Give a Jew a take-out menu and he'll eat for a month

Friday evening, I was invited to dinner at the home of a young couple, the man of which is the son of the older couple with whom we all normally have Friday night dinner. Fuuuuuuuuuuck grammar is hard! It kinda boggles my mind how yuppies can be so proficient in their professional lives and have absolutely no aesthetic clue when it comes to hosting. Priorities, people. Get them. If you're going to forgo cooking and cater, fine, do it. But don't then make one dish and stick it in with the rest because it's not gonna be as good as the crazy high fat/salt restaurant grub and your sad little dish will face more rejection than me at a Calve Muscle Lovers of America's annual general meeting. Secondly, my hostess was bummed because one guest cancelled and consequently there would be too much food. This is akin to saying that the United States of America recently suffered a huge blow to their population growth with the loss of Gary Coleman. There was more food at this dinner than in the whole of Mozambique. Also, it was Thai and lemongrass is the devil. You heard me.

For all of my observations/bitchings thus far, this was actually all okay. Food was decent, there was lots of wine and I had walked close to a marathon (20 minutes) to get to their house, so I was feeling confident in my decision to swan dive into the pad thai. Full pike, half twist. What stuck in my craw though was their house guest, a woman in the 30-55 age range depending on the lighting, who had just got back from Honduras with her 12 year old weimeraner Shadow and his spinal bifida. It literally dragged itself everywhere on its two front paws. So sad. Sadder still cause his owner was a raging biotch.

I hate - HATE - women that go over to visit their female friends and the friends' husbands/boyfriends and spend the whole night harping at the guys in a misguided pseudo-feminist attempt to rally with their friends who needs absolutely no rallying. Couples disagree all the time but stay the fuck out it, yo! This is not an attempt to mediate but rather a nosey-ass gender-contrived continuation of "boys have cooties," and when you are 30-55 years old, this is really unsightly. It's not feministy in the least, as the underlying implication is that the female in the partnership could not possibly hold her own without the help of a sistah. This chick, who is Jewish, also spent the whole night scolding the hosts' dog, debated on how to get into a Ponzi scheme and refused to sing the blessing for the Sabbath with the hostess when asked and said that she would speak it but actually she wouldn't cause that would sound stupid with one person singing and one person speaking.

Are...you fucking kidding?

You get invited to participate in a traditional (albeit Thai) Friday night meal and when asked to put in 10 seconds of effort, you decline because it would "sound stupid?" What a total F U to the hosts. Then she talked for two hours non-stop about how her stomach was sore and she needed to go for a run. Yo, Forest, just fucking run already! Don't just sit there with your close-to-30-weeks food baby and challenge my view on dietary sugars:

Jet-Lagged Hostess: This frozen yogurt is amazing. It's only 3 grams of fat.

Buddha Belly Biznatch: Yeah, but there's a ton of sugar in it.

Illustrious D: Actually, I'm pretty sure it's made with Splenda, so...

BBB: Yeah, but everything has sugar in it. Everything refined has sugar in it.

ID: Okay, but this isn-

BBB: Like, anything with refined grains is sugar.

ID: Yeah, it breaks down into sugar in your body but it's not the same as having just sugar.

BBB: No, but it's sugar. Your body makes it into sugar.

ID: *wtf expression to hostess*

BBB: Like, I'll only eat whole grains because - okay, don't you get it? - it's all sugar.

ID, using grand gestures: I understand that. But a cup of bread *thinks about how a cup of bread would look* and a cup of sugar are not the same thing.

BBB: Yeah, but they are both sugar.

ID, breaking out a power point presentation and finger puppets: A CUP OF BREAD DOES NOT CONTAIN THE SAME AMOUNT OF SUGAR AS A WHOLE CUP OF SUGAR.

BBB: Anyway, that yogurt does look really good.


What is it about me that attracts the misinformed of Toronto to spew garbage at me like their own personal whimsies are scientifically notarized fact? First the 19 year old wombat from last week and now this Dr.-Oz-proselytizing turd.


NEXT TIME: I abandon the reason why I moved in the first place; an ugly, straight guy shows me his ass and gives me a cupcake; a lot of overtanned dick

I've now referenced Patrick Tillet several times in the past few months. For those of you who haven't clicked on my hyperlink to his blog, first of all, why didn't you click on my hyperlink to his blog? I don't hyperlink for my health, people! Kids in China have no hyperlinks! Hyperlinks don't grow on trees, you know!

Refocus.

Second of all, I'll explain that Patrick - Pat to his friends - Patrick is like a den father (is that a thing?) to a whole bunch of younger, stupider bloggers like me who all follow him like Charles Manson Deepak Chopra cause he's all wise and shiz. As one commenter recently stated, Patrick's blog is like a sequel to Running With Scissors with drugs, the law and mentally unbalanced relatives taking the forefront. In summation, there's some seriously good stuff there.

So that's Patrick.

Now why am I telling you this?

Well, as you probably know, the doling out of blogger "awards" has proliferated the interwebz. I'm not saying it's a good thing or a bad thing, but it's a thing and we're gonna talk about it. Anyway, after receiving nearly every award on the planet by his followers (the fuck is a Blue Award?), he created one of his own called the White Russian Award:

The only reason that I am posting this here is because Pat is a nice guy and that's part of the stipulation of accepting it. I don't know how to embed them in the side bar cause I'm not all worldly and have given myself the HTML Fail Award on several occasions. I'm also posting it because it's fucking hilarious and makes no sense.

Preamble over.

My steady decrease in workload has meant a lot of scrounging for things to do for 37.5 hours of the week and so when I was listed along with about 30 other blogs, I was thrilled at the possibility of following some new ones. I went faithfully to each and every one of them and read a few posts from each and learned that I am truly a lone dickwolf in a sea of nice princes. I am at this moment giving myself the Mixed Metaphor Award.

Every one of them was just so... nice. They all had cute little stories or poems or posts on awards given to them by someone else who was really nice. This is fine. No judgey. I'm certainly not harping on an inundation of niceness, so no "To heck with you, gosh darnit!" comments. I suppose, as I've said in the past, people just have different reasons for blogging and based upon the 30 blogs I saw yesterday, it would seem like a lot of people do it so they'll have this nice little Precious Moments community. (Sidenote: has there ever been anything on this earth less Jewy than Precious Moments ?) I think recognition of another person's efforts is a beautiful thing, but this award thing is getting to be more like daily affirmations affixed to one's mirror than anything else. All this nicety is, well, nice, but it's not me. At least not blogger me. In direct opposition to niceties, my M.O. seems to be thinking of un-PC verbal diarrhea and writing it down before fully pondering that I'll be up all night thinking about how I want to befriend an autistic 12 year old, so you can see where there's some contrary inspiration. This took me back to my days of being the badass slacker of my school's IB program. Both now and then, the idea of my badassery is ridiculous, however no less isolating because of it. Yes, I did so little work in grade 11 that I stayed up for 36 hours on the last two days and did an entire term's worth of homework, but I was also in choir, chamber choir, the musical and regular high school coffee house performer and still made honour roll. So even if I was a bit badass, it was in a very Tina from Glee way. A very queer Tina from Glee way. A very queer racially-stereotyping Tina from Glee way. In fact, I'm frequently rebuffed in real life for being too nice, an irony not lost on a guy whose most frequently used tag is Adventures in No Man Land.

Okay, so what's my point?

No, really, I have no idea what my point was

Maybe that I feel totally not a part of an online community of nice people cause I like really funny and/or twisted reading fodder?

Maybe that if anyone knows any other blogs like Steam Me Up Kid, Monster Apathy or Sassy Curmodgeon to pass them my way?

Ugh, I don't know.

I Love the Smell of Douches in the Morning

The following is a list of Douchey McDouche-Douchersons that I saw whilst waiting for the streetcar this morning.

1. Popped-collared Douche - *sigh* HOW IS THIS STILL OKAY? No. Just no. Never. Unless it's a jacket. But a polo shirt? From motherfucking Guess?! With writing on the part that should be flipped down?! It's like douchery is in their mission statement. Die in a fire.

2. Obnoxiously Loud Music Douche - Why is it that you never hear Beethoven being blasted through ridiculously over-sized but ineffective earphones? Gimme some ABBA or something! But no. It is always, as you know, gangsta rap and hip hop. Misogyny and drive-by shootings used to be the worst things about ghetto music. No more.

3. Black-in-Brown Douche - There was a black lady in clothing the exact same colour as her skin. Okay, this is not douchey. Perhaps just misguided. Brown is a fantastic colour, but if you can't pull it off (not unlike your own skin) then just accept that this is your lot in life. I mean, do you see me wearing kinda-rosy-with-receding-hair-gimpy-times-coloured clothing? No, you do not.

4. Guy-Who-Lives-In-My-Building-But-Never-Says-Hi Douche - Okay, this one may be kinda self-explanatory. But seriously. Not even a smile? I know you're thinner and have better shoes than me and probably live with an equally austere Asian girl, but c'mon. Sidenote: Asian girls with white boyfriends are my people.

5. Girl-With-Mary-Janes-And-Socks Douche - Hey, Dorothy: no.

6. Offspring-Abandoning Douche - You know what?! I am so sick of all these women that lend their uterii to gay couples and then go off to have a illustrious show choir coaching careers only to turn around and plot to make their long-lost daughters discover them and then be all "I can't be your mom but let's break it down with some acoustic GaGa first, mmk?"

...

Okay, that one might just have been last night's Glee. I'm losing my credibility mad quickly.

7. Guy-From-My-Apartment Douche - Yesterday evening (not this morning, but it still makes the list) I met a chat friend. He is young and overweight and comes from a crazy, crazy Evangelical Pentecostal family that has indoctrinated him to the point that I didn't even rebut any of the messed up hick garbage he spewed at me cause it was just so ridiculous. It was like being at a one-man Log Cabin Republicans meeting. He also had that grating habit of being 19*, wherein he mistook his opinions with facts. I kinda wanted to punch him in his admittedly-unshaven balls. Then, as we're at the door, he somehow launches himself into the air and lands on my lips. At first I resist but then I am reminded of how 19 year olds kiss and I'm all mmmmmmmm and so I let him for a while but then I kinda hovered above myself and was like, "Um, what are you doing? He's 19. And kind of a dick." My kicking out of him was met with surprise and initially resistance but finally, I managed to convince him to leave. He took 5 minutes to lace up his $29.99 Shoe Warehouse travesties and then was all (fat) wounded puppy as he left. Hmmm. Maybe I'm the douche.



* 26 (my age) ÷ 2 = 13, +7 = 20. Damnit! Also, ugh.

Sarah Silverman and Me: Cut From The Same Downie-Lovin' Cloth

This is gonna be a good week. Know how I know? Curz this morning I got to sit behind my favourite Autistic Girl Gone Wild (AGGW) and her haggard daddy on the streetcar!

I gots a beef with the dad, though, and not, like, an offering of fillet mignon or nuttin'. Nah. This is some seriously skirt steak shit. He has dandruff and really bad shoes. But that's not the worst of it. I feel he ignores her and this makes me sad. I feel that maybe it was his wife's idea to have an ageless autistic offspring and that maybe he was all like, "Okay, baby, sure, whatevs, can I just stick it in?"

I feel he shoulda maybe had a lesson from that big black motivational speaker/bodybuilder on Maury Povich about the negative outcomes of porking your 47 year old wife. I mean, they're pretty much Abraham and Sarah, and then comes along Isaac, 'cept it's a girl and it's kinda retarded and God's all "Dem's da breaks, suckahs! lolz"

Whatever. The fact is I still got to sit behind them and when every once in a while she'd look out the window and shriek in glee at some person walking by or some run-overed squirrel, I screamed along with her. On the inside. Cause I gots decorum.

But then the lady sitting next to me would stare at the girl and I just wanted to take her hand and say, "Hey lady, no fraid-fraid of little AGGW."

And then she'd be all, "What? Is that Spanish?"

And then I'd realized that I'd said the letter phonetically and I'd laugh and laugh and say, "No, no, silly button. A-G-G-W. Autistic Girl Gone Wild!"

And then she'd look all shocked and pretend to be horrified while deep down I'd know she was just as delighted with AGGW as I am. Then she'd start riffling through her bag and I'd casually peer into it and note that she has some balled up kleenex and that weird-ass melon chewing gum and enough Plan B for an entire private Catholic girls high school and I'd be all, "No judgey, Legs Wide Open."

And then I'd take AGGW and her bitter old dandruffed daddy each by the hand and we'd skip off the streetcar as I turned around to tell the lady to have a wonderful day and to enjoy her uterine lining melting out of her body.

I love Asian people. While this may not always be self-evident given my blatantly racist comments affectionate social commentary, but I really do feel that they are my people. The fact that the Blacks, Latinos, Aboriginals and Albinos all turned me down is besides the point. Asians are my BFFs (FO-EVAH!) because they are sweet natured, well groomed and run killer franchise restaurants.

As previously mentioned, the whole of the food court in my office building is owned and run by a close-knit group of Chineses*. I'd like to go on the record and say, "Fucking good!" They never get any face time any more. All the other more glamorous countries have stolen the spot light. There's Japan, with its silky, silky raw fish and fucked up fixation with pubescent school girls; Viet-Nam, with its omagawd-so-nummers vermicelli and thunder-stealin' war memorials; and Korea, the dark horse, with their oh-hey-we-made-tables-with-BBQs-in-them tables with BBQs in them and disproportional representation in stand-up comedy. Seriously, Koreans run shit. Like, all of it. Majority of sushi restaurants...all corner stores...nuclear enrichment programs. Every time I see what I think is a nice Chinese person - BAM - Korean in disguise. Tricky, they. Hey Korea, quite hogging all the glory! Just cause you got ballin' karaoke doesn't mean you get to usurp cultural power. China had their own goddamned cultural revolution, motherfuckers! Do NOT make me demote you beneath Laos!

Anyway, back to my food court people. I bring healthy food to work allllllll the time. Crustless quiches, vegetable soups, fruit, dark chocolate... I'm pretty much Dr. fucking Oz. But sometimes *cough*onceortwiceaweek*cough* I just get sick of that shihat and indulge in a li'l something called the Fit For Life Dinner from the restaurant - wait for it - Fit For Life. Your world has been rocked. I can tell. So check it: this is all these different kinds salads (lettuce, chickpea, parsley, roasted veggie, fruit) plus tomatoes, cucs, beets, asparagus, roasted potato, half a hard boiled egg and a protein (I get falafel or tuna). It's deliciousness in an Earth-destroying styrofoam container. Mmmm, planetary destruction. My favourite lady is about 40, very pretty, very Sesame Oil of Olay. She packs in the veggies tighter than...something that...packs...veggies...tightly. Simile fail.

Then there's this other lady who's roughly 173, hair magically cemented in place by 8 decades of wearing a hair-net and bags under her eyes so large that you could slip a newborn into each one and just have her shake her head from side to rock them to sleep. No one wants to see that. Lady, how about applying some of that cucumber salad to those peepers, hey? Ugh. Such bad customer service. The worst part. however, is that she is Cheapy McCheap-Cheap Cheaperson with mah combo! Listen up, there are not 1.3 billion of me. We don't need to ration! Just gimme my goddamned three chunks - NOT TWO - of melon and let me continue on my way! Dayuuuuuuum...

So yesterday I go and order it and, of course, I get the decagenarian and she totally jews** me (1 slice of tomato = wtf) but then the really pretty lady is at the cash register and so when I get up there I flash her this cheeky smile and whisper, "You make it better."

She kinda just stares at me for a moment and in those few seconds I realize that I've unintentionally just hit on my hot salad lady in the CREEPIEST WAY POSSIBLE. So then she smiles nervously and goes, "No, no, she make jus as gude..." like that's gonna make me change my mind and wait outside the back alley dumpster to cop an unwelcome pre-Ming Dynasty feel. I don't think so, buddy. If I was straight and into old chicks and super creepy and maybe a bit rapey too, insuring me that my salad was made with equally loving care would not be a deterrent from making you give me a foot*** rub****.

Attempt at writing a short post fail



*Going-to-hell-anyway Joke Numbah Wahn: China recently held a celebrity lookalike contest. The winner was everyone.

** Equally opportunity racism. I gots it.

*** Ball

**** Tickle

Sign Things Cannot Be Going All That Well

I have just downloaded and am listening to the Twilight soundtrack.

What You Get For Being My Friend

The following e-mail exchange just occurred between myself and Matthew, a quasi-long time net friend that is visiting Toronto next week.

Big-Ass Matt (last night): " It's like 2:00 a.m. and I think that I should go to bed or masturbate or something equally as productive. Bake?"

Illustrious D (this morning): "I hope you wound up doing both. Masturbaking. At the very least you'd wind up with a decent bonding agent. Suck on that, eggs. There's a new kid in town: semen."

BAM: "Ew, haha. Masturbaking. There's so many double entendres in that brief paragraph that it made my simple minded head positively explode. Anyway: it's okay if Sunday isn't doable. We will find time, rest assured. If even it's only a few mere moments to point and laugh at each other and then part ways."

ID: "The following is an artistic interpretation of the situation you positted in your last e-mail. I truly hope that it does not come down to this, but in the event that it does, this IS the outcome which will occur:



ID (continued): "First of all, where are your goddamn pants, Matthew?! This is Queen St. W, not Cousin Humpin' Crescent, Saskatoon. Also, nice socks. Way to coordinate with the blue shirt. Douche. And man, your ass really is large and in charge. Not gonna lie though. I got pretty aroused cutting and pasting it into my 2 HOUR MS Paint project.

"So yes, please try to not show up to our point-and-laugh date without pants. If they are to come off, I would at least like to be the one undoing them with his teeth.

"KNOWLEDGE!

"Illustrious out."

Winnipeg Recap, Now With Murally Goodness

Well the lethargy burn out that has been sweeping the blogosphere (Pat Tillett, aside. What a productive jerk.) has finally hit Fleekin Floygn and its soon-to-ask-his-shrink-for-medication auteur, The Illustrious D. Also, talking about oneself in the third person is for asshats so I'm going to stop.

Last weekend, I went to the hometown for the launch of the album I recorded with my all-singing, all-dancing jew group back in March. I've been too full ennui to bring the chuckles as of late and so will present my experience in MS Paint form:


1. The 58B Bus - Toronto is home to the shittiest drivers in the world and I know what you're thinking, that it's because we have such a high Asian population, but shame on you. That's racist. And true. So what should have taken a little over an hour from the time I left (3:30) to get to the airport took nearly two and would have take an infinite number of hours had I not realized I was on the wrong bus as it sped past the airport. This put me at 5:30, the time my plane was to begin boarding. Evidently, Sesame Street's claim that today's show was brought to me in part by the letter B was a big fucking lie. Kiss my ass, Elmo, you red piece of pedophilia fantasy shit. It was the 58A bus that I should have taken. I jumped through the rear window and landed in front of a Sheraton, stole a taxi fan from a group from the National Rhythmic Gymnastics Convention and made it to the airport by 5:45. That's right, motherfuckers. Cab ride, security, gate all in 15 minutes. Jesus loves me. Know who doesnt? Fucking Elmo.

2. Sushi - Mother picks me up outside the terminal (no sense in meeting at Arrivals. Doesn't love me that much.) and she proposes we pick up sushi for dinner. Wow, Mama, you so with the times. 1996 better watch its back. We ordered a meal combo for four, which is appropriate as Father eats entire Ugandan villages for a mid-afternoon snack, Mother barely eats at all and I eat like a goddamned normal person! We're the Three Bears of suburban jewery.

3. Trains - Later that evening I went to meet Suprisingly Interesting Accountant, a chat buddy from North Dakota for the past 5 years. He'd decided to come to cross the border for a post-tax season celebratory holiday and chose the weekend I was there to do it. He invited me over to his friends' place and we sat around, drinking wine, eating Saskatoon berry pie and playing Ticket To Ride, kind of a railroad version of Settlers of Catan. We also didn't wind up going to the bar (literally singular in Winnipeg) so big ups for not having to watch David's Parade of Losers 2001-2009 file by. SIA was actually a pretty great guy, as far as meeting internet friends goes, so there was a lot of win going on that night.

4. Scissors/Eye Glasses -I got my hair cut the next morning. In the 10 months I've lived in Toronto, I've never got my hair cut here once. I either do it myself or wait until a trip back home. That is how deeply rooted is my respect for my bespectacled stylist. Equally deep rooted? My hair shame.

5. Keyboard -That afternoon I rehearsed with the group and then went home and had dinner with the fam. I also rocked out pretty hard with my hippie cousin to some ol schook Regina Spektor. I miss my old piano.

6. Opera Diva wida braid - After dinner, I went to see Future Roommate sing in a kids' opera based on the Bruthas Grimmz. (That's a stereotypical opera singer with a Rapunzel braid. NAILED IT.) The certifiably insane person who'd taken over directing our group had given me an anti-depressant to test drive that night, but my expectations of insta-happy were not to be, as one evidently needs to have a chemical depression and not simply ennui and malaise for it to work. I, on the otherhand, lost the ability to form coherent sentences and became a cantankerous baiznatch, the combination of which really held up my game when meeting Future Roommate's mother for essentially the first time.

7. Nachos? - After the lovely show and my maternally-directed verbal diahrrea, we went fo nachos & drinks with some people. You guys, drawing nachos is motherfucking hard. THE ARE NOT SIMPLY PERFECT SQUARES. Seriously. So frustrating. The little olive cross-sections were kinda fun. But using the spray function to try to make melted marble cheese?! Are you fucking kidding me?! Also, that side of guacamole looks like pea shit.

8. wtf Bagel & Lox... - The next morning, we had a Mothers Day/Mah Birfday brunch and it was lovely. Know what isn't lovely? That piece of crap bagel & smoked salmon I tried to draw. It looks like someone took a discoloured Frisbee, came all over it, then applying some slices of ham (Jew Fail) , peas (THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE GERKINS) and purple circles of nothing. Cause purple circles do not exist anywhere. Then I got really frustrated and scribbled all over it. Ugh. You'd think the chosen people coulda chosen Paint-friendly food combos. COVENANT TERMINATED.

9. Chocolate Fountain - After brunch, I was transported to the album launch site, where I sat around for 4 hours until a dress rehearsal that ended an hour before showtime. It was lame. The event was a attempt-at-fancy wine & dessert evening with an hour+ long concert from us, which I guess went alright. If you're interested in reading it, I'll post it here. There was also a new, really cute 19 year old pianist who the Bloated Medicated One convinced me was giving the eye my way. This was later disproved when he showed up at the afterparty with his 28 year old girlfriend. At least I'm not the only one robbing cradles, though in my case, they generally go crawling back after a week or two, leaving me with nothing but a pacifier and dribble stains.

10. Key Fail - After the afterparty, I went to meet another net friend, although one with whom there'd been a bit more flirtation. It wasn't awesome. It was nearly 1:00am on a Sunday night (yes, technically Monday morning, stfu) and nothing was open. I drove him to my group's performance studio as I had BMO's security code and it was be a nice place to chill. Unfortunately, they'BMO had failed to mention that they're changed the locks so then we had to get back in the car and drive back to his neighborhood, searching for a park to walk in only to discover that it was way too cold. We got back in my car, made out for a bit and then he unceremoniously announced that he had to get home. So much ugh.

11. Jam, bitches - The next morning I had lunch with Seventeen Year Old (now 20) and it was so lovely. Having watched him grow from this fat ball of attitude three years ago to the increasingly self-possessed young man he is now is just awesome. He's still so him, just...better. He bought be breakfast. I bought him some of Stella's ballin' jam. We joked about doing drugs together. Ha ha! Look at us! So funny! Talkin' droguas! Ha...ha... *sigh* god, I miss it.

12. Lays Classics - After launch with the Future Roommate and a.w., the former dropped me off at the airport at which point I found out the my flight had been delayed by an hour and a half. Balls. On the plus side, they gave us a $10.00 food voucher for the shitty, shitty Winnipeg airport vendors. I used it to get a Greek salad, potato chips and two bite cookie thingies...and that's it. There was nothing remotely appetizing. My stomach had been on the hate train with me for days and I thought that getting Arby's would be a little too fate-tempty for me.

12. Sick D - On the plane, I made the mistake of telling the stewardess (yeah. I said it. You wanna be called 'flight attendant' then stop wearing whore makeup. Truth.) that my tummy was funny and she handed me a gingerale and kicked my ass out of the roomy, roomy exit row seat I had reserved. Fortunately, she kicked me into my own row, so I guess that's a win. Shortly thereafter, I had my first Hershey Highway experience at 39,000 feet, meaning I Jackson Pollock'ed the bowl, not that some flight attendant named Martin plugged me in the lavatory.

Cause we all know what amazing fortune I have with flight attendants.

Oh, heeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyy...

Um, Reader, is it? Yes, right. Hi.

How are things?

Gooooood, good. Glad to hear it.

Oh, not much. Just teetering ever close to a nervous breakdown.

Hmmm? Oh. Yes, yes, definitely still drinking my liquid weight in alcohol. Actually, funny you should mention that, cause the darndest thing happened last night. I was making this applecrisp martini and-...yeah, I know, they're REALLY good - anyway, I thought instead of shaking it, I'd drop an ice cube in the martini glass and mix it with a milk frother. So it got all frothy and I was all, I'm molecular gastronemy but not really embodied *church giggles*. So then *birthing-esque howls*... I pick up the glass, right...*panting and tears* and the entire bottom of the glass just falls out and lands on the counter perfectly intac-...

Is that your bus?

No, for totes, go, go... we'll catch up later, like when I have the slightest desire to write again.

Alright.

You too.

Air kisses.






Ugh, what a dickhead.

Karmatic Retribution for Talking About Reta-... People With Intellectual Disabilities

A Text Conversation

Young Portuguese* (2:34am): David, I feel odd.

Illustrious D (7:21am): Okay. How?

YP (7:24am): Sorry about that. I was kinda drunk and feeling bad about the...non...way I left things.

ID (7:25am): Do you feel better about it now that you're sober?

YP (7:25am): You know I don't.

ID (7:26am): Not to sound like a dick, but I don't really know anything either way. The whole hot-cold thing was kinda confusing.

YP (7:27am): Bah, it's cool. Just forget I sent anything.

ID (7:28am): Not really all that cool. Forgotten nevertheless. Happy birthday me.


I'd like to issue a formal notice of appreciation to The Universe for waiting a whole 5 minutes after I woke up to fuck with me.

Imagined Pre-Birthday Messages

Tomorrow is my illustrious 26th birthday. As I anticipate receiving literally fours of celebratory wishes, I thought I would jump the gun and predict what some of the heartfelt wishes may contain:


Hungarian Father: Hey Muffininski (why he chose a Russian suffix to my childhood nickname is a question for the ages), it's Daddio comin' at ya! Have a happy birthday, Mister, and while you're at it, find me a son-in-law!

Slacker Mom: Hi, sweetie. It's your mom calling to wish you a happy birthday and say that it's okay that you missed our anniversary yesterday. I'm sure the call got lost in the mail. Anyway, hope you do something nice with a ...friend and maybe things will happen to you this year. Can't wait to see you on Friday! If you need a ride from the airport, call us.

Electro Bro: Hi, sweetie. It's your mom calling again. Your brother sends his regards but he's too busy smoking the gange trying to forget about Finnigan. Hope you're not worrying about having missed our anniversary. Buh-bye.

Future Roommate: Anonymous says: Happy birthday, sweetheart! Can't wait to see you this weekend! We gonna get cruuuuuuuuunk.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: granted ur intenchun was 2 b born and you did that but ive read a lot of reesurch shoing that u r pompous cuz being 26 isnt that impressive lol oh hon persutis.

ESLothario: *crickets*

Unibrow: Hey, buddy-pants. I just wanted to call and wisjh jhouuu a haaaappsatlihg (message truncated due to rufie someone slipped him in order to tweeze that shit.)

Flight Attendant Nick: :) :P :) :D :P :) :) ;) :D IF I COULD TURN BACK TI-

Iranian Grocery Owner Lady: (upon seeing the strawberries I've picked out) No no no. You can do better than that. Go get others.

Actually happened. Even my produce vendor disapproves of my choices.