Dangerous Dining

Posted by Chris

Happy Thanksgiving! Remember, a light breakfast today that includes no carbs and you should be ready to demolish a Thanksgiving meal and hopefully reach digestive Nirvana.

Speaking of food, overeating reminds me of an experience I had a little over a year ago. I’m not sure if it’s because of our busy work schedules or our apathy when it comes to food preparation, but my wife and I tend to dine out a lot. In the four years we’ve both been in the area, I think we’ve eaten at just about every restaurant in a ten mile radius, many of them dozens of times. So when a new restaurant opens up, we try to go as soon as we can to discover if this new establishment will enter into our current dining out rotation.

There’s an area about 100 yards from our condo development that’s referred to as “restaurant hill”. You don’t have to be Stephen Hawking to figure out restaurant hill is a group of restaurants on a large hill. It’s a mix of chain restaurants (Outback, Longhorn, TGI Friday’s), and independent restaurants (Japanese Steakhouse, authentic Mexican). One thing about the restaurants on restaurant hill is that many of them don’t last too long. Restaurant hill is like the Menudo of restaurants – once one gets too old, a newer, updated version takes its place. When I first moved here, the restaurant selection was completely different than it is now. There was a Thirsty Dog Brewery, which was replaced by Bennigan’s. Last year, not surprisingly, Bennigan’s went out of business, and now an unknown new restaurant is in the process of moving in. Side note: Bennigan’s along with Ruby Tuesday, are the worst chain restaurants in existence. It’s high school cafeteria quality food with a bar. A friend and I once ate at Ruby Tuesday and it felt like a funeral parlor, complete with the dim lighting, sad music, and depressed people. After 10 minutes there, I had the excitement level of an actual corpse, and was only awakened from my near comatose state by a waitress ramming a vacuum cleaner into my feet. That’s right, she literally hit my foot with the vacuum. There were 6 other people in the restaurant at the time, which means she didn’t have that much to clean up. Either she was farsighted, or the only way she could revive me enough for me to wake up and calculate her tip was to hit me with the first cleaning appliance she could find.

As you travelled up the hill, a few years ago there used to be a Damon’s. Damon’s soon went out of business and became a Japanese steakhouse, which is still around today. That’s great for me, because I’ll take sushi/hibachi over pork any day. There was also a Don Pablo’s and Amazon Trail restaurant. Amazon Trail went out of business, and was replaced by an authentic Mexican restaurant. Since authentic Mexican is ten times better than fake Mexican (Don Pablo’s), soon enough Don Pablo’s went out of business, and was replaced by the worst restaurant I’ve even been to.

How to spot an authentic versus fake Mexican restaurant:

Authentic: All the servers, cooks, and hosts are actual Mexican people.

Fake: Staff made up entirely of castoff servers from Applebee’s and Chili’s.

Authentic: Servers speak Spanish, can only say “Check” and “Refill” in English.

Fake: Servers speak English, can only say “Hola” and “Livin’ La Vida Loca” in Spanish.

Authentic: Telemundo is playing on TV at the bar when you go for lunch.

Fake: Frasier is playing on the bar TV when you go for lunch (Spanish subtitles).

Authentic: Your food arrives within 3 minutes after ordering it.

Fake: Food takes 20 minutes to arrive, and they try to hold you over with store-bought Tostitos chips and salsa.

Authentic: A margarita is called “Margarita”.

Fake: A margarita is called “Crazy Loco Salsarita”.

Authentic: Bathrooms doors say “Hombres” and “Mujeres”.

Fake: Bathroom doors say “Guys” and “Gals”.

Authentic: A burro is somewhere on the premises.

Fake: A pack of stray cats sometimes hangs around the dumpster.

Now back to the story. Don Pablo’s was replaced by a new restaurant called Steak On A Stone, and the couple we were going to dinner with agreed to try it with us. We were not completely aware of the concept of Steak On A Stone until we arrived. I had the pre-conceived belief that you ordered a steak, it was prepared to your liking in the kitchen, and kept warm for you on a heated stone. Wrong. We found out quickly Steak On A Stone’s goal is to make you feel like a prehistoric cave man. After reading the disclaimer that children 12 and under are not allowed to eat here due to safety concerns, your first step on the menu is to choose a meat. The waitress informed us that the meat you select is actually a hunk of rare, unseasoned meat, similar to if you bought it in a butcher shop, or cut it off an animal you just killed on a hunt with your tribe. After making your selection, your meat it is brought out to you (still in a bloody rare state) on a volcanic rock that is heated up to 750 degrees. It also includes 2 sides and a seasoning sauce. This combination of items is a bad idea for so many reasons.

First of all, our foursome all had several drinks while we were waiting at the bar before dinner, and now you’re bringing a 750-degree rock to put right in front of me. That’s like giving scissors to a blind man – someone is going to get hurt. Not to mention the table that the four of us were sitting at was actually almost the size of a 2-person table, so now I have to maneuver around 3 other burning stones to grab anything else on the table. Maybe I should have been informed of this before I worsened my reflexes with 3 Tanqueray and tonics an hour ago.

So the four of us order food (guys ordered steaks, girls ordered scallops), and more drinks. Before the waitress left my wife asked how she would know the scallops were done, since she has never cooked anything, let alone possibly salmonella filled seafood, on a stone before. “You’ll just know”, is how the waitress responded. Ok, so now she had to balance handling her buzz and not undercooking her seafood. Not a very relaxing meal so far. I was starting to feel like I went to spring break with Habitat for Humanity. “Great, it’s spring break, but I’m going to a poverty stricken third world country, paying for my transportation and meals, and then once I get there I do manual labor the entire time. Why the hell didn’t I just go to Panama City again?” Well, in this case my Panama City would have been Fleming’s.

So finally our food comes, and the searing hot rocks are placed before us. Our dumbass waitress leaves without clearing our empty glasses, so now we literally have 6 square inches of tablecloth that can be seen under all of our rocks, sides, and glasses. That’s when the real work began. I quickly realized how important time management would be during this meal. Since the steaks are so large, we were unable to cook the entire slab of meat at once on the stone. The waitress recommended cooking it a few pieces at a time. So we had to develop a system where we cut a few pieces off the steak, let them cook, eat those pieces and while doing so cut off more pieces and let them cook so that when you’re done eating, the next batch is ready. In between all of this, you have to skillfully avoid touching the rock while reaching for your side dishes or getting your drink. I felt like my hand was playing “Assault” on American Gladiators, but instead of dodging speeding tennis balls I was avoiding disfigurement. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyenKCEJ8i4&feature=fvsr

Oh yes, and did I mention everyone was about 5 drinks deep at this point?

So after a little while our glasses were cleared, the cooking system is in place, and everyone is getting the hang of this experience. All of my sudden, my wife yells “Ouch!”. The butter sauce for her scallops somehow got onto the scalding hot rock, and shot up like sizzling bacon grease onto her arm. Our table had now turned into a war zone, and our food was rebelling against us. As my red-armed wife was sliding her chair away from the table, I finally wondered why anyone would ever pay to go out and cook their own food. The reason you go to dinner is to eat well-prepared food and be taken care of by your server, not to put your life on the line and stress yourself out cooking possibly undercooked meat and eating cold sides and bad sauces. I felt like the biggest sucker in the world. It’s like if I paid for a day at the spa and gave a massage to my masseuse, or paid to go to the chiropractor and cracked his back. What the hell were we doing here?

We finished our meals and laughed about the experience. We all agreed this novelty dining idea was destined for failure, and would be the next Ricky Martin in the Menudo of restaurant hill. We were so sure of its failure we vowed to return exactly one year later if this place could somehow stay in business. Well, somehow that shithole is still open. I guess for the same reason that Kid Rock has had a #1 single and The Real Housewives series is still on TV – Americans have shitty taste and are generally stupid.

I’ll let you know how my steak was after next weekend.

Thanks But No Thanks For Giving

Posted by John

Perhaps I’ve already beaten the I-hate-Thanksgiving horse to death but I’m going to give it a few more swings just for good measure.

Last week at work my department had their annual Thanksgiving potluck, which combines three of my least favorite things: Thanksgiving, work, and people. The run up to this year’s potluck was no different to last year’s, as I wrote about here – the e-mails came out guilting all of us to sign up to bring a special dish and I watched day by day as the list filled up with more and more horrendous food: 8 pies, three green bean casseroles, 2 cheesy potatoes, 6 versions of “homemade” mac and cheese… 12 sticks of butter, 8 servings of carbs, 4 days worth of calories… I just threw up thinking about it all.

To be honest, I’m better off not bringing a dish to these stupid things. For one, I can’t cook shit. What am I going to whip up? Some pierogies or something? Secondly, people loath me when I bring a veggie or fruit dish or something. I watched this happen at two recent work potlucks: Bob from the structural department is making his way down the food line, piling his plate high with hot dogs, Swedish meatballs, and potato salad as he comes across a tray of veggies and I can read the look on his face, “What the fuck is this? Are these vegetables? This is a goddamn potluck, not a salad bar. Which one of you granola eating, hippie-loving socialists brought these goddamn veggies?... Oh, there you are, standing in the corner with your beard, all smug like a goddamn socialist…”

The day before the Thanksgiving potluck I was talking to a woman and asked her what she was bringing. “Cheesy potatoes,” she replied, “Why, what are you bringing? A veggie tray?” I’m not making this up. You bring a veggie tray to two potlucks and you get labeled as the goddamn veggie tray guy. Whatever. I didn’t bring a veggie tray; instead I brought the only thing I can prepare – baked apples.

The other thing about a stupid potluck is, everyone assigns so much fake merit to how much of their dish gets consumed. Like, if Connie’s disgusting cheeseball is sitting next to Diane’s cauliflower stew, and everyone is lapping up Diane’s cauliflower stew like there’s complimentary New Moon movie tickets at the bottom of the bowl or some shit but no one is touching the gross-ass cheeseball, it gives that bitch Diane the opportunity to be like, “Oh Connie, I see you’re going to have a lot of cheeseball left over…” as she lets the sentence trail off, knowing full well that she might as well have just told Connie her new haircut looks “matronly” or that her son might not be clever enough for the honor role or her dog looks “mangy”.

Rather than get caught up in that bullshit I just stack the cards in my favor by making an exceptionally small dish. I apply my patented work-potluck-dish-sizing equation: Take the total number of people in your division and divide that number in half. Then take that number and divide it in half again. Take that number and divide it in half once more and you come up with the total number of people your dish should serve. For instance, there are 50 people in my division, half of that is 25, half of that is 12.5, and half again is 6.25. Don’t round up, round down. I made enough baked apples for 6 people and I ate one serving so at the end of the day all the baked apples were gone and I was like, “Huh, looks like the baked apples were a big hit.” Meanwhile electrical Tony is staring into the biggest fucking crock-pot of green beans I’ve ever seen thinking to himself, “Well now what the fuck am I going to do with 47 people’s worth of green beans?”

Fortunately for Tony he wasn’t alone. In fact, the potluck was last Thursday and I just got another e-mail today saying there were still leftovers available. Now, if I didn’t eat Randy’s fucking pigs in a blanket last Thursday, what in the hell would compel me to eat his pigs in a blanket the following Monday? I’ll tell you what – nothing.

In the previous incarnation of the blog I made several references to “the new kid” at work. It’s been damn near a year since he started working but he’s still the newest person and I don’t have any other words to describe him so I’ll continue to refer to him as the new kid.

I’ve come to really like the new kid as I’ve taken him under my wing to help him along through the world. That doesn’t mean I still don’t fuck with him every chance I get though, which he makes exceptionally easy for me because he’s still all young and precocious as he hasn’t learned how to live life yet.

For instance, he hasn’t figured out how to go to the grocery store. Every single morning he comes rushing into his cube with this ravenous look in his eyes like he just got kicked off Survivor having not eaten for the past three weeks. Obviously he doesn’t get up early enough to eat breakfast but even if he did, he hasn’t figured out how to buy cereal and milk. Shit, he hasn’t figured out how to buy bananas or granola bars either. For some reason though he always has a bag of barbeque potato chips at his desk so every goddamn morning he comes bursting into the office, rips open his filing cabinet, and starts ravaging that bag of chips like a goddamn hyena over a water buffalo carcass. CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH! As he’s mauling the chips. CRUNCH, CRUCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

Who eats barbeque chips at 8 in the morning?

At first I found it funny but now it’s just goddamn annoying. The thing is though, he hasn’t yet figured out how annoying it is so I decided to drop him a hint. Just like me, it would be better for everyone if he didn’t bring anything to the potluck. I mean, what’s he going to bring? A half eaten bag of barbeque potato chips? Well, knowing full well he was going to avoid the potluck like the plague, I took the liberty of signing him up to bring a dish to the potluck anyway. As a matter of fact, I signed him up to bring a bag of Ruffles Smokehouse Barbeque Potato Chips with Ridges.

Literally within an hour of putting that on the list there was this low murmur running throughout the office as people wondered why in the hell someone would sign up to bring Ruffles Smokehouse Barbeque Potato Chips with Ridges to a goddamn Thanksgiving potluck. Was he joking? Was he serious? Someone even stopped me and was like, “Is the new kid really bringing barbeque Ruffles to the potluck?” I laughed so hard under my breath I shit my pants a little bit as I replied, “It wouldn’t be thanksgiving without the Ruffles.”

My plan worked even better than I could have expected though. The morning of the potluck everyone was gathered in the conference room getting their dishes all set out and literally there were 49 people in the room as the Division Manager was like, “We’ll give it another minute to make sure everyone is here before we say Grace,” when I saw the new kid try to sneak in through the back door and fuck me if he wasn’t carrying a bag of Ruffles barbeque chips! He kind of casually strolled over to the food table, set it on the corner, and nonchalantly walked away hoping no one noticed. Not 5 seconds later the Administrative Assistant who had organized the whole event took one last walk down the food table to make sure everything was in order and literally paused to do a double take like, “What the fuck is this? Who the fuck would actually bring a bag of Ruffles barbeque potato chips to a goddamn Thanksgiving potluck???”

It turns out, the new kid wasn’t going to come to the potluck at all but just by chance his girlfriend had a potluck of her own that day so she was going to make two casseroles so he could bring one to work. The day before the potluck he went to sign up on the list and fuck him if the list wasn’t already full. There was no room to sign up for anything. And then he saw his name already on the list, right next to the words “Ruffles Smokehouse Barbeque Potato Chips with Ridges.” He correctly thought I was the one who put it on the list but he couldn’t be certain. In fact there was enough self-doubt that he literally thought someone might have wanted Ruffles Smokehouse Barbeque Potato Chips with Ridges and he was supposed to bring them. So he did.

I watched every goddamn person walk through the food line, plates stacked high with turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, rolls, green beans, cheesy potatoes, Swedish meatballs… and then every goddamn person came to the end of the table and paused, thinking to themselves, “Someone actually brought Ruffles Smokehouse Barbeque Potato Chips with Ridges to the potluck. Why the fuck would you bring Ruffles Smokehouse Barbeque Potato Chips with Ridges to a goddamn potluck???” Oh man, I’m laughing right now just thinking about it.

I hate Thanksgiving, but on certain occasions there’s nothing I like more than some Thanksgiving Ruffles Smokehouse Barbeque Potato Chips with Ridges. 

--

Despite my opinion on the occasion, I sincerely hope everyone has a great holiday. 

Cheers

Red, White, and Blue... Necks, Trash, and Toothes

Posted by John

If while you were reading my good friend Chris’ recent post regarding cell phone belt clips, laughing hysterically and thinking to yourself, “Oh man, this is so fucking funny; I hate those cell phone belt clips. People that wear those things are such tool wagons!” then in the process received a phone call on your own cell phone and answered that call with one of those Bluetooth earpieces, go ahead and loosen up nice and good, stretch out a little bit here and there, then go right on and kick yourself in the goddamn face because you’re no better than those cell phone belt clip wearing boners.

The only time you’re allowed to wear a Bluetooth earpiece is while driving. In fact, I’ll go so far as to encourage you to wear one while driving because you’ll no doubt be a safer driver as a result. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say you can do whatever you want while you’re behind the wheel of your car if it makes you a safer driver. If you prefer to drive your car without any pants on because you find pants to be too confining, causing your legs to get all hot and sweaty which in turn distracts you from the road, then by all means, drive your car without any pants. Similarly, if you find that Sarah McLachlan’s soft, angelic voice, capable of reducing a grown man to tears, soothes and calms you while you drive your car, therefore helping you focus on your surroundings and operate your vehicle in a safer manner, then don’t even think about not listening to some Fumbling Towards Ecstasy or Mirrorball or something while you’re driving. In the same way, if that Bluetooth earpiece helps you drive, there isn’t a self-respecting, liberty loving, freedom preaching American out there that should tell you otherwise.

But for fuck’s sake, when you get to your destination, take that stupid earpiece off of your head. You would not, in a million years, drive somewhere sans pants to maximize your driving comfort only to not put your pants back on when you got to where you were going. Similarly, no one with an ounce of dignity would listen to Sarah McLachlan, even within the privacy of their iPod ear buds, outside of their own personal transportation vehicle. These are just facts. And just like these are facts, it is a fact that you are a complete douchesicle if you wander about the world wearing one of those fucking Bluetooth earpieces.

If you’re not driving, it doesn’t matter if you’re wearing the Bluetooth while you’re using it or while you’re not using it. Both situations look stupid. If you’re using it you look like you’re talking to no one. You know who else talks to no one? Crazy people. If you’re not using it, you look like you have a futuristic miniature marsupial hanging from your ear. You know who else likes marsupials? Crazy people.

I can lash out with a similar rant about texting, but I’ll save my breath except for this: do not ever text me while you’re driving. You may think I’m concerned about your safety but I’m not. I’m just fucking tired of receiving nonsensical text messages from people who are distracted by their driving.

“Were do ur want 2 got 45 diner 2light?”

What the fuck does that mean? I hope you got in a car accident after you sent me that message.

Now, while I agree with almost everything my friend Chris stated regarding the retardedness of the belt clip, he knew in doing it that I would be compelled to take exception to the assertion that David Beckham’s belt clip is the reason soccer hasn’t caught on in the United States. The real reason soccer hasn’t caught on can actually be explained by our earlier discussion about the merits of certain holidays, and specifically the holidays of Halloween and Thanksgiving.

Soccer hasn’t caught on here because the majority of real Americans - you know, the ones that carry guns, drive trucks, eat beef, pork, or beef wrapped in pork with every meal, and consider camouflage to be a color – those Americans prefer Thanksgiving and Baskin Robbins to Halloween and porno, and also prefer football to soccer. Seriously, try to follow me on this one. The majority of Americans love football and an image like this is the embodiment of Football, Thanksgiving, ice cream and America:

This is a picture of the winner’s of John Madden’s annual Thanksgiving Day football game tradition - the players on the winning team are awarded a turkey that has been stuffed with a duck then cooked in the oven. First or all, what the fuck kind of tradition is that? You win a football game and you get a turkey from John Madden? The last thing I would probably want after playing a football game is a turkey followed closely by a cigarette or something. Secondly, do you know what it’s called when you stuff a duck into a turkey then cook it? It’s called a turducken. I’m not making that up, you can Wikipedia that shit. All of this explains why football, Thanksgiving, ice cream, John Madden, and America suck.

By contrast, the rest of the world, including a minority of Americans, see an image like this as the embodiment of International diplomacy, the most beautiful sport in the world, porno, and Halloween:

How on earth does mutton-chopped David Beckham embody Halloween, you’re asking yourself? Well, I’ll tell you. A reliable source who follows his career closely (and by “follows” I mean “stalks”) informed me that David Beckham grew out those beautiful mutton-chops for his Halloween costume this year… he went as Wolverine. Now why the hell would David Beckham, the most recognizable athlete, celebrity, and human on God’s brown earth, grow a ridiculous beard just for Halloween? Because he, Halloween, porno and The Beautiful Game, are all bad! Fucking! Ass!

In contrast:

“Hey there, Brady Quinn; what are you doing for Halloween this year? Oh, you’re going as a loser?... Cool. Cool. Good costume.”

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I’ve said before, this is not and has never been a blog about pushing my own political or social agenda onto anyone reading it; anything that appears to the contrary is really just intended to be all in good fun. However, from time to time I come across something that I really care about and feel inclined to pass along with no other obligation attached to it at all. That said, this is something that appears humorous at first but really is something that I’m quite serious about and felt I should pass along, especially given the timeliness of it:

http://www.worldtoiletday.com/

Clip Art

Posted by Chris

Our society is complex. We have people of all ages, races, religions, and backgrounds interacting together on a daily basis. Every person has a different upbringing, and a different set of values they believe in. Everybody has their own life story, and everybody has different opinions on everything. I like to think of myself as a very tolerant person. I don’t know what you’ve been through in life, what situation you go home to at night, and what kind of problems you wake up to in the morning. We are all just part of the human race. Just people. Everyone lives differently, and that’s OK with me. You may go to church, or go to temple. Either way, I’m cool. You may shave your head, or have long hair. I’m good either way. You may like to drink, you may not like to drink. I’m indifferent. You may keep you cell phone in your pocket, you may keep it attached to your belt on a clip. Now that’s where I draw the fucking line.

As diverse as our society is, we still have to live by some basic ground rules. And no one, no matter how old you are, where you’re from, or what you do for a living, should wear a cell phone belt clip. It’s inexcusable. It looks absolutely ridiculous, completely foolish, and utterly absurd. If you currently wear a cell phone belt clip, I will help you, and tell you what all your friends want to tell you but are too nice to actually say. You need to take off the cell phone belt clip, because you look like a jackass.

I’m not sure why people actually do this, but it can only be for one of the following reasons:

1. You think owning a cell phone is cool. It’s not 1990, and you are not Zack Morris ordering pizza in study hall trying to impress Lisa Turtle and Jessie Spano. It’s 2009, and everyone has a cell phone now. They are a necessity. It’s not some prized possession to put on display for the world to see. You are not advertising some superior social status just because you have the latest Samsung flip phone attached to your braided belt. In fact, you are on equal ground with that man wearing dirty clothes sitting in the alley that you just gave a dollar to this morning. Except now he has an extra dollar to pay his AT & T bill.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/03/22/AR2009032201835.html

See douchebag, everyone has one, so don’t go around showing it off like you won the Stanley Cup.

2. You’re too lazy to reach inside your pocket to get it. I know it’s a little extra effort to slightly arch your hips up and reach down into your pocket to grab your phone if you are sitting down. And I realize if you’re wearing jeans, the back of your hand can brush against the denim when reaching into your pocket, and may get a little scratched. But I don’t care if the insides of your pockets are lined with razor blades, it’s still a better option to reach in and grab your phone instead of wearing it on your belt. Even if you have a beard, and laziness is a valid excuse for anything that you do, that does not include cell phone belt clips.

These people who refuse to remove their cell phone belt clip always have some reason why their phone has to be displayed on their belt like a priceless work of art. So the next time some Picasso gives you his reason why he can’t pocket his Blackberry, refer to this list on how to put him in his place:

Picasso: I have fat fingers.

You: Lay off the Arby’s.

Picasso: My pants are too tight and the phone won’t comfortably fit in my pocket.

You: Get a smaller phone or bigger pants.

Picasso: I’m afraid the radiation from my phone may give me testicular cancer if I keep it in my pocket.

You: I understand your concern. You must have giant balls to constantly go against the norms of society and proudly wear your phone on your exterior everyday. It would most likely benefit mankind if you didn’t reproduce future cell phone belt clip wearing children, but if you’re really worried about it, go buy yourself some radioactive protective underwear.

http://www.universalmedicalinc.com/radioactive-seed-implant-protective-underwear/detail/1-7724_600

Picasso: My cell phone belt clip is leather. It’s stylish.

You: No, it means you are a douchebag and an animal hater. You will be single forever. The odds of you finding a fellow animal hater who tolerates the wearing of cell phone belt clips is 0%.

Picasso: It’s more convenient.

You (if speaking to a woman): May I touch your leg? (feel her leg-underneath her pants around the ankle area). I see you shaved your legs this morning. It would have been convenient not too, but you shaved your legs anyway because that’s what normal, civilized women do. So shut the hell up and put your phone in your pocket or purse.

*If you determine after touching the woman’s leg she has not shaved her legs, end the interaction immediately. Look at her rough legs, then look at her cell phone belt clip, sarcastically throw your arms up in the air, yell out, “now it all makes sense!” Slowly walk away shaking your head and muttering something about there being no hope for society.

You (if speaking to a man): May I smell you? (without getting too close, smell the man. Remember, just a slight lean in-not too close). I see you showered this morning. It would have been more convenient not too, but you showered anyway because that’s what normal, civilized men do. So shut the hell up and put your phone in your pocket.

*If, after smelling the man, you determine he has not showered today, do not jump to conclusions. This is where it gets difficult. He may perform physical labor all day, and so his job leads to his stench. You can’t say, “I see you haven’t shaved today”, because if he has a beard, that’s badass, not inconvenient. So you ask him, “Did you eat today? It would have been more convenient not to prepare a meal and take the time to sit down and eat it, but you did.” If he looks manorexic and says he has not eaten today, just tackle him to the ground and punch him until he takes the belt clip off.

Picasso: My job requires me to have quick access to my phone.

You: So you’re telling me the line of work you’re in is so important that the extra 2 seconds it takes to reach into your pocket and answer your phone is that big of a deal. That’s impossible, unless somehow your job is to act as “the friend” for the phone-a-friend lifeline on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, where every second truly does count, then you’re lying.

That’s right, as I mentioned above, it doesn’t matter who you are or what you do for a living, it’s inexcusable to wear a cell phone belt clip.

You’re the most powerful man in the world. Don’t you have someone who can carry your phone for you and screen your calls?

Not a surprising move by somebody once in “The Funky Bunch”.

This explains why soccer hasn’t really caught on yet in the U.S.

You.....

Are.....

A.....

Jackass

(and the pleats aren't helping either).

Pipe Dreams

Posted by John

Since relocating to a new city nearly a year and a half ago I have not been shy about my desire to establish myself as a “local” at all my favorite spots around town. To date I have been remarkable only in my lack of success in this pursuit. We have been fortunate enough to become locals at our favorite bar/restaurant, but even that depends on the wait staff on any given night and I still remain less successful than any female with breasts at acquiring beers from the bar, regardless of who the wait staff happens to be. Outside of that, I’ve only been able to establish myself as a “local” with one of the three shuttle drivers that take me to and from work every day, but that’s only because he’s trying to convert me; one of four bank tellers; one of five cashiers at the Panera near my office, who still, every time I come in says, “what’s your name again? I should remember it by now…” Yes you should, Tony, but I’d prefer it if you just remembered what I order once every goddamn week when I’m here; and the third shift security guard at my office building, who really only remembers me because he thinks I look like the MMA fighter, Kenny Florian – “Go get ‘em, Kenny!” he says every time I see him.

I can’t even catch a break at the one place I frequent more than any other – the Home Depot. I have yet to get any recognition or freebees from a single employee of that godforsaken money suck of a place, requiring me to legitimately steal the occasional piece of lumber or drill bit or something just so I can feel like I’m getting remotely close to my dollar value. I’m at that place so goddamn much that even other customers stop me to ask me questions. Just this past weekend I was stopped during two of my three trips by other shoppers. The first guy was like, “Hey man, you a plumber?” as I was wandering aimlessly about the plumbing aisle. I briefly considered telling him I wasn’t a plumber but a plumbing engineer and offer to help him out, but he looked like he had a really serious dilemma on his hands that I just didn’t want to get mixed up in. Plus, I was a little more than taken aback by the fact that he thought I might actually be a plumber. Either I carried such and air of plumbing authority about me, which I know was not the case because in reality I looked more like I was confused by the fact that my arms were connected to my shoulders and not my butt cheeks as I was futilely looking for some sort of miracle plumbing fitting that apparently only exists in God’s dreams, or he thought I looked like I had no qualms about exposing 3 to 6 inches of my ass crack while I worked. In either case, I just wasn’t interested in helping him out so I said no.

The second shopper stopped me later the same day, again in the plumbing aisle, and again while I was aimlessly looking for a plumbing fitting that is no closer to being a reality than a cure for cancer. I still felt kind of bad for ignoring the first guy, so when the second, whom I will refer to as “Bubba”, asked for help I was compelled to give it.

“Hey bud, what you know about PCV pipe?” Bubba asked.

Well, first of all, I know it’s called PVC, otherwise… “A little bit. What can I help you with?”

“Is this here 4-inch pipe?” he asked, pointing to a section of plastic pipe that clearly had ‘3” PVC’ printed on the side of it.

“Uh, no. That’s actually 3-inch pipe.”

“What about this?” he asked, pointing to a piece of pipe immediately adjacent to the first, also with ‘3” PVC’ printed on the side.

For fuck’s sake, Bubba, this is why I don’t help people. “Uh, no. Actually that’s 3-inch pipe as well. Here, the 4-inch pipe is right over here,” I said, taking him 5 steps to the left to the rack of 4-inch pipe.

I spent another 5 minutes helping him find various pieces and parts to complete whatever project he had cooking, during which it became painfully evident that he couldn’t read, which was actually less concerning compared to his complete lack of listening and comprehension skills. While I was glad to assist him I still can’t help but imagine him sitting on the floor of his garage right now amid a dozen PVC fittings without a clue as to what the fuck to do with them.

Incidentally, I can empathize with Bubba because that was pretty much exactly the same predicament I found myself in, only instead of sitting on the floor of my garage I spent the better part of the weekend underneath the house staring into a hole in my main sanitary pipe, that under normal circumstances is not supposed to have a hole in it so as not to spill any of the shit it is intended to convey to the sewer. To be clear, I am the one who put the hole in the pipe and to be more clear, it was kind of intentional.

The task at the outset of the weekend was to install a new drain line for a clothes washer and connect it to the existing sanitary line underneath the house. As a plumbing engineer and a guy who looks like a plumber to the majority of the customers in the plumbing aisle at the local Home Depot, this whole operation shouldn’t have been too difficult. Unfortunately, my breadth of experience in such matters is roughly equivalent to Bubba’s experience with Dr Seuss books. Or books in general for that matter. Or just words in print. Or the goddamn alphabet people really.

To compensate for my lack of experience I spoke to an actual plumber at a plumbing supply store and he told me what to do then handed me a fitting that was supposed to connect the new drain to the existing one. My listening and comprehension skills being far superior to Bubba’s, I followed the plumbers advice exactly, created the hole in the existing pipe and installed the new pipe. But when it came time to use the plumbing fitting he gave me, fuck me if it wasn’t the wrong one. It was right then that I had my own “oh shit” moment as I would rank having an open sanitary pipe under my house somewhere just below getting kicked in the groin and slightly above communicating with strangers on my list of things I do not want to do.

On a side note, opening up that sanitary pipe was perhaps the most disgusting thing I’ve done to date. Sitting in a small, confined space, staring into a pipe that has been the main conduit for a bunch of shit for the past 60-years was pretty much a low point in my life. To put this whole experience into terms some of the readers out there might understand, I basically disimpacted my house’s colon, then gave it a colonoscopy with my hand and finished up with a colonic with a small metal crowbar.

Anywho, at that point the plumbing supply store was closed for the weekend and the plumber who sold me the fitting was probably sitting at home, whacked out on oxycontin, laughing hysterically to himself about the predicament he put me in by selling me a bullshit plumbing fitting. So that’s how I found myself at Home Depot twice in one day, wandering aimlessly about the plumbing aisle, and ultimately running into Bubba.

As it is right now, there is still a hole in my sanitary pipe, a rubber gasket that is not intended for the purpose of plugging up holes in sanitary pipes is the only thing keeping that hole closed. To put the situation into perspective, I would say that’s like fashioning a pair of pants out of paper towels in lieu of wearing actual pants. Yeah, it might get the job done but it’s going to look really fucked up and if the slightest thing should go wrong your shit is going to be all out in the open. In my case, that shit would be literal. I have no other choice though, until I can get back to the plumbing store next weekend to purchase the correct fitting and kill that goddamn plumber… preferably with a lead pipe, in the study, and I don’t care who sees it. 

Hefner Trumps Baskin Robbins

Posted by John

I certainly wasn’t exaggerating about my love for Halloween just as I can assure you my good friend Chris was not exaggerating about his love for Thanksgiving. He also wasn’t exaggerating that I dressed up as him one year for Halloween. Here’s the picture to prove it:

Admittedly I didn’t develop my Halloween costume criteria until several years after this costume because this one was neither badass nor did the mustache make it even marginally more badass. In fact, it just made it a bit more pedophilish. In no way am I suggesting that my friend Chris was not badass in 1997; nor am I suggesting he was a pedophile, to my knowledge; I’m simply saying in 1997 his look was more douche-ass than badass. I mean, he actually came to college sporting a my-first-mustache. It’s amazing that strange freshman girls with low self-esteem and questionable morals would make out with him before he blacked out with something like that crawling around on his upper lip.

Suffice it to say, he’s come a long way from those days. Gone is the mustache and now he has a new Indians hat and Tommy Hilfiger shirt to wear.

I must say though, he did exaggerate one thing in his recent post – there was at least one year of his life when Halloween was like rocky road ice cream to him. Back in 2001 when we were living together with 4 other dudes in the most badass apartment Ada, Ohio had to offer, we hosted a killer Halloween party where we all dressed up as different characters from the Simpsons cartoon. Granted, in addition to making my own Sideshow Bob costume I had to make Chris’ Jimbo Jones outfit, but still, we all had a great time with it, including Chris, and not least of all because he made out with some strange girl and blacked out at the end of the night.

From the left: Duffman, Krusty the Clown, Sideshow Bob (apparently before I started working out 2 hours a day, 8 days a week), Jimbo Jones, Selma Bouvier, Snowball, Sideshow Mel, Marge, Bumblebee Man.

As far back as our friendship goes and as many things as we do agree on, one thing Chris and I will always have to agree to disagree on is our love for holidays.

I have no love for Thanksgiving nor do I think I ever will.

Here’s my main beef with Thanksgiving – the meal. Why is it that all across America on this one day every year, every family is eating some form of turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn, cranberries, etc., etc.? We don’t eat that combination of food on any other day of the year; why Thanksgiving? In fact, let me take it one step further – I love turkey sandwiches, turkey burgers, turkey sausage, you name it. But have you ever been in any restaurant of any merit that isn’t a Golden Corral, Ryan’s Steakhouse, or Hometown Buffet and seen turkey on the menu? Seriously, when was the last time you were at any restaurant – not even a restaurant with a chef, just a restaurant with cooks – where you saw turkey on the menu? Why do you think that is? Is it that Thanksgiving has such a corner on the turkey market that we can’t eat it any other time of year? Or is it that unless you process turkey into near oblivion and slap it on a 6” cold cut trio Subway Sub that it becomes edible? Have you ever had Thanksgiving turkey that wasn’t dry, flakey, flavorless and disgusting? You haven’t.

The only reason you think turkey is good is because of the gravy. In fact, that’s why gravy was invented – to cover up the taste of something that is so godawful you wouldn’t normally eat it. You literally have to drown turkey meat in liquefied fat, cholesterol-infused, calorie-laden gravy to make it edible. Name one decent food that you would actually put gravy on to make it better. Cereal? Disgusting. Pizza? Not in a million years. McDonald’s french fries? I almost just threw up.

Let me put it in very simple terms for you: gravy is the porno magazine of the food pyramid. That is to say, gravy is like a porno magazine because everyone likes it, it makes something that is otherwise horrible more palatable, but if you really step back and look at it with some perspective, it’s really kind of gross and despicable. For instance:

“What do you mean we have to go to your sister’s graduation this weekend? Didn’t she just graduate from something like two years ago? How many goddamn graduations can one person have? Fine, whatever. The only way I’m making it through this is to bring a porno magazine.” And somehow that porno makes an otherwise horrible situation bearable.  

Or, “Goddamnit! My flight is delayed for 6 hours!? This is the worst day ever! What on earth am I going to do for 6 hours? Unless… Yup, here it is – my porno magazine,” and suddenly 6 hours feels like 20 minutes.

It’s like if someone were to approach you and say, “We’re going to play a little game here in which I slap you in the face repeatedly with a cactus while you are powerless to defend yourself. The only thing you’ll have at your disposal is this box of porno magazines.”

“What? Why on earth would I allow you to slap me in the face with a cact… Wait - did you say there was a box of porno involved? Cool; I fucking love porno. Sign me up.”

Under normal circumstances no human being would allow themselves to get slapped in the face with a cactus just like they wouldn’t eat dry, flavorless turkey breast. But you throw in some porno or gravy and suddenly you’re getting excited. Like really excited. It just doesn’t make sense. And just like you wouldn’t whip out some porno in the middle of a normal, enjoyable situation like game night with your friends or something, you also wouldn’t put gravy on a normal, edible meal. Neither is socially acceptable and both are, quite frankly, a little gross. These are just facts.

I don’t know when my disdain for Thanksgiving started but I know it was at a very young age. Years later someone suggested maybe I didn’t like it because my mother was a bad cook. Holy shit I almost shanked that sawed-off sonofabitch in the face. I don’t care if my mom is the goddamn witch in Hansel and Gretel, boiling up kidnapped children to serve to us every night, you don’t, for one second, think that you can suggest to my face that she was a poor cook and not come away with an old toothbrush that I meticulously whittled down to a deadly point sticking out of your fucking cheek.

Whenever, and for whatever reason my dislike for Thanksgiving started, it hasn’t waned over the years. I just don’t understand the obsession with gorging yourself on mediocre food at best. I for one am not willing to voluntarily eat so much food that I find myself in a situation where I can do nothing but lay around on the couch and watch tv while simultaneously feeling like I’m going to puke and shit my pants. Every other day of the year there is a name for that – it’s called the flu, and you already know about my recent run-in with the flu.

If I could summarize this whole discussion by comparing various holidays to porno magazines, it would look something like this:

Halloween: Playboy (classy, fun, and timeless)

Christmas: Penthouse (exciting in that you never really know what you’re going to get)

Memorial Day: Hustler (not really my cup of tea, but in the absence of any other holiday, I’ll take it)

Valentine’s Day: FHM (lame)

Thanksgiving: Barely Legal (no class and I always come away feeling kind of sick)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some literature I need to organize to help me get through the upcoming holiday. 




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