The Middleman
All-you-can-eat does not necessarily mean eat-all-you-can or you-can-eat-all. I know a guy who got thrown out of a Chinese buffet joint for eating food for four hours straight. They said he was eating too much. Everyone has a limit. If the buffet restaurant says, “Hey, buddy, you gotta get out of here; we’ve ran out of white rice,” then you need to slow down. Slow the &*^% down. Your heart is calling your cell phone now. Answer it. Too stuffed to reach for it? Never mind, then. Your Bluetooth connection can’t get around your stomach to the phone? I’ll just call 911. And a tow truck.
I’ve always been interested in history. Anything from ancient Kush to Timbuktu to China to Rome. All of it intrigues me. Some of it confuses me, too. Ancient Greece. First of all, being a sports fan, any civilization that invented the Olympics is a friend of mine. However, one of my favorite Olympic sports, track and field, was performed a little awkwardly back in those days of old. The ancient Greeks liked for all track participants to be men. Only men. Women weren’t even allowed to watch. All runners were completely naked. So a relay team, 4 men, would run around completely naked. I wonder what their times were. You may have less wind resistance that way. Running around naked is just strange. Nevertheless, a relay team should have only one baton, not five.
If your priest/pastor/clergyman/pope/reverend/rabbi/esteemed religious official wears a ton of jewelry, drives a futuristic car, owns a jet, lives in a mansion, has a pinky ring, or rocks a gold tooth, any of which happens to be worth more than the GNP and yearly oil earnings of Saudi Arabia, then you should start your own church and cash in, too. He may be helping you get to heaven or whatever afterlife destination you believe in, but you’re really helping him out with that lush beach house in the Caribbean. I’m not saying that all men/women of the cloth are suspect. That’s not the case at all. But when I personally saw a preacher with more diamonds than De Beers do a wedding and then hop in his pimped out BMW, just to drive about 25 feet to the reception hall, I decided that it was time for me to start a religion. Here I am, just like every other hard-working MySpace reader, paying these crazy bills and “budgeting” my next paycheck when I know it’s already spent…when, really, I could just go to the top of a mountain and tell all of my followers to give me money. If someone asks me a question about salvation or anything “religiousy,” my immediate and only response would be, “Have you paid your membership fee yet?” How does it sound? I don’t know. It might not be a good idea. Yeah? You agree? Right. I know. I was thinking the same thing. I’m sort of scared of heights. That standing-on-the-mountain bit might not fly.
One day, within a few minutes, a bird crapped on my arm; a grocery store worker dropped a 12-pack of Mountain Dew, which exploded and sprayed all over my back; and a rain cloud (on a clear day) out of nowhere poured down on my bald head. Are those signs of good luck?
If I see you working out at the gym…then I see you at the Cheesecake Factory killing some poor, decadent cheesecakes, don’t look at me like I’m gonna rat you out to the Guilt Fairy. Cause I will. That’s right. I’m the gym’s tattletale. You’re the one that was bragging about how lean you were gonna be and how you were gonna stick to your workout regiment. You’re the one that’s gonna feel bad. You’re the one that’s crying on the inside. You’re the one that’s gonna have to work harder to lose that weight. Not me. I’m a paragon of perfect persistence. Intestinal fortitude. I’m — what’s that you say? Huh? What was I doing in the Cheesecake Factory? Uhhh…ehhh…that’s not important. I was…I was…bird watching. Where are my binoculars? You just gonna mess up the point I was trying to make?!! F%k!!
Note: If you can only park diagonally, then you should not try to parallel park. It’s basic geometry. On the way to watch Transformers, a friend and I saw a Transformer. Almost. This guy was trying to put his minivan in between two compact cars. Apparently, he must have been pretty scared that he was gonna hit them, because my man’s foot had an epileptic seizure on the brake pedal. The minivan was jerking so much that I thought that it was gonna transform into Optimus Prime. His minivan was an Autobot. Its squeaky brakes supplied us with the transforming sound effects and everything. I was laughing so hard I got a cramp in my neck and damn near threw out my back. Everyone can’t parallel park. Just keep circling the parking lot like a parking shark. You’ll find somewhere to park. Eventually. Just beware of the Decepticons (tow trucks, meter maids, boot guy, etc.)
If I’m frowning when you see me, don’t ask me if I’m having a good day. It should be obvious that I’m not. That’s why we have faces. A facial expression is the middleman of what we like to call “life.” Life’s middleman. The intermediary. The go-between. Faces effortlessly broker silent deals with other faces so that you won’t have to endure too much stress, face rejection, or have stupid conversations. We use them all the time. When you approach a love prospect, doing your 1970s-style winks, talking all smooth, laying down your best game, and that person looks at you as if you have a 3 1/2 feet long booger hanging out your nose, that person does not want to be bothered. I’ll sum it up for you. Me + Frowning = Things probably ain’t going too well that day. Maybe that blister on my toe popped or I just ran out of Raisin Bran Crunch that morning. Who knows? It could be anything. Instead of asking me if I had a good day, I rather you say, “Have a better day,” “Hey, it can’t get any worse,” or “Smile, ya big bastard!” All those will suffice. At least they’re not stupid. The next person that asks me if I’m having a good day while I’m visibly grimacing will have the unfortunate, yet rare experience of watching reptilian wings sprout out of my back, seeing me morph into my original Pterodactyl form, and screaming for dear life as I chase ’em around the 99 cent store.
The Trojan War: Fire Ants and Dandruff
I pose a question: Why aren’t pigeons pigeon-toed? Or at least the ones where I live aren’t.
Recently, I learned that every year, some organization sells out the Hollywood Bowl to host a Sound of Music Sing-A-Long. Yep, thousands of people show up to watch that 3-hour musical on a big jumbo screen, and sing every song at the top of their lungs. They sell out every year. Every year! I gots ta thinking, “Hmmm…if they can have that, then they should have a Scarface Swear-A-Long, too.” That would do it. They could definitely pack the house for that one. I can see it now. Thousands of itchy trigger fingers dropping the f-word 182 times. Too bad someone’s getting shot there.
There are some other things that I’ve noticed, too. Maybe I think too much. So before we get too far into this, I need to say something to you. You are the lowest form of scum $hit! If I was close enough to you, I’d hit you dead in the mouth. You need to turn around and mind your own business. Who? No, not you. I’m talking to the person behind you, reading over your shoulder. Is he gone yet? Good. You should try that. Next time you’re typing up something and someone’s looking over your shoulder, try typing something like this: “….Why the * %( # are you looking at my screen? Look at your own. You syphilis discharge.” That’ll get someone’s attention.
If you’re traveling somewhere, please don’t bring more luggage than you can carry. Every time I travel, I see somebody who’s about 5′ 2″ carrying a bag that’s about 7 feet tall. Dumbass, what do you need that’s that important and that big? Nomads have the right idea. They can roll up their houses and put them on their backs and move at a moment’s notice. You’re the Paris Hilton clone with a zazillion pairs of shoes in a suitcase when you’ve only got 2 damn feet.
While we’re on stupidity, if you’re running up the escalator and you’re about to pass out from running up the escalator, stop running up the escalator. It’s an escalator. Guess what, genius? It’s going up anyway. Yep! That’s the same direction you’re going, remember? Plus, when you faint midway up the escalator and it eventually takes you up to the top, the people behind won’t be able to get their luggage over your dead ass. The escalator’s a great invention. Accept it. Embrace modern technology. Jackass.
While on planes, if you take your shoes off, then the sky marshal should be granted authorization from the FAA to either throw you in cargo, into one of the turbofan jet engines, or out of the plane completely. If you think that’s a little harsh, you shouldn’t. First of all, who told you that your feet smell like a bouquet of roses? No one. When your dog will sniff your ass but won’t sniff your feet, then your feet are rank and stank and they need to be fumigated. I hate seeing people flounce around the plane like they’re at home. You’re not at home, punk! You’re in an oversized tomato sauce can with wings. Unless your name is Prego or Ragu, then that ain’t your home. Put your shoes back on. You’re the real Shoe Bomber. The TSA agents should confiscate you and your shoes. They should put you in a zip lock bag. Keeps the freshness in. Watch you kill yourself on your own fumes.
Parents, if your kid keeps crying on the flight and it (yeah, I called your baby an “it”) won’t shut up and everyone’s getting annoyed, save us all some grief. Put the kid in the overhead storage bin. It’s an overnight flight and I don’t know about you, but I’ll bet that most of the passengers are trying to get some shut-eye. But before we can shut our eyes, your baby’s got to shut its mouth. So the overhead storage bins aren’t that bad. Check it out. It’s roomy. Your kid can fit in one. Hell, both of your kids can fit in one. Conserve some space for the other couple’s kids. And if you think about it, a storage bin is dark inside so when the plane rocks a little, it’ll be just like you rocking your baby to sleep at night. Just only less oxygen. Makes sense to me.
Now, there are some times when you shouldn’t quiet your kid. Running to pick up your child every time he or she screams or yells is bad parenting. You’re teaching that rodent that someone will always be there to save him, and that someone’s always gonna answer his every beck and call. You’re spoiling him. That’s a prime training ground for a child that’ll later turn out like the Menendez Brothers. Let your kid cry a little. Let him get that demon out of him. He’s trying to get it out. You just have to be a good parent/exorcist. Let the mongrel cry.
Moving on….
Note: Just because I hate you, doesn’t mean that you’re a player.
Ladies, and for the record, just because I happen to be walking behind you, does not mean that I’m looking at your ass or am about to rob you. Can you leave the vanity at home for once and just let me be, just because I’m walking in the same direction that you are? Most of the time, I have better things to do like count how many cement squares each block has or remember where the hell I was going to in the first place. I’m just walking here.
But since we’re on the subject, when I am looking at your behind, I must ask: Why get a tattoo on your lower back just so you can hide it when I’m trying to see it? Makes no sense to me. I’ve seen women walk 10 blocks with their hands tucked behind them, pulling down the backs of their shirts over their tattoos. Huh? Don’t do that! You’ll get metacarpal tunnel syndrome that way. You should let it do what you originally intended for it to do: to be seen. I’m an artist. I appreciate art. All types of art. Even skin art. Fine, you don’t have to believe me.
Is it me or…alright, it’s probably me. I’ll go ahead and say it. Is it me or is the Trojan Condoms mascot and marketing scheme a bit nutty and confusing? Let me explain. Trojan Condoms has always had the head of a Trojan soldier as its logo. You don’t have to be an English literature expert or Classics Ph.D. candidate to remember the mythology of the Trojan War. Check out the movie ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Troy. Got it? Remember the Trojan Horse? The wooden horse that had all of the soldiers inside it. Well, didn’t those soldiers eventually come OUT of the horse, and wasn’t it meant to be a SURPRISE attack? Hmmm…things coming OUT of a condom by SURPRISE. Think about it. That’s a little discouraging to me. Well, the alternative isn’t any better. They say Lifestyles changes lifestyles.
When someone calls you the wrong name during sex, you shouldn’t automatically get upset. You should be happy. You should be relieved. You should be grateful. You ask, “Why?” Well, that person could be calling you by the name of an inanimate object like a maple tree or a fire ant hill. That would be totally awkward. Or they could be calling you by the name of their favorite food like sloppy joe or fried okra. That would be even more awkward. At least, if they call you by the name of an ex-lover of theirs, you can find solace in the fact that for a quick, fleeting split-second, you reminded him/her of someone who was a serious (maybe even godly) expert of the very act that you’re trying to do now. Ya know? For that “one shining moment” you were the man or woman! Maybe not the man or woman that you actually are or wanted to be, but you gotta start somewhere. Right? At least that person acknowledged your presence…sort of. Hell, it could be worse. While you’re down there doing your thing, that person could be asleep. Or watching TV. Or on the phone. Or watching TV AND on the phone. Be cool. Things are looking up, soldier!
To avoid long lines at the restroom, women should learn to pee in cups like men.
To avoid long lines of piss on the floor in the restroom, men should learn to piss in the toilet like women. And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.
Why are most songs on the radio about love? Take a look at the top 40 at any time in the year, and you’ll see that the vast majority of the songs have to do with someone pursuing another romantically, the aftermath of a breakup, or something to that effect. Is love the only subject in the world? I know it’s important. Don’t get me wrong, y’all. I’d just like to turn on the radio and hear something else. Hip Hop used to be refreshing because various topics were discussed. Nowadays, every hip hop song seems to be about a pimp that deals drugs with a flashy car and big chains rapping about being a pimp that sells drugs in his flashy car while wearing big chains. Just once I’d like to hear someone singing for 4 minutes about skinny dipping a vat of melted taffy, or how someone’s debit card kept getting declined at Wal-mart, or even how a kid had to explain to his mom why the window’s broken because his toenail clipping had a little too much force on it. They don’t make songs like they used to.
You can not get mad because you’re on a crowded bus and someone’s in your “personal” space. That’s bull$hit. You do not have “personal” space on “public” transportation. Get over yourself, get used to it, or get off at the next stop. This dude was so mad because he had to let an older woman in so she could seat at the window seat. He had an aisle seat, didn’t want to sit in the window seat. He just didn’t want anyone sitting beside him. It’s times like that I wish that the trap door would open and bastards like that would get ground up underneath the gears of the bus. The wheels on the bus go round and round…
Overly pushy guys trying to mack to overly sexy women on the bus are bound to lose. Your chances of getting her respect, let alone getting her number, are struggling for life straight out of the womb. All of your cologne. All of your Chap Stick. All of your jewelry. All of your slick talk. They’re all sinking your battleship, son. She’s on the bus because her car’s in the shop. You’re on the bus because your car’s still at the dealership. Give it up. Those old, Jewish ladies in front of the bus are laughing at you, schmuck.
A curly haired boy on the train with a head full of dandruff decided that it would be funny to rub his hand through his hair and shake all his snowflakes out. He sat right across from me. It was like anthrax spores invaded the airspace. Christmas in July. I took my folder and fanned that dandruff toward the back of his throat. He started coughing. I started smiling. Everyone started clapping. Good times.
People who are really, really, really concerned with how the animal they’re currently eating was treated prior to being their dinner……I know where you guys are coming from. But does it really matter? I don’t know. I don’t have the answers. That’s why I’m asking you. Would it make a difference if that turkey you’re devouring stayed in a 5-star hotel, got room service at the jingle of a bell, and watched satellite TV before it got its neck chopped off, feathers plucked, and gutted out just so you can eat that lean roast turkey? Whether it lived the high life and waddled on a red carpet at the Oscars or was beat up in the back alley of a slaughterhouse, it’s still dead. Dead so you can appease your appetite. You think it’s a problem…well, you’re actually part of the problem. That problem’s called the food chain. Heard of it?
This guy I know lives about a block from me. Sometimes two blocks. Anyway, he’s gotten on my last nerve. You know what? I’m gonna quit being mysterious and vague. Man, I’m calling you out. Right here on MySpace. Zacko, I know you’ll read this eventually. I know you’ve got the internet. Listen. When you asked me to help you out with some money, I did. I did it for you. I did it because I thought we were boys. I thought we were friends. Thought we were tight. But you did me wrong! When I’m in a pinch and I ask you for some scratch, you turned your back on me. Didn’t even acknowledge my presence. Mu+hafu#ka! You owe me! Just because you’re homeless…that doesn’t mean jack $hit!! How come you can do right by me? Bastard! I know you got money! I’ve seen you driving that big ol’ SUV down the street you usually beg on. You saw me, too! Uh huh! Sinking down in the seat when you see me. I see how it is! Now, you’ve got tinted windows so I can’t see inside. But you ain’t as smart as you think. License plates stay the same unless you change them, Einstein! It’s all good, though. I’ve got your number. I’ll be waiting in the bushes when you least expect it. I’m gonna get my fifty cents back!!
Think Ink|Thinq Inq 