Denis Leary: Exactly The Guy You Think He Is

The waves at Cisco Beach on Nantucket were perfect for boogie boarding, and my girlfriend's brother Bruce and I couldn't set our beach chairs down fast enough. All around us, excited beach goers were either swimming or laying out on towels, enjoying the beautiful weather that only the last Saturday in July can bring.

We grabbed our boards and gingerly waded into the welcoming sea. A few timid steps and Shark Week anecdotes later, we found ourselves taking full advantage of the bountiful surf being bestowed upon us.

Going to the beach can be the focal point of any vacation. However, I've noticed that there are three guaranteed universal truths that apply to every single beach going experience which will severely hinder your capacity to have a good time. No matter who you are, or where you're from, you cannot avoid these three annoying and inevitable beach situations.

First things first. While at the beach I guarantee some fucking kid around you is going to pick up his towel and flap it around in the wind, sending sand and rocks and Civil War shrapnel flying in the general vicinity of your ear nose and throat. His parents will offer some less than sincere apology, give the little rascal a halfhearted admonishment, and you'll be left wishing you were sitting next to Casey Anthony instead.

Secondly, accept that you are going to fuck up the sunblock application. You could be using 100 SPF, water-proof, sweat-proof, nuclear-holocaust-proof lotion, and applying every 20 minutes, but I guarantee you are going to come home with burns on your index finger, tops of your feet, and your ears.

Lastly, I guarantee you'll encounter that annoying guy in the water who holds absolute autocratic authority over his group in determining which waves to try and boogie board, and which waves to skip. You may hear him say helpful things like, "No not this one guys, the next one. The next one is huge!" and "Oh, nevermind we should have taken the first one".

Sometimes this boogie board guru will have a thick Central Massachusetts accent, a long, flowing strawberry blond mane of hair, and an aging 53 year old Irish Catholic body covered in freckles.

Yup. The beach was very crowded, yet I was in disbelief that at that very moment the great actor/comedian and local legend Denis Leary was swimming right next to me...almost like he was like a regular person.

Struggling to comprehend the situation, and assuming my senses were betraying me, I continued about my business as if I'd seen nothing, eventually returning to my beach chair to better assess the situation. A few minutes later, I watched as Denis Leary returned to his seat on the beach...directly to the back and right of us, maybe a first down away.

Now listen. For the record, I think Rescue Me was a brilliant show. Especially the first couple of seasons. But somewhere along the line and definitely before this last season, I really stopped giving a fuck. Actually, what really made me a fan was hearing him and Lenny Clarke in the Sox broadcast booths in 2006. I remember my buddy TPiddy and I crying laughing on Rt. 1, listening to them on WEEI playing off of the legendary Joe Castiglione. They were doing a bit about Tigers 3rd baseman Placido Polanco and his stupid name that brought us to tears. And of course their appearance on NESN that summer was truly comedic gold as well.

I moved to Nantucket in May to live with my beautiful girlfriend, and because of that, I don't get a chance to see my friends very much anymore. I knew I didn't want to be that nettlesome superfan that disrupts the guy's vacation, but I don't know. I really wanted a picture with him. Just something to make my friends a little jealous.

Denis is a huge homer, which is one of the reason I think he is so popular around here. He wears his Boston sports patronage on his sleeve, and I wear my pride literally on mine, so naturally I thought we had at least one thing in common, and that was enough for me. "I'll snap a quick picture and get out of his business", I thought.

But then the doubts started creeping in. He's a gritty comic with edgy material, and he can play an asshole on the small screen better than anyone I've ever seen. Listen. It's one thing to ask Michael Scott for a picture... it's quite another to ask Tommy Gavin. I was very, very nervous.

For probably 20 minutes I sat there with my phone in my lap, testing the camera quality on the random people walking by, cleaning the lense, adjusting the brightness, and otherwise stalling anyway I could. All of a sudden, Denis stood up, and I pegged it as my opportunity to go up and get my picture.

Putting his lack of approachability aside, I managed to suck it up, put on an heir of confidence if you will, and walk on over as cool as I could (which granted, isn't very cool at all).

I said, "Mr. Leary?"

He looked at me. His son and what I assume are his son's friends looked at me. They were around my age. Everyone is looking at me.

Then he said, with more than a hint of disdain in his voice, "Yeah?"

My heart is racing, because already the situation is playing out differently than it did in my head.

"Hi my name is Brett," I said, extending my hand.

He grabbed it and firmly, but slowly shook it.

"I'm sorry to bother you, I just wanted to let you know I'm a big fan of Rescue Me."

That's right. I used the most hack, unoriginal, "I'm a big fan of 'Insert Show Here'" line, but that's all I could muster up.

Clearly not humbled by my high praise, and wanting me to get to the point, he responded annoyed, "Okay..."

"I was hoping to get a quick picture if I could"

And with the same tone you'd use to patronize a child with, he said, "If I took a picture with you, then everyone on the beach would want a picture. And we can't have that now can we?"

I said, "No sir, we don't want that. Alright well it was nice meeting you"

And I slinked back the 15 steps back to my seat. Dejected, demoralized and downtrodden.

What a fucking sheep I am.

Completely embarrassed, I sat down and pretended like it didn't happen.

I liken it to the shame you feel after asking a girl out and having her say, "Nahhh, I'm good" and then laughing with her friends about it.

The worst part of this entire encounter is that I sat in his direct eye line...between him, and the beach. I can't bring myself to look past my peripheral.

Bruce leans over and asks, "How'd it go?"

"He said no."

"What?"

"He said no", I repeated.

"What an asshole. You know what you should do? When we leave you should tell everyone on the beach where he's sitting."

So that's what I did. I packed up our stuff, stood up and proclaimed to the entire beach "Nice to meet you...DENIS LEARY".

That asshole had it coming. Hell hath no fury like a fan scorned.

On our way out, everyone I passed I felt obligated to stop them, tell them where Denis Leary was sitting, remind them who Denis Leary was, then move on to the next group.

The first large group I passed was of about nine 21 year old girls laying out on towels.

"Hey, do you guys know who Denis Leary is?"

"Yeah that's that guy from Rescue Me right?", one of the girls said.

"Yup. He's sitting right over there. See? I just got a picture with him. He loves meeting his fans."

"Oh my God thank you for telling us. I love Denis Leary!", they said

So I did it again. And again.

How long does it take to snap a fucking picture? 2/3rds of the encounter was already over, it would have taken another 8 seconds maybe? And the entire rest of the time we were there, not one other person came up to him, maybe a testament to what an asshole he is.

This fucking guy had the hubris and ego to send the one fan he had on the whole fucking beach home with his tail between his legs.

I guess I learned that Denis Leary, although he swims and boogie boards like a regular person, isn't such a regular person after all.

"The Fucking Milford Cunt"

There is a woman in my life right now that I cannot find the words to describe. It is hard for me to even believe that she actually exists. This woman is the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing i think about before I go to sleep.

And I know you're probably thinking "Aww cute hes going to talk about his girlfriend Laura. How nice". Negative. Let me explain.

A few years ago after my parents got divorced, my mother moved to Florida and my dad, sister and I moved to Plainville. My dad is a great guy by all accounts. Wicked fun to be around, good sense of humor, family man, makes good money. A catch.

When this broad fell into his lap he was on the rebound, looking for someone to fill the void with. She would become the very definition of settling.

Meet Julie. Or, as my grandmother calls her...

"The Fucking Milford Cunt"

Picture my sweet little 78 year old grandmother calling someone a cunt. Up until that point in my life I had never even heard her swear. (Her pseudo-swears of choice include "Holy buckwheat!", "You little twit!", and "Pardon my French but he's a real jerk!", ) How's that for foreshadowing.

Julie is in her late 40's, big tits, fat ass, busted face. Apparently she's got a debilitating back injury, which causes her to pop like 26 Vicodin a day. Even Michael Jackson would be like "dude, easy on the Vicodin".

I returned from college in the summer of '08 to find that Julie had moved into our house. Ok, fine. The only thing that really bothered me about her was the way she baby talked to her fucking dog. I can't even type this without cringing.

"Bruin wanna go 'side? Who wants to go 'side? Did you have a good day today? Did you miss mumma? Awwww mumma LUVS you! Give mumma kisses!"

So that summer my father Julie and I started looking for houses together. So long story short we found one in Norfolk, moved all of our stuff in and I went off to school in the fall.

When I came back from school this summer, something changed. Maybe I just never noticed it before, maybe it's because she's possessive about her half of a house she owns, but holy fucking shit. I have never, ever, ever seen anyone like her. Rather than even try to explain her, I'm going to play a little game.

I'm going to give you a list of behaviors that would indicate a completely psychotic, sociopathic, obsessive compulsive person. You tell me which ones are real, and which ones I made up. Ready?

My name is Julie...

#1 I hired a cleaning lady to come clean the house every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but I still vacuum at least once a day, including during dinner.

#2 I scrub the stove, counter tops, and microwave out with harsh chemicals every day, regardless of whether or not they were used.

#3 I rarely leave the house, because I now work from home to protect my house. I often spend the entire day in my housecoat in front of the television watching Two and a Half Men. Although Brett bought his father a High Definition cable box for Christmas, I can't tell the difference at all, so I canceled the service.

#4 One day when I was emptying the dishwasher, I noticed that there were only four plates in it. When I added that to the number of plates in the cupboard, I noticed that one was missing. So I opened Brett's bedroom door and looked through his things and found where he had hidden it....behind his television.

#5 Last night I painted the pantry doors. I didn't see any signs of wear, but I figured it could use a fresh coat.

#6 Despite my crippling back pain, I have slept on the couch in the living room every single night since Brett's been home from college, because I don't want him using the living room and messing it up.

#7 Ever since i made the kitchen table off limits, Brett and Gary have been eating their food on the island in the kitchen standing up. Sometimes they eat so slow they interfere with my cleaning! I usually make them lift their plates while i scrub underneath them.

#8 I put a large beach towel over every rug thats in front of a door, because I do not trust the rug's ability to stop dirt from entering my home.

#9 If we do have a guest over, I usually make them wait outside, because I do not trust the towel or rug's ability to stop dirt from entering my home.

#10 I like having everyone in the house be aware that I do not digest food well. I keep all my "aids" in Brett's bathroom closet for him to go in and write down the names of each one with a pencil, look up the ones he doesn't know, and put them in his blog.



Publix Fiber Therapy (stool hardener)
Correctol (stool softener)
Perdium (laxative)
Senna Tab (herbal laxative)
Phayzme (gas relief)
Dairy Digestive Supplement (prevents diarrhea)
Acidophilus (prevents vaginal yeast infections, as well as diarrhea)
Zovirax (synthetic topical herpes medication)
Tucks (hemorrhoidal ointment)
Lamasil (anti fungal)

#11 When Michelle's friends spend the night, they eat all my food and mess up my living room. The cushions are not where I put them. God those little cunts.

#12 I finally met Brett's girlfriend Laura this summer. I wasn't really concerned about making a good impression. Instead I had a few drinks and kept calling Michelle's friends little cunts. Although Laura looked very uncomfortable, I couldn't stop using the word 'cunt'. I was on a roll!

#13 When I have my period, I sometimes just throw my used tampon in the trash in the bathroom. Then my little dog gets into them and drags them all over the house for Brett to step on. Isn't he cute!

#14 Since I've been sleeping downstairs on the couch every night, I haven't really made myself available to Gary. That is why I bought a large purple vibrator and keep it hidden in one of the compartments of the coffee table under a bunch of magazines. I use it occasionally, including the other night when Brett came downstairs for a midnight snack. I hope he didn't see or hear me!

Can you imagine living like that? You want to kill yourself yet? Welcome to my hell. Every single one of those is 100% real.

Apart from all that Julie is a pleasure to be around.

The Night I Gelled My Hair (PART 1 of 2)

*Prologue: Much like "The Fucking Milford Cunt" article, this one has been eating away at me, day and night, until I finally sat down and got it on paper. It is unquestionably the most bizarre night of my life. I have a few more stories that are having the same effect on me, so as much as I try and suppress them, I may end up caving to them as well. This is going to be a long one, but it's worth it. Part II coming soon. Enjoy.*

I have never really been one to focus too hard on my appearance. I'm naturally very beautiful, so I figure doing anything earthly to my body is like slapping God in the face.

I do laundry about as often as the Ryder Cup. My showering habits some might call "infrequent". My motto on showering is if I can't smell myself, neither can you. But I'm often wrong about this.

One time me and Grahambo were on a quest to buy new hats at Ocean State Job Lot. Have you ever been there? It's fucking sweet man. You never know what you're gonna find. In terms of variety of headwear, it's the most awesome assortment of antiquated hats imaginable.

It's a little like being an African child watching as the Peace Corpse dumps all the hats America doesn't want out of their helicopter and onto your mughandubaduoa (house) .

There are hats celebrating every minor achievement in sports, from an '06 NFC Wildcard hat to the 2003 NCAA Midwest Regional champs commemorative hat. Sure it's dated and esoteric but it's got some vintage, niche value. We each bought hats for $2 that we still wear to this day.

On the ride home Grahambo politely lamented, "I'm just telling you this for your own self-preservation...you fucking smell man".

But when I do go out I shower I get ready and I like to look good. Who doesn't? But if I'm sitting around in my house all day I'm letting my beard grow man. I'll put it this way: If my daily itinerary consists of rolling out of bed, packing a lip, firing up the 360 and throwing on the Stern Show, who the fuck am I trying to impress? KingSean69 can't smell me. I'm not that vain.

Just a side note on hats: I have more hats than Emelda Marcos has shoes. And I think they all suck. At one point I must have liked them enough to buy them but they all look like shit on me. I actually get envious when I see a guy wearing the shit out of a throwback 5950.

When it comes to hats, the honeymoon usually ends quickly, and then I'm on to new headwear. Substitute the word hat for cocaine and pornstars, and I'm very much like Charlie Sheen.

One weekend up here in Orono I felt like walking down to The Dime to check it out. I called up my buddies but they wanted no part. It's impossible to get anyone to go there. It's not an ideal college bar by any means, but considering my financial situation and the location, The Dime was a good option, and I had no problem going it alone.


My pregame routine is simple, and effective. I drink as much as I can in the last 10 minutes before leaving. That way, my buzz hits me just about the time I get to wherever I'm going. It's like taking a shot of steroids that kicks in just as you get to the gym.

So I showered up, musked up with some Polo Black, or as I call it, Sex Panther, and put on a nice oxford shit and jeans. Then I started drinking. Heavily. There is something about the prospect of not driving that allows my brain to send the proper drinking signals to my body. These signals were heard loud and clear.

Obviously, none of my fucking hats looked good with this shirt so after playing hat-roulette for a fucking half hour, I decided I'd gel my hair. I greased myself up real good and then spiked it up in the front. I even used a blowdryer for good measure. I'd never done this before, but I felt like a wily veteran. I remember thinking if AC Slater was there he would have been like "Nice hair preppy".

I took the footmobile down to The Dime, which is about a mile down the hill at a not-so-busy intersection. It basically connects civilization to the distant regions of presumably unexplored Indian territory. Literally the edge of the world.

The sidewalk was wet, sandy and black like a Gulf Coast seagull. Cars were passing me to my left and I felt like they were all staring at me, judging me for walking alone. Fuck, that's what I do.

My Masshole buddies and I torture pedestrians. It's our favorite roadtrip past time. We do everything from the classic honking and cursing, to throwing sandwiches at guys mowing their lawn, and eventually graduating to the gold standard "Go masterbate to men you fag" and "Nice baby you pedophile". That feeling of paranoia was fleeting however, because when I stumbled to the end of the street, there were no more cars.

I could hear the unmistakable sound of Jason Derulo playing upstairs. As I turned the corner for the entrance, I was aghast at how many people were outside smoking. There must have been a dozen people ripping butts outside. So I wafted away the smoke from my eyes, held the door open for a guy in a wheelchair, and got out my I.D. for the bouncer.

Christ dude, I talked about the eclectic assortment of hats at the Job Lot, you should have seen this Dime crowd. It was a fucking American melting pot. Young college kids, homeless drug addicts, old towney couples, and the local Penobscot Indian Tribe all came together to bond over the one thing they all have in common...their love for Taio Cruz and $2 well drinks.

You think your townies are bad? Please. They have nothing on Orono townies. From the unintelligent hick accent, to the faded Wal-Mart camouflage, to the underlying feeling of unfulfillment, jealousy and disdain from having to live in a college town, these guys are unpredictable and sometimes scary. They all work at the same mill, they all talk about their truck, and they are all cut from the same mold. The only thing that really varies is the amount of teeth.

I went up to the bar and immediately recognized the bartender from one of my classes. It was good to see a familiar face among the crowd.

Me: I didn't know you worked here.
Bartender: Hey whats up! I haven't seen you in class in a while!
Me: I've been...sick.
Bartender: What can I get for you?
Me: Two well vodka tonics.
Bartender: You want me to leave the tab open?
Me: No close it.

I did this for two reasons. First, whenever I'm this drunk I always leave my debit card at the bar. Always. And secondly, I trust my body. I am about two drinks away from what I call Prime Form.

Prime Form is the perfect amount of alcohol. It allows you to become God's gift to the world. Everything you say is gold, and everything you do is memorable.

However, that alcoholic sweet spot is very elusive and can sometimes be tricky to find, not unlike a salamander. Some nights you drink too slow, or you drink too much too fast, and can never attain the glorious state of mind where you become self-conscious of nothing. You feel like Mario after you get one of those flashing stars...just fucking invincible.

And with gel in my hair, no one could stop me. I grabbed my drinks and debit card, signed my check, and bid the bartender adieu, ready to start my solo adventure.

Upstairs there was a DJ, dance floor and another bar, so I wondered around talking to random people, until it finally hit.

I was talking to some guy, he was in mid-sentence when I just blurted out, "BORINGGGGG" and walked away.

I had no idea why, it was an impulse that I couldn't ignore. And if you know me, while I'm in this state of mind I am my own biggest fan. I need not an audience. That's what makes it so fun. It's not an act or a show to get attention and make my friends laugh. It's just me.

Back downstairs I went to find some fresh faces to mock. There was still a lot of people there, most were playing pool and standing around like idiots. I went up to this one townie woman, really uninspired looking with yellowish skin, not unlike a salamander.

I talked to her for a few minutes but my brain was telling me to push it farther and farther.

"You look like you could suck a meaaannn dick". That was the last thing I ever said at that bar.

She threw her glass of beer at me, and it shattered on the wall behind me.

She then started closed-fist wailing on my face.

I put my hands behind my back, so no one would wrongly interpret my defense as offense, and literally stuck out my jaw. It was as if I enjoyed it.

Getting reactions out of people is like a drug for me. And getting punched in the face repeatedly by some old chick I pissed off was strangely satisfying.

Before I knew it the bouncers were all over me and threw me out. Not her. Me. It was fucking ridiculous and it legitimately pissed me off. I took a beating like the late Arturo Gatti and they have the fucking nerve to throw me out?

But I honestly forgot about the whole thing when I saw the guy in the wheelchair...

Reindeer Games

You know what's weird? Donner is actually Rudolph's father, yet they both work for Santa. If I was Donner I'd be like "Damnit son, your stupid red nose is glowing again." and he'd probably be like "STFU dad".


You always hear a bunch of shit about Rudolph, but literally nothing about the others. So I thought it would be a nice Christmas gesture to give the other reindeer some love.

Dasher - The newest member of the team, Dasher, has Autism. So grateful was he to be a part of this Christmas tradition, that he accepted the position of Anchor at the back of the sleigh. Which is fine, if you like animal fecal shit flying up in your face all the time. Or you don't even notice. Because you're Autistic.

Dancer - A former Miss Reindeer USA contestant, whose propensity for ballet carried her through the talent portion of the contest, but unfortunately was not enough to compensate for her unsightly cleft lip.

Prancer - The only openly homosexual reindeer on Santa's sleigh, often seen wearing Dancer's ballet slippers and prancing around like a fruit. He dated Lance Bass briefly, but the tabloids had a field day with the obvious fish reference ("Reindeer Caught Kissing Bass", etc).

Vixen - Vixen is a RILF. This foxy bitch knows how to work her hind legs. Tight, rockin bod (for a reindeer), all the male reindeer want their turn with her. Except Prancer. He's a fag.

Comet - In human terms, Comet is a Eunuch, although his castration was performed accidentally by a chimney. This has been incredibly difficult for him, as he can no longer act on his hoof fetish.

Cupid - it's 340 am and i didn't think the old cupid story was funny so fuck it

Blitzen - A former substitute teacher, Blitzen was convicted of manslaughter after accidentally getting his horns tangled in a young student's abdomen. He served 8 years of a 12 year sentence before taking advantage of Santa's Work Release Program.

Hope Santa was good to you guys.

It's Always Sunny In Orono's Guide to St. Patrick's Day (2011)

St. Patrick's Day is one of my favorite drinking holidays besides July 4th, Christmas, New Years Eve, New Years Day, Thanksgiving, Labor Day, Flag Day, Earth Day, a neighbor's First Communion, a pet's funeral, and Wednesday through Sunday. Here are 10 ways to get the most out of this, the most sacred of drinking holidays.

#10 It is the only acceptable day of the year to bang a ginger. Though if you can get past those freckly shoulders, you're a better man than me.

#9 Struggling with not knowing your family's cultural identity? Well, get a load of this tasty treat. There are actually more people of Irish descent in America than there are in Ireland itself.

Bang! I just climbed to the top of your family tree and threw you down a nut. You're Irish.

#8 In some areas of the world, Leprechauns actually exist, though they prefer to be called Midgets with Hats.

#7 An Irish Car Bomb is a pint of Guinness, 1/2 shot Bailey's, and 1/2 shot Jameson. Any other variation of this such as Red Bull, although probably delicious, is not an Irish Car Bomb. And please fucking chug the thing.

If you sip on it like a '94 Cabernet, the Bailey's will curdle and you'll have a mug full of cheese.

#6 After you're done buying a round of Car Bombs for some sexy dimes, raise your glasses in a traditional Irish toast. In Gaelic, Slainte (pronounced SLON-cha), which means "to health".

#5 Smithwicks is pronounced "Smitticks". Saying "smith-wicks" makes it sound like you're in the business of making generic candles.

#4 Similarly, you may read the phrase Guinness Draught across your beverage. The word draught is a variation of spelling the word draft. It is still pronounced "draft".

#3 You want a lucky charm? Forget carrying the rabbits foot, keep the 90's television card in your back pocket. Every time you find yourself enamored with a chick too dumb to keep a conversation, play it.

Inevitably, this girl will have spent large part of her childhood watching Clarissa Explains it All, Salute Your Shorts and Rocko and Doug and all that shit, so you know you at least have that in common. I don't know why, but most every hot chick our age loves talking about Nickelodeon. All the cool ones anyway.

#2 When some NoOb asks , "What's that little ball thing inside the Guinness bottle?" you can Pwn them by responding: "It's called a Widget. When the bottle is sealed, it is pressurized with nitrogen, which draws beer into the Widget through small holes. When the bottle is opened, this sudden decrease in pressure releases beer from the widget, agitating the beverage and creating rich, foamy head." Get a flash card.

#1 Many Mainers believe Boston to be center of the universe, mostly because Boston is the closest city with no moose population to speak of. Subsequently, it may be construed that the Dropkick Murphys are the end-all be-all of Celtic punk rock. With my Massachusetts heritage I'll be the first one to say that the LA-based Flogging Molly is vastly superior.

So put on your Flogging Molly playlist and start pregaming.

"It's St. Patty's Day, everyone's Irish tonight." - The Boondock Saints