spent the entire night vomiting into the garbage can next to my bed. This thing was filled to the brim and the puke had been sitting there all day.
    As I cleaned the contents of my stomach from the garbage can, I made a pledge to myself that I would never drink again as long as I live.
    That pledge lasted two days. What can I say? I’m a rock star baby.

    It was 9:30 in the A.M. on a Sunday morning. I was on my way to work and as I passed The Actor’s Studio I saw it laying on the sidewalk; a BIG, BLACK DILDO! It barely even registered as I walked past. I casually glanced back to confirm that I had in fact seen a large phallus on the street.  I really didn’t think much of it. I had become so jaded that I was no longer capable of being shocked by anything I could possibly encounter in this fair city. It was official. I had become a New Yorker. I remember when I first moved here, I saw a homeless woman, filthy pants around her ankles, popping a squat and taking a dump in the middle of the subway station. At the time, I was mortified, shocked, apalled. I never thought I’d see a bottomless woman and be so unaroused. If I were to witness the same incident today, I doubt I’d bat an eye.
     I live in Hell’s Kitchen between 44th and 45th. it is probably the best location in the entire world. Seriously. I am close to every major subway line but even that’s almost a moot point when you consider that a cab ride to anywhere I’d need to go is just slightly more expensive than a subway ride. Downtown is more trendy. The Upper West and Upper East are more chi chi. Fuck all that horseshit. I’ll take the convenience of living smack dab in the middle of the greatest city on earth.
I walk to most of my auditions. I have a 3-6 minute walk to work depending on my pace. My vocal coach lives in the building across the street. I have my choice between 800 different 24 hour delis. There are a million restaurants and they ALL DELIVER!!! I have access to anything I might possibly need at any given time. When I found out Hulk Hogan was going to be at Monday Night Raw at Madison Square Garden. I walked over that day and bought myself a ticket. (And since I was flying solo, I was able to score an awesome seat. I got so excited when Hogan came out that I jumped up and knocked into the guy next to me, which caused him to spill his beer all over himself and the woman sitting in front of him. She and her family left, as a result, and I was able to snag one of her kids’ seats a couple of rows closer to the ring.)
    How convenient is it you ask?

       A STORY TO ILLUSTRATE MY POINT

     I spent the years 1997-2001 getting stoned almost every day and night of my life. Consequently, my memory is totally shot. Not surprisingly, I forgot to get my dad a card for Father’s Day. I first realized this on Friday night. If I were to mail a card Saturday morning it would never arrive in time. I figured i’d pick up a card over the weekend and then have my girlfriend, who works for my dad, bring it to him first thing Monday morning. Late, yes, but only by a day. But then I forgot about that idea….until 3 am Sunday night (I guess technically Monday morning). I had a 14 hour shift from hell at work that day and rewarded myself for getting through it with Jack Daniels and marijuana. So I’m all fucked up and I’ve gotta get this card. There’s a 24 hour Duane Reade on 8th and 42nd across from Port Authority and surrounded by porno shops and peep shows. So I venture down to 8th and as I round the corner, this shady looking guy comes up to me.  "Yo man whatchoo lookin for?"
"I’m good," I politely told him.
"Yo I got girls. Black, white Chines. They’ll suck yo dick. You could fuck ‘em in da ass."
"No. That’s ok."
"Come on, man. Whachoo lookin for? Coke? Weed? I got crack."
"Thanks. I’m cool, man."
"Smoke, coke, girls,crack. Come on, whachoo need brother?"
    He was really putting the hard sell on. I can’t imagine someone randomly deciding, ‘ You know I  really came out to buy a pint of Haagen Daaz but now that you mention it, I think what I’m really in the mood for is crack cocaine.’
"Whachoo need man?"
"You don’t happen to sell Father’s Day cards by any chance?"
    With that, I stepped into Duane Reade in search of the card that would express the sentiments I feel for my father, only in a far more cliched and sappy manner than I would ever attempt.
    Maybe I should have just gotten him an eight ball and a Chinese chick who takes it in the ass.

    Hello, ladies and gentleman and welcome to another installment of The Big Daddy Buck Show produced, directed, written by and starring, yours truly, Michael "Big Daddy Buck" Buckley.

• Yes, Virginia, There Is A HULKAMANIA

     First an interesting epilogue to my Hulk Hogan post from yesterday. I was at work last night and saw this guy stuffing his face with ribs who I thought looked familiar. (And no, it was not Wayne Brady.) And then it hit me; I was in the presence of World Wrestling Entertainment superstar, Eugene. Now, as evidenced by my blog yesterday, I am a huge wrestling fan and have been since I was 6 years old. So why didn’t I recognize one of my heroes as he was dining right in front of me? Well, because, this gentleman was wearing a nice button down and expensive sports jacket. His long hair was pulled back neatly and he was well spoken and was sitting with a beautiful woman. He also wasn’t foaming at the mouth. For those of you who don’t watch wrestling (and considering you’re reading this and therefore are at least somewhat literate) which is probably most of you, the character of Eugene is mentally retarded. That’s right, there’s a Retarded Character on Monday Night RAW!
    I waited until they were finished eating and I approached the table.
"Hi. I’m so sorry to intrude but I just wanted to come over and tell you that I’m a huge fan."
     "My friend! My friend!" He responded in his retard voice as he drooled all over himself. This would be like if you met Tom Hanks and he started talking like Forrest Gump. I guess unlike my dad, with his Hulk Hogan analogy, Eugene didn’t want to ruin the magic.

• My Brother Thinks You Should Stop Reading My Blog

    I called my brother, Chris, yesterday to get his e mail address.
    "I’ve been writing this blog and I want to send you a link to it," I enthusiastically told him.
    "You can send it but,  honestly, I probably won’t read it."
     "Really? Why?"
    "I don’t read blogs. I think they’re pretentious and self-serving."
    Self-serving? Okay I’ll grant that most blogs, including mine, are inherently self-serving. But who else should my blog serve? I suppose I could use it as a forum to protest genocide in the Sudan or to urge people to drive a hybrid car. I could use my little old space on the world wide web as a means of combating the myriad evils and inequalities plaguing our doomed planet. I could use my blog as a weapon in the fight for truth and justice. I could but….
    I’d rather write about sodomizing spaghetti sauce and scamming free porn from the cable company. And, yes, I am the protagonist of all of these web gems so I suppose my blog is undoubtedly, 100% self-serving. But is that a reason not to read it?
    But is it pretentious? According to my dictionary, pretentious is defined as "Claiming or demanding a position of distinction or merit, esp. when unjustified." I certainly don’t DEMAND distinction.  But then again, maybe I should. After all, my shit is hilarious so any merit people ascribe to my musings is completely justified.
    So, in closing, put that in your fucking pipe and smoke it, Chris!