One of the dilemmas I think a lot of people have with the concept of vegetarianism, is a fear of getting bored with meat avoidance. I've always thought, "how does a person eat only veggies? What they hell do they eat? Boring."
A few days ago, I was driving around, and noticing a lot of restaurants and fast food joints. And I started thinking about all the things I had always previously eaten at those locations. Everything involved meat. I saw a Del Taco, and thought, "Shit. No more tacos." I saw a subway and thought, "Shit. No more $5 foot long broth injected chicken-breast-that-contains-rib-meat sandwiches." I saw a couple of Chinese buffets and thought, "Shit. No more Chinese buffets."
Granted, I had been eating very little meat, comparatively speaking, for the last several months. But I had been eating mostly the same things. Lots of chipotle black bean burgers, salmon burgers, boca burgers, and hummus. I had been dabbling in some cooking, mostly curries and stir fry's. Then, with salmon eliminated, I was pretty much just down to the black beans.
In a society where most menu items in most restaurants contain meat of some sort, we get pretty used to a lot of variety. I mean, go to Chili's and try eating something meatless, besides a salad, or a deep fried cheese stick. Or chips and queso. Not that Chili's is, by any means, a bastion of good food. But go anywhere, and unless you want to eat a salad, meatless choices are slim. Even ethnic foods which are probably traditionally meatless, have been americanized and meated. Let's face it, we are a carnivorous nation. We eat more of it than any other country, and probably more than many countries put together.
But it doesn't have to be that way. It is perfectly possible to eat well (and by well, I mean delicious, satisfying meals) and avoid meat. Does anything really compare to medium rare filet wrapped in bacon? Well, I guess not. But there are plenty of other things that are delicious in their own right, although completely different. For example, tonight I made goat cheese stuffed tomatoes. I would say I enjoyed that concoction every bit as much as I have ever enjoyed a filet. But in a different way. Equally delicious, but different.
So, at the risk of being cliche, I have decided to start a cooking blog. Today, I bought a big, thick, blue oven mit. As I stood in my kitchen with that thing on my had, looking at it bathed in the unfortunately harsh glow of my fluorescent kitchen lighting, I knew it was time to start a new blog. If it goes largely unread, I don't care. If it helps just 1 or 2 people enjoy vegetarianism a little bit more, that is good enough for me. Either way, if I want to maintain a meatless lifestyle, I have to keep it interesting. And even if you still eat meat, but are just looking to eat things that are more healthy, this might be a good place for you to look, as most things will probably be relatively good for you. If you would like to go there, click HERE.
I promise this blog isn't going to turn into an anti-meat soap box. I promise.
24.6.10
21.6.10
It's raining golden calves
If you have been reading this blog for the last year or so, you are probably aware of the fact that I have been graduated for over a year, and have been suffering from a fairly acute level of cognitive dissonance caused by the fact I am still employed at Carrabbas. If you have just recently joined this, well, simply mind bogglingly important blog--the dissonance has indeed been acute, and been suffered for the better part of a year. Which is maybe why, quite unexpectedly, grad school suddenly sounded real appealing.
Which is weird, because I have mostly been of the disposition for the better part of the last 3 years that, upon finishing college school, I'd rather be chewed to death by a bear, starting at the crotch, than go back to school.
I sort of, well, loathed school. I mean, not the actually going to class/learning part. That part I rather enjoyed (mostly, minus didactic lecturers with God complexes.) But the endless, tedious assignments and research papers I hated. Over the last year, whenever a friend or a co-worker told tale of a huge test to take, or a research paper to be written, I would get the most ominous, dreadful feeling. Sort of like what I get whenever I see a neighborhood with an assload of cookie cutter housing. The sort that summer sales bro's target. The sort that I targeted 3 years ago, during my 2 month stint as, well, a summer sales bro. Seeing a neighborhood ripe for a corporate raping takes me back to the feeling of misery I experienced during those 2 months. And hearing about other peoples' school assignments made me feel the same way, thus ever solidifying my anti-more-school position.
So when a grad program actually sounded like a desirable course of action, I felt like It had to be the right thing to do. Because, even as I type this, thinking about my undergrad still gives me that despicable summer sales swindler feeling. But, curiously, not when I contemplate this particular program.
I have felt lost for the last year. Graduated with a seemingly useless degree, wondering what on earth to do. I mean, this blog was an obvious fall back, since I make just stupid amounts of money maintaining it. Or should be. I guess I was waiting for either that to happen, or for a big golden calf to fall out of the sky, come crashing through my house, and land on my leg. So then I could sue whoever dropped that golden calf out of the sky, broke my leg, and ruined my ceiling. Hopefully for enough money to just live an extravagant life of blogging and eating expensive fruits. Grad school gives me real direction. Finally.
I applied for a Masters of Arts in Teaching at Westminster. I was worried, because they only accept 15 secondary ed students. So, having been accepted, that either means that I am simply a spectacular bastion of scholarly material, or that there just aren't that many people who want to pay a boatload for a masters degree. That golden calf crushing my leg would really be welcome right now.
So, after a couple years of avoiding my destiny as a secondary education mind moulder, I have come back to it. Over the last year or so, I have come to the realization that I need to love what I do. I need to feel fulfilled. Meaningful. I want to make a difference, to help people think critically, to love education. Pending the golden calf incident, I may not end up rich. But I will be happy. And that is what is important.
I'm ready for you, August 25th. No ominous feelings here.
Which is weird, because I have mostly been of the disposition for the better part of the last 3 years that, upon finishing college school, I'd rather be chewed to death by a bear, starting at the crotch, than go back to school.
I sort of, well, loathed school. I mean, not the actually going to class/learning part. That part I rather enjoyed (mostly, minus didactic lecturers with God complexes.) But the endless, tedious assignments and research papers I hated. Over the last year, whenever a friend or a co-worker told tale of a huge test to take, or a research paper to be written, I would get the most ominous, dreadful feeling. Sort of like what I get whenever I see a neighborhood with an assload of cookie cutter housing. The sort that summer sales bro's target. The sort that I targeted 3 years ago, during my 2 month stint as, well, a summer sales bro. Seeing a neighborhood ripe for a corporate raping takes me back to the feeling of misery I experienced during those 2 months. And hearing about other peoples' school assignments made me feel the same way, thus ever solidifying my anti-more-school position.
So when a grad program actually sounded like a desirable course of action, I felt like It had to be the right thing to do. Because, even as I type this, thinking about my undergrad still gives me that despicable summer sales swindler feeling. But, curiously, not when I contemplate this particular program.
I have felt lost for the last year. Graduated with a seemingly useless degree, wondering what on earth to do. I mean, this blog was an obvious fall back, since I make just stupid amounts of money maintaining it. Or should be. I guess I was waiting for either that to happen, or for a big golden calf to fall out of the sky, come crashing through my house, and land on my leg. So then I could sue whoever dropped that golden calf out of the sky, broke my leg, and ruined my ceiling. Hopefully for enough money to just live an extravagant life of blogging and eating expensive fruits. Grad school gives me real direction. Finally.
I applied for a Masters of Arts in Teaching at Westminster. I was worried, because they only accept 15 secondary ed students. So, having been accepted, that either means that I am simply a spectacular bastion of scholarly material, or that there just aren't that many people who want to pay a boatload for a masters degree. That golden calf crushing my leg would really be welcome right now.
So, after a couple years of avoiding my destiny as a secondary education mind moulder, I have come back to it. Over the last year or so, I have come to the realization that I need to love what I do. I need to feel fulfilled. Meaningful. I want to make a difference, to help people think critically, to love education. Pending the golden calf incident, I may not end up rich. But I will be happy. And that is what is important.
I'm ready for you, August 25th. No ominous feelings here.
15.6.10
Tight wad
Today, a guy came into the carside door and ordered a chocolate cake desert thing. The total was 6 dollars and 47 cents. He pulled a ziplock plastic baggy out of his pocket, and proceeded to pull out a 10 dollar bill.
"A crafty substitute for a wallet, that ziplock bag," I thought.
He handed me a crinkled up 10 dollar bill. I opened the carside cash drawer, and was annoyed at finding no coins. Typically when this occurs on a carry out order, I try to look and sound real put out when I tell them, "hang on a sec, I'll go look for 37 cents." Or 15 cents. Or 62 cents. Or whatever the cents may be. And often times, people will say, "Don't worry about it." Partially because they realize that you should tip on a carry out order at a legitimate restaurant, and partly, I think, due to the fact that "who really gives a shit about 33 cents."
I owed him 53 of those cents. I assumed he wasn't going to say, "go ahead and keep it," as he had fished that $10 out of a plastic bag. So I said, "Hang on a sec, I'll go find you some change." I walked away, immediately calling out, "does anyone have 4 quarters?" I found 4 quarters, and returned to the guy. I owed him 53 cents, but gave him 50. Because I don't carry quarters, let alone pennies. In fact, in my entire serving career, I have never given anyone coins. If it is 15 cents or less, I eat it. If it is more than that, I let them eat it, and tip me less if they are pist.
Nobody has ever been pist.
What sort of person really would care about 3 pennies?
The answer to that question, apparently, is a person who carries his money around in a plastic sack.
Upon handing him the 50 cents, I turned away to go back to whatever else I was doing. He said, "Um...it was fifty-three cents." Dumbfounded, I sort of just stared at him for a moment. "Okay. I'll find you 3 pennies."
So I walked away, yelling "Does anyone have three pennies? Anyone?"
"What the hell do you need 3 pennies for?"
"Just gimmie the damn pennies please."
So I walked back over, and said, "Here are you 3 pennies."
"Thanks."
He put them in the plastic sack, and left.
I wonder if, on dates, he transfers his money into something more respectable. Like a velcro wallet.
"A crafty substitute for a wallet, that ziplock bag," I thought.
He handed me a crinkled up 10 dollar bill. I opened the carside cash drawer, and was annoyed at finding no coins. Typically when this occurs on a carry out order, I try to look and sound real put out when I tell them, "hang on a sec, I'll go look for 37 cents." Or 15 cents. Or 62 cents. Or whatever the cents may be. And often times, people will say, "Don't worry about it." Partially because they realize that you should tip on a carry out order at a legitimate restaurant, and partly, I think, due to the fact that "who really gives a shit about 33 cents."
I owed him 53 of those cents. I assumed he wasn't going to say, "go ahead and keep it," as he had fished that $10 out of a plastic bag. So I said, "Hang on a sec, I'll go find you some change." I walked away, immediately calling out, "does anyone have 4 quarters?" I found 4 quarters, and returned to the guy. I owed him 53 cents, but gave him 50. Because I don't carry quarters, let alone pennies. In fact, in my entire serving career, I have never given anyone coins. If it is 15 cents or less, I eat it. If it is more than that, I let them eat it, and tip me less if they are pist.
Nobody has ever been pist.
What sort of person really would care about 3 pennies?
The answer to that question, apparently, is a person who carries his money around in a plastic sack.
Upon handing him the 50 cents, I turned away to go back to whatever else I was doing. He said, "Um...it was fifty-three cents." Dumbfounded, I sort of just stared at him for a moment. "Okay. I'll find you 3 pennies."
So I walked away, yelling "Does anyone have three pennies? Anyone?"
"What the hell do you need 3 pennies for?"
"Just gimmie the damn pennies please."
So I walked back over, and said, "Here are you 3 pennies."
"Thanks."
He put them in the plastic sack, and left.
I wonder if, on dates, he transfers his money into something more respectable. Like a velcro wallet.
13.6.10
Eating animals
This post is probably going to be a little out of line with the general tone of this blog, so bear with me on that.
I finished a book, about which I had some pretty strong feelings, and I share those at the risk of possibly alienating some, and pissing off others.
Let me preface with the fact that I love a good steak as much, possibly, as I love my little brother. Although I rarely eat them, a good filthy burger, slathered with goat cheese is something for which I would possibly trade a kidney, if I didn't probably need both kidneys to process all that sodium. I love ribs, I love chicken, I love a good pork chop. Seared ahi tuna, I'd most definitely trade that kidney for. A fat shrimp, grilled or chilled or covered in cocktail sauce, is the sweetest of delicacies.
Which is why giving up meat is certainly going to be a decision not lightly made, and very difficult to maintain.
I have been gradually avoiding meat for the last few months, not on ethical grounds, but because I simply wanted a healthier diet. I have been bothered by the fact that as Americans, we seem to revolve our meals around a meat dish. I decided that I never wanted to fall into the routine of, "this will be the meat, now what goes well with that?" I wanted meat to be something that sometimes goes with a meal, but most of the time it doesn't.
From a Mormon standpoint, (sorry if you aren't a Mormon, and aren't familiar with the theology) I have always been slightly bothered by the disconnect that devout Mormons have when it comes to the Word of Wisdom. The Word of Wisdom, being, the reason why Mormons abstain from alcohol, tobacco, and other addictive and/or judgement altering substances. The disconnect comes with the part where meat is to be eaten "sparingly" and "in times of famine." For whatever reason, that part seems not to matter to many Mormons. It certainly didn't matter to me for a large portion of my life.
But it should matter.
Eating large quantities of meat (what the Average American certainly does) is simply not a way to maintain a healthy lifestyle. But meat is easy, and cheap. It is much easier to spend 3 bucks and 5 minutes (more like 30 seconds) at McDonald's on double cheeseburgers, than the time, effort, and thought it takes to cook something wholesome. My point is, it isn't good for anyone to consume a good sized portion of meat, every single day. Ask any dietitian, or look it up on the interweb if you think I'm wrong.
Recently, I read the book Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer, and pretty much fell in love with it. I found it to be a deeply moving, highly entertaining book. He recently published a book called Eating Animals, and having enjoyed Extremely Loud so much, I decided that I wanted to read it.
I knew it was about the American factory farm. I knew that I risked my love affair with with meat by reading it. But I also knew that I needed to really know what I have been eating my entire life, and what I would potentially continue to eat.
Eating Animals was not written by a PETA activist. It was written by a guy who has loved meat, and been an on again, off again vegetarian throughout his life. He chose to write the book when his son was born, because he realized that eating meat was no longer a personal decision, but one he would be making for his son. He wanted to find out if feeding his son meat was the right thing to do. So he set about doing 3 years of intensive research, which included breaking into factory farms, visits to actual sustainable, truly free range farms (the very few that are left,) and attempted contact and (legal) visits to some of the nations largest factory farms such as Tyson (none of which responded, nor allowed him to visit, for obvious reasons.) What he ended up with, I think, is a truly powerful (and truthful) exposé on the American meat industry.
A few years ago, my sister watched a short film online called 'Meat your Meat.' I had seen it previously, and dismissed it as extremism. I told her she was stupid for giving up meat, because there was no way that such a video was indicative of the industry as a whole. The video shows animals being treated and tortured in the worst ways imaginable. Now, after reading this book, I believe that this video is more the rule, rather than the exception. Or at least something close to it.
But, for the sake of people who will argue, let's pretend for a moment that it isn't. Let's go ahead and say that most animals aren't beaten with metal rods, aren't slammed upon the concrete until they die because they are too sick to move, and they aren't unnecessarily and often sadistically prodded with electric prods (much more than necessary) or a plethora of other common abuses, don't often occur. Sadism aside, there is plenty of inherent cruelty in the factory farm system that other potent examples are simply vegan icing on the shit cake.
Fact--factory farm animals (especially chickens and other poultry) are confined to small, disease ridden, shit infested spaces. Fact--through factory farming, genetically altered birds have been created for maximum growing potential and efficiency--the average broiler, (the chicken you eat) is slaughtered in 42 days. Sometimes 39. Can you even fathom the growth hormones and antibiotics necessary to create a succulent chicken breast in 42 days? Growth hormones, because nothing on this planet could naturally grow so fast and be ready for consumption, and antibiotics, because of the filthy conditions in which these birds are kept. Have you ever seen a 42 day old kitten, or puppy? Puts things in perspective...
So. We know (from government provided statistics, and obvious math ((if 30+ thousands birds are confined to a warehouse the size of a grocery store, it can't be any other way)) that animals really are unbelievably confined to small, filthy spaces. So why is that okay? Everybody, at one time or another, has seen an evening news story about some man or woman, who was discovered to be hoarding dogs or cats. We all look on in sadness, disbelief, and disgust while filthy, shit covered feral cats, with sores and scabs are being captured by animal control men wearing face masks. Why is that scenario punishable by fines and even jail time, while the same thing (just a different animal) ends up in your frying pan, or in between a bun, and slides happily down your gullet without ever a second thought?
These are questions that need to be asked. These are things that need to be thought about.
I think the problem, is the average american has no idea where his or her chicken, beef, pork, or fish is coming from. The idea that anything you purchase at a grocery store, or a fast food restaurant (or virtually any other restaurant, for that matter) is coming from a farm as you know it, is pure fantasy. I think if people really knew what the American factory farm was doing, and how meat actually gets to the end of your fork, there would be many more hesitant people when it came to meat consumption.
If you knew that children were used as the chief source of labor in the production of Ipods, and were terribly abused in the process, would you keep buying or using an Ipod? I know that animals aren't children. But the concept, I think, is fair. Meat is by no means a necessity, just like having an Ipod isn't a necessity. CD's play music too. So, upon finding out that there is extreme inherent cruelty built into the system (with factory farm demand, and the desire for cheap meat, things can be done in no other way) what can one do?
Again, let's set aside cruelty. Factory farms are probably going to be the cause of the next big pandemic. Because of the amount of antibiotics preemptively fed to factory farm animals, new strains of highly virulent, antibiotic resistant viruses are being, basically, farmed. With every bucket of KFC chicken, we are giving money to an industry that is inadvertently probably creating the next pandemic.
Do we need to even talk about how problematic 1.37 billion ton (not lbs, mind you) of shit per year produced by American livestock is?
I guess when it comes down to it, I am not opposed to the consumption of meat--sparingly. I do not think that the actual act of eating meat is wrong. However, what seems unequivocally wrong to me, is the manner in which our meat is derived. Which makes me feel that eating meat from a factory farm (which is most meat) is wrong.
Eating Animals, I think, may be one of the most important things I have ever read. Here is an excerpt, and one of many contained therein that I think lend credibility to his argument, and overall "agenda."
"My decision not to eat animals is necessary for me, but it is also limited--and personal. It is a commitment made within the context of my life, not anyone else's. And until sixty of so years ago, much of my reasoning wouldn't have even been intelligible, because the industrial animal agriculture to which I'm responding hadn't become dominant. had I been born in a different time, I might have reached different conclusions. For me to conclude firmly that I will not eat animals does not meat I oppose, or even have mixed feelings about, eating animals in general. To oppose beating a child to "teach a lesson" is not to oppose strong parental discipline. To decide that I will discipline my child in one way and not another is not necessarily to make a decision I would impose on other parents. to decide for oneself and one's family is not to decide for the nation or world."
If you read this book, I think you will be surprised by what you read. It doesn't feel preachy. It feels honest, and rational. You may disagree with most of what I have said here. And I get that--I have been there for most of my life. But I think I was there because I never had, what I felt like, were the facts presented to me. Meat consumption is one of the most polarizing subjects out there. Vegans and hardcore vegetarians are adamantly opposed to the cruelty and lack of animal welfare, often to the point of extremism, while meat lovers vehemently defend their steaks and God given right to exercise dominion and eat all creatures bond and free, while a lot of people in between just do what is easy, and mosey along in an ignorant, carnivorous bliss.
Meat is probably a large part of your life--it was certainly a large part of mine. Don't you think you should know a little more than "chicken comes from a chicken, and chickens live on farms"? If you are going to be an eating animal, you should know what that really means.
12.6.10
Ho, canada!
Turns out, Canada is a pretty cool place. And mostly like America in a lot of ways. This is pretty much what I expected from Canada previous to arrival:
--Flannel
--French speaking babes
--Big pine trees
--An abundance of beavers
--My money to be worth more than their money
--Bear attacks
I was disappointed in all but the big pine trees. They sure had a lot of those.
I decided while packing, that wearing a red flannel long sleeved shirt was probably the best thing that I could do upon arriving in Canada, in order to not appear as a lame tourist. I expected a land of merry lumberjacks, stomping through the streets yelling things like, "Ho there friend!" or "Ho brother! Watch oat fer bairs aye!" Turns out, I was the only asshole walking around in flannel. But I wore that flannel proudly and filthily, 4 out of 5 days backpacking. Which may be why #6 never occurred--the bears could smell that my smelly sweat/smoke saturated vestment wrapped body was something they would rather not shove down their gullets. Or they felt a sense of camaraderie, like I was a flannel bearing illiterate Canadian of old, before they all got into fashion and the metric system.
I sure do like the metric system, even though my brain is too stupid to translate it. I constantly had to convert things to miles/feet/gallons/inefficient in order to figure anything out. "Wait, we have to go 150 kilometers? Shit, wait, how many is that in feet?"
Somehow or another, during the 5 days of our hike (on the Juan de Fuca trail, which occupies about 30 miles ((49 kilometers)) (((it's hard to know how many feet))) of the south-western coast of Victoria island) my trusty calculator watch with the gold band managed to be about an hour and 25 minutes off real time. Which I guess would explain why it seemed like the sun was setting at about 11:30 at night. Which I simply attributed to Canada being weird and way far north. I think towards the end, I finally figured out that my watch was wrong, and I really had no clue what time it was for 5 days. Which was sort of awesome.
One gentleman on our journey forgot deodorant I think. I wasn't previously aware that arm pit stench had the ability to drift upwards of 50 or more feet (like 15 meters ((I'm learning))) through rain forest to penetrate, nay, rape the nostrils of the unfortunate soul (generally me) walking behind. Which is why anytime I was bringing up the rear of our 3 man expedition, I ended up walking a good distance behind, probably setting myself up to be straggling bear meat. Or cougar meat. Which I think would be preferable to being bear meat. I feel like a cougar would probably go straight for the jugular, and end it rather quickly, whereas a bear is probably as likely to start with the crotch as with anything else. Anyways, it was really just an unbelievable stench, worth possibly dying to avoid.
At one point, I found myself trapped for a time in a sleigh bell B.O. sandwich, from whence there was no escape. We passed this weirdo German couple with sleigh bells attached to their walking sticks. Upon passing them, I was unable to maintain my usual 75 foot buffer zone. Which essentially felt like being herded into the stench by a sleigh bell wielding German shepherd (person, not dog.) Wanting to vomit while feeling extremely annoyed is a weird, bothersome combination.
Ripping mussels off of rocks, while getting soaked by cold sea water is rendered a much more disappointing culinary experience when said mussels are subsequently cooked in a Bear Creek minestrone/Santa Fe chipotle chicken soup mix. In other words, minestrone and Santa Fe chipotle chicken are 2 soups that don't combine well, and are not in any way improved by tossing in a couple dozen boiled mussels. Whoelk (that was a puke sound.) I should have stuck with sticking the whole shell in the coals of the fire with my leatherman, and eating them plain. Or maybe just purchased 6 matching soups, rather than 6 different. Idiot.
They (Canada) only give you .95 Canada cents for every American dollar. Which made virtually everything which was already more expensive, more expensive. That problem would fix itself if we would just turn them into a state already.
I saw one beaver, which was simultaneously the happiest and most disappointing moment of my trip. Happiest, because I got to watch a beaver, the literal Frank Lloyd Wright of the animal kingdom, swim around like 2000 centimeters in front of me. But this was basically my last day in Canada, and was the only beaver I saw, which made it disappointing. A bitter sweet moment.
I didn't run into any French speaking babes, but there sure were a lot of beautiful women walking around Vancouver nonetheless. Seriously. There must be something in the water. Get real Beach Boys, Vancouver girls are what you should be wishing for.
After completing the trail, we had to hitchhike the 30 miles back to the trailhead at Port Renfrew. We had the good fortunes to be picked up by the "Mayor" of Port Renfrew--a 63 year old pot smoking Vietnam draft dodging ex-patriot. Here was an excerpt from a conversation:
Adam: "So there is a doctor you visit?"
Mayor: "Ah yeah, but I don't even take none of the shit he gives me."
Adam: "So you are more into holistic medicines?"
Mayor: "I smoke a lot of pot."
Me: "Cool."
Also:
Mayor: "The prettiest girl I ever dated was a Mormon. She was always tryin to get me to go to church on Sundays. I was always tryin to get her to do drugs. Neither of us really had much success." It was a fun 30 miles.
Possibly the thing I loved most about Canada, was the Maynard wine gummies. My selection of said gummies had nothing to do with the fact that they were supposedly wine flavors, and everything to do with the consistency. I was hungry on a ferry, and saw a package of gummies. Upon careful examination and after various squeezes of the gummies through the bag, I deduced that I had possibly found a gummy with the perfect consistency. Which proved to be true. And, thankfully, they tasted nothing like wine.
I went on this trip assuming that I would starve for the duration of the backpacking experience, and lose a few pounds. Upon making a visit to my bathroom scale this morning, I found quite the opposite--a slight weight gain. Maybe something to do with eating pizza twice, hamburgers twice, a gigantic Ben and Jerry's ice cream waffle cone, 3 bags of Maynard's, plenty of fries with said hamburgers, more fries with a greasy Po boy tuna sandwich, and virtually zero fruits and veggies. Which, those things combined, are worse than the sum total of the WORST things I have eaten during the last 2 or 3 months. Maybe those were my last burgers. Ever. And my last albacore tuna. Ever.
More to come on that development.
9.6.10
31.5.10
Sweet revenge
Today I went for a bicycle ride upon a mountain in Salt Lake. It was a big loop that started at a park on 1300 e and 11th ave, wrapped up through the hills, dropped down a river bed, and spit me out back on 11th. Upon arrival back at my cousin's truck, I noticed that there were some ladies out walking their dogs through the park.
As I was sitting in the cab, removing my gloves, helmet, and ugly assed narrow Spy shades circa bro core 2004, I noticed that one of the dogs had hunched over, and was producing what was turning out to be just an absurdly massive pile of shit. It was a medium sized pooch, yet somehow its digestive tract was ridding itself of something I'd have imagine produced by something more akin to a horse.
"Typical," I thought.
The lady noticed that said animal was defecating, and sort of moaned an "ahh man." She didn't appear to have any sort of a feces retrieval device, so I suppose she had plans to leave it there, for some unsuspecting 4 year old to mistakenly fall in, be completely absorbed, and never heard from again. Her dog was connected to one of those retractable leashes with the plastic handle, that sort of looks like a tape measure. With an added handle.
For reasons I can not fathom, she dropped the handle on the ground, put her hands on her hips, and finished watching her dog take the colossal shit. She was standing about 6 feet away from the dog. Upon completion, the dog began to walk in a south-by-westward direction. Since she was standing north-by-slightly eastward of the defecation, this consequently caused the trajectory of the leash handle to commit to a collision course with the shit pile. In the brief moment it took her to deduce this, her window of opportunity had passed. Upon realizing what was inevitably going to occur, she made one last sad, desperate, and hesitant bend over-reach combination for the handle, while saying, "oh no no no NO NO NO!" It was an impressive crescendo.
It was almost like a movie, watching that square plastic leash handle wiggle its way through the grass, and slowly drag perfectly centered over one of the biggest piles of shit I've ever seen. At which point the woman threw up her hands in exasperation, and shamefully trudged over to the handle, studied it for a moment, and realized there was nothing to do but pick it up.
Witnessing this left me with a pretty terrific feeling of vindication for all of the shits thus far left upon my lawn this spring.
I'm not entirely certain, but I think that I may have witnessed the most perfect thing that ever happened. Not even the big bang could have been executed so perfectly. Somehow, I think, this proves there IS a God. And that he is really, REALLY funny.
As I was sitting in the cab, removing my gloves, helmet, and ugly assed narrow Spy shades circa bro core 2004, I noticed that one of the dogs had hunched over, and was producing what was turning out to be just an absurdly massive pile of shit. It was a medium sized pooch, yet somehow its digestive tract was ridding itself of something I'd have imagine produced by something more akin to a horse.
"Typical," I thought.
The lady noticed that said animal was defecating, and sort of moaned an "ahh man." She didn't appear to have any sort of a feces retrieval device, so I suppose she had plans to leave it there, for some unsuspecting 4 year old to mistakenly fall in, be completely absorbed, and never heard from again. Her dog was connected to one of those retractable leashes with the plastic handle, that sort of looks like a tape measure. With an added handle.
For reasons I can not fathom, she dropped the handle on the ground, put her hands on her hips, and finished watching her dog take the colossal shit. She was standing about 6 feet away from the dog. Upon completion, the dog began to walk in a south-by-westward direction. Since she was standing north-by-slightly eastward of the defecation, this consequently caused the trajectory of the leash handle to commit to a collision course with the shit pile. In the brief moment it took her to deduce this, her window of opportunity had passed. Upon realizing what was inevitably going to occur, she made one last sad, desperate, and hesitant bend over-reach combination for the handle, while saying, "oh no no no NO NO NO!" It was an impressive crescendo.
It was almost like a movie, watching that square plastic leash handle wiggle its way through the grass, and slowly drag perfectly centered over one of the biggest piles of shit I've ever seen. At which point the woman threw up her hands in exasperation, and shamefully trudged over to the handle, studied it for a moment, and realized there was nothing to do but pick it up.
Witnessing this left me with a pretty terrific feeling of vindication for all of the shits thus far left upon my lawn this spring.
I'm not entirely certain, but I think that I may have witnessed the most perfect thing that ever happened. Not even the big bang could have been executed so perfectly. Somehow, I think, this proves there IS a God. And that he is really, REALLY funny.
21.5.10
Water jihad
Apparently there is a Persian living on my street who has declared a jihad against a very crazy old woman.
Friday morning, I was packing my car to go to Moab. Tent and sleeping bag in the trunk, bike on the roof, gun under the seat. NBD. As I am about to close the trunk, a woman comes shuffling towards me up the street. She is wearing a faded bathrobe, slippers, and looks moments away from dropping dead in the middle of the asphalt. Her hair was stringy, with a multitude of baby blue and pink plastic-foam curlers dangling at various lengths around her skull. A lost cause for sure.
She approached me and said, "Do you live here?" She was pointing at the house next door to mine.
"No. Not here. But I live there," pointing to the cat lady's house. Which is also my house.
"My house got broke into last night. I can't even call the cops cuz they will lock me up in a crazy house."
"Okay."
"You know what, it's that damn per-zee-an, he's the ringleader you know." Apparently, there is a man with a dark complexion, whom she has determined is a Persian. She, being an obvious imbecile/redneck, pronounces it 'per-zee-an,' with a rather healthy twang at 'an' part. Typically attached to an expletive.
"I just needa find someone to come look, so I got proof. They're comin in through the ceiling and stealing my water. I know they was, their door was open all night."
At this point she was doing a lot of pointing, and was also talking rather loudly, which had me worried that if this so-called per-zee-an did indeed exist, and was in fact sneaking in through the ceiling, stealing this (maybe not crazy) old woman's water, I certainly didn't want to be seen associating with her, thus possibly incurring a jihad through association.
"Maybe you should call the police?"
"I cant! Do you know what the cops'll do to old ladies? They'll lock me up, cuz they think I'm crazy."
"Uh huh." I think throughout, I pretty much had the same look on my face--half squinty eyes, mouth slightly ajar, trying very hard not to laugh/semi nervously looking about.
"I have great water you know, good pipes and all. They just wanna scare me outta here so they can get my good water. I have great flow."
"Wait. Why do they want to get your water? Why don't they have their own water?"
"You don't know about this? Bout whats goin on round here? They got them Hebrews all up in here (pointing at some apartments, apparently infested with 'Hebrews')that damn per-zee-an, stealin my water, bathin them Hebrews!"
I wondered what in the hell that could possibly mean.
"What in the hell does that even mean?"
"They are stealin my goddamned water!"
"I see."
"You better keep an eye on your car, this seems like a nice neighborhood. Well it's not! That damn per-zee-an is the ringleader, they got teasers standin out here all night long, I took down their license plates and everything."
"I think maybe you should probably call the police. I'm going to Moab in 15 minutes. I'm sort of useless as a vigilante at the moment."
At that point, I immediately regretted telling her I was leaving for Moab for the weekend, lest somehow that damn per-zee-an find out, and maybe steal my 12 boxes of soy milk, since my tap water isn't worth a damn, and they are apparently in the business of stealing liquids.
Once she realized that I was useless to her cause, she shuffled back down the road, muttering all the way. Part of me mostly regrets not going into her house to see the "evidence" of the water jihad. However, the other part of me really just wanted to go to Moab. Also, I feel like that may have simply been an elaborate plot on her part to get me in her house in order to murder me. I mean let's be honest, weighed against anything besides Moab, I'd have been in her house in a second. So as far as murder plots go, she had a pretty compelling story.
Sometimes I think I'd be way to easy to lure into a ridiculous situation, resulting in murder.
Friday morning, I was packing my car to go to Moab. Tent and sleeping bag in the trunk, bike on the roof, gun under the seat. NBD. As I am about to close the trunk, a woman comes shuffling towards me up the street. She is wearing a faded bathrobe, slippers, and looks moments away from dropping dead in the middle of the asphalt. Her hair was stringy, with a multitude of baby blue and pink plastic-foam curlers dangling at various lengths around her skull. A lost cause for sure.
She approached me and said, "Do you live here?" She was pointing at the house next door to mine.
"No. Not here. But I live there," pointing to the cat lady's house. Which is also my house.
"My house got broke into last night. I can't even call the cops cuz they will lock me up in a crazy house."
"Okay."
"You know what, it's that damn per-zee-an, he's the ringleader you know." Apparently, there is a man with a dark complexion, whom she has determined is a Persian. She, being an obvious imbecile/redneck, pronounces it 'per-zee-an,' with a rather healthy twang at 'an' part. Typically attached to an expletive.
"I just needa find someone to come look, so I got proof. They're comin in through the ceiling and stealing my water. I know they was, their door was open all night."
At this point she was doing a lot of pointing, and was also talking rather loudly, which had me worried that if this so-called per-zee-an did indeed exist, and was in fact sneaking in through the ceiling, stealing this (maybe not crazy) old woman's water, I certainly didn't want to be seen associating with her, thus possibly incurring a jihad through association.
"Maybe you should call the police?"
"I cant! Do you know what the cops'll do to old ladies? They'll lock me up, cuz they think I'm crazy."
"Uh huh." I think throughout, I pretty much had the same look on my face--half squinty eyes, mouth slightly ajar, trying very hard not to laugh/semi nervously looking about.
"I have great water you know, good pipes and all. They just wanna scare me outta here so they can get my good water. I have great flow."
"Wait. Why do they want to get your water? Why don't they have their own water?"
"You don't know about this? Bout whats goin on round here? They got them Hebrews all up in here (pointing at some apartments, apparently infested with 'Hebrews')that damn per-zee-an, stealin my water, bathin them Hebrews!"
I wondered what in the hell that could possibly mean.
"What in the hell does that even mean?"
"They are stealin my goddamned water!"
"I see."
"You better keep an eye on your car, this seems like a nice neighborhood. Well it's not! That damn per-zee-an is the ringleader, they got teasers standin out here all night long, I took down their license plates and everything."
"I think maybe you should probably call the police. I'm going to Moab in 15 minutes. I'm sort of useless as a vigilante at the moment."
At that point, I immediately regretted telling her I was leaving for Moab for the weekend, lest somehow that damn per-zee-an find out, and maybe steal my 12 boxes of soy milk, since my tap water isn't worth a damn, and they are apparently in the business of stealing liquids.
Once she realized that I was useless to her cause, she shuffled back down the road, muttering all the way. Part of me mostly regrets not going into her house to see the "evidence" of the water jihad. However, the other part of me really just wanted to go to Moab. Also, I feel like that may have simply been an elaborate plot on her part to get me in her house in order to murder me. I mean let's be honest, weighed against anything besides Moab, I'd have been in her house in a second. So as far as murder plots go, she had a pretty compelling story.
Sometimes I think I'd be way to easy to lure into a ridiculous situation, resulting in murder.
18.5.10
Not beary brave
I'm going to be consumed by a grizzly bear, and it is all thanks to the fact that Canada hates pistols.
My friend and I are planning a trip to the Canadian Rockies June 3rd-the 12thish. He just got done with medical school, and wants to do something celebratory/adventurous before beginning 4 years of residency slave labor. I want to do something adventurous with the hopes that at some point during the 9 or 10 days, I shall be afforded the opportunity to do something like, way heroic, and save his life. Which will then make him feel on some level indebted to me, which will hopefully make him my future cool trip/maybe-a-really-nice-carbon-frame-mountain-bike-someday-benefactor. Or if he dies tragically young at around 40, I'd like to be the guy upon whom he bequests all of his assets. After all, I did save his life. From drowning in a freezing river. Or a falling tree. Or whatever.
I think the extent of my heroic desires are pretty much curtailed at the point of grizzly bear involvement. I'd probably like, take a bullet in the leg. Or get my hands all sappy and probably pull a muscle lifting a tree off of him. I'd even carry or drag him for miles through the wilderness, in order to save him from a lonely, cold death upon a mountain. But I just don't like the idea of getting chewed up by a grizzly.
Think about it. Getting chewed to death. I can't think of too many worse ways to get killed. I guess if I was captured by a grizzly, and neither the bear spray nor the playing dead thing had worked, I suppose I'd probably try to strategically place myself in a position where chewing would be most effectual in causing a hasty death. I'd make sure to try to get my neck in a very convenient position for biting, with hopes that he would just maybe chew my head off real quick or something, rather than casually gnawing at my thighs for a while. Which is probably what the bear will be naturally drawn to, as they are probably the choicest cuts of meat on my body, due to months of biking and running.
So I was looking at the possibility of carrying a .45 in the Canadian wilderness, so that I didn't have to rely upon bear spray to ward off a bear attack. Bear spray? Get real. Can you imagine a 1500 lb grizzly bear being in any way deterred by pepper spray? "Hmm," thinks the grizzly bear, "185 pounds of easy meat accompanied by an itchy nose and teary eyes, or walking my ass into a freezing river to try to snag a few salmon. DUH."
Apparently, pistols are illegal in Canada. I think that maybe one of the unintended consequences of this, is a healthy bear population, which flourishes upon the tender meats of unarmed foreigners. Anyways, I guess my point is, I'm willing to be a hero in any circumstance which does not involve bears.
I'm sorry Adam, but when it comes to a grizzly, it's every man for himself. Which is probably a terrible philosophy, since he has longer legs.
My friend and I are planning a trip to the Canadian Rockies June 3rd-the 12thish. He just got done with medical school, and wants to do something celebratory/adventurous before beginning 4 years of residency slave labor. I want to do something adventurous with the hopes that at some point during the 9 or 10 days, I shall be afforded the opportunity to do something like, way heroic, and save his life. Which will then make him feel on some level indebted to me, which will hopefully make him my future cool trip/maybe-a-really-nice-carbon-frame-mountain-bike-someday-benefactor. Or if he dies tragically young at around 40, I'd like to be the guy upon whom he bequests all of his assets. After all, I did save his life. From drowning in a freezing river. Or a falling tree. Or whatever.
I think the extent of my heroic desires are pretty much curtailed at the point of grizzly bear involvement. I'd probably like, take a bullet in the leg. Or get my hands all sappy and probably pull a muscle lifting a tree off of him. I'd even carry or drag him for miles through the wilderness, in order to save him from a lonely, cold death upon a mountain. But I just don't like the idea of getting chewed up by a grizzly.
Think about it. Getting chewed to death. I can't think of too many worse ways to get killed. I guess if I was captured by a grizzly, and neither the bear spray nor the playing dead thing had worked, I suppose I'd probably try to strategically place myself in a position where chewing would be most effectual in causing a hasty death. I'd make sure to try to get my neck in a very convenient position for biting, with hopes that he would just maybe chew my head off real quick or something, rather than casually gnawing at my thighs for a while. Which is probably what the bear will be naturally drawn to, as they are probably the choicest cuts of meat on my body, due to months of biking and running.
So I was looking at the possibility of carrying a .45 in the Canadian wilderness, so that I didn't have to rely upon bear spray to ward off a bear attack. Bear spray? Get real. Can you imagine a 1500 lb grizzly bear being in any way deterred by pepper spray? "Hmm," thinks the grizzly bear, "185 pounds of easy meat accompanied by an itchy nose and teary eyes, or walking my ass into a freezing river to try to snag a few salmon. DUH."
Apparently, pistols are illegal in Canada. I think that maybe one of the unintended consequences of this, is a healthy bear population, which flourishes upon the tender meats of unarmed foreigners. Anyways, I guess my point is, I'm willing to be a hero in any circumstance which does not involve bears.
I'm sorry Adam, but when it comes to a grizzly, it's every man for himself. Which is probably a terrible philosophy, since he has longer legs.
10.5.10
C-ya, dignity
The thing I love about toilets, is that they only require occasional maintenance. The thing I hate about toilets, is the occasional maintenance that they require is a real pain in the ass. And typically involves the installation or removal of a toilet seat. Which sucks because, I don't care how well you clean it nor how often, it never feels okay to get real intimate with a toilet.
A sober person never feels okay wrapping his or her arms around a toilet, fiddling around with the super long plastic screws. When puking into it, mind clouded in a hazy fog, the last thing an inebriated person probably thinks about is who was pissing there last. The first thing a person thinks about when unscrewing those screws is ALL of the people pissing there last.
My toilet has been slowly breaking over the last few weeks. One of the two arms connecting the seat to the porcelain broke about 2 weeks ago, which made for a pretty wonkey sitting experience. Yesterday, the other arm finally broke, which simply made the whole thing a pretty stellar hazard. I bought a new seat last week, but have yet to install it, due to the aforemntioned intimacy problems.
So I was sitting on the closed toilet seat, clipping my toenails on the floor. My phone was sitting on the shelf behind me. Somewhere in mid clip on my toe which neighbors the big guy on my left foot, my phone buzzed, indicating a text message. So I twisted my body around to reach for the phone, forgetting that the toilet seat was merely perched on the rim, attached to nothing. Which caused the toilet seat to obviously gyrate in the same direction. Which then not so obviously caused one end to dip slightly into the bowl, sort of dumping my ass into the toilet, at which point I threw one hand down onto the toilet rim, and the other wildly flailed sort of behind me and to the right, attempting to grab something, but instead just slammed into the rack, knocking deodorant sticks, contact lenses, and bottles of lotion all over the floor. At this point, having grabbed nothing with right arm and being somewhat off balance, the toilet seat slid off the rim, both of us landing on the floor, and my hand which was formerly on the rim of the toilet, instead just ended up in the toilet.
I then spent a few incredulous moments, sitting on the floor amidst a host of personal hygiene products and toenail clippings, wondering just where the hell my dignity went, and why it went there in such a flamboyant fashion.
I guess it's time to fix the toilet seat.
A sober person never feels okay wrapping his or her arms around a toilet, fiddling around with the super long plastic screws. When puking into it, mind clouded in a hazy fog, the last thing an inebriated person probably thinks about is who was pissing there last. The first thing a person thinks about when unscrewing those screws is ALL of the people pissing there last.
My toilet has been slowly breaking over the last few weeks. One of the two arms connecting the seat to the porcelain broke about 2 weeks ago, which made for a pretty wonkey sitting experience. Yesterday, the other arm finally broke, which simply made the whole thing a pretty stellar hazard. I bought a new seat last week, but have yet to install it, due to the aforemntioned intimacy problems.
So I was sitting on the closed toilet seat, clipping my toenails on the floor. My phone was sitting on the shelf behind me. Somewhere in mid clip on my toe which neighbors the big guy on my left foot, my phone buzzed, indicating a text message. So I twisted my body around to reach for the phone, forgetting that the toilet seat was merely perched on the rim, attached to nothing. Which caused the toilet seat to obviously gyrate in the same direction. Which then not so obviously caused one end to dip slightly into the bowl, sort of dumping my ass into the toilet, at which point I threw one hand down onto the toilet rim, and the other wildly flailed sort of behind me and to the right, attempting to grab something, but instead just slammed into the rack, knocking deodorant sticks, contact lenses, and bottles of lotion all over the floor. At this point, having grabbed nothing with right arm and being somewhat off balance, the toilet seat slid off the rim, both of us landing on the floor, and my hand which was formerly on the rim of the toilet, instead just ended up in the toilet.
I then spent a few incredulous moments, sitting on the floor amidst a host of personal hygiene products and toenail clippings, wondering just where the hell my dignity went, and why it went there in such a flamboyant fashion.
I guess it's time to fix the toilet seat.
2.5.10
Change or keep?
Is my back ground (blog, not life) distracting?
Part of me wants to change it, part of me doesn't.
What do you think?
If you have an opinion, make it known. On Wednesday, I'll go with the consensus.
Part of me wants to change it, part of me doesn't.
What do you think?
If you have an opinion, make it known. On Wednesday, I'll go with the consensus.
Bomb fail
Thank God for people who want to blow up a lot of other people, yet happen to suck at making bombs.
One of my friends was visiting Times Square when the bomb fail occurred yesterday. She told me about this, as I was writing an article titled "The Key to a Healthy Lawn is in the Length." She was in the midst of a failed terrorist plot, and I was writing about the proliferation of soil microbes via letting the grass grow long, and why mulching is better than bagging.
Which obviously led me down the thought path to, "How come I don't ever get to be part of a failed terrorist plot?" (Insert a very whiny voice, like a kid whose older brother wont let him have a turn at Nintendo saying, "How come I don't ever get a turn? You don't even ever give me even one turn".) I just wanna turn.
This would be my ideal terrorist encounter. I'm standing in like, the DMV or something. Suddenly a guy bursts through the front doors with a bomb strapped to his chest, throws his hands in the air, and screams, "Allahu Akbar!" And then it gets real silent. He's standing there, eyes pinched, breathing heavily. He then slowly opens his eyes, and looks down at his chest, a look of real bewilderment on his face. And then some 7 year old kid walks over and punches him in the crotch.
You know your job is boring when you start day dreaming about Islamic terrorists in failed bomb vests getting punched in the crotch by kids.
One of my friends was visiting Times Square when the bomb fail occurred yesterday. She told me about this, as I was writing an article titled "The Key to a Healthy Lawn is in the Length." She was in the midst of a failed terrorist plot, and I was writing about the proliferation of soil microbes via letting the grass grow long, and why mulching is better than bagging.
Which obviously led me down the thought path to, "How come I don't ever get to be part of a failed terrorist plot?" (Insert a very whiny voice, like a kid whose older brother wont let him have a turn at Nintendo saying, "How come I don't ever get a turn? You don't even ever give me even one turn".) I just wanna turn.
This would be my ideal terrorist encounter. I'm standing in like, the DMV or something. Suddenly a guy bursts through the front doors with a bomb strapped to his chest, throws his hands in the air, and screams, "Allahu Akbar!" And then it gets real silent. He's standing there, eyes pinched, breathing heavily. He then slowly opens his eyes, and looks down at his chest, a look of real bewilderment on his face. And then some 7 year old kid walks over and punches him in the crotch.
You know your job is boring when you start day dreaming about Islamic terrorists in failed bomb vests getting punched in the crotch by kids.
29.4.10
Lending a helping hand in queens is a good way to get stabbed
I think that there is a special, embarrassing place in hell reserved for about 20 or so people from Queens.
http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/queens/passers_by_let_good_sam_die_5SGkf5XDP5ooudVuEd8fbI
The above is a link to a story about an act of heroism, for which the hero was rewarded with several stab wounds to the chest, a heaping load of ingratitude, many an indifferent passing stare, a spot in a cellphone photo archive, and ultimately a hasty trip to the spirit world.
At about 5:40 in the morning, a woman was being attacked. Her unlikely savior was a homeless man, who was then stabbed in the chest several times for his efforts. The assailant ran off one way, and the woman another. The homeless man then stumbled a few feet after his attacker, and collapsed face down upon the ground.
At this point, he lay there in a pool of blood for an hour and twenty minutes, before firemen arrived to find he was dead.
There is a surveillance tape which documents his fall to the ground, and then records over twenty people walk by, and simply glance at him while he bleeds out on the pavement.
One despicable asshole even has the audacity to walk out of a nearby building, snap a photo with his phone camera, and then walk away. Nobody called 911. Nobody stopped to help.
Nobody.
For one hour and twenty minutes, this guy bled out on the pavement. One hour, and twenty minutes.
I can understand that, upon seeing a bleeding, dying man on the ground early in the morning, one may feel a little nervous about sticking around to help out. That much may not be right, but it is understandable. However, it would probably be pretty far fetched to speculate that even two or three of those twenty plus passers by didn't have a cell phone. How hard is it to walk to a point where one feels safe, and make a call?
And this woman who was the original, intended victim? Where the hell did she go? And clearly she knew that there was some form of a scuffle which ensued between the attacker and the homeless man, so why wouldn't she, at the very least, call 911 after she escaped and report what occurred?
There is so much that is disturbing about this story. What does this say about the general state of humanity? That not even one amongst twenty people is willing to even so much as make a phone call? I realize that this same sort of thing occurred about 45 years ago with Kitty Genovese, but man, I thought maybe we had progressed as human beings since then. The indifference is astounding.
I don't care what instinct or fear dictates--if I encounter a bleeding person on the ground, I'm doing something about it.
So I guess the lesson we learn here--you better think twice before being a homeless hero in Queens.
http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/queens/passers_by_let_good_sam_die_5SGkf5XDP5ooudVuEd8fbI
The above is a link to a story about an act of heroism, for which the hero was rewarded with several stab wounds to the chest, a heaping load of ingratitude, many an indifferent passing stare, a spot in a cellphone photo archive, and ultimately a hasty trip to the spirit world.
At about 5:40 in the morning, a woman was being attacked. Her unlikely savior was a homeless man, who was then stabbed in the chest several times for his efforts. The assailant ran off one way, and the woman another. The homeless man then stumbled a few feet after his attacker, and collapsed face down upon the ground.
At this point, he lay there in a pool of blood for an hour and twenty minutes, before firemen arrived to find he was dead.
There is a surveillance tape which documents his fall to the ground, and then records over twenty people walk by, and simply glance at him while he bleeds out on the pavement.
One despicable asshole even has the audacity to walk out of a nearby building, snap a photo with his phone camera, and then walk away. Nobody called 911. Nobody stopped to help.
Nobody.
For one hour and twenty minutes, this guy bled out on the pavement. One hour, and twenty minutes.
I can understand that, upon seeing a bleeding, dying man on the ground early in the morning, one may feel a little nervous about sticking around to help out. That much may not be right, but it is understandable. However, it would probably be pretty far fetched to speculate that even two or three of those twenty plus passers by didn't have a cell phone. How hard is it to walk to a point where one feels safe, and make a call?
And this woman who was the original, intended victim? Where the hell did she go? And clearly she knew that there was some form of a scuffle which ensued between the attacker and the homeless man, so why wouldn't she, at the very least, call 911 after she escaped and report what occurred?
There is so much that is disturbing about this story. What does this say about the general state of humanity? That not even one amongst twenty people is willing to even so much as make a phone call? I realize that this same sort of thing occurred about 45 years ago with Kitty Genovese, but man, I thought maybe we had progressed as human beings since then. The indifference is astounding.
I don't care what instinct or fear dictates--if I encounter a bleeding person on the ground, I'm doing something about it.
So I guess the lesson we learn here--you better think twice before being a homeless hero in Queens.
26.4.10
Plastic, not paper please
I'm sort of baffled by all of the women who apparently still think that purchasing things with checks is anything other than silly and archaic. Today, 3 separate women attempted to make purchases at Carrabbas' using checks.
WTF? They all seriously looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears when I told them, "Umm, actually, we don't take checks." Just looks of utter bewilderment. Where are these women shopping, that they can still write checks? Most businesses have signs somewhere visible near the register stating, "Checks no longer accepted."
There is nothing worse than going to the grocery store (which most, unfortunately, still accept checks) and getting stuck behind some old crone, or a middle aged woman with 6 kids and a dumptruck sized cart full of cheese hot dogs and mini pizzas, filling out a check, and balancing her checkbook. For goodness sakes, get with the times. Use a plastic card. Or cash, if you don't trust yourself with plastic.
I've heard people argue that it makes them nervous to let a waiter take their card away, for fear that they could write down the credit card number. This is somehow less scary than leaving a check with ALL YOUR INFORMATION at locations scattered about the planet. Think about it--your name, address, bank account number, and often times your phone number and drivers license, (since most places don't trust idiots to not bounce checks.) All you're really leaving out is your birth day, cup size, and social security number.
Why do women seem to be the ones still using checks? I have never seen a man use one, not for years (leaving out business checks.) Today, a woman came in to buy a huge vat of ice cream. She wanted to pay with a check. I informed her that we don't accept them. She looked at me like I was the largest asshole in the region, gave an exasperated sigh, a slight head shake, and stated that "I've always used them before."
"Sorry."
Not on my watch.
So she then got out her phone, called who I assumed was her husband, and was apparently informed that she was allowed to use one of those weird plastic cards. I guess maybe her husband doesn't think she is a big enough girl to pay with something that takes mere moments to transact. She then told me, upon handing me the card, to "run it as credit." So I ran it like I run every other card, with no idea whether or not it was going to go through as a credit or debit transaction.
Sorry.
I understand people using checks to pay bills via snail mail. I even understand paying said bills, or maybe rent with a check, hoping that it won't go through or be cashed for a few days, because you are waiting for a paycheck to come through. Or something. But for heavens sakes, paying with a check, and upon failure, a credit card for a 25 gallon bucket of ice cream is everything that is wrong with this country. I'd hardly say that a vat of Blue Bell vanilla falls under the category of "essential," albeit damn delicious.
Stop using checks. It is an annoying, pointless practice. I have managed to get through about 4 years on fewer than 10 or so checks. And somehow, the world has not ended, I have not fallen into financial ruin, and no Nigerians have managed to steal my identity.
If there happens to be any good reason besides having a carbon copy record of everything you ever purchase for owning a checkbook, I'd sure like to know what it is. And just why it seems to be mainly women clinging to such an obnoxious financial relic.
WTF? They all seriously looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears when I told them, "Umm, actually, we don't take checks." Just looks of utter bewilderment. Where are these women shopping, that they can still write checks? Most businesses have signs somewhere visible near the register stating, "Checks no longer accepted."
There is nothing worse than going to the grocery store (which most, unfortunately, still accept checks) and getting stuck behind some old crone, or a middle aged woman with 6 kids and a dumptruck sized cart full of cheese hot dogs and mini pizzas, filling out a check, and balancing her checkbook. For goodness sakes, get with the times. Use a plastic card. Or cash, if you don't trust yourself with plastic.
I've heard people argue that it makes them nervous to let a waiter take their card away, for fear that they could write down the credit card number. This is somehow less scary than leaving a check with ALL YOUR INFORMATION at locations scattered about the planet. Think about it--your name, address, bank account number, and often times your phone number and drivers license, (since most places don't trust idiots to not bounce checks.) All you're really leaving out is your birth day, cup size, and social security number.
Why do women seem to be the ones still using checks? I have never seen a man use one, not for years (leaving out business checks.) Today, a woman came in to buy a huge vat of ice cream. She wanted to pay with a check. I informed her that we don't accept them. She looked at me like I was the largest asshole in the region, gave an exasperated sigh, a slight head shake, and stated that "I've always used them before."
"Sorry."
Not on my watch.
So she then got out her phone, called who I assumed was her husband, and was apparently informed that she was allowed to use one of those weird plastic cards. I guess maybe her husband doesn't think she is a big enough girl to pay with something that takes mere moments to transact. She then told me, upon handing me the card, to "run it as credit." So I ran it like I run every other card, with no idea whether or not it was going to go through as a credit or debit transaction.
Sorry.
I understand people using checks to pay bills via snail mail. I even understand paying said bills, or maybe rent with a check, hoping that it won't go through or be cashed for a few days, because you are waiting for a paycheck to come through. Or something. But for heavens sakes, paying with a check, and upon failure, a credit card for a 25 gallon bucket of ice cream is everything that is wrong with this country. I'd hardly say that a vat of Blue Bell vanilla falls under the category of "essential," albeit damn delicious.
Stop using checks. It is an annoying, pointless practice. I have managed to get through about 4 years on fewer than 10 or so checks. And somehow, the world has not ended, I have not fallen into financial ruin, and no Nigerians have managed to steal my identity.
If there happens to be any good reason besides having a carbon copy record of everything you ever purchase for owning a checkbook, I'd sure like to know what it is. And just why it seems to be mainly women clinging to such an obnoxious financial relic.
25.4.10
It is finished
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I have really just beat the hell out of this topic, but I feel like it needs to be wrapped up.
First of all, if you have never had the chance to visit the original KFC on 3900 so state in SLC, you are missing out on a rather marvelous dining experience. Unless you despise KFC food, (which I do) because in that case, the original KFC is just a kitchy place to clog your arteries.
I'd say, overall, the double down was a let down. I fully suspected it to be way more disgusting than what it was. I thought half way though I'd be suffering some moderate heart pains. That maybe I'd wake up the following morning with a large, purplish bruise over the heart region of my chest. Psh, none of that even happened.
Mostly the double down just left me wishing that the negligible portion of bacon had been way less negligible. You could practically see through it, and therefore it added no flavor whatsoever to the complete meatwich.
I found myself thinking, "Okay. Next time, I'll ask for less sauce, and extra bacon." Immediately after which, I thought, "You idiot. There will never BE a next time. You (I) don't hate your (my) body (buddy) THAT much."
I ate a double down, drank 2 pepsis, had a small carton of potato logs, and then half a pint of frozen custard. Oh, and a kazoozle. I felt like if I was going to abuse myself, I might as well pull out all the stops. But about 1 am I was feeling guilty, and so went running down town.
Maybe that's why I didn't wake up with the purple bruise.
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Just a monument to the colonel. May he weather the eternities enshrined in bronze.
Everyone that was hoping for a heart attack, but didn't even get one heart attack.
20.4.10
T-minus 2 days
Thursday, I'm going to eat a double down. A facebook event has been created, people have been invited, a location has been selected. This event has been etched into the fleshy tables of a KFC chicken heart. There is no turning back.
The last time I ate a KFC product, I was working at a gum factory. Because we like, kicked ass at producing and packaging a lot of gum (or something) we were rewarded one day with lunch. Many of us in the gum packing department were hopeful of a Pizza Hut experience. Much to the delight of the redneck white trash dudes in the shipping department, KFC was our victory prize. As I peeled away the lid from one of the chicken buckets, I marveled at how the fried chicken nestled in side looked the exact opposite of crispy. At that point in my life, I was by no means a very healthy eater. But by 3 bites into an original recipe canola oil sponge, I no longer felt the need to swallow, as anything put in my mouth, and then subsequently chewed, would pretty much just slide down my gullet of its own volition. I ate about half a chicken part, and could take no more. Much to the pleasure of the guy with the shirt that stated in humongous lettering "Oh what fun it is to ride." More chicken for that asshole.
As the day of atherosclerosis draws ever closer, I find myself growing afraid. I was reading a review about the double down on a blog, and was absolutely appalled by the included imagery. I think I've never laid eyes upon a more vile, grease soaked creation. I think that I've never looked at something meant for mass popular human consumption, and been so completely repulsed. Especially after a couple months of eating lots of veggies, fruits, and combinations of veggies and fruits, with occasional lean meats.
I feel like this thing is going to slither down my gullet, and then burst out of my chest, in a dramatic display of deleterious, meaty protest. Or at the very least I'm going to regain every pound I've shed over the last few months. Or I'll be rendered sterile. Or something. The bottom line is, nothing good can come from the coming experience.
But I have to go through with it. My curiosity is too great. I want to experience for myself this latest American abomination. The veritable abominable snowman of fast food creations. I want to try to understand the "why" of it. To know how we could have arrived at the point of such a mighty conglomeration of meat, not heretofore mass marketed on this planet.
I'm not looking forward to the incipient buddy growth.
The last time I ate a KFC product, I was working at a gum factory. Because we like, kicked ass at producing and packaging a lot of gum (or something) we were rewarded one day with lunch. Many of us in the gum packing department were hopeful of a Pizza Hut experience. Much to the delight of the redneck white trash dudes in the shipping department, KFC was our victory prize. As I peeled away the lid from one of the chicken buckets, I marveled at how the fried chicken nestled in side looked the exact opposite of crispy. At that point in my life, I was by no means a very healthy eater. But by 3 bites into an original recipe canola oil sponge, I no longer felt the need to swallow, as anything put in my mouth, and then subsequently chewed, would pretty much just slide down my gullet of its own volition. I ate about half a chicken part, and could take no more. Much to the pleasure of the guy with the shirt that stated in humongous lettering "Oh what fun it is to ride." More chicken for that asshole.
As the day of atherosclerosis draws ever closer, I find myself growing afraid. I was reading a review about the double down on a blog, and was absolutely appalled by the included imagery. I think I've never laid eyes upon a more vile, grease soaked creation. I think that I've never looked at something meant for mass popular human consumption, and been so completely repulsed. Especially after a couple months of eating lots of veggies, fruits, and combinations of veggies and fruits, with occasional lean meats.
I feel like this thing is going to slither down my gullet, and then burst out of my chest, in a dramatic display of deleterious, meaty protest. Or at the very least I'm going to regain every pound I've shed over the last few months. Or I'll be rendered sterile. Or something. The bottom line is, nothing good can come from the coming experience.
But I have to go through with it. My curiosity is too great. I want to experience for myself this latest American abomination. The veritable abominable snowman of fast food creations. I want to try to understand the "why" of it. To know how we could have arrived at the point of such a mighty conglomeration of meat, not heretofore mass marketed on this planet.
I'm not looking forward to the incipient buddy growth.
18.4.10
Dear girls,
Please stop making this face. And then taking a picture of it when you do. Followed by posting it to your facebook account. Or blog. Or wherever it is you happen to be posting photos of yourself. Seriously. I've encountered entire facebook albums dedicated to this face.
I think I semi understand the underlying anatomy of posting a kissy-face-slightly-arched-eyebrows-sorta-seductive-gaze pose. I realize this accentuates your cheekbones, giving your face the illusion of being somewhat emaciated. Which, if the emaciated thing is what you are going for...well, spot on. And maybe some dudes will see your picture and think, "Whoa, I feel like she is making that stupid kissy-face-seductress-gaze pose at me." Although, the male specimen who thinks such a thing is probably the last person on earth from whom you would want to elicit such a response, as he is probably browsing your album alone at 3:30 in the morning with his shirt off, dividing glances between his own marvelous abs, and your kissy-face.
I'd actually love to have some input from guys here. Unfortunately, I think there is a disproportionate amount of females who read this blog vs. males. I'm not sure why. It may be that the blogging world is more heavily estrogen dominated. Or, it may be that I don't post enough pictures of babes doing a kissy-face. It's hard to know. But my question, is if you are a man, does the encounter of a kissy-face picture cause your loins to burn with desire, or do you, like me, find it to be a compelling reason make some sort of an audible "uggh" sound, in conjunction with a head shake, attached to a possible disgusted "sniff."
If you are a female, do you do the kissy-face for photos? And why? (If you happen to be a kissy-face culprit, feel free to respond anonymously.) Do you hate that your friends do it, or do you sort of think it is a good idea, but don't employ the technique, as you feel you have not yet attained mastery of the semi-seductive-gaze portion of the pose? Mastering the kissy-face-slightly-arched-eyebrows-sorta-seductive-gaze pose technique is hard. It really is.
Anyways, maybe this is simply another one of those things that falls under the "I'm never going to understand this," category, where dwell such phenomena as the popped collar, and flare jeans.
Oh, and the Double Down.
13.4.10
Monument
Upon leaving my house today, I encountered this gigantic treasure about a foot away from the sidewalk on my grass. Upon seeing it, I just stopped and marveled at the sheer magnitude of it. The only thing I had by which to scale it, was a Yoohoo can.
First of all, I'm really sorry this post is about feces. Second, I'm even more sorry that gargantuan thing is sitting upon my lawn, taking root. Third, I'm sorry again for posting a photo of said monstrosity possibly waiting, I fear, to come alive via some form of mutation to tear this city apart.
This is why I hate Salt Lake City dog owners. I have found no fewer than 8-10 such piles (albeit of a much smaller caliber) on my lawn in the time that I have lived in this house, and I can only imagine it will get worse as the summer arrives. You may think, "well would you want to pick that up while you were walking your dog?" Hell no, I wouldn't pick it up. Which is precicely why I will never own a creature that is capable of manufacturing feces of such epic proportions. That thing is bigger than a Yoohoo can. Get real.
If you choose to own a dog, and you choose to walk around with said dog, have the common decency to clean up after it. There is no way in hell my lawnmower will be able to grind that turd into oblivion. Until the cat lady or I find a shovel, that thing is a permanent fixture upon our lawn.
I'm really not okay with that.
Urgent help requireded!
Today I was on facebook. I noticed on the news feed, that my cousin, who lives in San Francisco, had posted as his status "NEED URGENT HELP!!!"
Naturally, I thought this was a weird thing to post on facebook. I mean, if a person was in need of urgent help, I think the last thing he or she would do, would be to update his or her facebook status. I could just imagine my cousin, trapped in a heap of twisted metal after a terrible car accident, barely coherent, accessing his facebook account via a cell phone, stating his need of "urgent help."
So I noticed that he (Justin) was currently on and available for chat. So I asked:
Andrew
what is the urgent help needed?
5:55pmJustin
thank God you're here andrew
*This line immediate raised my suspicion, as he wouldn't have called me andrew.
we're stuck in wales uk....as we speak
*First, I couldn't imagine my cousin updating his fbook status via a cell phone, being a respectable lawyer in his mid thirties, nor could i think of a single reason why he would be in Wales.
5:56pmAndrew
oh yeah?
5:56pmJustin
got mugged at the park of the hotel where we stayed
all cash credit card and cell phone was all stolen off
*At this point, it seemed that either my law school graduate cousin was either really panicked, and had thus lost his ability to form a proper sentence, or he was a Nigerian pretending to be my cousin. I supposed the latter was probably correct.
5:57pmAndrew
oh shit!
what can i do??
I am the very most worried about you!
Do you need my help?
5:59pmJustin
it was a brutal experience for us
we really need your help in getting back home
5:59pmAndrew
OMG I can totally imagine that such a thing would be very brutal
were you guys very scared?
6:00pmJustin
we're in pains with injuries and bruises
6:00pmAndrew
No! what sort of pains and injuries??
I have very worries for you guys!
6:01pmJustin
we need your help andrew
6:02pmAndrew
Wait, should I get the guy who got you? I have a .45
I am not even scared to seek vengeance for your hurts and pains and injuries and bruises
6:02pmJustin
omg..
*I certainly could not imagine my cousin using the term OMG.
do you wanna help out or not?
6:02pmAndrew
Yes! I said I do!
Tell me how to help! I am so worried! an attack in the UK! I cant believe this has happened to you
6:04pmJustin
am damn serious here
6:05pmAndrew
is Charlie okay?
*Charlie is Justin's first born
6:05pmJustin
yes
6:05pmAndrew
and dillan?
*Second born.
what about Timothy?! Please for the love of god, tell me timothy didn't get hurt
*Timothy, doesn't exist.
6:07pmJustin
dillan is in pains and timothy is fine
our return flight leaves in about some few hours from now..but we're having problem settling the hotel bills
6:07pmAndrew
Did they take Timothy's prosthetic leg??
6:08pmJustin
no
wondering if you could pls loan us some little piece of cash to get the bills sorted out and get a cab to the airport
*At this point, I was very interested as to how much this little piece of cash would be.
will def refund it back as soon as we get back home
6:09pmAndrew
I guess i could give you some cash.
how much do you need?
6:10pmJustin
$1,480
6:10pmAndrew
I will only send you cash if you swear in your wrath that you will buy little Timothy a sack of corn nuts. he must be devastated
6:11pmJustin
omg...
*the Nigerian was apparently pist that he would have to pony up $1.89 for a sack of corn nuts.
6:11pmAndrew
SWEAR TO ME!
6:11pmJustin
we need help here andrew
i swear with my life
i will
6:11pmAndrew
how can i even know if you are speaking true?
6:12pmJustin
am damn serious here
*why the exact same misspelling as the first time he was "am damn serious here."?
6:12pmAndrew
how can i know that Timothy is really okay??
HOW CAN I KNOW EVEN!!
TELL ME OR YOU GET NO CASHES FROM ME FOR ANYTHING NOT EVEN TIMOTHY"S CORN NUTS!
6:14pmJustin
he is fine and doing good
*I was about 90% reassured at this point.
6:14pmAndrew
what color is his prosthetic leg???
how can i even get the monies to you even?
6:15pmJustin
you can have the money wired to my name via western union money transfer
6:16pmAndrew
i dont even know if you are damn serious right now
6:16pmJustin
i have my passport with me to pick it up at the western union outlet
6:16pmAndrew
how damn serious are you even??
6:16pmJustin
OMG...
if am not i won't tell you to wire money to my name
you and i know that i will need a proof before i can pick it
6:17pmAndrew
well, what name should I send the monies too?
6:18pmJustin
you will need my name and location to wire to
*the
money
Here's my info below
Name...JUSTIN FISH
Location...47 LOUNDOUN SQUARE
Cardiff, GLAMORGAN CF10 5JN
UNITED KINGDOM
got it?
6:20pmAndrew
wait, I am really close to where you are at!
Ill just bring you the monies!
I can be there in 15 minutes!!!!
6:21pmJustin
omg...
*This was apparently a frustrating concept, me bringing him the monies.
6:21pmAndrew
Does that sound great!?
6:21pmJustin
you just have to go down to a western union outlet near you and send the money
6:21pmAndrew
That way, I can make SURE timothy gets his corn nuts!
No, dumbass, I am only a few blocks away!
I can just HAND you the monies!
6:22pmJustin
do you wanna help out or not
tell me let me know
6:22pmAndrew
Yes, And i also called a police officer, because I am worried about your pains and bruises. he will be coming to that address shortly
and then I will bring you the cash!
At this point, my Nigerian friend apparently realized I was probably not going to send him $1480 dollars, and thus quit corresponding with me.
Now, here is what I find to be a little baffling. Who are the people that actually fall for this? I mean, certainly my dear cousin Justin's account isn't the first this guy has hacked. So obviously, some people are falling for this, and are somehow not realizing that, in an emergency where bruises and pains are involved, a victim is probably not going to be using fbook to find help. I think that if you are too dense to realize that you are clearly talking to a person who does not speak English with any sort of fluency, then you probably deserve to be raped of $1480 dollars.
Unless you are my grandmother. I will beat that guy to death, if he rips off my grandma.
Naturally, I thought this was a weird thing to post on facebook. I mean, if a person was in need of urgent help, I think the last thing he or she would do, would be to update his or her facebook status. I could just imagine my cousin, trapped in a heap of twisted metal after a terrible car accident, barely coherent, accessing his facebook account via a cell phone, stating his need of "urgent help."
So I noticed that he (Justin) was currently on and available for chat. So I asked:
Andrew
what is the urgent help needed?
5:55pmJustin
thank God you're here andrew
*This line immediate raised my suspicion, as he wouldn't have called me andrew.
we're stuck in wales uk....as we speak
*First, I couldn't imagine my cousin updating his fbook status via a cell phone, being a respectable lawyer in his mid thirties, nor could i think of a single reason why he would be in Wales.
5:56pmAndrew
oh yeah?
5:56pmJustin
got mugged at the park of the hotel where we stayed
all cash credit card and cell phone was all stolen off
*At this point, it seemed that either my law school graduate cousin was either really panicked, and had thus lost his ability to form a proper sentence, or he was a Nigerian pretending to be my cousin. I supposed the latter was probably correct.
5:57pmAndrew
oh shit!
what can i do??
I am the very most worried about you!
Do you need my help?
5:59pmJustin
it was a brutal experience for us
we really need your help in getting back home
5:59pmAndrew
OMG I can totally imagine that such a thing would be very brutal
were you guys very scared?
6:00pmJustin
we're in pains with injuries and bruises
6:00pmAndrew
No! what sort of pains and injuries??
I have very worries for you guys!
6:01pmJustin
we need your help andrew
6:02pmAndrew
Wait, should I get the guy who got you? I have a .45
I am not even scared to seek vengeance for your hurts and pains and injuries and bruises
6:02pmJustin
omg..
*I certainly could not imagine my cousin using the term OMG.
do you wanna help out or not?
6:02pmAndrew
Yes! I said I do!
Tell me how to help! I am so worried! an attack in the UK! I cant believe this has happened to you
6:04pmJustin
am damn serious here
6:05pmAndrew
is Charlie okay?
*Charlie is Justin's first born
6:05pmJustin
yes
6:05pmAndrew
and dillan?
*Second born.
what about Timothy?! Please for the love of god, tell me timothy didn't get hurt
*Timothy, doesn't exist.
6:07pmJustin
dillan is in pains and timothy is fine
our return flight leaves in about some few hours from now..but we're having problem settling the hotel bills
6:07pmAndrew
Did they take Timothy's prosthetic leg??
6:08pmJustin
no
wondering if you could pls loan us some little piece of cash to get the bills sorted out and get a cab to the airport
*At this point, I was very interested as to how much this little piece of cash would be.
will def refund it back as soon as we get back home
6:09pmAndrew
I guess i could give you some cash.
how much do you need?
6:10pmJustin
$1,480
6:10pmAndrew
I will only send you cash if you swear in your wrath that you will buy little Timothy a sack of corn nuts. he must be devastated
6:11pmJustin
omg...
*the Nigerian was apparently pist that he would have to pony up $1.89 for a sack of corn nuts.
6:11pmAndrew
SWEAR TO ME!
6:11pmJustin
we need help here andrew
i swear with my life
i will
6:11pmAndrew
how can i even know if you are speaking true?
6:12pmJustin
am damn serious here
*why the exact same misspelling as the first time he was "am damn serious here."?
6:12pmAndrew
how can i know that Timothy is really okay??
HOW CAN I KNOW EVEN!!
TELL ME OR YOU GET NO CASHES FROM ME FOR ANYTHING NOT EVEN TIMOTHY"S CORN NUTS!
6:14pmJustin
he is fine and doing good
*I was about 90% reassured at this point.
6:14pmAndrew
what color is his prosthetic leg???
how can i even get the monies to you even?
6:15pmJustin
you can have the money wired to my name via western union money transfer
6:16pmAndrew
i dont even know if you are damn serious right now
6:16pmJustin
i have my passport with me to pick it up at the western union outlet
6:16pmAndrew
how damn serious are you even??
6:16pmJustin
OMG...
if am not i won't tell you to wire money to my name
you and i know that i will need a proof before i can pick it
6:17pmAndrew
well, what name should I send the monies too?
6:18pmJustin
you will need my name and location to wire to
*the
money
Here's my info below
Name...JUSTIN FISH
Location...47 LOUNDOUN SQUARE
Cardiff, GLAMORGAN CF10 5JN
UNITED KINGDOM
got it?
6:20pmAndrew
wait, I am really close to where you are at!
Ill just bring you the monies!
I can be there in 15 minutes!!!!
6:21pmJustin
omg...
*This was apparently a frustrating concept, me bringing him the monies.
6:21pmAndrew
Does that sound great!?
6:21pmJustin
you just have to go down to a western union outlet near you and send the money
6:21pmAndrew
That way, I can make SURE timothy gets his corn nuts!
No, dumbass, I am only a few blocks away!
I can just HAND you the monies!
6:22pmJustin
do you wanna help out or not
tell me let me know
6:22pmAndrew
Yes, And i also called a police officer, because I am worried about your pains and bruises. he will be coming to that address shortly
and then I will bring you the cash!
At this point, my Nigerian friend apparently realized I was probably not going to send him $1480 dollars, and thus quit corresponding with me.
Now, here is what I find to be a little baffling. Who are the people that actually fall for this? I mean, certainly my dear cousin Justin's account isn't the first this guy has hacked. So obviously, some people are falling for this, and are somehow not realizing that, in an emergency where bruises and pains are involved, a victim is probably not going to be using fbook to find help. I think that if you are too dense to realize that you are clearly talking to a person who does not speak English with any sort of fluency, then you probably deserve to be raped of $1480 dollars.
Unless you are my grandmother. I will beat that guy to death, if he rips off my grandma.
2.4.10
God help us, this thing actually exists
Just when I thought that the fast food industry couldn't come out with anything more appalling (the McRib, chicken McNuggets, the Baconator, the Burger King Stacker Quad ((holy shit!)) I see this thing and get knocked on my ass.
The arterial Apocalypse pictured above is called the "Double Down." Just when KFC sorta tried to score some "healthy" points with grilled chicken, rather than the usual deep fried lard bucket, they drop this coronary napalm on the American public. I feel like, where land dwelling creatures are concerned, it should maybe be a crime to combine the products of more than 2 different animals in any one concoction. Especially when there isn't even any damned bread involved.
So, let's see. With the double down, we have product from 3 separate mammals: Cheese(s) from a cow, bacon(s) from a pig, and 2 huge chickens from probably an unfathomable amount of chickens, neatly pressed into patties (this estimate does not include any unknown variables, such as other birds or mice accidentally being ground up with the chicken.) And then no bread. And some sauce. The epitome of a meat sandwich. This is apparently what we have come to--thousands of years of eating, and we have digressed to a meat sandwich, that really can not even be classified as a sandwich, as the word "sandwich" inherently implies the use of bread. A meatwich maybe?
Whatever you want to call it, this is a big punch to the arteries and a drop kick to the non-existent 6 pack of obese America.
KFC claims that they have done an "estimate" on the nutrition information of the Double Down, and this is what they came up with:
Calories: 590
Calories from fat: 280
Total fat: 31g
Saturated fat: 10g
Trans fat: 0g
Cholesterol: 190mg
Hey KFC? Get real.
If that thing is less than 1000 calories, then I'm Jonathan Safran Foer.
I'm probably going to eat one. One.
25.3.10
Buddies
I decided that I don't really want to have to rely upon the library for my internet consumption. This was made a little more clear to me after an experience I had on Tuesday.
I was sitting at a desk, typing for my new kinda-job. Which I suppose I should explain. I found a job. Kinda. I am doing freelance writing for OrangeSoda. Not the full time career I was hoping for, yet probably at least a foot in the door. Anyways.
I was writing. I little fat Mexican man came and sat across from me. At some point, he apparently decided that lifting his shirt up to practically his nipples would be a good idea, followed by rubbing his hands up and down on his buddy (gut) for about an entire minute. Now, I like lifting up my shirt and rubbing the bear skin of my buddy just as much as the next asshole. But MAYBE not in the public library. He just gazed out the window, and rub, rub, rubbed away.
At first I just stared at him. Thinking that he would probably subside within an 8-12 second time frame. But he just never stopped. So after about 45 seconds of staring at his buddy, belly button, nipples, and the gigantic scar that snaked its way up the center of his chest, I decided I should probably get out my phone and record him. He repeated the buddy rub at least 6 times, probably amassing to a grand total of at least 4 straight minutes of shirt-up-buddy-rub.
As much as I actually really actually enjoyed this experience, I decided that it was time to get the interweb in my own home. So I called Qwest and now I have one more bill, amongst a googolplex of bills.
I've decided that being a grownup kind of sucks sometimes. I feel like I have money going in 50 different directions every single month. In reality, that number is closer to 9. But still.
I wonder how many bills the buddy rubber has? Maybe that's what he was pondering, upon looking out the window and stroking his ample buddy, just how he was going to make ends meet this month. Maybe lifting up my shirt and rubbing my buddy will help me sort out my life confusions. At worst, it will feel great. And in public, even.
I was sitting at a desk, typing for my new kinda-job. Which I suppose I should explain. I found a job. Kinda. I am doing freelance writing for OrangeSoda. Not the full time career I was hoping for, yet probably at least a foot in the door. Anyways.
I was writing. I little fat Mexican man came and sat across from me. At some point, he apparently decided that lifting his shirt up to practically his nipples would be a good idea, followed by rubbing his hands up and down on his buddy (gut) for about an entire minute. Now, I like lifting up my shirt and rubbing the bear skin of my buddy just as much as the next asshole. But MAYBE not in the public library. He just gazed out the window, and rub, rub, rubbed away.
At first I just stared at him. Thinking that he would probably subside within an 8-12 second time frame. But he just never stopped. So after about 45 seconds of staring at his buddy, belly button, nipples, and the gigantic scar that snaked its way up the center of his chest, I decided I should probably get out my phone and record him. He repeated the buddy rub at least 6 times, probably amassing to a grand total of at least 4 straight minutes of shirt-up-buddy-rub.
As much as I actually really actually enjoyed this experience, I decided that it was time to get the interweb in my own home. So I called Qwest and now I have one more bill, amongst a googolplex of bills.
I've decided that being a grownup kind of sucks sometimes. I feel like I have money going in 50 different directions every single month. In reality, that number is closer to 9. But still.
I wonder how many bills the buddy rubber has? Maybe that's what he was pondering, upon looking out the window and stroking his ample buddy, just how he was going to make ends meet this month. Maybe lifting up my shirt and rubbing my buddy will help me sort out my life confusions. At worst, it will feel great. And in public, even.
20.3.10
A quick path to self loathing
It is fairly difficult to describe the nearly insatiable self loathing that one feels upon consuming an entire loaf of bread and a large ice cream scoop worth of whipping cream. Not moderately low fat Cool Whip, mind you, but full on heavy cream based fatty sugary Carrabba made whipping cream. And, said cream having been consumed by dipping bread in it. Nothing makes a guy feel fatter, nor more pathetic than that. Especially when said creamy carb consumption occurred in the midst of a day of Jamba Juice, 2 bowls of cereal, 2 bowls of oatmeal, various Vanilla Wafers, a bowl of shrimp pasta, some calamari, a bunch of fajita steak and bell peppers, and a pack of Kazoozles. GET REAL.
The next morning when I woke up, I had gained back two of five previously lost pounds. Way to go, fatty.
I have come to realize, over the last few months, that my eating habits have been particularly terrible for a long time, and I have been making an attempt to do better. The day where I ate some of EVERYTHING, was actually sort of a fluke. I was at work for 11 hours, and I only took one table the entire day. Which meant I had a lot of time to stand around and think about how good a loaf of bread dipped in whip cream would be.
I find that when I am bored, I want to eat. Which I think is pretty normal. I'm just really bad at giving in. Like I think about all of the vanilla wafers hiding in dry storage at work, and I want to eat every last one of them. So since that terrible two pound day, I have been trying pretty hard not to bored eat.
Working in a restaurant where finding a meal that weighs in at less than 1000 calories is nigh unto impossible, consequentially makes it nigh unto impossible to avoid eating like obesity sounds like a great life plan. Especially when I am there for 12 hours at a time. Whenever I bring a person who scarcely fits into one chair a heaping plate of pasta drenched in lemon butter, alfredo sauce, and a whole lot of potential ass growth, I just want to get my own pasta, sit down, and grow our asses together. Everything looks SO GOOD when I am hungry. Or bored. Or whatever.
I have recently discovered that I really like plain pasta with some Romano cheese grated and mixed into it. Simple, and pretty low fat. I guess there are a lot of carbs there, but...life goes on. I love bread probably even more than Kazoozles (maybe)and therefore will NEVER be able to truly limit my carb intake. Sorry body, you're just going to have to deal with every carb.
I guess my attempts at a less damaging way of eating go in conjunction with my goal to return to a level of physical fitness where I felt good all the time, and mountain biking was actually fun. Where walking up a flight of 10 stairs didn't take my breath away. Which sort of sounds romantic, getting one's breath taken away. Except for when it is in reference to ascending a very short incline. I have been cycling pretty consistently for the last two months or so, and can now therefore, walk up at least 25 stairs before losing my breath. Probably another 2K10 miracle.
Besides being the year of the miracle, the wall of shame, and the super sizing of government bureaucracy, 2K10 is also going to be the year where Fishkins made the journey back down to 180 lbs, and finally felt good in a pair of mid thigh length swimming trunks.
The next morning when I woke up, I had gained back two of five previously lost pounds. Way to go, fatty.
I have come to realize, over the last few months, that my eating habits have been particularly terrible for a long time, and I have been making an attempt to do better. The day where I ate some of EVERYTHING, was actually sort of a fluke. I was at work for 11 hours, and I only took one table the entire day. Which meant I had a lot of time to stand around and think about how good a loaf of bread dipped in whip cream would be.
I find that when I am bored, I want to eat. Which I think is pretty normal. I'm just really bad at giving in. Like I think about all of the vanilla wafers hiding in dry storage at work, and I want to eat every last one of them. So since that terrible two pound day, I have been trying pretty hard not to bored eat.
Working in a restaurant where finding a meal that weighs in at less than 1000 calories is nigh unto impossible, consequentially makes it nigh unto impossible to avoid eating like obesity sounds like a great life plan. Especially when I am there for 12 hours at a time. Whenever I bring a person who scarcely fits into one chair a heaping plate of pasta drenched in lemon butter, alfredo sauce, and a whole lot of potential ass growth, I just want to get my own pasta, sit down, and grow our asses together. Everything looks SO GOOD when I am hungry. Or bored. Or whatever.
I have recently discovered that I really like plain pasta with some Romano cheese grated and mixed into it. Simple, and pretty low fat. I guess there are a lot of carbs there, but...life goes on. I love bread probably even more than Kazoozles (maybe)and therefore will NEVER be able to truly limit my carb intake. Sorry body, you're just going to have to deal with every carb.
I guess my attempts at a less damaging way of eating go in conjunction with my goal to return to a level of physical fitness where I felt good all the time, and mountain biking was actually fun. Where walking up a flight of 10 stairs didn't take my breath away. Which sort of sounds romantic, getting one's breath taken away. Except for when it is in reference to ascending a very short incline. I have been cycling pretty consistently for the last two months or so, and can now therefore, walk up at least 25 stairs before losing my breath. Probably another 2K10 miracle.
Besides being the year of the miracle, the wall of shame, and the super sizing of government bureaucracy, 2K10 is also going to be the year where Fishkins made the journey back down to 180 lbs, and finally felt good in a pair of mid thigh length swimming trunks.
9.3.10
The beginning of the end
I have been thinking a lot about dating lately. About the apparent futility of it, up to this point in my life. I think if I had back every dollar that I spent on every failed relationship or fruitless date that I have ever been on...let's just say I probably wouldn't have to be driving Javier with the absurdly loud muffler any more.
I went on a date the other night. I figure I spent around 40 bucks. NBD. However, I was thinking yesterday while I was at work (I have a lot of time to stand around and think between the hours of 2-5) that 40 dollars worth of Kazoozles would have brought me an infinitely greater measure of happiness than that date. I mean, come on, 40 Kazoozles? At LEAST 7 days of happiness.
I think I'm going to start making dating decisions based upon a Kazoozle happiness ratio. I will calculate the amount of money I expect to reasonably spend. And if I think that purchasing an equal amount of Kazoozles would probably make me happier, date canceled.
I have a feeling I'm going to be eating a lot of Kazoozles.
I went on a date the other night. I figure I spent around 40 bucks. NBD. However, I was thinking yesterday while I was at work (I have a lot of time to stand around and think between the hours of 2-5) that 40 dollars worth of Kazoozles would have brought me an infinitely greater measure of happiness than that date. I mean, come on, 40 Kazoozles? At LEAST 7 days of happiness.
I think I'm going to start making dating decisions based upon a Kazoozle happiness ratio. I will calculate the amount of money I expect to reasonably spend. And if I think that purchasing an equal amount of Kazoozles would probably make me happier, date canceled.
I have a feeling I'm going to be eating a lot of Kazoozles.
When stringy blonde hair just isn't enough
So I guess I sort of took a small break from blogging. I have been applying for a job (that I didn't get) and during the application process, I just didn't much feel like blogging. One of the things they asked me to do, was name the worst band in history. So I did. And it was OBVIOUSLY Nickelback. I'm a little worried that maybe whomever was reviewing what I wrote, was a big Nickelback fan, and for that reason I did't get the job. Or maybe it was just simply the fact that there were probably a hundred applicants, and with that many, at least a few are bound to be better than I am, albeit hard to believe. Anyways.
I think that I have a good appreciation for a wide range of music. I certainly do not hate everything popular. I’m not one of those people. I like the Killers just as much as the next guy who’s just too young to have appreciated Depeche Mode in the 80’s. But, that said, there certainly IS a lot of garbage on the radio. For whatever reason people seem to be drawn to crappy, overproduced music like T-cells to a pathogen. People are always flocking to bad rock ballads, scratchy, angry vocalists, and stringy blonde hair. I guess I’m narrowing it down at this point. I’m referring, of course, to Nickelback.
The WORST band in history.
Ironically, as deserving of the aforementioned title as Nickelback certainly is, they were deemed the most influential band of the decade by Billboard. If by “influential” Billboard was referring to the resurgence of chin length bleached blonde hair amongst angst ridden teen man-boys, or the rise of tattoo-esque designs on t-shirts and jeans with pre-fabricated holes—they might be spot on. But if this alleged influence was indeed in reference to music…I’m slightly confounded.
Who (artist wise) was Nickelback influencing? Creed? One can’t influence one’s roots. So who then? I would argue that Nickelback didn’t do a single original or groundbreaking thing throughout the first decade of this century. They provided no new sound, no intelligent or life altering lyrics. Simply a load of angst driven drivel, great for head banging and inspiring the consumption of Natty Ice.
You want an influential band? Take Radiohead, for instance. They practically revolutionized rock and roll. They created an entirely new style of music and a revolutionary way of distributing music. By releasing In Rainbows in 2007 as a download for “whatever people thought it was worth,” they were doing something truly influential. Radiohead made a difference by what they brought to music not by singing about joining the mile high club, owning a bathtub big enough for 10, or any other manner of cheap sexual innuendo. Thanks for nothing Nickelback.
I think that I have a good appreciation for a wide range of music. I certainly do not hate everything popular. I’m not one of those people. I like the Killers just as much as the next guy who’s just too young to have appreciated Depeche Mode in the 80’s. But, that said, there certainly IS a lot of garbage on the radio. For whatever reason people seem to be drawn to crappy, overproduced music like T-cells to a pathogen. People are always flocking to bad rock ballads, scratchy, angry vocalists, and stringy blonde hair. I guess I’m narrowing it down at this point. I’m referring, of course, to Nickelback.
The WORST band in history.
Ironically, as deserving of the aforementioned title as Nickelback certainly is, they were deemed the most influential band of the decade by Billboard. If by “influential” Billboard was referring to the resurgence of chin length bleached blonde hair amongst angst ridden teen man-boys, or the rise of tattoo-esque designs on t-shirts and jeans with pre-fabricated holes—they might be spot on. But if this alleged influence was indeed in reference to music…I’m slightly confounded.
Who (artist wise) was Nickelback influencing? Creed? One can’t influence one’s roots. So who then? I would argue that Nickelback didn’t do a single original or groundbreaking thing throughout the first decade of this century. They provided no new sound, no intelligent or life altering lyrics. Simply a load of angst driven drivel, great for head banging and inspiring the consumption of Natty Ice.
You want an influential band? Take Radiohead, for instance. They practically revolutionized rock and roll. They created an entirely new style of music and a revolutionary way of distributing music. By releasing In Rainbows in 2007 as a download for “whatever people thought it was worth,” they were doing something truly influential. Radiohead made a difference by what they brought to music not by singing about joining the mile high club, owning a bathtub big enough for 10, or any other manner of cheap sexual innuendo. Thanks for nothing Nickelback.
21.2.10
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