I love burritos. Especially Chipotle Burritos. I don't care that they're like 8000 calories, I still eat them a lot. I eat them often enough to know about the "Chipotle Window", the time you can go and there won't be a massive line of people ordering people before you. That way I can get in, get out, and begin the wonderful eating process.
I've even learned to slow down while eating them, because I used to eat them so fast that by the time I was done my brain hadn't figured out that my stomach was full yet, and then I'd have to sit there for 5 minutes consumed with anger because I wanted more burrito. I even emailed Chipotle and asked them to make an "El Grande" burrito that was 25% larger just for guys like me. The representative who emailed me back suggested I order a taco or two with my burrito. He was stupid!
Occasionally, due to unforeseen circumstances, I wind up missing the Chipotle Window and standing in an immense line. This always bothers me because there is always at least one person in front of me who was no idea how to order a burrito. This slows down the line considerably. The employees are relatively efficient but for the most part they speak Spanish, and what I refer to as "Burrito English", in that they understand words like "chicken", "black beans" and "fajita". Anything other than that causes a huge bottleneck and makes me want to choke slam the offending patron.
I knew I was in for an maddeningly long wait when I heard this lady say this.
Lady: I want a....... um....... burrito.
Worker: Kind of meat?
Lady: Uh, what kind you got? What's that one?
Worker: Steak.
Lady: No that one.
Worker: This one? Carnitas.
Lady: Carnitas? What's a carnita? Never mind, what's that one?
(Brian's blood begins to boil)
Worker: Chicken
Lady: Oh, well I want steak.
(Dammit lady, get moving!!)
Worker: Kind of beans?
Lady: Beans?? I want some vegetables.
Worker: Fajita?
Lady: What? No I want some VE-GE-TA-BLES. And I also want some beans.
(AAAAHHHHHH!!)
Worker: Kind of salsa?
Lady: Now.... let... me.... see. Oh, are those tomatoes?
(It's fucking salsa lady!)
Lady: And what's that green stuff?
Worker: Guac.
Lady: What is it in English?
Worker: Guac. Guacamole.
Lady: Ooh, I want Guacamole.
Worker: Guac is 50 cent extra.
Lady: What?? Well how much is my total then.
(53 cents more than it was before, and I'm going to poop in your mouth soon!!)
Then she went to the register, left her cigarettes behind, had to go back and retrieve them, and then proceeded to pay with change, and not well organized change either. Really, she deserved a good slaughtering.
I think the lesson to be learned here is this, to paraphrase Treach from Naughty By Nature. If you ain't never been to Chipotle, don't ever go to Chipotle, cuz you wouldn't understand it in Chipotle. And there might be a big headed fellow lurking nearby to kill you and eat your burrito.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
My Great Massage Parlor Idea.
I have a lot of really great ideas. Trouble is most of them are terrible. The ones that aren't terrible however, are really great.
The trouble with that is, usually I will come up with a great idea while I'm driving, or pooping or something, and by the time I have a chance to write it down I've started thinking about boobs or I've seen a puffy dog or I've heard a weird noise in the woods and I've forgotten all about it.
This was not one of those times.
Here's my idea, and by reading about it you have implicitly agreed not to steal it. It's a massage parlor called the "Happy Ending Massage Parlor." There would be a big neon sign, and around the sign would be pictures of half naked ladies and hearts, and X's and O's and other fun things like that.
The name alone ought to be enough to keep the place packed for a good long time, like forever. But then I'd hire a "Hype Man" to run around the Metro area and tell people that if you got the right masseuse, you could actually opt for a happy ending with this girl who was the hottest girl in the world, or at least in the South Metro. We'd call her "Jasmine" or "Diamond" or "Yuki" or something, and she wouldn't actually exist, but the Hype Man would perpetrate that myth until it was saturated throughout the city.
(Side note: I know this works because when I was a kid there was a legend that these two mean bullies named "Jess and Joe" lived behind the Holiday Gas Station on Excelsior Blvd, and if they saw you at the gas station, they'd kill you, or take your bike. We were all scared to death to go there as kids, and I'm still a little leery going there now even though, to the best of my knowledge, Jess and Joe were figments of somebody's imagination.)
Anyhow, at the same time the Hype Man was spreading the word about the magical prowess of this girl, he'd be immersing himself in the Marijuana culture (so everyplace again) that the name of the establishment carried a secret meaning. Happy Ending Massage Parlor. HEMP. He'd say you could get discount pot here if you bought a year long package of "Happy Endings" and said the magic password that nobody knew, or something similar.
Meanwhile, we'd run the business completely by the book and just let the word on the street become part of the overall folklore of the place. I think it wouldn't matter that Jasmine didn't exist or that weed wasn't part of a long-term package. The overall ambiance of the place would have an illicit, Vegas-y feel to it, except it would be in boring-ass Minnesota where there is a decided dearth of illicit Vegas-y things.
People will come Ray! Oh yes, people will most definitely come! Now all I need is a wealthy dowager or lottery winner, or just somebody with money burning a hole in their pocket to be my financier, because I'm not taking any chances just in case everybody around here is a big, gay nerd.
Seriously, this is an awesome idea. Call me and give me money now.
The trouble with that is, usually I will come up with a great idea while I'm driving, or pooping or something, and by the time I have a chance to write it down I've started thinking about boobs or I've seen a puffy dog or I've heard a weird noise in the woods and I've forgotten all about it.
This was not one of those times.
Here's my idea, and by reading about it you have implicitly agreed not to steal it. It's a massage parlor called the "Happy Ending Massage Parlor." There would be a big neon sign, and around the sign would be pictures of half naked ladies and hearts, and X's and O's and other fun things like that.
The name alone ought to be enough to keep the place packed for a good long time, like forever. But then I'd hire a "Hype Man" to run around the Metro area and tell people that if you got the right masseuse, you could actually opt for a happy ending with this girl who was the hottest girl in the world, or at least in the South Metro. We'd call her "Jasmine" or "Diamond" or "Yuki" or something, and she wouldn't actually exist, but the Hype Man would perpetrate that myth until it was saturated throughout the city.
(Side note: I know this works because when I was a kid there was a legend that these two mean bullies named "Jess and Joe" lived behind the Holiday Gas Station on Excelsior Blvd, and if they saw you at the gas station, they'd kill you, or take your bike. We were all scared to death to go there as kids, and I'm still a little leery going there now even though, to the best of my knowledge, Jess and Joe were figments of somebody's imagination.)
Anyhow, at the same time the Hype Man was spreading the word about the magical prowess of this girl, he'd be immersing himself in the Marijuana culture (so everyplace again) that the name of the establishment carried a secret meaning. Happy Ending Massage Parlor. HEMP. He'd say you could get discount pot here if you bought a year long package of "Happy Endings" and said the magic password that nobody knew, or something similar.
Meanwhile, we'd run the business completely by the book and just let the word on the street become part of the overall folklore of the place. I think it wouldn't matter that Jasmine didn't exist or that weed wasn't part of a long-term package. The overall ambiance of the place would have an illicit, Vegas-y feel to it, except it would be in boring-ass Minnesota where there is a decided dearth of illicit Vegas-y things.
People will come Ray! Oh yes, people will most definitely come! Now all I need is a wealthy dowager or lottery winner, or just somebody with money burning a hole in their pocket to be my financier, because I'm not taking any chances just in case everybody around here is a big, gay nerd.
Seriously, this is an awesome idea. Call me and give me money now.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Brian Has an Itch
You know what sucks? Did you ever get a really bad itch in a spot you can't get to? I hate that.
I don't just mean an itch in the middle of your back or something that your arms can't reach because in a pinch you can always just sidle up to a wall corner and itch your back grizzly bear style. It's different than that.
It's like my bones itch sometimes. About once a week I get a really bad itch right on my left ulna, and I can't scratch it because I can't touch my bones because of all the arm skin. It makes me angry. Angry Birds angry. But not angry enough to rip off my flesh and itch my arm bone. So I just have to wait for it to go away. Waiting for an itch to go away is like waiting for Jehovah's Witnesses to leave your doorstep when you're naked and trapped downstairs and all your clothes are upstairs and you live in a split level house so the only way to get upstairs is to walk by the door where the Jehovah's Witnesses will see that you've been ignoring them and they'll also see your Wang. It sucks.
But even worse than having your bones itch is when you have an itch in a really inappropriate place. What do you do then? Have you ever been out in public when all of a sudden you get a really bad itch right in your butthole? I was at a Timberwolves game once when all of a sudden my butthole started to itch really bad! If I had been at home, I would have just itched my butthole, and then probably washed my hands. But you can't just start itching your butthole in front of 10,000 people unless you are:
a.) 2 years old
b.) Clinically insane
c.) In a big war
I did not fit any of those groups perfectly, so that meant I just had to sit there with an itchy butthole while my son ate Cotton Candy and Snow Cones for dinner and spilled all over himself. It's difficult trying to cheer for any team while your butthole itches.
Maybe it's just me who has these issues. I don't know.
I don't just mean an itch in the middle of your back or something that your arms can't reach because in a pinch you can always just sidle up to a wall corner and itch your back grizzly bear style. It's different than that.
It's like my bones itch sometimes. About once a week I get a really bad itch right on my left ulna, and I can't scratch it because I can't touch my bones because of all the arm skin. It makes me angry. Angry Birds angry. But not angry enough to rip off my flesh and itch my arm bone. So I just have to wait for it to go away. Waiting for an itch to go away is like waiting for Jehovah's Witnesses to leave your doorstep when you're naked and trapped downstairs and all your clothes are upstairs and you live in a split level house so the only way to get upstairs is to walk by the door where the Jehovah's Witnesses will see that you've been ignoring them and they'll also see your Wang. It sucks.
But even worse than having your bones itch is when you have an itch in a really inappropriate place. What do you do then? Have you ever been out in public when all of a sudden you get a really bad itch right in your butthole? I was at a Timberwolves game once when all of a sudden my butthole started to itch really bad! If I had been at home, I would have just itched my butthole, and then probably washed my hands. But you can't just start itching your butthole in front of 10,000 people unless you are:
a.) 2 years old
b.) Clinically insane
c.) In a big war
I did not fit any of those groups perfectly, so that meant I just had to sit there with an itchy butthole while my son ate Cotton Candy and Snow Cones for dinner and spilled all over himself. It's difficult trying to cheer for any team while your butthole itches.
Maybe it's just me who has these issues. I don't know.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Aiden's Mom Sucks
I'm not the best parent in the world. I try hard, but sometimes I yell at my kids when I shouldn't, sometimes I let them do things they shouldn't, and occasionally I feed them M&M's and Sprite for breakfast. That said, we've tried, as parents, to give our kids at least a little bit of independence so they can figure stuff out for themselves. We don't let them skip around in the street or smoke cigars or anything like that, but we do attempt to let them be, without a constant adult presence around them. It seems to have served them well. Outside of brawling with each other on a nightly basis, and occasionally flicking boogers at us, they seem to be happy, intelligent children.
With that in mind, I reserve a certain, special, vitriolic hatred for those parents who cannot get the fuck out of their kids' shadows for even one second throughout the day. I hate them like I hate Hornets and Roundabouts and Heely's and Dog the Bounty Hunter. Hate them. Here's why:
1.) Their kids are usually really poorly adjusted to life, probably because they haven't been allowed to do any living, so therefore you might see a 4 year old kid who:
2.) They give off an air of smug superiority, as if to say, "I don't trust all you morons to realize how special my child is, so I'm never going to let him near you or your inferior offspring without being nearby to shove him in the right direction should he get too near the riff-raff"
3.) They always have a misshapen ass. Always. You can't trust anybody with a misshapen ass.
4.) They are constantly in the way. I coached my kids' basketball team last year and one of the other teams was filled with parents like this. Consequently, there were as many adults on the court as kids for that team. It was so obnoxious.
"Your kid is 4! He can't even run 10 feet without tripping on a dust particle and falling over! Stop harassing him!! HE'S NOT GOING TO CROSSOVER DRIBBLE!! Get your misshapen ass off the court!!"
And don't even get me started on the mother who tried to scold our team for guarding her son too closely. That one got a Jensen size 13 Nike in her misshapen ass.
Personally, I thought that team's parents encompassed the dregs of parental society, that that was as bad as it could get. Sadly, I was mistaken.
Let me introduce you to a woman we'll call "Aiden's Mom" (because that's who she is). Aiden's mom has a son named Aiden, and a daughter named "Hey You" that gets her shoelaces tied by Aiden's dad. Both Aiden and "Hey You" go to gymnastics with my kids.
I want to beat the shit out of Aiden's Mom. Literally. I want to smash her face into a pommel horse. I want to fling her off the high uneven bar. I want to choke her with the rings. I want to drop a Port-A-Pit on her. She is quite possibly the worst person in the world, the Genghis Khan of overprotective gymnastics mothers with misshapen asses.
The first time we met Aiden's Mom was in the lobby at gymnastics. The lobby was crowded. My mother was in there, looking very much like you might expect my mother to look. Aiden's Mom began shoving her way through the crowd, carrying Aiden. She got to my mom and said, "Excuse me, I have to get through." When typed, that sounds polite. When Aiden's Mom said it, it was definitely not polite. (You can ask my mom if you don't believe me). Those 7 words made me think to myself, "Wow, that lady is a mean slut!" I was right.
While the rest of the parents sit on chairs and watch from the lobby area, and gossip, and send text messages, and work on their laptops and whatnot, Aiden's Mom is IN the gymnastics area, following Aiden around at all times, and paying absolutely no attention to the other 8 kids in Aiden's class, or Aiden's teacher. If you listen for about 5 minutes, you'll hear the following over and over ad nauseum:
"Hurry up Aiden"
"Watch out Aiden"
"Bounce on your bottom Aiden"
"Out of the way, here comes Aiden"
"Wait for me Aiden"
"Your the best one, Aiden" (said within earshot of the other kids)
"YAYYYYYY Aiden"
The final straw (and this was the thing that even irked the people on laptops that weren't paying attention) was when a little girl hit a slippery spot and fell off the trampoline. She wasn't hurt badly, but it scared her and she was crying. Instead of consoling the girl, Aiden's Mom brushed past her as if she didn't exist and ran over and grabbed Aiden as he approached the slippery spot. I'm no moral purist, but that's messed up.
I'm not proud to admit this, but I kept hoping Aiden would break his leg or get kidnapped by gypsies or fall down a well or something, just so this woman would have to eat a little crow, admit her ass was misshapen, and conclude perhaps that no matter how hard you suffocate your child, eventually he's going to have to breathe on his own.
She probably won't though, at least not without a fight. She's not a great person, but she thinks she's the best. Well, let me save you the suspense lady. You suck balls. And Aiden will always be an effeminate little weiner because of you. Always.
(Follow-Up: As we were leaving last night, Aiden's Dad was tying "Hey You's" shoelaces when Aiden's Mom said, "Hey You, I noticed you weren't putting forth your best effort while stretching. That is NOT how we do things in our family. Looks like we'll be working on that when we get home." "Hey You" is 5. I hate Aiden's Mom...)
With that in mind, I reserve a certain, special, vitriolic hatred for those parents who cannot get the fuck out of their kids' shadows for even one second throughout the day. I hate them like I hate Hornets and Roundabouts and Heely's and Dog the Bounty Hunter. Hate them. Here's why:
1.) Their kids are usually really poorly adjusted to life, probably because they haven't been allowed to do any living, so therefore you might see a 4 year old kid who:
- Is really whiny about everything
- Is really fuckin' stupid for his age
- Is still breast-feeding
- Spends all his time baby talking gibberish and drooling on his sweater with barnyard caricatures on it
- Craps his pants frequently
2.) They give off an air of smug superiority, as if to say, "I don't trust all you morons to realize how special my child is, so I'm never going to let him near you or your inferior offspring without being nearby to shove him in the right direction should he get too near the riff-raff"
3.) They always have a misshapen ass. Always. You can't trust anybody with a misshapen ass.
4.) They are constantly in the way. I coached my kids' basketball team last year and one of the other teams was filled with parents like this. Consequently, there were as many adults on the court as kids for that team. It was so obnoxious.
"Your kid is 4! He can't even run 10 feet without tripping on a dust particle and falling over! Stop harassing him!! HE'S NOT GOING TO CROSSOVER DRIBBLE!! Get your misshapen ass off the court!!"
And don't even get me started on the mother who tried to scold our team for guarding her son too closely. That one got a Jensen size 13 Nike in her misshapen ass.
Personally, I thought that team's parents encompassed the dregs of parental society, that that was as bad as it could get. Sadly, I was mistaken.
Let me introduce you to a woman we'll call "Aiden's Mom" (because that's who she is). Aiden's mom has a son named Aiden, and a daughter named "Hey You" that gets her shoelaces tied by Aiden's dad. Both Aiden and "Hey You" go to gymnastics with my kids.
I want to beat the shit out of Aiden's Mom. Literally. I want to smash her face into a pommel horse. I want to fling her off the high uneven bar. I want to choke her with the rings. I want to drop a Port-A-Pit on her. She is quite possibly the worst person in the world, the Genghis Khan of overprotective gymnastics mothers with misshapen asses.
The first time we met Aiden's Mom was in the lobby at gymnastics. The lobby was crowded. My mother was in there, looking very much like you might expect my mother to look. Aiden's Mom began shoving her way through the crowd, carrying Aiden. She got to my mom and said, "Excuse me, I have to get through." When typed, that sounds polite. When Aiden's Mom said it, it was definitely not polite. (You can ask my mom if you don't believe me). Those 7 words made me think to myself, "Wow, that lady is a mean slut!" I was right.
While the rest of the parents sit on chairs and watch from the lobby area, and gossip, and send text messages, and work on their laptops and whatnot, Aiden's Mom is IN the gymnastics area, following Aiden around at all times, and paying absolutely no attention to the other 8 kids in Aiden's class, or Aiden's teacher. If you listen for about 5 minutes, you'll hear the following over and over ad nauseum:
"Hurry up Aiden"
"Watch out Aiden"
"Bounce on your bottom Aiden"
"Out of the way, here comes Aiden"
"Wait for me Aiden"
"Your the best one, Aiden" (said within earshot of the other kids)
"YAYYYYYY Aiden"
The final straw (and this was the thing that even irked the people on laptops that weren't paying attention) was when a little girl hit a slippery spot and fell off the trampoline. She wasn't hurt badly, but it scared her and she was crying. Instead of consoling the girl, Aiden's Mom brushed past her as if she didn't exist and ran over and grabbed Aiden as he approached the slippery spot. I'm no moral purist, but that's messed up.
I'm not proud to admit this, but I kept hoping Aiden would break his leg or get kidnapped by gypsies or fall down a well or something, just so this woman would have to eat a little crow, admit her ass was misshapen, and conclude perhaps that no matter how hard you suffocate your child, eventually he's going to have to breathe on his own.
She probably won't though, at least not without a fight. She's not a great person, but she thinks she's the best. Well, let me save you the suspense lady. You suck balls. And Aiden will always be an effeminate little weiner because of you. Always.
(Follow-Up: As we were leaving last night, Aiden's Dad was tying "Hey You's" shoelaces when Aiden's Mom said, "Hey You, I noticed you weren't putting forth your best effort while stretching. That is NOT how we do things in our family. Looks like we'll be working on that when we get home." "Hey You" is 5. I hate Aiden's Mom...)
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Phone Books, Still?
I realized while searching in vain in my garage for my stupid missing ice scraper the other day, that I have about 30 different phone books laying around on the garage floor. This perplexes me. Why do we still get paper versions of the phone book? When was the last time you actually looked in the phone book? Actually, when was the last time your phone book served any purpose other than "doorstop" or "part of pile of random detritus piled in the garage"?
I don't understand this, and what's more, some guy came by to give me another phone book the other day, and he slipped in the driveway and fell in some dirty snow. As a former Qwest delivery boy myself when I was 18-20, I would never have been caught dead delivering phone books in the snow, and I was a moron back then, even more so than I am now. As proof of this, I offer up some moron-type things I did while delivering phone books.
1.) Went into a yard with a scary dog hiding behind a bush and threw the Yellow Pages at him in order to get away.
2.) Went delivering on a 95 degree day with no water, 12 cents in my pocket, and no credit cards. I had to periodically sneak into people's yards and drink from their sprinklers in order not to die. This led to an awkward exchange between me and a kid about my age who I startled when he popped out of a house I was drinking from.
Kid: Uh, hi. Who are you?
Me: Sorry. I'm delivering Phone Books and I, ummm, I got thirsty. So I was drinking from the sprinkler. Sorry.
Kid: Oh. Ok. (Stares at the ground for a long time)
Me: Well, I gotta go. Thanks for the water.
Kid: I don't even live here...
3.) Got really lost trying to find a neighborhood in Roseville and in the midst of an epic car tantrum, punched the windshield and spider-webbed it. Calmed down to process my actions, found the neighborhood, finished the delivery, and proceeded to blame the broken windshield on a rock falling off an overpass. (Side Note: My parents believed this, even though the break originated from the inside. Must have been a clever rock.)
4.) Told an old toothless homeless guy that loaded the phonebooks into my car from a big trailer that my favorite drink was Tanqueray even though I had no idea what it was at the time and was just trying to seem cool because I heard Snoop Dogg mention it. Thankfully he did not call my bluff. It's always embarrassing to have an old toothless, homeless guy throw the bullshit flag at you. Thankfully it's only happened twice to me.
5.) Got bored delivering one day and threw all my phonebooks in a dumpster and then claimed to have finished the route. Got paid anyway. Learned later that throwing phone books away is illegal. Also threw 2 phone books in a Port-A-Potty to see what would happen once.
6.) Delivered a phone book directly into the hands of a crazy person who to thanked me and then said
"You know, 75% of the 500,000 gooks in the world are chinks. Heh heh heh, that's a lot of chinks!"
It's been 15 years and I'm still trying to figure out what that meant.
7.) Almost got killed by a cadre of Mexican gang members because they thought I was trying to sneak in or something. I set the book on the porch and was leaving when I heard,
"Hey, what are you doing?"
Me: Oh, just delivering your phone book
Him: You like the music?
Me: No, phone book
Him (after long pause): What are you doing here?
Two other guys came out looking angry.
Them: What are you doing here?
Me: Phone books guys, phone books!
They didn't know what phone books were and I was about to get shanked. I finally walked between them all, picked up the phone book, pointed at it and said "Phone Book". It was like Gangsta Sesame Street.
They were all OK with that, but when I left I distinctly heard a "Que Esta Haciendo" coming from one of them. I'm not getting killed over phone books.
So yeah, I was a dumb kid delivering phone books, but even I knew not to deliver in the winter, or even at all anymore. It's just unnecessary clutter. Thanks anyway, but from now on please deliver my phone books to homeless shelters or malnourished kids or something. Thanks.
I don't understand this, and what's more, some guy came by to give me another phone book the other day, and he slipped in the driveway and fell in some dirty snow. As a former Qwest delivery boy myself when I was 18-20, I would never have been caught dead delivering phone books in the snow, and I was a moron back then, even more so than I am now. As proof of this, I offer up some moron-type things I did while delivering phone books.
1.) Went into a yard with a scary dog hiding behind a bush and threw the Yellow Pages at him in order to get away.
2.) Went delivering on a 95 degree day with no water, 12 cents in my pocket, and no credit cards. I had to periodically sneak into people's yards and drink from their sprinklers in order not to die. This led to an awkward exchange between me and a kid about my age who I startled when he popped out of a house I was drinking from.
Kid: Uh, hi. Who are you?
Me: Sorry. I'm delivering Phone Books and I, ummm, I got thirsty. So I was drinking from the sprinkler. Sorry.
Kid: Oh. Ok. (Stares at the ground for a long time)
Me: Well, I gotta go. Thanks for the water.
Kid: I don't even live here...
3.) Got really lost trying to find a neighborhood in Roseville and in the midst of an epic car tantrum, punched the windshield and spider-webbed it. Calmed down to process my actions, found the neighborhood, finished the delivery, and proceeded to blame the broken windshield on a rock falling off an overpass. (Side Note: My parents believed this, even though the break originated from the inside. Must have been a clever rock.)
4.) Told an old toothless homeless guy that loaded the phonebooks into my car from a big trailer that my favorite drink was Tanqueray even though I had no idea what it was at the time and was just trying to seem cool because I heard Snoop Dogg mention it. Thankfully he did not call my bluff. It's always embarrassing to have an old toothless, homeless guy throw the bullshit flag at you. Thankfully it's only happened twice to me.
5.) Got bored delivering one day and threw all my phonebooks in a dumpster and then claimed to have finished the route. Got paid anyway. Learned later that throwing phone books away is illegal. Also threw 2 phone books in a Port-A-Potty to see what would happen once.
6.) Delivered a phone book directly into the hands of a crazy person who to thanked me and then said
"You know, 75% of the 500,000 gooks in the world are chinks. Heh heh heh, that's a lot of chinks!"
It's been 15 years and I'm still trying to figure out what that meant.
7.) Almost got killed by a cadre of Mexican gang members because they thought I was trying to sneak in or something. I set the book on the porch and was leaving when I heard,
"Hey, what are you doing?"
Me: Oh, just delivering your phone book
Him: You like the music?
Me: No, phone book
Him (after long pause): What are you doing here?
Two other guys came out looking angry.
Them: What are you doing here?
Me: Phone books guys, phone books!
They didn't know what phone books were and I was about to get shanked. I finally walked between them all, picked up the phone book, pointed at it and said "Phone Book". It was like Gangsta Sesame Street.
They were all OK with that, but when I left I distinctly heard a "Que Esta Haciendo" coming from one of them. I'm not getting killed over phone books.
So yeah, I was a dumb kid delivering phone books, but even I knew not to deliver in the winter, or even at all anymore. It's just unnecessary clutter. Thanks anyway, but from now on please deliver my phone books to homeless shelters or malnourished kids or something. Thanks.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Brian Touches Pee, Learns Nothing.
A few days ago, I was peeing at work (in the toilet of course, not just behind the fax machine or something), when my keys fell into the toilet. Initially, when I told my wife this, she was fairly incredulous.
Me: I dropped my keys in the toilet honey.
Her: What?
Me: I dropped my keys in the toilet sugarplum.
Her: You dropped your keys in the toilet???
Me: I dropped my keys in the toilet Cuddle butt.
Her: Why?
And the conversation went on like that for a while, with her growing more and more suspicious that she'd married a man who was born with an extra chromosome, and me trying to reassure her by calling her pet names like babycakes, pooh bear, and hooker lips.
Let me explain how this happened. I originally had my keys in my pocket like a normal person, but the pants I was wearing were obviously made by retarded monkeys in the dark. Somehow my pants are too loose in the waist and too tight in the thighs, which makes no sense because I have normal sized thighs and my fat accumulates mostly as side fat. (I also enjoy clouds, tabby kittens, and long walks by the fireplace.)
Anyhow, since I was wearing oddly configured pants, my keys kept poking me in the groinal area every time I did anything at all. I have sharp keys too. Ouch! It felt like getting bit on the crotch by a parrot. (That's a whole other story.)
So since I was wearing a hoodie, I took my keys out of my pocket and put them in that little kangaroo pouch thing that many hoodies come equipped with. (Side note: I have a skate key on my key chain and I have no idea what it's for.)
Then when I went to pee, I lifted up the pouch so I wouldn't pee on my own clothes and in doing so my keys fell into the uriney toilet. And not just into the toilet either, into that hole at the bottom of the toilet where the wild things go after you flush them. The keys were barely visible, and I didn't have any spares. This was horrible! I walked back out to the office kitchen and I was looking for some salad tongs or something, all the while keeping my eye out for anybody nearby that I could shoo away if they tried to get in the bathroom.
I found a big long knife and figured maybe I could stab out the keys. Of course right as I'm doing this, the UPS guy walks in with some certified mail for me to sign. I'm sure he felt really comfortable engaging some guy who was about to walk into the bathroom with a big knife and I could tell he was not unhappy to get back to his truck.
The story ends like this. I didn't stick the knife into the toilet because... well it's a knife and people cut food with it, and that's a little too weird, even for me. We've somehow managed to retain the pot my wife threw up in as a kid, but she won't cook stuff in it. It's the same basic concept. I did however, stick my entire right arm into a toilet filled with my own pee and retrieve my keys. Then I did some swearing and washed my arm for about 2 hours, and went back to work. All in all, it was pretty gross.
(Post-Script to this story: You'd think I would have learned some sort of lesson from car key/toilet mishap, but today I dropped my keys in the toilet again. Maybe I do have that extra chromosome after all...)
Me: I dropped my keys in the toilet honey.
Her: What?
Me: I dropped my keys in the toilet sugarplum.
Her: You dropped your keys in the toilet???
Me: I dropped my keys in the toilet Cuddle butt.
Her: Why?
And the conversation went on like that for a while, with her growing more and more suspicious that she'd married a man who was born with an extra chromosome, and me trying to reassure her by calling her pet names like babycakes, pooh bear, and hooker lips.
Let me explain how this happened. I originally had my keys in my pocket like a normal person, but the pants I was wearing were obviously made by retarded monkeys in the dark. Somehow my pants are too loose in the waist and too tight in the thighs, which makes no sense because I have normal sized thighs and my fat accumulates mostly as side fat. (I also enjoy clouds, tabby kittens, and long walks by the fireplace.)
Anyhow, since I was wearing oddly configured pants, my keys kept poking me in the groinal area every time I did anything at all. I have sharp keys too. Ouch! It felt like getting bit on the crotch by a parrot. (That's a whole other story.)
So since I was wearing a hoodie, I took my keys out of my pocket and put them in that little kangaroo pouch thing that many hoodies come equipped with. (Side note: I have a skate key on my key chain and I have no idea what it's for.)
Then when I went to pee, I lifted up the pouch so I wouldn't pee on my own clothes and in doing so my keys fell into the uriney toilet. And not just into the toilet either, into that hole at the bottom of the toilet where the wild things go after you flush them. The keys were barely visible, and I didn't have any spares. This was horrible! I walked back out to the office kitchen and I was looking for some salad tongs or something, all the while keeping my eye out for anybody nearby that I could shoo away if they tried to get in the bathroom.
I found a big long knife and figured maybe I could stab out the keys. Of course right as I'm doing this, the UPS guy walks in with some certified mail for me to sign. I'm sure he felt really comfortable engaging some guy who was about to walk into the bathroom with a big knife and I could tell he was not unhappy to get back to his truck.
The story ends like this. I didn't stick the knife into the toilet because... well it's a knife and people cut food with it, and that's a little too weird, even for me. We've somehow managed to retain the pot my wife threw up in as a kid, but she won't cook stuff in it. It's the same basic concept. I did however, stick my entire right arm into a toilet filled with my own pee and retrieve my keys. Then I did some swearing and washed my arm for about 2 hours, and went back to work. All in all, it was pretty gross.
(Post-Script to this story: You'd think I would have learned some sort of lesson from car key/toilet mishap, but today I dropped my keys in the toilet again. Maybe I do have that extra chromosome after all...)
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Brian Starts Argument, Passes Time.
The short Thanksgiving week is notoriously slow for most businesses, except, like stores that sell turkeys and stuff. Neither my wife, nor myself, work for a turkey store, so finding things to keep busy with this week has not been easy.
Since we were bored, we started emailing things back and forth to each other that were very boring.
Me: Today is boring and dumb. I'm gonna clean my keyboard. Heh Heh.
Her: I'm bored too, and you are gross.
Me: Flicking a lintball right now, a little busy.
Her: Are you busy the week of March 15th, 2026?
Me: If I had to bet on it, I'd guess my nosehairs would be the first hairs on my body to go gray.
Her: My sister's kids are always sick.
Me: If I peed in an ice cube tray, could I make pee cubes?
Her: I hope Bella's not getting Strep.
Me: Did you throw away all my underpants?
And on and on it went, all the while very boring.
Then she suggested that maybe we should buy lottery tickets. I never buy lottery tickets, considering the simple fact that I have a better chance of having my penis bitten off by a lake monster than I do of winning the jackpot.
I suggested to her that instead of buying lottery tickets that maybe I should just take a few Washington's and fling them into the street, because the same thing would likely happen which was nothing.
She said that at least her idea gave us a chance, albeit a slight one, of winning money. Let me be the first to tell you, I disagreed with her assessment.
My contention is that it was just as likely that after I flung some dollar bills into the street that a burglar would run by, carrying a large sack with a dollar sign on it filled with money (I made the further assumption that the money was untraceable, and that the burglar had been wise enough to discard the exploding die pack). Anyhow, the burglar would run by, slip on the dollar bills and crack his head wide open, just like my mom always worried about me doing. The burglar would be laying there dead, with a cracked-wide-open head, and I would simply walk over and take the bag with the dollar sign on it, and, somehow owing to the spoils of war laws from the first two World Wars, I would be able to keep it and not pay taxes on it either.
This scenario struck me as just as likely to occur as Ed McMahon coming over and presenting me with a big check. Wait, that might be Publishers Clearinghouse and Ed McMahon might be dead, but my point is still well made.
She disagreed and so we argued about it. Women huh? Oh well, at least it passed some time.
Since we were bored, we started emailing things back and forth to each other that were very boring.
Me: Today is boring and dumb. I'm gonna clean my keyboard. Heh Heh.
Her: I'm bored too, and you are gross.
Me: Flicking a lintball right now, a little busy.
Her: Are you busy the week of March 15th, 2026?
Me: If I had to bet on it, I'd guess my nosehairs would be the first hairs on my body to go gray.
Her: My sister's kids are always sick.
Me: If I peed in an ice cube tray, could I make pee cubes?
Her: I hope Bella's not getting Strep.
Me: Did you throw away all my underpants?
And on and on it went, all the while very boring.
Then she suggested that maybe we should buy lottery tickets. I never buy lottery tickets, considering the simple fact that I have a better chance of having my penis bitten off by a lake monster than I do of winning the jackpot.
I suggested to her that instead of buying lottery tickets that maybe I should just take a few Washington's and fling them into the street, because the same thing would likely happen which was nothing.
She said that at least her idea gave us a chance, albeit a slight one, of winning money. Let me be the first to tell you, I disagreed with her assessment.
My contention is that it was just as likely that after I flung some dollar bills into the street that a burglar would run by, carrying a large sack with a dollar sign on it filled with money (I made the further assumption that the money was untraceable, and that the burglar had been wise enough to discard the exploding die pack). Anyhow, the burglar would run by, slip on the dollar bills and crack his head wide open, just like my mom always worried about me doing. The burglar would be laying there dead, with a cracked-wide-open head, and I would simply walk over and take the bag with the dollar sign on it, and, somehow owing to the spoils of war laws from the first two World Wars, I would be able to keep it and not pay taxes on it either.
This scenario struck me as just as likely to occur as Ed McMahon coming over and presenting me with a big check. Wait, that might be Publishers Clearinghouse and Ed McMahon might be dead, but my point is still well made.
She disagreed and so we argued about it. Women huh? Oh well, at least it passed some time.
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