Have Some More Chips

There aren't enough adjectives to describe what it's like to be Wellish.

One of the endearing (and amusing) effects of being stoned on cold medicine is that you can create entire ethnicities that don't really exist, and lay claim to their roots and the generalizations that would come from being a part of that group, to momentarily justify the random nonsense that comes spewing out of your mouth as you lay coughing all over the couch of the amazing blind woman you're trying to woo with really bad jokes. (I'm just assuming she must be blind; and after four dates, perhaps deaf, too).

Mostly, you can just enjoy being interesting, if even just for one evening and only to yourself.

I've found that ingesting enough cold medicine fills me with all sorts of elevated and unrealistic, even impossible attributes. Like for instance, as a Wellish man, I served as one of the Tuskegee Airmen in World War II. Being Wellish affords me certain extrasensory perceptions. Also, I've had three penis reduction surgeries.

I had a bit of a head cold last week, for a couple of hours, is what I'm trying to say.

It was a week of firsts for me. For the first time, I watched the remake of "Red Dawn." I really enjoyed the film, which surprises me because I loved the original and I'm not usually a fan of over-dramatized remakes. However, for the last several days, I have found myself constantly looking out the window to make sure North Koreans aren't falling from the fucking sky.

Did you see this bullshit? They were like a swarm of dumb, angry locusts with automatic rifles, dropping like pouring rain all over an affluent neighborhood in the Pacific Northwest. Far-fetched, right? Wrong. It freaked me out a little, because I can see the crazy bastards attempting something like that. It would be great if we could finally plow north of the 38th parallel and rid the world of that crazy douchebag, so that I can get some goddamn sleep at night without worrying about having to go all rogue commando while I'm, well, commando.

Last week was also the first time I have been to Quaker Steak & Lube. I've seen numerous positive remarks about the place from friends, and it didn't disappoint.

Ok, that's bullshit. They almost killed me with blue cheese. Blue cheese sucks. It tastes like crumbled little balls of moldy lint that have been soaked in a bucket of jock straps. I made my aversion to it quite specific when ordering, but when I bit into my chicken wrap, there it was, humping my mouth with its filthy texture and nauseating puke taste. And if you were to ask my lovely date, I'm sure she'd tell you that the look on my face was the one of a guy who had just ingested someone's dirty gym sock. I had that squinty-eyed, sour-lipped, head quiver going on.

The way they distract you from the fact that they tried to destroy your face with that nasty cheese is by throwing potato chips at you until you're so frustrated about the chips that you've forgotten about the blue cheese-poisoning of your intestinal tract. I bet I ate three pounds of their homemade chips, and they kept trying to force more on me. "Here, have some more chips." No, I'm good. "No, really, they're good, have more." No, I'm good. "Are you sure. There's a lot of chips here." Yes, I'm sure. No, I do not want anymore goddamn chips. "Can I get you a box to take some chips home?" Jesus Jiminy Cricket! What's your fucking obsession with pushing the potato chips?!

That's a true story.

The rest of the week was a mix of ponderings and reaffirmations, such as the fact that blowing snow may send your car into a pants-crapping spin off of the road. For breaking a rival's collar bone, the Bears will receive seven (more) years of bad luck. The fox sits above the rabbit on the food chain. After seeing that fucked up commercial that was reminiscent of the 1982 classic, "Creepshow," I will never, ever buy anything from Old Spice. (Seriously, what could that commercial possibly entice anyone to buy, except for maybe a few sessions of psychotherapy). Target has a boner for interrogating you when you try to purchase Mucinex. And, Finn's remains the land of great Irish eats, cold drinks, short skirts, and butter faces.