Official Home Of BIG Ben Kennedy

The spring after high school I took that high school diploma and got a high dollar job as a kid coach for a children’s party place called Discovery Zone. Sure, Spencer Gifts tried offering bigger bucks to keep me, but I told them, “I didn’t work for four years to earn a diploma in high school studies to not be making the really big bucks.”

So it was off to DZ I went to become a kid coach. Now as a kid coach, my 3 main responsibilities were simple: Host birthday parties in the “party rooms” in the back, make sure the kids don’t hurt themselves while running around in the MegaZone, and clean up the inevitable vomit.

If you think back, you probably remember that every birthday party you’ve ever had, some kid threw up. Heck, some of you reading this may not have to think back that far because in your later years your more alcohol based parties still feature that wonderful joy to every celebration: The Party Puker.

Just be glad you didn’t host children’s birthday parties. On a good Saturday, there were at least 3 parties, which meant 3 Party Pukers!

Having worked these parties enough, I started getting good at picking the Party Pukers out. Usually there were physical traits, but I always looked deeper.

For starters, there was the little nerdy boy. He wants to run around, and keep up with the other kids, but his cardiovascular lifestyle of computers and PBS hasn’t got him quite up to par. But man is he trying! Because at a birthday party, with parents around, everyone are equals. The same kid who is going to be spitting spitballs into the back of your head come Monday, is playing with you today and you’re not going to waste it! If you can keep up, he might find you cool, and you could turn your life around!

Also, there was no telling what he may have eaten at the party that he may have a mild allergic reaction to.

Next up, we have the fat kid. Once again, this is a matter of his prime cardiovascular fitness level, coupled with the fact that he ate everything that was put in front of him including half of a Styrofoam cup. He’s huffing, he’s puffing, and he’s red in the face and sweaty.

For me, it was like looking in a magic mirror that makes you appear younger.

And lastly, there was the Asthmatic boy. He would be running around, laughing, having the best time, and then he would stop in his tracks. Is he just going to vomit right here? Not even make an attempt for the restrooms? And that’s when the boy reaches in his pocket, and pulls out an Asthma Inhaler.

Now this puts me at an impasse. I understand Asthma to a certain extent because my little brother was diagnosed with it when he was 2 years old. So, I can’t really be mad if this kid does vomit because he honestly can’t help it. But I wish I could ask the parents why they were feeding the Asthmatic kid cookies, punch, cake, candy, and sugar, sugar, and more sugar, and then telling him to run around? It’s called science! And you know he’s just going to throw up in my ball crawl! And if that unfortunate event ever happened, you’d have to take all the balls out, and wash them in a machine, and then wash the bottom of the pit out by hand.

Oh, believe me, it was as much fun as it sounds.

Now you may wonder why the examples I’ve listed were all boys. Well, it’s quite simple. If you were a girl at a birthday party and you didn’t feel well, you sat by a parent, or your parent, and took it easy. Then if you were going to throw up, someone would have an empty cup, or they could get you to the restroom on time. So I never really had to clean up after the girls.

Not the boys! They will just ignore all signs, all stomach pains, all vertigo, and keep playing! Don’t you worry guys, I’m sure someone will gladly clean up your stomach contents. And I was sure that someone was going to be me.

Now, in hindsight, maybe it was a little creepy of me to be stalking these boys while dragging a mop and bucket behind me. But in my defense, I was trying to stay prepared. Sometimes the best defense is a brilliant offense.

Also, I was sure that one day I was going to hear the pre-vomit cough, and be able to kick the wheeling bucket under the kid before the splash hit the tiles.

I hear a female’s voice ring out over the loud speaker, “Code 10 in the MegaZone, Code 10 in the MegaZone.”

The MegaZone was the main play area of Discovery Zone, which resembled a giant hamster cage, complete with multi-colored plastic habitrails. All we were missing was a giant upside down water bottle with a marble in the end of its metal spout. And what was the “Code 10” about? Well if you have a child or remember being a child, then you know that if you say puke, vomit or throw up in a room full of 8 year olds, you’ll start a riot you can’t contain without your local S.W.A.T. team.

I stand there looking over the whole MegaZone, and that’s when I see him. It’s the fat kid. My chubby little doppelganger is in the plastic intersection bubble, crying and fogging it up. I feel bad for him for a second, but then I start to smile when I think about who has to crawl in there to clean it up.

The voice rings out over the loud speaker, “BIG Ben to the MegaZone, BIG Ben to the MegaZone.”

Wait, that’s not who I had in mind. Mostly because I mentioned at the past two staff meetings, that I am 6’2” and 300 pounds, and I don’t fit in those tubes.

The loud speaker squawks again, “BIG Ben to the MegaZone, BIG Ben to the MegaZone.”

“I thought we discussed this! Get Christy to do it, she’s a crackhead, you know she can fit!” I squawk back.

“BIG Ben to the MegaZone.” She taunts again.

“Okay! I hear you…” I yell, before mumbling a ‘ya bitch.’ under my breath as I head to the supply closet to trade up my mop and wheeling bucket for “the gag bag”.

“The gag bag” was a duffel bag with a pair of gloves, a spray bottle of all purpose cleaner, another spray bottle of disinfectant, a small handled bucket, and a dozen rags in it. It was the perfect kit for this situation. I grab “the gag bag”, give a hug to girl behind the prize counter and ask her to “Send my love to Mother, if I shan’t return.” And I embark for the twisting tubes of the MegaZone.

Once inside, I’m met with a confusing mix of emotions. I’m happy because I actually fit through the entrance way. Maybe running around with these kids has taken a couple of pounds off. Then I’m grateful that I’m not claustrophobic, because I exactly take up every available inch of space in this tube. Then I’m offended by the oppressive smell of urine and feet. Then I’m afraid because with every move forward in the tube, my shirt covered love handles drag the walls of plastic, and in turn begins to build a static charge around me. The static has every hair on my body standing up and I swear I could feel my eyebrows tingling. That’s when I look down and see the metal zipper on “the gag bag” and begin to imagine the charge hitting the metal and the spark being so big it shoots me out of the sliding board like a musket. At 19, I was far too young to die. And definitely not like this. I always imagined I would die underneath of Elizabeth Shue’s gyrating naked body, not lodged in a claw machine after a freak static accident. So I quickly toss the bag ahead of me, and am met with yet another emotion: sadness. Sadness over the fact that “the gag bag” bounced off of the side of the tube and slid down the spiral sliding board and plopped on the mat covered floor below.

After crying inconsolably for a good two minutes, I think, “Fuck “the gag bag”, let me just find the fat kid.”

After ten minutes of army crawling, I finally reach the intersection where the fat kid was.

Yes, I said “was”. And not only is he not here, but neither is any vomit. As I sit here, stuck in the plastic intersection bubble, crying and fogging it up, I reach my final emotion of this experience: anger. Angry because I went through all of this for nothing, angry because I just had to laugh at Augustus Gloop when I was a kid, and even more angry because as I look through the fogged up plastic bubble to the floor below, I see the little fat kid, the nerdy kid, and the Asthmatic kid.

And they’re pointing up at me and laughing.

“Look Mommy, the fat man is stuck in the tube!” the fat kid cries.

That was when my high school diploma got my lower paying job at Spencer Gifts back. Let’s just say Discovery Zone frowned upon flipping off and cussing out 8 year olds, and I think I was much more at home amongst edible underwear and electronic fart machines anyway.

When I was growing up, I seem to remember that whenever I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to, my parents would always say, “Go ahead.”

It was never a “Stop!”, or “No, no, no…”, but a very, eerily calm, “Go ahead.”

It only took an ass whooping or two… hundred, to learn that they weren’t giving me permission to do the bad things I was doing. What they were really doing was asking for me to give them permission to beat me like a rented mule.

It was a trap!

Then I grew up and got married, and was free from my parents. No longer will I have to worry about things like “sarcasm”, or “pretext”, or “body language”. Or so I thought.

I was headed home from work the other day when my wife called. “There is nothing to eat in this house! We need to go grocery shopping.” She said.

“I can just stop by the grocery store after work if you want.”

“Whatever, I don’t care, there’s just nothing to eat.”

“Well, do you want to go instead so you can make sure you get some stuff you like?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you go ahead.”

I freeze. An old familiar fear creeps in.

“Go ahead?” I cautiously ask.

“Sure.” She so calmly replies. Almost eerily calm.

Yes, it has been awhile, but I’m not that little kid anymore. I’m older, and wiser, I’m not falling for that shit! Not today, not ever!

When I came home without any groceries, you should have seen the look on your face! You thought you were going to get me, but you thought wrong! Suck it!

And I don’t care how many times I have to sleep on the couch, “make my own fucking dinner”, or “do my own fucking laundry”. I will wake up with Matchbox cars in my back, indigestion in my chest, and wearing three week old swamp ass infested underwear knowing that I’m smarter than you. You will never trap me again!

I guess you should have married ol’ what’s-his-name; he probably would’ve fallen for your entrapment.

In your FACE, bitch!!

Epilogue: Do you still have to pay the utilities if they’re in your name, but you personally don’t occupy the residence anymore?

Have you ever watched your tongue as you brush your teeth? If you haven’t, try it sometime. My tongue becomes the most spastic thing ever as it darts to each side of my mouth trying to lick my toothbrush. Maybe it’s thinking, “Food? Food? Is that food?” It reminds me of a dog constantly nuzzling his nose under your hand to get petted. Then, when I brush my tongue, it calms down, much like a dog.

I imagine my tongue going, “Ahhh, yeaaahh, right there! Riiight there!” just the same as I imagine a dog’s inner voice when I give in to petting them. Then, my overactive imagination is abruptly cut short when I accidentally gag myself.

That will bring you back to reality won’t it?

“I wonder if that asshole is going to be at work today.” “I hope I get laid tonight, it’s been 6 years.” “Wow, my tongue is really spazzin’ out- - HORK!”

And then you’re left bent over, gripping the sides of the sink, eyes watering, praying that you don’t lose your last meal right here, right now in the sink. Sure, you could have turned around for the toilet, but you didn’t have time. A toothbrush gagging is something that will always catch you by surprise even though it’s happened so many times before.

And if you have no idea what I’m talking about, and you have never gagged yourself, or have no gag reflex at all, well then, rock on. I’m sure your husband or life partner is glad they found you.

So after I recover, I’m back to brushing my teeth and watching my tongue again. Only now, coupled with my nerves from my near forceful expulsion of stomach contents, my tongue is flailing around like it’s having a seizure. It’s almost like I can’t control it and it has a mind of its own.

Say, maybe the “mind of its own” excuse might work for going down on our babysitter.

Now, before you judge me, it’s not like she’s 15 years old. She’s 64.

Do you still have no gag reflex? That’s what I thought.

My son Benjamin likes to eat Pop-Tarts in the morning. While I’m sure he likes them for the sugar, I like them because they’re quick, easy, and when we are running late most mornings, they travel well. Sadly, there are some mornings when he doesn’t get to finish his Pop-Tart before we make it to preschool, and I have to take it from him.

“Why not let him take it in” you ask? Because if the other little ones in that kiddie penitentiary catch my son with the good stuff, he’s liable to get shanked with a floor-sharpened Crayola.

Yes, daycares and preschools are rough places now, just ask someone on the inside.

After I drop Benjamin off and tell him, “No tattoos.” I drive to work with anywhere from a half eaten to three quarters eaten Pop-Tart in my passengers seat.

I used to just eat it, but lately I’ve been trying to cut carbs, so I can no longer enjoy the Brown Sugar and Toddler Spit goodness anymore. But not to be wasteful, I instead break it up into small pieces and throw it on the ground during my walk from the car to the front door of my work.

It’s a great way to start your day, pretending to be Hansel. Oh that lucky, lucky Hansel! He got put into a giant cage, and ordered to eat cake and candy and cookies twelve times a day.

Can you tell I miss my carbs?

So while I’m at work, lifting refrigerators, ranges, washers, dryers and big screen TV’s, to 3rd floor apartment buildings all day, I imagine the birds are swooping down and eating the pieces of Pop-Tarts, much like the old children’s story. Only when they swoop down to grab what they think is just another piece of bread, or some stale biscuit or hamburger bun, they get a fruit filled or sugary surprise.

“Holy shit, this cracker’s got strawberry in it! It’s gonna be a good day, boys!”

And the thought of that makes me smile. And it makes me a bit jealous that they get to eat carbs. And a little less mad when I can’t find my way back to the car at the end of the day.

This picture is a couple of weeks old, and since then Benjamin has gotten a pretty nice haircut.

I’ll post a pic of that on here soon.

I loved/hated/might miss the comments on CNN, MSNBC, USA Today, and other websites online forums and message boards. Logic, rationality, good grammar, and any hint of an education be damned, these people had an opinion, and damnit they were going to voice it! Or should I say, offend, disturb, attack, throw out profanities, and make false accusations about anything and everything.

For the past two years, the internet was full of experts on everything from the authenticity of Obama’s birth certificate to the supposed knowledge of medicine and their ability to diagnose a mini-stroke for McCain just by watching him on TV. Every third person knew the candidates personally, and could vouch for their character.

“Obama used to come into my rasturant all the time.”

“Well, I sold McCain his first bicycle, when he was 9, and he was a good kid.”

Obama used to come to your restaurant? When was this? Where was this? When he was in Hawaii? When he was in Chicago? Lemme guess, you didn’t want to tell us the name of your restaurant because that would be shameless self-promoting right? Well maybe I wanted to visit your restaurant. Not just because Obama ate there, but mostly because you can’t spell restaurant and I bet your menus would be a delight to decipher!

“Yes, I’ll have the 1/4 hembagger, with a side of fredom fryes.”

And you sir sold McCain his first bike when he was 9? If you owned your own bike shop when McCain was a kid, you’d be dead or at least 138 years old. Unless you sold him your bike as a child for baseball cards or a set of jacks, I don’t believe you.

They knew everything the media didn’t, including Sarah Palin’s smoke screen tactic of covering up the fact that she is actually a genius of Professor X proportions to Joe Biden’s caging of 14 year-old Vietnamese children in his basement that he uses to punch and do other things to in order to create onomatopoeia for a series of comic books he was been working on for decades.

It had no limits, it had no bounds, and it was always typed out really, really, porly.

Medical professionals will probably tell you that this is a normal part of grieving, but maybe I just want to go into work and have people laugh at me instead of the obligotory, “I’m so sorry.” and the “are you ok?”. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism. Maybe I just wanted to confront my own father in the face in the mirror this morning. Maybe I just wanted to try something new. Maybe I want to look tougher than I am, or than I feel right now. Every other day, I have such a welcoming aura or friendly vibe, that strangers talk to me, or ask me directions. Maybe people will see me looking like a convict or old west gunslinger, and think twice, or not bother. Maybe I just want a tad bit of space. Whatever reason I did it for, I did this…

Please feel free to laugh, or get mad, just anything other than cry for me or feel bad for me. Because the real reason I did this was because I can.

Sorry I couldn’t smile though. I guess I don’t really feel like smiling, or wanted to see how tough I look. Maybe later today, or sometime soon, I’ll take a picture with Benjamin and/or Kerri. I can’t help but smile in those photos.

As for my foray into new facial follicles, I’m not hurting anyone, or myself, and I just want to have some fun right now. Scratch that. I want to have fun for the rest of my life. My wife deserves to be married to a guy like that, and my son and any other kids we may have or adopt in the future deserve a father like that.

It time to be me. I’m not trying to gain fans, or sell a product in the form of a comedian, I’m just me.

I have a day job. I’ve had day jobs the whole time I was a comedian. But you tell the press you are a full-time comedian because it sounds good and it sounds like you are “making it”.

I didn’t “make it”.

I used to work in direct care with the developmentally disabled, now I work for a retail electronics store delivering appliances and big screen TV’s into people’s homes everyday. One of the reasons why I tell you this, is because I’m wondering if customers are going to let me into their homes anymore looking like this. I’m probably going to wear bandanas and sunglasses and push my customer’s comfort levels. Why? Because I know I’m harmless, and I just want to have fun.

The reason why I won’t tell you the name of the store though is because I may say things on here from time to time that are not reflective of my company.

And also I wanted to let you a little deeper into my world, because if my day to day, or my “experiments” yield funny results, I’m going to come right back here and tell you about it. I’m going to make the most out of every minute I get.

So I guess I should welcome you to the world of BIG Ben Kennedy! Not the stand-up comedian, but just a guy named Ben Kennedy with a BIG imagination, BIG heart, who loves BIG, and who laughs BIG.

And I really hope I can change your view of life sometime.