After looking back at the past week, it would appear that I may need to get back to a better balance of creating my own meals, and just avoiding people in general. For the second week in a row, I'm mostly averse to the psychology of human beings when they are in public, particularly establishments where food can be found.
For some unknown reason, a local buffet (that's not located in the "New Country") happens to be my daughter's favorite place to eat on the entire planet. For me, it's proof enough that hell exists; in the form of large, panicking sea donkeys orbiting around mountains of salmonella.
I'm always stuck at a table next to some group of loud-talkers, too. This is usually because one of them is almost deaf. And, I hear for shit, too. Most people close to me know that I'm mostly deaf on the port side of my head. But, it doesn't cause me to scream conversations across the table at restaurants.
This is especially frustrating when you're now forcibly drawn into a conversation and unintentionally develop some interest in the mundane aspects of somebody else's life, but have no ability to even piece together what the hell they are trying to communicate because their ability to communicate a thought is like watching a monkey trying to hump ants out of the ground with a stick.
"You wanna drive down to Tennessee with me this week?" - "No, I don't have to pee right now, go ahead and I'll hold the table." - (Louder) "No, I'm driving to Tennessee! Do you want to go?" - "It's gonna snow?" - "What? I hope not. My tires are almost dry-rotted." - "You're tried from hanging drywall?" - "No! My tires are bad!" - "That's no good. You should fix them. We'll talk more after you go to the bathroom. I'll hold the table."
Mother duck. Neither of these dumb bastards could hear a fucking thing. That conversation went on for almost 45 minutes. I'll admit that I was laughing almost uncontrollably by the time I left, even as frustrating as it was.
I've also yet to determine if my periodic trips to the nearby food court are an exercise in patience and humility, or if I'm subconsciously trying to destroy the last shred of tolerance I have left for humanity. Whatever the case, it's fucking mayhem every time I choose to snort lines of douchebag for lunch.
I stood in line last Wednesday for almost fifteen minutes, just for the savory goodness of some black pepper chicken. Did I have to wait so long because it was the most popular item, and they were struggling to keep up with preparing it? Nope. They had an entire pan full of it, just oozing like spicy food porn. Did I have to wait so long because there was a crowd of customers overrunning the counters at the local Pandy Dandy? Sadly, no. I was one of only two people in line.
I waited because the goddamn chucklehead in front of me had to sample every single item on their buffet line, and then put her shitty government phone to her stupid head after each item, to describe in very remedial detail what her samplings tasted like to some nitwit assclown on the other end. "The beef and broccoli is pretty good, you can taste the broccoli in the sauce." No shit? Imagine that. The sauce, swimming with broccoli, tastes like the name of the fucking dish. What the fuck does that even mean? How have you managed to dress yourself today, let alone figure out how to operate a phone, with that type of mind-blowing communicative exercise?
Perhaps even more frustrating was the walk back to my office. I've built-up an even bigger appetite at this point, after playing cerebral hopscotch with the broccoli botard. But, I'd be stuck walking behind the largest pack of assholes the day could put in front of me. We have all encountered them. That certain group of people with the herd mentality, where they feel as if they can't communicate effectively with each other if they aren't all walking side-by-side. Six of these unaware motherfuckers just giggling and volleying at least three separate conversations between them, as I was behind them with my lunch, juking like Barry Sanders as I tried to pass them.
Of course, they are in no hurry, either, and only move as fast as the slowest piece of shit in the group, who just happens to be the muppet with that goddamn Voltron-looking Bluetooth jammed to the side of his head. Seriously? Your jaw looks lopsided. These were hip for about two weeks back in 2007. You're not at Gen Con, unstrap that stupid shit from your head already. Wear it in the car, where the derivative of its "hands-free" intention can be found. You're walking through a crowded mall, you look like a tool, and chances are the most important call you're getting today is that your dog, "Boner," coughed up some rawhide all over your bean bag chair at mommy's house again. Assface.
Aside from that, my lunch was sensational. They really outdid themselves this time with the black pepper. It had a subtle hint of garlic, also, which added to the humbling zest that would hit my tongue.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Incas and Pecans
In my very best attempt at a highly-skilled form of Japanese poetry, I will summarize last week in only seventeen syllables.
Meeting fried pecans
A lovely woman in bloom
Last-minute Incas
Now, for the unabridged traffic cam into last week's awesomeness, and its complete fuckery, too.
Like every year for the past twenty-five, I waited until only two days before Christmas to not just complete, but actually start my holiday shopping. This self-inflicted chaos usually results in liver damage caused by the bottle of whiskey I smash into my throat after subjecting myself to stores full of assholes who, just like me, curse for four-straight hours while we find only vacant shelves and occupied parking spaces.
However, this year I decided to venture out into the teeth of a winter storm. To my complete and joyous surprise, most people actually listened to the chuckleheads on television who told them to stay off of the roads. This left the parking lots empty, and the shelves nicely stocked from the night before. It was as if Santa Claus himself humped his fat ass bag of overpriced goods to the stores just before I walked into each door.
In years past, I looked like I was a contestant on fucking Supermarket Sweep, trying to plow entire shelves into my cart before the guy in front of me could touch a single item. (Seriously, about three years ago I went home with more than two-dozen mocha-scented candles. I'll be burning those chocolaty fuckers long after the sun dies out). This year, I could actually pimp walk my way down the aisles, not only picking exactly what I wanted, but also checking each item for even a speck of dust on its packaging. Crooked sticker? Fuck that. I'm taking that Monopoly game that has the price tag applied with geometric precision. Because I can.
The long and short of it is that I completed my shopping in record time, and with little hassle aside from the roads. To that point, what the fuck good is a plow truck that drives through six inches of snow with its plow raised, while it pours calcified tax-dollars onto the street like a trip down Willy Wonka's gumdrop highway? I passed at least four goddamn plow trucks that didn't do shit to mitigate the piles of icy death befallen all over the roadways. Assholes.
The week would get better, as I was finally able to spend some time with an amazing woman I met. Call me dumbfounded in what she sees in me. A lovely, intelligent, successful, beautiful woman with class and charm, who undoubtedly gets hit on dozens of times each day. But, then I come along. A vertically impaired, greying-haired, leaping gnome with a few bad jokes and a bottle of wine, and I'm going to Disneyland? Maybe there is a god after all.
We had dinner and shared a bottle of wine. It was an outstanding time. But then we decided to head to another location, to have another drink and enjoy some more conversation. Now, this is where it gets a bit odd. Never once in my life, and I mean never, have I ever walked up to complete and random strangers and offered them some of the food I was eating at that moment. I mean, I've been sitting at a bar with friends and offered them the rest of my pizza, but what ensued here still has me puzzled.
For a few brief minutes I watched an older woman (in a group of about four) plucking her fingers into a paper bowl full of some type of snack, in a nicer wine bar. I'm sure her intent was genuine, but she would walk over and begin a semi-lengthy discussion with us about these fantastic fried pecans that her neighbor made. Then, she'd take a napkin and dump these crusted pieces of shit into a pile between the glasses of wine that separated my beautiful company from me.
First, who the fuck just walks up and starts telling strangers a story about their neighbors. I don't even have the slightest clue who you are, let alone the artsy Joneses and their culinary genius that live next door to you. Second, I was having a nice conversation here, over a fine glass of wine, when you walked up and thought, "Hey, have some of these fucking nuts I've been digging my licked fingers into for the last thirty minutes. They're really good!"
The truly fucked up thing is that I ate one, because I didn't want to be rude. Me - not being rude. Mark it down. But that was bullshit. Don't offer strangers other people's crispy goddamn nuts. It's never appropriate.
Finally, I've started a war with autocorrect. For three days as I tried to communicate via text message, every ducking time I would type "I can," the ducking iPhone would change that shit to "Incan."
First, I'm almost positive that I have never once meant to say motherducking "ducking." When I type "fucking," I mean it. This blows my fucking mind. I've done everything I can to try and adjust the phone's exceptions to quit doing this, short of removing the actual word from existence. And the only reason I'm not doing that is because on the off chance I need to use the word someday, I'd be more mortified if I typed, "My goddamn friends took me to a gay strip club as a prank. There are penises flying just over my head. I have to keep fucking them so I'm not smacked with one."
Surely, that's the only time I'll ever need to actually use the word, "ducking."
And as far as the ducking Incas, they have been ruined for nearly a half of a millennium. Is it really common vernacular that they are so often mistaken for English grammar in the first-person?
"Incan go to the store;" or, "Incan be there around six;" or, "Incan make it happen."
No, they fucking can't. Most of the Incan decedents are shacked up in a village at the base of the Andean Mountains somewhere southeast of Lima, Peru; just trying to avoid being swallowed by a dinosaur-sized snake or bitten by a poison fucking frog.
Autocorrect's reindeer games did allow for some hilarity between a lengthy volley of text messages, but it would instinctively lead me to offering this amazing woman a CD set of South American flute music instead of the traditional flower at our first meeting. I'm not sure why she still talks to me after that. And, it may have set the bar a little high. A second date atop Machu Picchu might require a second mortgage.
Duck you, autocorrect.
Meeting fried pecans
A lovely woman in bloom
Last-minute Incas
Now, for the unabridged traffic cam into last week's awesomeness, and its complete fuckery, too.
Like every year for the past twenty-five, I waited until only two days before Christmas to not just complete, but actually start my holiday shopping. This self-inflicted chaos usually results in liver damage caused by the bottle of whiskey I smash into my throat after subjecting myself to stores full of assholes who, just like me, curse for four-straight hours while we find only vacant shelves and occupied parking spaces.
However, this year I decided to venture out into the teeth of a winter storm. To my complete and joyous surprise, most people actually listened to the chuckleheads on television who told them to stay off of the roads. This left the parking lots empty, and the shelves nicely stocked from the night before. It was as if Santa Claus himself humped his fat ass bag of overpriced goods to the stores just before I walked into each door.
In years past, I looked like I was a contestant on fucking Supermarket Sweep, trying to plow entire shelves into my cart before the guy in front of me could touch a single item. (Seriously, about three years ago I went home with more than two-dozen mocha-scented candles. I'll be burning those chocolaty fuckers long after the sun dies out). This year, I could actually pimp walk my way down the aisles, not only picking exactly what I wanted, but also checking each item for even a speck of dust on its packaging. Crooked sticker? Fuck that. I'm taking that Monopoly game that has the price tag applied with geometric precision. Because I can.
The long and short of it is that I completed my shopping in record time, and with little hassle aside from the roads. To that point, what the fuck good is a plow truck that drives through six inches of snow with its plow raised, while it pours calcified tax-dollars onto the street like a trip down Willy Wonka's gumdrop highway? I passed at least four goddamn plow trucks that didn't do shit to mitigate the piles of icy death befallen all over the roadways. Assholes.
The week would get better, as I was finally able to spend some time with an amazing woman I met. Call me dumbfounded in what she sees in me. A lovely, intelligent, successful, beautiful woman with class and charm, who undoubtedly gets hit on dozens of times each day. But, then I come along. A vertically impaired, greying-haired, leaping gnome with a few bad jokes and a bottle of wine, and I'm going to Disneyland? Maybe there is a god after all.
We had dinner and shared a bottle of wine. It was an outstanding time. But then we decided to head to another location, to have another drink and enjoy some more conversation. Now, this is where it gets a bit odd. Never once in my life, and I mean never, have I ever walked up to complete and random strangers and offered them some of the food I was eating at that moment. I mean, I've been sitting at a bar with friends and offered them the rest of my pizza, but what ensued here still has me puzzled.
For a few brief minutes I watched an older woman (in a group of about four) plucking her fingers into a paper bowl full of some type of snack, in a nicer wine bar. I'm sure her intent was genuine, but she would walk over and begin a semi-lengthy discussion with us about these fantastic fried pecans that her neighbor made. Then, she'd take a napkin and dump these crusted pieces of shit into a pile between the glasses of wine that separated my beautiful company from me.
First, who the fuck just walks up and starts telling strangers a story about their neighbors. I don't even have the slightest clue who you are, let alone the artsy Joneses and their culinary genius that live next door to you. Second, I was having a nice conversation here, over a fine glass of wine, when you walked up and thought, "Hey, have some of these fucking nuts I've been digging my licked fingers into for the last thirty minutes. They're really good!"
The truly fucked up thing is that I ate one, because I didn't want to be rude. Me - not being rude. Mark it down. But that was bullshit. Don't offer strangers other people's crispy goddamn nuts. It's never appropriate.
Finally, I've started a war with autocorrect. For three days as I tried to communicate via text message, every ducking time I would type "I can," the ducking iPhone would change that shit to "Incan."
First, I'm almost positive that I have never once meant to say motherducking "ducking." When I type "fucking," I mean it. This blows my fucking mind. I've done everything I can to try and adjust the phone's exceptions to quit doing this, short of removing the actual word from existence. And the only reason I'm not doing that is because on the off chance I need to use the word someday, I'd be more mortified if I typed, "My goddamn friends took me to a gay strip club as a prank. There are penises flying just over my head. I have to keep fucking them so I'm not smacked with one."
Surely, that's the only time I'll ever need to actually use the word, "ducking."
And as far as the ducking Incas, they have been ruined for nearly a half of a millennium. Is it really common vernacular that they are so often mistaken for English grammar in the first-person?
"Incan go to the store;" or, "Incan be there around six;" or, "Incan make it happen."
No, they fucking can't. Most of the Incan decedents are shacked up in a village at the base of the Andean Mountains somewhere southeast of Lima, Peru; just trying to avoid being swallowed by a dinosaur-sized snake or bitten by a poison fucking frog.
Autocorrect's reindeer games did allow for some hilarity between a lengthy volley of text messages, but it would instinctively lead me to offering this amazing woman a CD set of South American flute music instead of the traditional flower at our first meeting. I'm not sure why she still talks to me after that. And, it may have set the bar a little high. A second date atop Machu Picchu might require a second mortgage.
Duck you, autocorrect.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)