I thought I was going to die this morning.
I thought I was in jail, about to get shanked.
I’m on the subway standing next to this big, black woman with these huge shades on, covering what I thought was the remnants of a black eye. She was chewing like a cow the entire time, only she kept making this weird clicking noise, like she had a mouth full of thumbtacks. Click-click-click. Clllllllick. I had no idea what it was. But I typed this after I got off the train, so, as you can tell, I am alive and well. I departed the train, and I presume she went on spinning that razor blade in her mouth.
I am also a germophobe. How does that tie into this story? Well, I’ll tell you. It all began when I heard Howard Stern interview Howie Mandel on his radio show, oh, maybe close to 10 years ago. Both are notorious germophobes, and I couldn’t believe the scenarios and stories they were discussing. But shoot, everything I heard them say was absolutely right! And disturbing. How door handles in public bathrooms are disgusting because men never wash their hands. They hold their dicks to pee and then just walk right out!
They discussed their entire public bathroom routine: How they first make sure they have enough paper towels at the ready, which means they dispense the appropriate length before they wash. Then they turn on the faucet and wash their hands with soap and water. Doesn’t matter if the faucets are filled with germs, in their estimation, because they are about to wash those hands that just touched the diseased faucet anyway. But after that they don’t touch a thing. They dry their hands with the paper towel they previously laid out and then use that towel to turn off the sink and open the door to the restroom.
Some people might think this is obsessive. I think it’s genius! Changed my public-bathroom-going life. And I’ve done this routine from that day forward. Shit, I don’t leave the house with out Purell. I shoulda bought stock in Johnson & Johnson!
So anyway, I’m on the subway this morning and I didn’t get my customary spot with my back against the side door of the car, the one that leads from train to train. I like that spot best because then I don’t have to touch anything in there; I don’t need to hold on for balance with my back supported. But, unfortunately, I had to stand in the middle and hold onto one of the railings. When I do this I never move my hand, never switch hands, and try very carefully not to touch a thing, not even my Kindle that I hold in the other hand. And you know how the bars are metal and how at first touch they are cool but the longer you hold them they get warmer, because of the heat from your palms? Well, the warmness is gross. Mine is ok, but everyone else’s is just fucking gross. I never move my hand because I never want to touch any other part of the bar that may have been touched by anyone else.
Well, this woman, who may or may not have just come from Rikers, kept infringing on my bar-holding territory. She kept moving her hand in such a way that I was forced to move mine. Over and over! I had no choice but to constantly degrip and regrip the bar, so as to avoid any bodily contact with her. And every single damn time I moved my hand I wound up in her warm spot. (That is NO euphemism for sex, I’m telling you now!). It’s just the grossest thing ever, having to hold onto the same spot someone just vacated. It’s warm, sweaty, probably filled with grease and boogers and sneeze residue. Ugh! I’ve now washed my hands and Purell’d several times at work … and I still feel like there’s an invisible coating of crap on my hand.
I know I’m nuts. No need to remind me.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Let’s Play A Guessing Game!
What am I?
1) Tender strips of steak, green peppers, onions, mushrooms, tomatoes and Cheddar cheese. Served with salsa and hash browns.
2) Bacon, pork sausage, shredded beef, ham, onions, green peppers and Cheddar cheese. Served with salsa.
3) Six strips of crispy bacon, a rich cheese sauce, Jack and Cheddar cheeses and diced tomatoes.
Noticing a theme here? Since when did salsa become an alternative to a serving of vegetables?
How about this: What am I?
1) A sweet cream filling, crowned with your choice of cool strawberry topping, warm blueberry or cinnamon apple compote and whipped topping. Served with two eggs, hash browns, two bacon strips or two pork sausage links.
2) Loaded with creamy, rich cheesecake pieces and crowned with cool strawberries, powdered sugar and whipped topping.
I’ll give you one hint with these last two: They are NOT desserts!
In case you were wondering, the answers are all culled from the IHOP breakfast menu and the first three are all omelettes! That’s right, IHOP fills three eggs with that crap. Unbelievable! The fourth is something called a Stuffed French Toast Combo ... also known as Puke on My Pedals, if I ate that and hit the road. Lastly, the thing with the cheesecake? Yea, that’s something called the New York Cheesecake Pancakes. You gotta be kidding me—those are pancakes?! (Take a look for yourself here.)
Where’s this all coming from? In late fall my wife and I were starving, but we were on a mini road trip and we had no choice but to stop at an IHOP for breakfast.
We sat down, looked over a menu as long as Moby Dick and, with it being breakfast time and all, decided to, you know, order breakfast. My wife ordered strawberry crepes. Who doesn’t like creps? They’re delicious. Sure, this wasn’t the Champs-Élysées but they were fine.
I decided to get one of IHOP’s “specials” (I use that term loosely). I ordered this pecan cinnamon french toast. I thought it sounded delicious, and I generally order what’s new or different on a menu. The waiter came over and took our orders. When I said I’d like the pecan french toast, he said, “And what else would you like with that?” This question puzzled me—isn’t french toast considered breakfast? He said, “Do you want anything on the side with that?” And I’m thinking, maybe some hash browns or something. He said, “No scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, ham, maybe some pancakes?” In my head I’m like, “So lemme get this straight: You’re asking me if I want pancakes on the side of my french toast???” I couldn’t believe it. Clearly in America we need fried bread, a slab of pig, enough fried potatoes to feed a Polish village and maybe even some more dough covered with butter and sugar for a meal to be considered breakfast? Adequate to give you energy for the day?
I said no to everything. I just ordered the french toast. Came with a very nice wedge of orange too, which I ate. How healthy of IHOP!
Turns out I realized where he was coming from once I received my order. My pecan cinnamon french toast amounted to two pieces. Literally one thick piece of bread cut in half. With whipped cream and syrup of course, but still, it was a small order. So in this case, I could have seen getting some scrambled eggs on the side. No matter, I ate it, it was enough, my wife and I moved on.
But that’s not the point is it? My G-d we eat crap in this country. I’m as guilty of it as any. But if I can keep vegetarian in my house for nine months now, and still be 5’9” and weight 215, what hope does does the poor motherfucker in Gulfport, Miss., or Baltimore have? Damn.
1) Tender strips of steak, green peppers, onions, mushrooms, tomatoes and Cheddar cheese. Served with salsa and hash browns.
2) Bacon, pork sausage, shredded beef, ham, onions, green peppers and Cheddar cheese. Served with salsa.
3) Six strips of crispy bacon, a rich cheese sauce, Jack and Cheddar cheeses and diced tomatoes.
Noticing a theme here? Since when did salsa become an alternative to a serving of vegetables?
How about this: What am I?
1) A sweet cream filling, crowned with your choice of cool strawberry topping, warm blueberry or cinnamon apple compote and whipped topping. Served with two eggs, hash browns, two bacon strips or two pork sausage links.
2) Loaded with creamy, rich cheesecake pieces and crowned with cool strawberries, powdered sugar and whipped topping.
I’ll give you one hint with these last two: They are NOT desserts!
In case you were wondering, the answers are all culled from the IHOP breakfast menu and the first three are all omelettes! That’s right, IHOP fills three eggs with that crap. Unbelievable! The fourth is something called a Stuffed French Toast Combo ... also known as Puke on My Pedals, if I ate that and hit the road. Lastly, the thing with the cheesecake? Yea, that’s something called the New York Cheesecake Pancakes. You gotta be kidding me—those are pancakes?! (Take a look for yourself here.)
Where’s this all coming from? In late fall my wife and I were starving, but we were on a mini road trip and we had no choice but to stop at an IHOP for breakfast.
We sat down, looked over a menu as long as Moby Dick and, with it being breakfast time and all, decided to, you know, order breakfast. My wife ordered strawberry crepes. Who doesn’t like creps? They’re delicious. Sure, this wasn’t the Champs-Élysées but they were fine.
I decided to get one of IHOP’s “specials” (I use that term loosely). I ordered this pecan cinnamon french toast. I thought it sounded delicious, and I generally order what’s new or different on a menu. The waiter came over and took our orders. When I said I’d like the pecan french toast, he said, “And what else would you like with that?” This question puzzled me—isn’t french toast considered breakfast? He said, “Do you want anything on the side with that?” And I’m thinking, maybe some hash browns or something. He said, “No scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, ham, maybe some pancakes?” In my head I’m like, “So lemme get this straight: You’re asking me if I want pancakes on the side of my french toast???” I couldn’t believe it. Clearly in America we need fried bread, a slab of pig, enough fried potatoes to feed a Polish village and maybe even some more dough covered with butter and sugar for a meal to be considered breakfast? Adequate to give you energy for the day?
I said no to everything. I just ordered the french toast. Came with a very nice wedge of orange too, which I ate. How healthy of IHOP!
Turns out I realized where he was coming from once I received my order. My pecan cinnamon french toast amounted to two pieces. Literally one thick piece of bread cut in half. With whipped cream and syrup of course, but still, it was a small order. So in this case, I could have seen getting some scrambled eggs on the side. No matter, I ate it, it was enough, my wife and I moved on.
But that’s not the point is it? My G-d we eat crap in this country. I’m as guilty of it as any. But if I can keep vegetarian in my house for nine months now, and still be 5’9” and weight 215, what hope does does the poor motherfucker in Gulfport, Miss., or Baltimore have? Damn.
Friday, January 28, 2011
I don’t Mean to Piss on Your Parade, But …
We’ve come a long way, baby, since the days of kerosene lamps, milking our own cows and outhouses. We have home water delivery, personal shoppers, and credit cards are so '80s when we can pay for things with our cell phones. It’s a constant array of ever-evolving items and services to make our lives easier.
We have biodegradable potato chip bags*, the increasing lineup of hybrid cars, we’ve thankfully long moved away from the ubiquity of Aqua Net-needing hairstyles that destroy the ozone layer with their CFCs.
Our green-ness struck me around the holidays as I’m walking around this enormous outlet mall called Woodbury Commons in upstate New York. Here I am, carrying my Banana Republic shopping bag and fending off personal-space-invading Asian shoppers (also ubiquitous) when I had to pee.
So I go to the restroom and am pleasantly surprised that they have installed flushless, waterless toilets throughout the shopping center. This is a good thing, right? Saving 1.5L of water per flush, conserving the environment, going green, yay us.
But then I got to thinking: What the hell IS a flushless, waterless toilet anyway? Seriously, isn’t it just a hole in the ground? How’s it different? Where the hell is all that piss going? And what’s more, why the heck did they have to build an enormous porcelain basin for me to piss in in the first place? I assume the creation of said porcelain basis must have produced a waste product in and of itself? What makes this such an advance? I just don’t get it.
To me, it’s the reinvention of the outhouse. We’ve come full circle. We piss in a hole and shit in a compost pile. It’s the friggin’ frontier all over again. I like Mustangs, not a mustang. I’m not going back. From now on I will piss in a Sun Chip bag and hope for the best.
* This is how fucking retarded people are in America. Our fat asses, who consume God-knows-how-many bags of chips a year, finally had a capitalistic corporation do something good! The Frito-Lay Co. developed a biodegradable bag for their Sun Chips in 2007. That way, when your lazy ass leaves it on the ground in the park it will just break down over time and not affect the grass or the soil. So what happened? The stupid, fat, ridiculous American consumer complained so much about the bag being—get this—too loud, that it was pulled from the market in October 2010. People would rather not be bothered while reading their video game magazine in a Subway than put up with a little extra noise in the hope of protecting the Earth. I’m disappointed, but what’s worse, I’m not surprised.
We have biodegradable potato chip bags*, the increasing lineup of hybrid cars, we’ve thankfully long moved away from the ubiquity of Aqua Net-needing hairstyles that destroy the ozone layer with their CFCs.
Our green-ness struck me around the holidays as I’m walking around this enormous outlet mall called Woodbury Commons in upstate New York. Here I am, carrying my Banana Republic shopping bag and fending off personal-space-invading Asian shoppers (also ubiquitous) when I had to pee.
So I go to the restroom and am pleasantly surprised that they have installed flushless, waterless toilets throughout the shopping center. This is a good thing, right? Saving 1.5L of water per flush, conserving the environment, going green, yay us.
But then I got to thinking: What the hell IS a flushless, waterless toilet anyway? Seriously, isn’t it just a hole in the ground? How’s it different? Where the hell is all that piss going? And what’s more, why the heck did they have to build an enormous porcelain basin for me to piss in in the first place? I assume the creation of said porcelain basis must have produced a waste product in and of itself? What makes this such an advance? I just don’t get it.To me, it’s the reinvention of the outhouse. We’ve come full circle. We piss in a hole and shit in a compost pile. It’s the friggin’ frontier all over again. I like Mustangs, not a mustang. I’m not going back. From now on I will piss in a Sun Chip bag and hope for the best.
* This is how fucking retarded people are in America. Our fat asses, who consume God-knows-how-many bags of chips a year, finally had a capitalistic corporation do something good! The Frito-Lay Co. developed a biodegradable bag for their Sun Chips in 2007. That way, when your lazy ass leaves it on the ground in the park it will just break down over time and not affect the grass or the soil. So what happened? The stupid, fat, ridiculous American consumer complained so much about the bag being—get this—too loud, that it was pulled from the market in October 2010. People would rather not be bothered while reading their video game magazine in a Subway than put up with a little extra noise in the hope of protecting the Earth. I’m disappointed, but what’s worse, I’m not surprised.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
A Picture is Worth 1,000 Bananas?
That ASPCA commercial with Sarah McLaughlin? You know the one I’m talking about, when “Angel” is playing over pictures of all those poor animals in cages or being rescued from horrible situations? Damn that kills me. I have to turn away every time it’s on. I love animals. If I won MegaMillions tomorrow I’d buy a farm for all the doggies and the kitties out there.
And around holiday time you just cannot escape those sad commercials from every charity known to man. They pull at your heartstrings, rightfully so. They need donations, and hey, the holidays are a time for giving, right? The lonely old people for Meals on Wheels, the WWF trying to protect natural habitats, the Christian Children’s Fund …
Damn those starving African kids. You know what I mean: There will be the slow, solemn narration by a guy with a tenor voice while video is running of 11-year-old Chikeze who is caring for his three young siblings because his parents were murdered in some dictatorial coup? One kid has a booger running down his lip, the other has a fly crawling by his eyeball. You can’t watch. Those shits are set up for you to cry. (Seriously though, Africans have been starving for 50 years now; how the hell do they have the energy for sex?!)
Then you see poor Chikeze, holding his 9-month-old, fly-infested little sister, as he’s woefully staring at a picture of his long lost parents. And I’m thinking … How the HELL did those poor motherfuckers get a picture of their damn parents?! You mean to tell me this motherfucker who ain’t got no shoes, lives in a hut, and sleeps on the dirt was able to get a picture of his parents? What is that, a family heirloom? Who the hell is going around taking pictures of poor ass African families? You mean to tell me CCF is taking my 39 cents a day and walking around in the dust taking pictures? Geez, Ezekiel, put down the fucking camera and start handing out bananas! Bring ’em in by the truckload. Like lil Chizeke needs a damn picture?! His parents are dead. What he needs is to be adopted by Madonna. But in absence of that, give him the damn Nikon so he can hock it for a goat. And save Heifer.org the trouble of sending one to his village.
And around holiday time you just cannot escape those sad commercials from every charity known to man. They pull at your heartstrings, rightfully so. They need donations, and hey, the holidays are a time for giving, right? The lonely old people for Meals on Wheels, the WWF trying to protect natural habitats, the Christian Children’s Fund …
Damn those starving African kids. You know what I mean: There will be the slow, solemn narration by a guy with a tenor voice while video is running of 11-year-old Chikeze who is caring for his three young siblings because his parents were murdered in some dictatorial coup? One kid has a booger running down his lip, the other has a fly crawling by his eyeball. You can’t watch. Those shits are set up for you to cry. (Seriously though, Africans have been starving for 50 years now; how the hell do they have the energy for sex?!)
Then you see poor Chikeze, holding his 9-month-old, fly-infested little sister, as he’s woefully staring at a picture of his long lost parents. And I’m thinking … How the HELL did those poor motherfuckers get a picture of their damn parents?! You mean to tell me this motherfucker who ain’t got no shoes, lives in a hut, and sleeps on the dirt was able to get a picture of his parents? What is that, a family heirloom? Who the hell is going around taking pictures of poor ass African families? You mean to tell me CCF is taking my 39 cents a day and walking around in the dust taking pictures? Geez, Ezekiel, put down the fucking camera and start handing out bananas! Bring ’em in by the truckload. Like lil Chizeke needs a damn picture?! His parents are dead. What he needs is to be adopted by Madonna. But in absence of that, give him the damn Nikon so he can hock it for a goat. And save Heifer.org the trouble of sending one to his village.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Now is the Winter of my Discontent
It’s the winter in New York. It’s bound to be cold, wouldn’t you suspect? Most mornings I put on my coat, grab a scarf and my messenger bag and head off to work.
My wife does the same thing, as I’m sure countless women do, again, considering it’s winter. In New York.
What amazes me is that women refuse to close their jackets properly. They’ll just stand there outside, holding their jacket together, refusing to either button it up or zipper it up. And then they bitch that they are cold. Well, ladies, I love you, but you’re retarded. It’s cold … because it’s WINTER IN NEW YORK! Quit shivering over there on the street corner and either button the coat or your mouth! Either way I'll become infinitely happier.
My wife does the same thing, as I’m sure countless women do, again, considering it’s winter. In New York.
What amazes me is that women refuse to close their jackets properly. They’ll just stand there outside, holding their jacket together, refusing to either button it up or zipper it up. And then they bitch that they are cold. Well, ladies, I love you, but you’re retarded. It’s cold … because it’s WINTER IN NEW YORK! Quit shivering over there on the street corner and either button the coat or your mouth! Either way I'll become infinitely happier.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Random Thoughts: Volume VI
1) I love Target. And I especially love the Target dollar bin. I’ve bought notepads in there, Elmo books for my nieces/nephews, doggie bowls for the shelter I volunteer at, bungee cords for my car—just tons of odds and ends. But I think it’s so strange that there’s food in the dollar bin. Crunch ’n Munch and boxes of Pepperidge Farm cookies were in there for $1 this past weekend. I know both are filled with tons of nitrates and preservatives, and can probably sit unopened and edible for decades, but how OLD must that food be to be found in the dollar bin? How long could it possibly have sat on Target’s regular shelves with its regular merchandise? Thanks, but I’ll skip that bargain like I’d skip any place that offers “discount sushi.”
2) Does every bag nowadays—no matter the size—need wheels and a handle? If it’s a backpack … PUT IT ON YOUR BACK!!! It can’t really get any easier than that. Do you really need to wheel something the size of a bag of potato chips through the subways and up the escalators? I think not. Carry the damn thing like it was meant to be carried and call it a day.
3) Wasn’t it a revelation when VHS gave way to DVD? It wasn’t just the picture quality; with DVDs you didn’t have to stand at the machine for 15 minutes fast-forwarding through endless previews and commercials. But the effing DVD manufacturers are again leaving us stuck watching the endless crap we don’t care about. You can’t hit ‘Menu’ until it says so anymore, you can’t chapter skip anymore, you can’t even fast-forward through the previews unless the disc permits you. Maybe this is why DVD sales have fallen off a cliff the last few years.
4) Admitting this probably makes me seem strange, or gay, or both, but I like ‘products.’ My wife has 162 bottles of stuff in the shower that G-D knows what she does with all of ’em—and I’ll try every last one of ’em. If there’s an exfoliator in there, I’m on it; a moisturizer, sure, I’ll give it a try; some new shampoo that smells like avocado and bubble gum? Heck, sign me up. Not everybody is like this, I get that. But some of these products marketed to guys just aren’t helping to sway me. Hair, Face and Body Wash all rolled into one bottle (that conveniently looks like motor oil)? C’mon! Let’s call that product what it really is: Lazy Man’s Shower. You mean to tell me the same product you use to wash your ass is appropriate to wash your face with? Please.
5) It’s a benefit to be a smoker. Sure, you WILL get lung cancer and die a horrible death, but in the short run it’s tits, bro. I’ve been observing the smokers in my office. I’d say they take, on average, five smoking breaks a day (not including lunch). And each lasts about 10 minutes or so. That is 50 minutes of break-time. Nearly an hour out of their working day. And they get paid for it! How’s that not some bullshit?! What if I said to my boss, “I need several breaks a day to go outside and pick my nose.” I don’t think that would fly. What if I needed four breaks of 15 minutes each to eat Mr. Softee ice cream? No go. I think smoking is where it’s at. Not only can you be absent from work for about an hour a day, but you can be wholly unproductive when you get back, just jonesing until that next break.
2) Does every bag nowadays—no matter the size—need wheels and a handle? If it’s a backpack … PUT IT ON YOUR BACK!!! It can’t really get any easier than that. Do you really need to wheel something the size of a bag of potato chips through the subways and up the escalators? I think not. Carry the damn thing like it was meant to be carried and call it a day.
3) Wasn’t it a revelation when VHS gave way to DVD? It wasn’t just the picture quality; with DVDs you didn’t have to stand at the machine for 15 minutes fast-forwarding through endless previews and commercials. But the effing DVD manufacturers are again leaving us stuck watching the endless crap we don’t care about. You can’t hit ‘Menu’ until it says so anymore, you can’t chapter skip anymore, you can’t even fast-forward through the previews unless the disc permits you. Maybe this is why DVD sales have fallen off a cliff the last few years.
4) Admitting this probably makes me seem strange, or gay, or both, but I like ‘products.’ My wife has 162 bottles of stuff in the shower that G-D knows what she does with all of ’em—and I’ll try every last one of ’em. If there’s an exfoliator in there, I’m on it; a moisturizer, sure, I’ll give it a try; some new shampoo that smells like avocado and bubble gum? Heck, sign me up. Not everybody is like this, I get that. But some of these products marketed to guys just aren’t helping to sway me. Hair, Face and Body Wash all rolled into one bottle (that conveniently looks like motor oil)? C’mon! Let’s call that product what it really is: Lazy Man’s Shower. You mean to tell me the same product you use to wash your ass is appropriate to wash your face with? Please.
5) It’s a benefit to be a smoker. Sure, you WILL get lung cancer and die a horrible death, but in the short run it’s tits, bro. I’ve been observing the smokers in my office. I’d say they take, on average, five smoking breaks a day (not including lunch). And each lasts about 10 minutes or so. That is 50 minutes of break-time. Nearly an hour out of their working day. And they get paid for it! How’s that not some bullshit?! What if I said to my boss, “I need several breaks a day to go outside and pick my nose.” I don’t think that would fly. What if I needed four breaks of 15 minutes each to eat Mr. Softee ice cream? No go. I think smoking is where it’s at. Not only can you be absent from work for about an hour a day, but you can be wholly unproductive when you get back, just jonesing until that next break.
Monday, November 15, 2010
It Must Be a Quest-ion of Desperation
As I’ve said before, I love having the latest gizmo—Kindle, iPad, whatever. Technology brings us together, opens up our lives, makes communication a breeze (but also steals our privacy). Heck, the tech boom made millionaires out of millions of people in the ’90s. Innovation is good.
So can someone explain to me why the HELL there are so many commercials for those Quest chat lines? I mean a call-in, chat-line dating service? In 2010? Are you kidding me? Using one of those is like going into Best Buy and asking for Avatar on VHS. It’s like getting a Discman for Christmas. You mean to tell me between Facebook, Twitter, Foresquare, email, texting and cell phones you Questers can’t find a better portal to hit on women? I know there are tons of losers out there; I’m sure there are plenty in utter-desperation mode. But using a chat line is like thinking your 1987 IROC is gonna get you laid—now.
I love the commercials; they make me laugh every single time. It’s usually an attractive-enough blonde who struggles to read her lines. The acting is terrible. It’s like Channing Tatum put on a wig and said, “Call now, hot girls like me are standing by ready for a GREAT time!” Uh huh.
So can someone explain to me why the HELL there are so many commercials for those Quest chat lines? I mean a call-in, chat-line dating service? In 2010? Are you kidding me? Using one of those is like going into Best Buy and asking for Avatar on VHS. It’s like getting a Discman for Christmas. You mean to tell me between Facebook, Twitter, Foresquare, email, texting and cell phones you Questers can’t find a better portal to hit on women? I know there are tons of losers out there; I’m sure there are plenty in utter-desperation mode. But using a chat line is like thinking your 1987 IROC is gonna get you laid—now.
I love the commercials; they make me laugh every single time. It’s usually an attractive-enough blonde who struggles to read her lines. The acting is terrible. It’s like Channing Tatum put on a wig and said, “Call now, hot girls like me are standing by ready for a GREAT time!” Uh huh.
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