I wanna Kevin Smith these M*therf*ckers!

You all know me – I’m chubby. I was in good shape in high school (even though I thought I was fat). In a rather unique move, I gained not one but two Freshman 15s in college. After graduation I got back in shape. And now I’ve spent the last five years or so getting back into another shape: round.

Why? Because I like my heroes, I crave pizza and I am eternally on a hunt for the best burger in the world.

But I am still a normal size human being. I have a 36” waist, and my ass fits in a normal size seat, as it should. Shocking this isn't the case for most Americans. Even if you don't live in Mississippi.

Yesterday wasn’t a good day for me at work. I was pretty down so I decided to leave on the early side, right at about 5:30 PM. I got to Port Authority and felt really lucky because there were no lines. At that time I’m usually stuck waiting, but I saw that both of my gates were empty. One bus had pulled away so that left me with only one still at the gate. I figured it was full, but I ran on there and there were two seats left.

Normally I’d just wait for another one because the only seats left at that point are usually way in the back, but I felt karma may have finally been on my side and decided to board.

Mistake.

And the second I got on, the bus pulled away, so I had no chance to get off.

The very last section of the bus is one row of five seats. I took one look back there and saw what I was up against: The Wall of Obesity! I took one look and knew my ride was fucked.

Four people, five seats. No, not really; I take that back. Four people the size of Civics left no seats. They saw me heading right toward them – that ‘Oh, shit’ look in their eyes – and they started to scootch-slide over. But these were real behemoths we’re talking about here, so they left me with literally about six inches of room to sit.

I tried – I tried to sit comfortably. I made one attempt to lean back and squish my shoulders in tight so my back could rest against the seat. Yea, that didn’t happen. So I spent the whole ride with my ass just dangling off the seat’s edge, sitting upright with my legs at a right angle. It was like a wrestling workout.

Luckily for me, even in the pouring rain, the ride was as short as could be. I was off the bus in an hour. The problem was I hurt my back doing some work on my house on Sunday, so sitting scrunched up like that, for that long, made it tighten up again and I’m really hurting from it. Just when I was starting to feel better, the Wall of  Obesity struck, and struck hard.

So today I sit at work – hurt back and hurt pride. My wife did something really sweet for me yesterday and stopped and got me a cheese Danish from the bakery. I love cheese Danish, and never eat them. But I’m putting it down. I’m having Special K with skim milk instead. I cannot – I will not – contribute to the Wall.

Etiquette in the Rearview

I remember this one time in my ‘going out’ days hanging somewhere in the West Village. I drove into the city from Long Island, where I still lived, so I didn’t drink much, if anything at all. This was probably around 2003. So I’m out at some bar (probably for someone’s birthday) and at like 4am I left the place to head home, with a full car of me plus four people. It was pouring sheets of water; an absolutely terrible storm. I remember turning up 6th Avenue to head uptown. Traffic, even at that hour, was typically NYC heavy—you always have to look out for bobbing and weaving cabs and the usual terrible drivers. My concentration was on high-alert. I remember seeing a red light ahead of me, and traffic slowing quickly, so I stop--not short, but probably more abruptly than I’d have liked considering the weather.

There was a cab behind me. Given the conditions—and the way cab drivers pay attention—he just didn’t see the brake lights ahead until it was too late. He tried to stop, he did not skid—but he was too close and slammed right into me. Pretty decent jolt, too.

Rear ended by a cab at 4am. F*ck!

I asked all my friends if they were ok. I think my friend Jen felt a little twinge in her neck, but nothing serious at all; luckily we were all fine. But this part I remember distinctly: there were two young girls in the cab, maybe 19. They looked like they shouldn’t have been out drinking anyway. Within a few seconds of the accident I saw the two girls rushing from the cab, one of them holding her face--nose gushing blood. They ran down the nearest street. It was obvious her face went clear into the plastic divider in the cab. I’ll never forget that.

I’ll also never forget the cab driver’s face. He looked petrified. Did he hurt anyone? Will those girls sue him? Will he be arrested? He must have had a million thoughts rush through his head in that one instant. I’ll never forget his medallion number either: 2Y76A. Those medallions are expensive. These guys come from the Middle East and North Africa to make a living for themselves and their families; many go into debt just to buy those cars. I think of him often, because he did over $3,000 of damage to my rear end, which his insurance paid for. Did that break him? Was he finished? Is he even in the U.S. anymore? Did those girls sue? I just don’t know.

(Cops eventually came, because they happened to drive by; they were useless. Didn’t get out of the cruiser, didn’t ask a single question. Like they couldn’t be bothered. I filled out a report myself at the station the next day, on their suggestion. I remember them specifically saying they didn't have to be there. I was out in the rain that night past 6am, soaked, freezing, before I was able to get home. I think my friends took a cab to Penn Station to catch a train, but that part I don’t remember clearly.)

When you rear-end someone in a car, it is 100% your fault as a driver. I’m reminded of this as I walk every day in NYC. I now work in a very congested area, Times Square, with all its tourists and street vendors and those people selling bus tickets to Woodbury Commons on every corner. When someone is walking in front of me, either looking up at the tall buildings or down at their phones—usually down at their phones--and then they abruptly stop and I crash right it to them, is that really my fault? It absolutely is not!

People need their own rearview mirrors. Or maybe just a better sense of their surroundings. They stop dead in their tracks and you crash right into them; what the heck do you say?! Oh, I’m so sorry! Well, no I’m not. It’s YOUR damn fault. YOU should be the one saying sorry to ME! Who the hell just STOPS WALKING on a busy NYC sidewalk? WTF?!

I know this is typical New York crap; we deal with it every day. But it’s gotten worse and worse and it’s really getting to me now. Either no one pays attention, or simply no one gives a shit about the other people around them. I’m starting to feel the latter weighs more prominently. Etiquette, respect … they’re gone.

That cab driver crashed into me; he could have injured me or my friends. And yet, 10 years later, I still think about that person and where he is today because of his one momentary lapse in concentration. Whatever happened to him? I’ll never know…

Do you think, next time some asshole just decides to stop walking in the middle of a crowded sidewalk and I walk right into him, I can just banish him (or her) to Pakistan? Cuz I’d love that. I really would. The punishment would fit the crime.

Fourteen Facebook Faux Pas

Mr. Griffith: I don't know what your generation's fascination is with documenting your every thought ... but I can assure you, they're not all diamonds. "Roman is having an OK day, and bought a Coke Zero at the gas station. Raise the roof." Who gives a rat's ass?!

Olive Pendergast: He got a coke zero again? Oh, that Roman. Incorrigible!

This dialogue from the movie “Easy A” cracked me the hell up. My wife too. We were both rolling, because the truth is, 95.82% of the stuff on Facebook—that’s scientifically proven by yours truly—is absolute crap. It’s part of the reason why I hate Facebook as much as I like it. True, if it had not been for checking my mobile app at nearly 11 p.m. on a Sunday night this past spring, I probably wouldn’t have known the U.S. Navy Seals took out Osama bin Laden. So thank you, Facebook, for that. That is one of the great plusses of social media: overwhelming consumption and documentation by everyone 24/7.

But one of the worst things about social media is the … overwhelming consumption and documentation by everyone 24/7. I joined just shy of a year ago, really to keep up with former co-workers and whatnot, as I found myself jumping around in employment opportunities in this shitty economy. To network, basically, but more informally. And yea it’s good for seeing some pictures and getting random invites to events (though I have yet to accept even one). And sure I like to kibbitz about the odd movie or random event. But mostly I like to tease others for their retarded posting.

And there are mmmaannnyyyy examples of stupid-ass, waste-of-time, what-the-hell-were-you-thinking, who-cares posts. As such, behold, the Fourteen Facebook Faux Pas to avoid in the future:


14) Sports updates. If your team wins a championship, have at it. Go nuts. Share all your thoughts and congratulations to the world. Feel free to shit-talk at length. However, if the Yankees are playing Kansas City in July, I really don’t care if it’s 4-1 in the fourth. That’s what SportsCenter is for!

13) Don’t get fancy or cutesy with upside down writing or writing in other languages. I’m not spending the time deciphering that. Facebook should be quick and easy; I shouldn’t need a cipher key to figure out your postings.

12) Directions for profiles. Look, just because it’s Michael Jackson’s birthday does not mean I have to change my profile pic to the Thriller album cover. I don’t need to put a picture up of my father for Father’s Day. And I certainly do not have to put up a picture up of the Thundercats to celebrate Random Cartoon Day. My picture is my picture.

If putting up a picture of a pink ribbon would get some sponsor to donate X dollars to some charity per person who does this, then fine. Otherwise, mind yo bidness!!

11) Random thoughts and asinine comments need to be curtailed. When someone goes, “I hate traffic,” what are you really trying to prove? Yea, we get it, traffic sucks. Did you really feel the need to share that? If you blurted that out in public you’d just look like a crazy person … so why type it for everyone to see? It’s grounds for de-friending if you keep that shit up. And don’t even think about posing …

10) The not-qute-rhetorical question. Examples include: “What are you up to?” “What you doing?” “Who likes ice cream?”

This also goes for random statements: “I love turquoise.” “Springtime is the best.” “I want to see a movie today.” Thank you for that, Corky. A dur dur...

9) Nutbaggedness. Look, we all know the cardinal rules of conversation, whether at a party or with family or with total strangers: You don’t bring up religion or politics. No one ever agrees. Fifty percent of the time you piss someone off, the other half you are just patting someoene on the back for sounding as smart as you. Leave it all alone. Those “God is Great … I feel blessed today … Jesus lifts me up” crap has gots ta go. No one wants to be preached to. I can just ride a subway for that.

8) Keep your depressing, woe-is-me shit to yourself. If you are having a bad day, I get it, go ahead and vent. But do you really need to write things like, “Oh, life is terrible now, but it’s worth living. I just know it’ll get better soon.” Well fuck you for ruining my day! Go wash down a bottle of vicodin with some Jack and leave me the hell outta this sobfest! I’ll call the ambulance for you in about 45 minutes, but that’s about it. If your boyfriend dumped you, it sucks, but stop whining about how you’ll never get a ring. Look, you probably got fat and stopped giving him head anyway. No wonder he left. Go order Chinese and hook up with your black neighbor. Leave me out of it.

7) Fishing for sympathy. This one is similar to the above, except for the vagueness of the way it comes out. For instance, someone’ll write “Just took her to the doctor. The news isn’t good, but hopefully we caught it in time.” What the hell is that?! Look, you tossed out your line real shallow on that one but I ain’t taking the bait. She could have a friggin hangnail! Maybe your dog has a cold. I can’t tell. If your mom was really sick and needed a kidney or something, just friggin come right out and say it; what do you have to lose? You are posing statements like this because you want the sympathetic and worried comments they will bring on. And because you are asking for attention—which is more about YOU than your sick mother anyway! (Don’t worry about little Fifi. Yea she ate the mascara, but nothing a little diarrhea won’t cure.)

6) Endless pictures of your kids. It is nice to be able to share pictures of your children growing up with family, especially when family is so spread out such as mine is. But how interesting is it if you see a picture of your nephew coloring—every single day! Seriously, it’s just not.

And another thing: This new app that allows you to make pictures look like vintage photos of the 70’s? Ok, it was cool a few times, but it’s just getting boring. There’s a reason photo technology has progressed from 35mm film—cuz it sucked! Colors were washed out, the ink looked grainy. And that crappy white border was ridiculous. A few landscape shots are nice, a few good ones of little Levi are cute, but I don’t need to see ‘em every day.

And there are to be NO 70’s vintage shots of Levi potty training. Under no circumstances!

5) Random music videos. Who’s really stopping to watch these? Who really cares what you’re listening to at the moment? I’m sorry, but just because you got the urge to Youtube Debbie Gibson’s “Electric Youth,” doesn’t mean I’m going to ride that nostalgia train. Same goes for brand new shit. Look, Katy Perry is ubiquitous; if I wanted to hear her I’d just turn on 20on20 or Z100 or something. You don’t need to post her video to “Last Friday Night.” She has big boobs and no talent, that’s it. If she’s topless, by all means, post it. If she’s singing, I think I’d rather gargle with battery acid. Or force her to.

4) The language of the digital age. Abbreviations and acronyms kill me. LOL. Ok, laugh out loud. So then what does LOLOLOLOL mean? Laugh out loud out loud out loud out loud? I think the caps will suffice for emphasis, thankyouverymuch.

I can’t tell you how long it took me to figure out what the hell SMH meant. I had to ask a college kid. I can see abbreviating long words in the essence of saving characters (especially on Twitter), but on Facebook, just write the damn thing out. Is it too hard to write ‘love’ instead of ‘luv?’ Its ONE MORE LETTER! I’ve seen people write ‘bt’ instead of ‘but.’ No, not for ‘between,’ for ‘but.’ Really?

My children are going to be illiterate, I can feel it. Which hurts me, because I love reading and writing. It would be like if the Lopez/Anthony twins hate singing. Oh, and marry white people.

3) Checking in. Now this has got to stop. It’s just dangerous. Seriously, since when did we want to tell THE ENTIRE WORLD where we were going? For instance, what if I yelled out at work, “I am going to Ranch 1 now, then the ATM, and I may hit up Banana Republic on the way back.” Would anyone care? Nope, they’d be annoyed. Shall I announce that my risotto has a fly in it while at a restaurant? I think not.

If you post for the world to see that you are at Tony’s DiNapoli, then I can only assume you are out with friends or family and you will be gone, stuffing yourself with mediocre family-style Italian food, for a good several hours. Looks like an invitation to rob your ass, if you ask me! If I study your Facebook page long enough, I’d probably know if you had a roommate, live with a dog, and what kind of stuff you like to shop for. That’s Robber Christmas in my book.

If your Breitling goes missing, though, it wasn’t me; it was your Dominican neighbor downstairs, I swear.

2) These games have just got to go. Café World? Mafia Wars? Farmville? What the hell is Farmville?! I couldn’t care less. These games are mostly played by middle-aged fat women who have kids instead of dogs and who don’t like their husbands very much. It’s an excuse to avoid conversation with them completely. Yet it clogs up my friggin’ wall to no end. And as such I have taken to hiding all posts from people who play these sorts of games.

Remember SAT analogies? To me …

Facebook : Games as Fat Loser : Player

1) Potty Training. This is NOT a milestone people care about. It ain’t walking, it ain’t talking. And it certainly ain’t cute. You can CALL the damn grandparents and tell them little Morgan went on the potty. The general public DOES NOT need to know this.

Let alone see the visual evidence! My god! How is that any less disgusting than the Jackass guys shitting in a detached toilet in a Home Depot? It isn’t.
Little Morgan gets three drips in the toilet and 12 all over the People magazine on the floor—and that’s video-worthy? No. It. Is. Not. Keep that shit private, nobody wants to see it.

You Down With OCD? Yea You Know Me!

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.

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.

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.

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.