What’s on the menu?

Restaurant goers can all agree that visiting a place for the first time can be stressful. Will my party be seated near the restroom? What will the atmosphere be like? Will candles be used to induce romance even if I’m sitting by myself? What will they serve? Whatever it is, will it be fresh? Will it cause an allergic reaction or something worse? Will my neighbors be chatty and loud? Am I going to crave all the dishes served to everyone else except for mine? Will my co-diners eat their greasy meals with their fingers? Should I give them the green light to do so? Should I pretend to know how to use the knife and fork together? Must I feign a laugh and quickly glance over at my neighbors to see if they’re listening to my conversation with myself? Is alcohol a necessity to help alleviate the symptoms of e-coli poisoning? Did everyone enjoy what they ordered? What’s for dessert? Is dessert necessary after four appetizers, two entrees and the bread basket of initiation? Where is the check? Why are the waiters smiling so cunningly as they bring me the bill? Should I leave a tip on a meal, the cost of which could’ve fed the whole restaurant (including the nosy neighbors)? Is the tip already included under a clever service charge pseudonym? Do I leave cash or credit? Do I use my nice signature or scribble whatever letters I can remember after the brutal consumption of alcohol? Should I leave smiling if the service was bad or tell those poor bus-boys the truth and threaten deportation? Do I recommend this place to anyone else or keep it as my special secret? Am I the only one with these thoughts throughout the whole duration of dinner?

Sin-sational

I’ve recently been informed that the bad behavior a person exudes is not his fault, but the fault of some demon inhabiting the poor bastard’s soul. There is the demon of sloth, which makes us behave like koalas. There’s the green-eyed witch called envy which forces us to resent those in possession of something we crave. There is a gluttonous little devil making us consume everything in sight and make up excuses for it. And so on. Next time you notice yourself exhibiting the signs of improper conduct don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s not you, it’s them. Don't judge others too harshly. The subway molestor is probably having an inner struggle with his lust incubus as he gropes you from behind. In some cases there may be a few buggers co-existing in one person. I counted all my “flaws” and estimated that at any given moment around five close, personal friends (that’s what I consider them to be) are at the controls of my aircraft, give or take some occasional visitors (like when I have a psychotic screaming episode out of the blue). Sorry ladies it’s not PMS, it’s anger rearing its ugly red face with red eyes.

How could this be? Are we not the operators of our own machinery? Are we only driven by lust, gluttony, anger, pride, envy and greed (I will exclude sloth because there’s no drive there at all) interrupted by the occasional bathroom breaks? I don’t know for sure so lets take a look at the evidence, shall we?

Do you want to eat all the food in your fridge? No. Do you eat it anyway because it looks lonely? Yes.
Do you want to hit a wealthy, gorgeous person in the face? No. Do you do it anyway? Yes.
Do you think you’re the best person in the whole world? No. Do you act like you are? Yes.

The proof is astounding. Someone is forcing you to do things you don’t wish to do.

The good news? There is a way to get rid of your inner devils by making their life a living hell (you like that?) The way to go about it is by exorcising (not exercising so don’t worry sloths) the demons. Kind of like overthrowing a dictator.

Please contact your local religious advisor for more information.

Paranoia

The problem with being popular is that someone is always stalking you and/or trying to kill you.
Thankfully I am not popular and yet I still feel like I’m being stalked. I try my best to avoid the prying eyes. They’re everywhere I go. I get on the train, the bus or I walk the streets and cannot escape the glares I get from people. They scare me and I want to shield myself form them. I wear large black sunglasses. This helps except you can still see my eyes and the last thing I want the person staring at me to know is that I’m staring right back at them. Also the only time sunglasses can be worn are on a sunny day or if you’re blind. How unfair that the blind get double protection! They are walking around not knowing they’re being stared at and on top of that they wear sunglasses as if at any given moment their eyesight can pop back on at the push of some button. I also started wearing a cap, not just any cap but a Yankees cap. It’s pink! This backfired because now I have people looking at me thinking that I’m a hardcore Yankee fan when in reality I’m more of a cover my head from all the Yankee fans fan. The third measure of protection I’ve taken is to just simply run away. If I don’t like the way you are giving me the once-over I will run and make you look foolish. Once I missed my stop on the train just so the person who was staring at me can get off and I wouldn’t have to get off with them and have them continue to stare at me as we exit the subway. Instead I went an extra stop and was 20 minutes late for work because of it.

Does this smell like lunacy? I think not! For all you know the person who is staring at you is also thinking the worst possible evil thoughts and they’re all aimed at you. The people who stare at you never stare kindly but always seem to have an evil grin and I’m sure they’re not thinking about what to have for dinner either. I can’t speak for everyone but I personally do not like those evil eyes with their evil thoughts pointed anywhere near my direction. On some occasions I wanted to come up to the culprit and say: What are you looking at?” or more importantly “what are you thinking?” but I’m too afraid of them answering: “You’re the one with the huge black glasses and a pink Yankees hat you suspicious freak!” They would of course be right. Who am I to demand answers when I’m hidden behind glasses and a hat?

Close encounters

Alien abductions are not bullshit! They do occur. I am of the opinion that we’ve all been abducted at least once in our lives. Sometimes they take you back for the second time if they enjoyed the jokes you’ve been telling them while on the operating table. “Did you hear the one about the aliens?” No? Let me fill you in.” They must have a sense of humor and it better be more evolved than ours. That’s some serious pressure to live up to their expectations. I don’t know about you but I’ve been throwing together some materials just in case they unexpectedly arrive so I won’t be caught off guard. As soon as I see flashing lights outside my window I’m gonna grab my folder full of provocative, cutting-edge entertainment specifically tailored to alien tastes and start waving frantically to signal that I’m ready.  I bet they’ll be so surprised! The last guy they visited was shocked, scared and even tried to run. "What’s wrong with this woman?" they’ll think. She looks like she’s genuinely interested to come aboard. Well, third window from the right, come on down! Once I’m up there I will give them some good old American names and start utilizing my time in (under) the spotlight the right way.
Upon my return I will be a local celebrity. “How was it up there?" "It was alright". "What did you guys talk about?" "Politics and religion, the two safest topics".

After my trip it will be established that aliens are benevolent and people will be hanging all kinds of posters outside their houses to attract attention. PLEASE TAKE ME WITH YOU I GOT NOTHING GOING ON HERE will be sold at every grocery store on the block. The aliens will be sorry they came in the first place. Their plan of secretly abducting us for medical research is seriously being tempered with. They are now viewed as a ride at an amusement park. They will become agitated but then mellow out. Who are these creatures so easily willing to abandon their planet and go through a million light years of immigration, learn a new way of communication through their belly buttons and marry out of their species when their parents specifically narrowed it down to a white, Jehovah’s Witness?
Our planet will become the most visited in the whole universe! Whoever came will fly away spreading the word that these people need to be observed because "nowhere else will you find a more peculiar and fascinating place as Earth" (according to the Twilight Zone narrator).

A touch of optimism

It turns out that most of my writing is misconstrued as being overly pessimistic. I admit that I’m a glass half-empty kind of gal but if the audience requests a healthy dose of jolliness who am I to say no?

It just so happens that I saw a bunch of “optimistic” shows on the History channel about 2012, doomsday, and the 5 million ways the Earth can seize to exist so I am in the perfect frame of mind to regurgitate something positive and motivational.

I would like to start off by saying that life is great. It really is. Even if you’re a homeless, disease-ridden sucker, there is hope for you yet. My problem is that I am annoyed all the time. I can’t stand most people, places and the overall state of affairs. The obvious solution has been staring me in the face all along- stop watching the History Channel! That shit can really do a number on your psyche. After being informed that the Earth will end in 2012 what’s my motivation to get out of bed? None, zero. I wanna lay there until December 30, 2012 and then jump up and run all my errands on December 31st right before the big KABOOM. I also need to exclude the very poisonous channel called A&E because it leads me to believe that the USA is full of all sorts of addicts. Thankfully these lost causes have one thing in common: they are the only rotten fruit in their families. The rest of the brood are caring, selfless, generous souls who like to stage interventions. The most optimistic part of all is that the intervening counselors have all been down that road before and are now back to stop others from going down the same path. Why would I take advice from a recovering addict? Because I'm an optimist! If they say they've recovered then I have to take their word for it even though I know they’re just one step away from smoking crack with their clients as soon as the cameras stop rolling.

Aside from excluding all those putrid shows, I also suggest to never buy self-help books. Those can really bring out your cynicism, instill false hope and cause unnecessary motivation. On second thought, if you’re a gullible, easily influenced creature you are free to enjoy your "guided" existence.

The best way to stay healthy and optimistic is to plug your eyes and ears like those "See no evil and speak no evil" monkeys, preferably at a young age before enough information registers in your puny brain.

Utopia

I am all for a perfect society. People lounging on the beach sipping Margaritas. Everyone is beautiful. There is no war, disease, famine, old age or other nuisances. Negativity is out the window. Shiny Happy People is forever playing in the background followed by Love Shack. All humans have a sense of rhythm and innate dance skills. Intelligence, or lack thereof, doesn't concern anybody. Happiness seeps though the land and fertilizes it. No trace of sadness, anxiety or other psychiatric disorders is present. Love is all around.

In the middle of this serene atmosphere an unexpected explosion occurs and shakes everyone up, releasing the contents of Pandora’s box. It is most likely caused by one unsatisfied customer of such a society. Because no matter how wonderful things are there will always be that one individual who'll want to change things "for the better".

At the office (slight exaggeration)

I’m stuck in an office all day. There’s nowhere to run. I always expect the unexpected. At any moment someone’s head can pop in and start giving me instructions on how to do my job followed by how to live my life in general. That’s how I spend the majority of my day, talking to random heads. If they don’t catch me in the office they will make sure to run into me in the copy room or on my way to the bathroom or as I run for the elevator. Can’t they see that once I’m moving I am not willing to stop and chat? The way I look at them should make it pretty clear. They either don’t care or they don’t see the blatant hatred behind my piercing stare. Every time I turn the corner I’ve developed a habit of poking my head out first to make sure that I don’t collide with anyone and as luck would have it someone I’ve been avoiding successfully for a week will be popping out their head as well. “Oh hello, how are you"? "Great and you"? "Good". "Well I’m glad that’s over. Talk to your head tomorrow, same corner same time.” It could be worse. These heads can sneak up on you. As I’m making copies and staring at the ceiling I get startled by a voice and before turning around I try to make the connection between what I hear and the head it actually belongs to. I try not to turn around. The insolent head just interrupted me from my reverie and forced me to divert my attention to what it’s got to say. So say it then and get out. I don’t have to turn around to see you. 99% of the time I know who you are so no need for me to witness your facial expressions, your arm gestures, and the overall appearance you’re putting out there today.

All these attempts at slithering around the office unnoticed are further weakened by my exterior. I am a tall, attractive girl who likes to wear nice, noticeable shoes with high heels. If you don’t see my head approaching then you will definitely see or hear my shoes. They are bright and lovely. Someone always has to comment about them. “Those are some serious shoes, Diana". "Thank you". "Where did you get them"? "At the store". "Which store?" "Payless". "They’ve got a huge sale, you haven’t see it?” or “I’ve got shoes similar to yours"! "I’m sure you do". "I got them at Payless like you recommended". "I got mine at Barney’s and I’ll let Prada know that Payless is also selling their shoes now.”

That sums up the conversations I have with people at the office and my feeble attempts to keep them at a minimum. Old employees are already set in their ways but I can still influence new ones. From now on I will place my tips on their desks to let them know in no uncertain terms that I do not appreciate being caught off guard so if you see me looking out the window during work hours just walk on by. Nor do I appreciate any talk about my shoes, my wardrobe or anything pertaining to the entertaining and enigmatic subject of Diana.

Chillin’ in medieval times

I’ve always felt that I was not born in the right era and belong elsewhere. Don’t get me wrong, the modern times are as good as it gets but sometimes I wish time travel was possible. I would program my machine to around 1500 AD, Europe. Undoubtedly I’d immediately be labeled a witch because of my Nostradamus-like yapping and general scare tactics, along with a disheveled appearance, but all is fair in time travel.

Their dress code would be the best part of the whole experience since all the women had to show cleavage, whether they had some or not, and nobody relied on Victoria Secret push-up bras. Corsets were tight and the dresses long, guaranteeing a small waist and a hint of virtue. For the wealthy, (which is the circle I’d like to pertain to since I travel in style), the hairdos/wigs were extravagant and the jewelry blinding. The earrings, watches, and chains of today’s rappers don’t hold a candle to the bling of the royal families. I picture getting set up with a man dressed in business casual attire: a wig, capri pants, white, knee high socks, and rings on all fingers, while I wear sweatpants and a messy bun. We would go hang out  by the pond adjacent to his castle and feed some ducks (I'm no gold digger but if I'm doing all this traveling his ad better say "castle owner").

Which brings me to the next best thing: the gardens with all the little alleyways for secret meetings. Taking a stroll in one of those would definitely put the most unromantic person in the mood to write love sonnets. If my writing career wouldn’t have taken off then, it’s definitely hopeless now.

Another wonderful aspect of that era is that women (and rich people in general) had nothing to do, because they were unemployed, but gossip and plot revenge all day long. I’m not talking about the kind of gossip that little old ladies share with each other. These were some serious and potentially dangerous conversations with the consequences of facing the guillotine. No biggie. Everyone really had some balls. They didn’t have recruiters calling them to inquire about their employment status because there were two options: executed or still plotting…If I knew that my plot to overthrow Bush and replace him with Obama could result in torture and then beheading I’d keep it to myself rather than calling all my friends over for a party and divulging my true opinions in a drunken stupor. I’d have to give up partying and drinking altogether and sit home with my dress to impress and potentially homosexual boyfriend.

Leave it to me to point out the darker side of this seemingly innocent period. As we all know by now, I am extremely paranoid, and having someone constantly taste my food for poison before I eat it would not sit well with me at all-especially if that someone would always topple over dead. On the other hand, if that kind of tactic doesn’t beat Weight Watchers, I don’t know what does.

Come to think of it the bad outweighs the good. Besides the danger of “treason for no reason”, there were numerous diseases to worry about. The plague was almost as bad as swine flu. Nobody wanted it but if someone sneezed in your face and you didn’t have a mask then congratulations, you just saved a bunch of money on your horse  insurance. Again, this proves the courageous nature of these folks. They stepped over corpses rotting on their premises and never bothered to remove them for fear of being sued.

Admittedly I’m not equipped to deal with all the hazards people back then faced. Vacation plans cancelled, no refund.

Dedicated to Fighter, my late pet fish

I learned a valuable lesson from my fish. No matter how many staring competitions you win (he always won), no matter how many circles you swim around the bowl called earth, and no matter how many worms (nasty experiences) you ingest-you inevitably get sucked into the drain and end up in the sewer. On the bright side my average time for not blinking has gone up considerably.

The modern woman

Today’s women are constantly on the run they say. They are running from themselves as children, adolescents, mature women and then stop, turn around and attempt to run backwards from the old, graying image staring back at them in the mirror.

I see women rushing to and fro and think where are they all going and why is their movement causing more eye-darting than I’m accustomed to? Training for marathons they are not. Olympics are out of the question. So what gives?

What is awaiting the typical woman through her “unique “path called life? Enjoying childhood while anxiously anticipating to be a grown up. Enduring adolescence while battling the metamorphic changes happening to our beloved bodies. Exhaling during twenties that the young, vibrant and finally grown person has emerged while secretly wishing for late adolescence. Cautiously entering our thirties, with a slight longing for the previous decade and a new set of responsibilities. Attempting to trick our forties by injecting wrinkle-resistant bacteria into our somewhat used and battled selves. Fencing with our fifties to prove that we’re still good enough to be in our thirties. Suffering through our sixties as the same demon who wreaked havoc in our teens reemerges to start putting our bruised, diseased and helpless bodies through the final ringer. Accepting our seventies and eighties because that is when eternal peace finally sets in. No more wishing for your younger days. No more worries. No more fears.

Reality check

If you are one of those cheery people who wakes up in the morning thinking you’re gonna have a nice day, think again. Your day is not going to be that great, you may have a fender bender or a full-on collision, and the whole world may come to an end any minute now. Still jolly? Try walking around with some anxiety for a change. It does a body good (without giving you a white mustache). You’ll be more prepared for the worst when it occurs-and it will, don’t you worry. I bet you’re one of those optimistic fools who really needs some convincing. You probably turn every negative situation into a positive one. That needs to stop. Your boss gave you too much work because he hates you and not because he thinks you can handle it. Your coffee spilled on your favorite suit because you’re a klutz and not because you need a new one anyway, and your significant other is running late because you’re not that interesting to be around and not because they got “held up”.

When you walk on the street, don’t just look straight ahead. Danger may come at you from anywhere so always glance around you, let your pupils wander sideways and even above to make sure nothing hits you on the head when you least expect it. It’s my friendly piece of advice to you. That’s what friends are for.

I’m just kidding. Everything will be alright. If yoga taught me anything, it’s the fact that with a few futile attempts at a headstand, accompanied by deep, heavy breathing, the monsters plaguing you change apartments.

The burden of being an adult prodigy

Why is it that only children get to be prodigies? What if you’re an adult prodigy? I wish people would stop giving all their oohs and aahs away to all the four year olds who don’t appreciate it anyway. All they’re thinking about is poop while they’re playing the piano with their left toe. They probably feel special but would rather be watching Teletubbies. Children don’t make the conscious decision to be a prodigy. They just are or aren’t but as an adult it is possible to wake up one morning and decide that today is the day that you’re switching careers to become a prodigy. Any adult can do this. Child prodigies use their innate gifts but adults can use the experience they’ve accumulated over the years. Through the process of trial and error you will eventually find your niche. I will vouch for you. There should be no age discrimination when it comes to being a prodigy. If you feel like being a middle-aged or even an eighty-five year old prodigy more power to you. This way you can tell your children that you’re an adult prodigy and they can look forward to becoming one even if they missed their chance of being the child or teen prodigy. Maybe this discovery will make you forget you have Alzheimer’s, just in time to forget that you were about to become an ancient prodigy. Who said that the brain deteriorates after a certain age? Even if that’s true maybe the deterioration can lead to the discovery of your prodigious self. You can’t shut people out just because they discovered their talents at a later stage in life.

Of course you are the only one responsible for realizing and proclaiming yourself a prodigy because others aren’t exactly on the lookout for you special skills. They are too busy examining children. Adults watch their kids so closely that the poor child’s every move is scrutinized. “Look honey, our son just placed his left leg behind his right one, oh my God, do you know what this means? He is destined to be a great gymnast or ballet dancer or maybe even architect! We need to send him to ballet, gymnastics and engineering classes ASAP. It’s not like he has anything better to do”. Maybe instead of examining their children people should start examining themselves. For instance, if you did a little dance on your way to work this morning then make a B-line straight for the dance studio to improve your skills. Call your boss and let him know you’ve just discovered you may possibly be an adult prodigy and he’ll understand because secretly he’s been watching himself hoping for the same. The only negative side of this is that soon there may be too many adult prodigies walking around and people will start eyeing each other suspiciously to see who else is about to surface. The hot topics in the lunch room will be “Have you seen Bruce today? He was pouring coffee with one hand while reading the newspaper with the other! Who does he think he is? The new multi-tasking prodigy?” That’s going to be the end of poor Bruce. Multi-tasking is going to take on a whole new meaning on your resume. This guy can multitask! Lets not hire him then; we’ve got enough prodigies loose in this office. This will progress until everyone sitting at the meeting will be a self-proclaimed prodigy of something or other. Instead of names people will use their skills to identify each other. “Hey computer software prodigy have you watched any good movies lately? No, coffee-making prodigy, why don’t you go ask movie-critic prodigy?”

Life is not fair so lets even it out a bit at least with this whole ‘who gets to be a prodigy’ thing.

Persuasion

Persuasion

Why am I so easily persuaded?

When I step outside my house, which I usually do only to get to and from work, I have the option of walking either in the direction of Kings Highway or Avenue U (the latter ruled by Asians, the former by Russians).

Avenue U
One day I’ve decided to give Avenue U a shot, having preferred the other alternative until now. While strolling along Avenue U, I came upon a fish pet store under the pseudonym of “Mini Aquarium”, where visitors are encouraged to “come in and observe the fish”. I haven’t really looked at fish in quite some time so I entered hoping to be blown away by some beautiful and rare species. What I found instead were about fifteen tanks, filled with regular goldfish and some bowls with Betta fish, all displaying signs of “do not pound on the tank as fish are sensitive”-forcing me to hide my bat which I brought with me for this exact purpose. I’m positive that had I come in with a large group of spectators, we’d have been left in peace “to observe”, but since I was the only visitor, the lady at the register felt obliged to start convincing me to purchase my very own Japanese fighting fish (Betta)-possibly propelled by intuition of my lack of human contact. I tried to tell her that I am a loner who hates to be bothered and do not want any responsibilities but she wouldn’t listen. “Oh fish-a goo’ fo’ you, tayka, tayka”. So I tooka.

Kings Highway

After purchasing my very own pet, I loaded the same bag, the nice lady at the “aquarium” gave me, with groceries and continued walking aimlessly with a feeling similar to the one fathers of unwanted pregnancies have. One day the Betta will have to thank my Medical Issues teacher who forced me to debate on the pro-life team. All of a sudden, a man on the street shoved an ad in my hand, taking me out of my reverie. I looked around and realized that I am now on Kings Highway (long time no see). I always throw out all such things into the nearest garbage (not bothering to see if enough distance was covered between the ad giver and the garbage can), but something prompted me to read this violently pink, neatly-folded piece of fate-changing material. The first words I saw were eyelash and eyebrow coloring. I ran back to the guy to point me in the right direction, and being the toothless gentleman that he was, he walked me there himself. A homely-looking woman practically shoved me into “the chair”, already mixing color before I even opened my mouth. She did my eyelashes first, reassuring me that even though it may “tingle” a bit it’s not harmful at all, nor will it cause blindness. I was supposed to wait fifteen minutes, but the horrific burning sensation forced me to jump out three minutes into the procedure, and blindly bang my body against everything until I found a sink. After I was done, the torturer sat me down and proceeded to compliment the tint of my lashes completely ignoring the fact that my eyes were now bloodshot red with a hint of purple. I had to suppress the desire to grab the nearby nail polish and pour it on her neatly coiffed hairdo. The torment, however, didn’t end there. The lady won me over by all the compliments aka nicely worded insults such as: your skin is silky smooth, if it wasn’t for all the blemishes, or, your hair is so nice, if you give me a chance to do it for you. (All I could think of was: my eyes were so green before you poured peroxide into them and turned me into a Werewolf). After I sat back down into “the chair” she said that the only thing that will make me more beautiful is if my eyebrows matched my eyelashes. I warned her that pale skin + black eyebrows is not a good look for me (or anybody) and this type of make up is usually used in movies where the character spends most of their time institutionalized. “Nonsense!”, she exclaimed, “how will you ever know unless you try?”, followed by the old but always effective, “Trust me, I’ve been doing this for twenty years” argument. I acquiesced, staring at her intensely with my new-colored eyes to instill fear, warning her to only keep the color on my brows for two minutes. Once she put the pitch-black concoction (which should’ve been brown) on my face, I saw a Japanese Geisha in the mirror staring back at me (which made sense since I now was the proud mother of a Japanese fish). In a panic, I rushed to the sink furiously scrubbing my face only to realize that the “semi-permanent” color was, in fact, permanent and it liked me so much that it refused to budge. I said “look lady, I now resemble Leonid Brezhnev who’s gone mad, are you happy?”, to which she calmly replied “No, you look great, please come again when the color wears off”.

“How will you ever know unless you try” will be forever engraved in my memory. For the record: every fool knows that even if you never try, you still have an inkling and it’s usually right. I knew that if I enter the mini aquarium I’d leave with a new responsibility, and I also knew that if I enter this particular salon I’d leave scaring all the people walking by me on the street.

Alarmed robbery

What is the best way to safeguard the three most precious items you own: your broken flat screen TV, your expired driver’s license, and your CD clock radio? Get an alarm aka home security system!
An unknown intruder enters the apartment. The alarm goes off. There is no panic in the building because you set it off every three or so days yourself. The obligatory phone call follows, presumably to inquire whether the burglar finds his stay comfortable and to get a list of all the items he’s planning to carry outside of the premises so there's no misunderstanding later. More often than not, the cops do not come at all. If they do, it is five hours after the fact, most likely to give the thief extra time for self-reflection and then finish off the subject apartment, along with the rest of the “poor” block. You get home and are left to wander the barren site pondering why your mom’s necklace was stolen but the earrings your husband gave you for your anniversary were left behind (you always suspected they were ugly). If you think about it, the alarm really acts as a welcoming committee for the brave soul who dared to take the plunge into unknown territory; oh and take some shit.

Meanwhile at burglar training camp:
Lecture 7

Enter the shabbiest, most run down and decrepit building you can find because it’s just a front for the cheap Jews who keep all their money in the mattress. Proceed to the apartment with the WELCOME mat by the door (they’ve been expecting you of all people). Use a screwdriver to pick the lock and make sure to smile openly at all the eyes gazing at you through the adjacent peepholes. Once inside, take only the most valuable items like Hanes underwear for her (she will appreciate it believe me). Be meticulous but quick! Remember you only have five hours before the cops arrive so you have to work fast. Don’t get bogged down or distracted by all the Disney DVDs. Try to go to the gym a day before in case you’re forced to use the fire escape and climb two floors down before making the deadly three-foot jump to safety. In the event that the cops do show up, try your best to convince them of your legitimate residency, even if you are African American in an all-white neighborhood. You'll sound even more plausible if some items have already been moved and everything’s at a disarray, in which case you are free to introduce yourself as the mover. As soon as they leave, continue to stuff your bag. You may take a photo or two as a keepsake (after all you probably won’t be coming back here until next month, when the place is restocked). If the residents appear, slap them with an eviction notice (a copy of which has been distributed at a prior lecture) and tell them you’re the new resident (even if you’re African American in an all-white neighborhood). Point to the rented U-Haul truck downstairs with all your stuff (technically now it is since you stole it). If they suspect foul play warn them that you are repossessing everything since they failed to pay rent the last few months. This usually applies to almost everybody. As soon as they leave, unpack your stuff and move in to your apartment. Install a new alarm system. If, perchance, they happen to be the only ones paying rent on a timely basis, apologize for the inconvenience and leave. They ain’t got no money left anyway.

Fairy tales decoded

Once upon a time (now), in a faraway place (Brooklyn), there lived a young (pushing 30), beautiful (only with the right lighting and weight), and kind (after 5 shots) princess (regular chick) named Biana. She possessed all the qualities necessary to meet (land) a decent prince (average Joe). Biana was narcissistic (delusional) and picky (fat). All the suitors (25 random dudes in possession of her number) seemed to be wrong (still residing with mom). Like all other princesses before her, Biana always kept her head up (after 5 shots and an occasional yoga class) and sang to birds while frolicking in the meadow (whined to homeless people while on a bench in Central Park). She was forever radiant (oily) and loving (fake). She enjoyed to smile (laugh at and ridicule) and spread the warmth (pee on) upon all creatures (homeless people in Central Park).

All of a sudden an evil witch (a friend with common sense to dispel some delusions) moved into town. The witch poisoned Biana (flat out told her she wasn’t getting any younger) and tried to prick her finger on a spindle (offered to use euthanasia if things don’t get any better). Finally a prince (26th random dude) stepped forward to slay the witch (tell her the four of them will have dinner once he marries Biana). Biana agrees to marry the prince only if he shows enough strength (long-lasting erection) and courage (not being afraid of moderate to severe acne).

In the end, all issues are resolved (nothing is resolved but the marriage takes place anyway since Biana is near-suicidal) and everyone lives happily ever after (abusing drugs and alcohol and telling sweet sounding fibs).

Golf

What can be said about this pathetic excuse for exercise? All I know about this event is that a lot of men get together and swing their clubs until a tiny ball hits someone in the eye, bounces off of a gopher’s head, skips through a pond, and lands in a hole 100 miles away. Sometimes the golfer is lucky enough to stand right next to the hole but then proceed to push the ball way past it. The only player I heard about is Tiger Woods and he’s supposedly the best ball-pusher out there. This sport is so easy and relaxed that, as a blow to the professionals, it’s also a favorite pastime of wealthy, retired grandpas who got nothing better to do and can barely walk. There is no need to locomote anywhere because there are golf carts that take you to your destination while you enjoy the scenery. The only requirements are to own a club, dress like a preppy, and occasionally get in the water to retrieve a lost ball (not sure if the latter is really necessary seeing as to how they’re all rich and can afford a new ball).

If I was forced to be a spectator I would probably volunteer to fetch the ball from the lake and drown myself on purpose. I’m pretty sure that the professional players would rather save the balls than me and the old geezers aren’t the best lifeguards. I played golf only once in my life but not in an open field. Instead I was cooped up in some game room, on a date (since this game, besides pool, is the best way for a guy who barely knows you to rub up on you from behind while pretending to give pointers).

What have we learned from all this? That’s right, that Tiger is a legitimate guy’s name.

P.S. What are the chances of using the pick up line of “Hey there Tiger”, and actually hitting the nail on the head?

Women's tennis

An example of men successfully manipulating women into thinking they’re being taken seriously while wearing the shortest skirts possible and making the loudest, most frightful, giving-birth-like/being stabbed noises. I’m not sure that anyone cares whether or not the ball actually makes it across the net. The real competition here, as everyone knows, is who can let out the sexiest, electrically-charged, feline growl. Admittedly, some unattractive ladies slip through the cracks but the favorites seem to be tall, blond models with mediocre abilities and more endorsement deals than Peyton Manning (for the record I have no idea who this guy is but according to Google he has the most endorsement deals).

Since these sounds really irk me I am not a fan. I prefer ping-pong anyway. It takes serious skill, craftsmanship and precise hand-eye coordination. I am proud to say that I dabble in it a little myself. Who am I kidding? I am a downright pro. If only I learned to howl without feeling stupid I’d definitely promote myself into playing ping-pong professionally. I already have a closet full of short skirts and blond extensions, now bring on the endorsement deals!

Boxing

This sport is the epitome of cool. I’d be a huge fan if I wasn’t such a squeamish humanitarian. Sadly I’ve never attended a match so this information is based solely on what I’ve picked up from Rocky I-V, Million Dollar Baby, and the occasional news bit. Here we go:

The announcer riles up the crowd. There is loud music playing. Everybody is going crazy. Finally a man in a robe (oftentimes silk because you always have to look good no matter where you’re going) enters and starts walking down the aisle towards the ring blindly punching the air and anyone who gets in his way/face. He is either treated like a national hero or a traitor about to be hanged. After he’s safely in the ring and disrobed attention is turned to the second man about to make the same grand entrance. I’m not sure if either one knows beforehand which role he’s about to assume but I imagine the guy who gets all the cheers and applause might be in a slightly better mood than the one who gets booed and hissed at just for showing up. Once they’re both in the ring and half-nude, they proceed to eye each other viciously as if they both got the rotten treatment or hate sharing the spotlight. Fake teeth/dentures (I’m not sure which one) are then inserted into their mouths. As soon as the referee says so the two ‘rams’ start butting heads and dancing around each other in a circle (showing off spectacular quick feet with moves resembling a cha-cha) in preparation of throwing punches or covering their precious face (which is by no means less attractive since all the surgeries). The fellow considered to have the upper hand is the one who manages to corner his opponent against the rope and deliver just enough punches in a row to break all his bones but not enough to kill him and face manslaughter charges (oh those softies). I am well aware that the Russian guy from Rocky did kill all of his adversaries in the ring without any consequences but he was a commie so that’s understandable. He almost killed poor Rocky but in a lucky-for-US turn of events Rocky was able to channel his inner Mike Tyson and put a stop to all the murders. Sometimes the punches fly so hard that the fake teeth/dentures fly out in slow motion accompanied by blood and other gruesomeness and land on the spectators which they can then take home as souvenirs. The ‘champ’ who lost his teeth is escorted to the corner where his posse reassures him that not all is yet lost and places a fresh set into his mouth.

The goal of the fight is to really sock it to somebody until they’re on the ground with no intention of EVER getting up. Once that happens, the ‘winner’ is applauded (even if he was booed in the beginning) and one of his arms (which is about to fall off from all the back and forth punching motion) is yanked high up into the air and held there until the referee feels like letting go. I also learned that at times the rivals bite/nibble on each others ears. This ritual is performed to either (a) intrigue the crowd, (b) as a simple display of affection, or (c) instead of saying “Hey man, sorry for incapacitating you for the next 3-6 months. We cool?”

Speaking of high school gym class

     I can’t speak for every girl out there (certainly not the athletic type with muscular legs) but I am pretty sure that gym is the equivalent of walking the plank for the average teenage girl. Remembering my own experience, I always thought that being forced to execute strenuous physical activity during a time of the day chosen for me by some dean I’ve never met was the worst possible punishment. Sign me up for any chemistry lab instead, where I can carelessly mix flammable elements, and call it a day. At the gym, however some serious scheming was necessary to make sure that the least amount of actual activity was performed while appearing to be the MVP, confuse the instructor and get that passing grade. There were three types of teachers: the women of questionable orientation, the really old men, and (everyone’s favorite) the really hot/young lads. Needless to say that one such young man has managed to raise female attendance by 90%. Miraculously, in his class alone, a large number of women have all of a sudden stopped menstruating. Just to give an idea of how attractive this guy was: both I and my friend got hit in the head with a volleyball more times then necessary. Granted, I’m no Gabrielle Reece, but I was still able to hear people scream ‘incoming!’ How many teammates we pissed off by either getting hit or stepping out of harm’s way and letting the ball bounce on the exact spot where our arms had just been extended a few seconds ago. In my defense, the ball weighed so much that it may as well have been a meteor carrying Clark Kent. The real reason I allowed its brutal contact with my face was because I was too busy daydreaming about the incredibly hot (but dumb for passing me) teacher. After countless hits, we were then sent off to math class by the super smart people handling our schedules so we can perform at our optimal level when solving for X (X=50 hits by ball²). Who can then blame us that when basketball season finally arrived we plotted our precious time sitting out on the bleachers better than any conspirators who ever existed. My girlfriend and I cherished those moments of relaxation because we were able to chat in peace. Don’t underestimate our abilities just yet. Although it was difficult to hold a normal conversation while trying to nail a three-point shot, we still managed to do just that since in my mind at least one of us was Michael Jordan and thereby fully capable of carrying the whole team.

Thinking we were smart, once we attempted to forego the whole gym experience altogether by signing up for aerobics. Finally, when that hateful dictator dean eased up and gave us some freedom of choice we quickly grabbed hold of the chance only to be disappointed later. Aerobics was the worst mistake I could’ve made because there was nowhere to run and/or hide. I had to exercise and I had to like it. There were no bleachers, no hot instructors, no cute crushes, and definitely no chatting; just twenty girls furiously burning off the weight of the world.

Football

Football is my least favorite sport after baseball. While there is not enough action in baseball, there is an overload of it in football. Too bad that none of it makes sense to me. Every year around super bowl time I memorize the rules, only to forget them the second I lose the betting pool we got going at work. This sport is just not up my alley no matter how hard I try and push it. The scoring is too confusing for me, the costumes are atrocious and the overall feeling I get from watching the game can be surmised as restlessness. Who can blame me? I try my best to get into it because it seems like there is so much activity and excitement on the field that it has to be interesting. Sadly my eyes are unable to capture it all. There are way too many people running in different directions, among whom you’re supposed to find the guy holding the ball (which is by no means shaped like a ball) and keep your eyes on him (not to be distracted by all the other runners) until he is brutally pulled down onto the ground, beaten, and a heap of all the other participants (who gathered together in a matter of seconds) forms on top of him. The call is made, everyone gets up and everything repeats all over again. I may as well have pressed rewind and watched the previous play over and over again. Maybe I’m missing something. I desperately wish I understood what it all meant but I don’t.

I do think that football players overexert themselves. If I put all that gear on myself and was still able to stand up straight, I’d definitely wobble around as if intoxicated and eventually topple over. How they manage to run and think while protecting a little ball as if it was a newborn child is beyond me.

I just realized that I don’t have nearly as much to say about football as I did about baseball and it’s strange. How can I possibly have more to say about a sport which can put an insomniac to sleep than about one that resembles a Steven Segal flick? I will ponder this for a bit and then move on to basketball.

Baseball

I’ve been promoted to sports editor. This is an area where I have the least amount of knowledge since I equate any exposure to organized sporting events to exposure to asbestos/lead. I suffer the same symptoms from both: headaches, nausea, vomiting…
Having just said that I full-heartedly accept the challenge. Warning: True fanatics and crazed followers stop reading now as nothing below this sentence will be favorable.

I would like to start with baseball, the biggest snooze fest on the planet. Having had the pleasure of sitting through a full game I can honestly say that I’m surprised I made it. What doesn’t kill you certainly does make you stronger so I’d like to think I gained strength in some part of my body which was lacking. I learned many things as I baked in the sun. First of all there is a lot of hype and fake excitement surrounding the whole spectacle. In reality there isn’t much going on. Right away I inquired when half-time was, only to be laughed at by all the hot dog-eating, beer-drinking persons around me. Apparently there is no half-time. I’ve figured out precisely why. There is absolutely nothing happening throughout the duration of the whole game! You are free to come and go as you please. You may get up and drink/eat yourself into oblivion (which is what 99.9% of people there do) and return when you’re tired of strolling around the stadium. On an off chance that something does occur, the abnormally large screen (presumably for those who failed every eye exam they ever had) will show you what you missed about five times and in slow motion (that is some serious underestimation of my brain power because I got it the first time). Hence, there is NO WAY that you can miss a thing. I must’ve spent more time walking, eating, spraying suntan lotion on myself and others, and taking bathroom breaks than actually sitting and watching whatever madness was ensuing down below. I have to mention that we were so high up that whatever the ants did was of no consequence. Thank God for the large all-knowing screen the size of half the stadium.
So since the game itself is boredom taken to the extreme, the brains behind the operation figured out how to keep even the most uninterested occupied. Every ten minutes or so a motivational song comes on (‘We will we will rock you’ being the all-time favorite) and everyone proceeds to jump, clap and scream as if at a rock concert. I can assure you that Queen was not present; nobody scored a home run; the sun did not go behind the clouds (out of sheer tedium) and save us all from the scorching heat. Basically this is done to ensure that all the sleepyheads out there get their asses up and start cheering and all the fanatics’ eyes bulge even further out of their heads in anticipation of victory (when it doesn’t even smell like their team has a chance in hell). Not wanting to be left behind I jumped and clapped with such ardor that you’d think half-time was approaching. I was singing louder than anyone at the top of my lungs. However, as soon as the music died down I’d shrivel up into a ball and sit in the corner with my cap over my eyes trying to shield myself from all the commotion in the air-coming from the fans of course and certainly not the players. The most entertaining part of all was when the camera captured people at random and their pretzel-stuffed faces appeared on the Almighty Screen. They’d pretend like they have no clue, followed by feigning surprise, and ending Act I with an uncontrollable flailing of the arms (again I stress that this was done for no particular reason other than two seconds of fame by being shown in the most unattractive light imaginable).

The players strolled around the field picking things up, swinging their bats, having bouts of spitting and leisurely resting on the bleachers. Certainly reminded me of high school gym class. Actually it reminded me of any other job. Why should Andy Pettitte work any harder just because he gets paid the big bucks? At the average office, workers do the same thing. They lounge around until someone lights a fire under their bum and then pretend to work for a whole ten minutes when the boss is watching. No difference in baseball. The hot shots do not overstress themselves. They indulge in the activities I’ve described above, until “We Will Rock You” comes on and all eyes are on them, so there is an obligation to hit the damn ball or finally make a catch. Yes, I was miserable but I did buy myself a hat and now I do know that in New York we support the Yankees and sometimes Mets (to switch it up) and there is definitely, unfortunately, and excruciatingly no half-time at a baseball game.

Stalker

I am happy to report that I have a stalker. He is a kind and gentle soul who means no harm but also possesses all the perturbed qualities of a person who spends their time immersed in another’s existence. Sometimes I want to offer him food and shelter but common sense tells me that it’s not wise to befriend the obsessed. First of all you run the risk of losing them as an admirer once they REALLY get to know you. It’s one thing to put on a façade while out and about but a whole other one when you’re letting your hair down and it all hang out. It’s decided then, I will keep him at arm’s length and at bay.

I have composed a love note for him just to keep him going. It goes a little something like this:
Dear John Doe:
For the past few months I’ve noticed you lurking in the shadows mouthing my name. I love the attention and the fact that you care. I’ve taken the liberty of telling the world about you because I can tell that you are a very special person. I believe that you’re a loyal friend and a good listener. You are appreciated. I anxiously await seeing your hunched over body behind the bushes. You make me feel special. You make me feel loved. You make me feel like a natural woman.

Qualities writers should possess

Sticking to extremes
Every writer’s material should be as saccharine as possible or intensely dark and gloomy. Anything in between is just blah. I prefer the dark/cynical style myself because the former makes me gag. The writing style should reflect the writers themselves. They either should be people friendly or loners who sit in their rooms with the shades drawn thinking of all the possible ways everything can go wrong. Guess which one I am?

Open-mindedness
I used to pride myself on this particular trait until a friend of mine accused me of being the complete opposite for reasons unknown to me. Basically I was labeled conservative, critical, and closed-minded. I had no idea! So I decided to adhere to my newfound image. Luckily, this does not stop me from writing.

Creativity
Creativity and inspiration is not one and the same thing. Some people can pull material out of the same hat where rabbits hang out while others suffer from constipation of the mind-you feel that something is definitely lodged up there but it refuses to come out.

A good brain thesaurus
This is self-explanatory. Either you carry the SAT words in your head or buy a heavy book- your choice.

Tolerance for criticism
I definitely lack in this department because all I want to hear is praise. What the heck is constructive criticism anyway? This is euphemism at its best. A very business-savvy person who knew better than to straight-out belittle his employees invented this terminology. He listed all their faults and right before they pounced he screamed the magic word-constructive! He also could’ve said “no offense”. Thankfully he didn’t slip and say destructive thereby sealing his doom.

That's it ladies and gentlemen, the suggestion box is empty.

Bring on the fame and success

I would like to be famous and successful. It really doesn’t matter for what. As long as it gets me on the cover next to Paris Hilton I’ll be ecstatic. Is there a better way to announce my arrival? If I were to shout from the rooftops that I’m famous nobody would believe me but if Paris Hilton is standing by my side happy to be in my company, well then who can doubt it? My plan is to follow her (or any other “famous for nothing” celebrity) around trying to get in the same shot. Hopefully by the time her bodyguards pounce on me I’d have accumulated a decent number of photos to sell to the tabloids along with the following headlines: 'That’s me and Paris eating lunch' (in reality I’m biting a sandwich my mother brought me and Paris just has her mouth open), 'That’s us engaged in a deep conversation about the perils of extreme wealth' (when Paris is yelling for someone to take care of the nuisance that is me), and 'That’s Paris’s bodyguards giving me a friendly hug' (me holding onto one of their enormous shoulders for dear life). Who will know the truth but Paris and myself? She can later try to deny the validity of those rumors but no one ever believes celebrities when they deny something, only when they confirm. I realize that once I’m “in” some people would look up to me and yet others would despise me and talk about how irritating I am. For the record I am not that irritating but my opinion is obviously biased.

So how do I go about achieving this dream when my original plan falls through? I can’t exactly stalk everyone or I’ll become famous for being on America’s Most Wanted. That’s not the kind of fame I’m after. What I need is a good marketing and public relations team who can figure out ways to constantly bombard people’s screens with my image until they have no choice but to accept me as part of our pop culture. I want there to be unblockable pop-ups of me on all sites so that people surfing the web for Angelina Jolie will come across my image. The worst thing that could happen is that they’d think Angie has gained a few pounds. All bases need to be covered. I want to be envied, admired and downright worshipped. It’s not that difficult to achieve. People are fooled fairly easily. If you got a special skill use it; if not make one up. No one will be able to tell. Technological advances + people’s lack of common sense=JACKPOT! (Sorry for getting all mathematical). There is no need to be special, gifted, or privileged; only to be somewhat business savvy and a tad lucky.

BODIES experience

There’s a reason why you don’t always get to do the things you want to do. It is God’s way of looking out for your best interests. For instance, I have been planning to go to the BODIES exhibit for quite some time now and something always got in the way (mainly laziness). I also always wanted to try the virtual ride by Seaport (I assumed it was a roller coaster but was never sure) and finally my curiosity got the best of me. I killed two birds with one stone purely on a whim one day. I attended the exhibit first. My expectations were to get a look inside the human body. I did get a look inside, and outside, and from the side; however, I may as well have been looking at the wax figures from Madam Tussauds. These plastinated dead criminals from China were rearranged in various poses (mostly sports-related), some holding basketballs, others soccer balls, and only one guy holding a conductor’s baton (I guess we were the orchestra). Basically either all these guys were athletes or the only attractive pose a corpse can assume is with a ball of some sort next to its head. Although most of the flesh was stripped for some strange reason the eyeballs were left intact-apparently there weren’t enough balls there already. Needless to say I got bored five minutes into it. There were also separate organs (both healthy and diseased so you can compare and wonder which of those you happen to be carrying around inside). Thankfully next to these inanimate objects there were explanations consisting of “This is your liver” (my liver or the liver of that guy holding the soccer ball?) and “This is your liver with cirrhosis” (I didn’t know I was afflicted but thanks for the warning). I also started examining the other attendees of the exhibit and listening to their conversations. Most of them were looking at what was being displayed without bothering to read anything the poor dead guys had written about themselves. One woman said to her husband: “This is different honey, do you feel like having Chinese afterwards?” What was the dead guy thinking when he heard this I wonder? “Does the sight of my sliced brain remind you of vegetable Lo Mein?”

As creepy as all this was I found it fascinating as well especially when I got to the dissected arteries and veins. There were all kinds of aortas and such floating in liquid. It made me think of armor for some reason; really flimsy armor which needs protection. I also wanted to know where these bodies came from and why weren’t they properly disposed of? I read that these were unclaimed corpses. Is this the fate one has to suffer because one’s relatives were too lazy to come and collect the remains? What kind of cruel relatives are these anyway? They better have a good excuse for letting their loved ones stand on display glaring angrily at the public unable to speak because their tongues were cut out. No one leaves a will with the instructions: “Please do not bury or cremate me, I want my skeleton to be placed in all kinds of awkward positions so people can look at me and get the munchies”.

Then I went inside the virtual ride. What do you know? It happened to be a roller coaster. I wasn’t lucky enough to have the ride all to myself. At the last minute a father got in with his son. As soon as the ride began the son started screaming he’s scared and wants to get off. I offered to press the stop button but the father was too embarrassed to let me. When the ride was over he said: “I hope we didn’t ruin the experience for you”. No you didn’t. You made my already ruined experience even worse. Why don’t you take your son to the BODIES exhibit across the street? I’m sure he’ll love it.

Continuing to spew

   Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert would be lucky to have someone like me as a guest on their show. I’m just sayin’. In my heart of hearts I feel that my presence in the “hot seat” would be interesting. I’m aware that it can go both ways-either hilarious or atrocious-but it’s a win/win situation; both would be appealing to watch. I also wouldn’t mind working “behind the scenes”. I’m sure I’d find ways to spice things up even more than they already are. This is not intended to be a conceited statement but a purely factual one. Shamefully I know very little about politics but given the opportunity I will catch up just enough to be able to make fun of politicians just like I make fun of everyone else. After all politics is no different from the entertainment industry except entertainers are actually expected to entertain and politicians do so by accident. It seems easy enough. Just catch all their mistakes and wrongdoings and use it to your advantage. It might be wrong of us to hold their silly remarks against them but we do it anyway. Why? Because we can, right Obama? We are also willing and able (and bored and angry) and they are in our direct line of sight. How could our President do something wrong? Doesn’t he know people look up to him? He cannot disappoint! But he does, and will continue doing so until his term is up and what he does then will be irrelevant. My advice to him is that he save all the humiliating actions and sayings until he’s comfortably settled on some ranch and then write a book titled “All the stupid things I could’ve said and done but chose not to because of Diana’s advice” (of course I deserve a mention in the title of his upcoming book, did you think otherwise?).

   Who am I to intermingle with the likes of Stewart, Colbert and Obama you ask? My reply is simple. I am a person who’s kept quiet my whole life and finally decided to dispense her advice onto anyone and everyone. From now on I will intervene as much as I can and not because I’m passionate about things but simply to put my thoughts ‘out there’ (for lack of a specific address). Although I’m not a parent myself I will still tell those who are that they’re doing a so-so job. What’s to stop me? If I see you littering and I happen to be feeling particularly environmentally conscious that day then I will ask you to pick up your trash. My intentions are not to interfere in anyone’s business hence I will not stick around to see the outcome. It’s not like I will follow you home unless you do as I say but you WILL hear me out and you WILL do as I say. Whether you’re the most important person on the planet or the village idiot I will make my opinion known to you. I finally figured out that to make people listen while clouding their judgment enough to think you’re right is to just tell them to and sound confident about it. Don’t let your voice betray you by being shaky or faltering. I told Stewart and Colbert to have me on their show and they will. I told Obama to stop fooling around and he will. I will tell everyone else what I think they should or shouldn’t do and they will do it. Those who have conviction hold all the power.

Obama takes another bow

Is it me or is our President fond of some old school type of behavior? In the less civilized societies people used to bow, kiss other men’s hands, and dabble in other ludicrous and demeaning acts. Considering that we now live in a day and age when “change” is occurring, I should hope that means forward progression and not backward.

In my opinion, if one really must pay respects to someone older and presumably wiser, than a simple bow of the head should suffice, followed by a wink and smile. Why the President of the supposedly most powerful country in the world thinks that what he’s doing is correct is beyond me. Either he has some really bad advisors or he had a dream in which he saw that the quickest way to world peace is through complete humiliation symbolized by an act of exercising/yoga (that is halfway down dog I believe). What’s next? I certainly hope that a cure for famine is not achieved by doing head stands; nor is the quickest way to healthcare reform by jumping on the trampoline. No other world leader is doing it so it’s very avant-garde of Obama. Another possibility is that he’s just demonstrating that the number of bows taken is directly proportional to the amount of Nobel Peace Prizes one can accumulate, or that as a laureate, there is a minimum number of bows which must be completed. The possibilities are endless. He might’ve simply admired the Emperor’s wife's sense of style. Those kimonos are no match for a simple black suit. I particularly enjoyed the Emperor’s reaction to the bow. Under his marble expression he was probably thinking: ‘This fellow has totally lost it. Well I’m not getting down like that’. The Saudi King, I would imagine, is very disappointed. In his mind the bows were reserved only for his majesty. What will his reaction be? This new bow may very well cancel out the first bow and then what?

Basically while Obama works out, the whole world watches in amazement and awe. Some people are confused, others are inspired, conservatives are appalled, and I am simply amused.

A crack at being a critic

A while back I read a book called The Other Boleyn Girl. Drama, intrigue, and other excitements during King Henry Tudor’s rule. What’s not to like? I’ve later watched The Tudors and of course thought it matched the book, if not the actual history, perfectly. After that, research on Wikipedia ensued only to be soon forgotten since I, like everybody else, am of fickle nature and Mad Men was my latest prey. Having banished it from memory I recently watched The Tudors, season 2 because I happened to sign up for Netflix recently and was at a loss of what to view. I was instantaneously pulled back in, unexpectedly so since almost everyone was beheaded in season 1 and I had to get used to a whole new set of characters. As soon as I was done I watched the movie version of the above-mentioned book. Had I nothing to compare it to I might’ve liked it but, alas, The [damned] Tudors spoiled everything for me. The lengthy “mini” series told the same story in twenty hours as the movie told in two. The Other Boleyn Girl didn’t stand a chance. It is now known to me as The Other Tudors and Natalie Portman along with Scarlett Johansson did not appear more beautiful than the actresses from The Tudors. I am disappointed as well as overdosed by too much information about King Henry and his liaisons. I wish a book/movie of that nature existed for every boring historical period so that I may actually learn something while watching the main characters fornicate. I heard Albert Einstein was a womanizer. Imagine if we saw his life in the movies? For all we know he came up with the theory of relativity while running around the house naked, chasing some skirt. That would give a whole new meaning to E=MC2 and make it very interesting to watch.

Motivational speech

Feeling stressed and underappreciated? It’s your own fault. Learn how to screw the system and milk it for what it’s worth. Working a dead-end job? Take two-hour lunches and leave as early as possible. Take acting classes and learn to lie. These tools are very useful. Lie to everyone you meet. Talk yourself up. Describe the person you want to be instead of the schmuck you really are. The key to making everyone love you is lying and pretending -do it with assertiveness and seriousness. Don’t get me wrong laughing is allowed and schmoozing and fake smiling, but at the right moments. Even bouts of ass-kissing is acceptable but only when necessary. The majority of the time should be spent rejecting all the brownnoses following you around. Become the corrupt, evil, fake conscience-free leader you always wanted to be. Only care about yourself and your needs. Make sure others put you first. Live it up! Spend someone’s cash (never your own!). Press the delete button on all the bad opinions/comments about you which occasionally resurface in your memory. Focus. When someone tries to take advantage of you beat them to it and turn the tables. Suck all the juices out of life! Mess with everyone, trust no one. Develop a dependency on drugs and alcohol and smoke ‘on occasion’ to check that option off at the doctor’s office. Respect your organs but give them what they want. Be clean and be as dirty as possible. Connect with people, never apologize. Always do what is pleasing to you and ignore others’ complaints. Follow this advice and be happy. Achieve inner peace and a sense of security. Take yoga and meditate. Levitate to the next level. Announce your arrival and grand entrance to potential admirers. Kiss but never tolerate. Judge but never be judged. You are entitled to your superiority. Convince yourself that you can do it. Live the dream! Abandon fear and rejection. Congratulations, you’ve finally made it!

Plastic surgery and repercussions

Facelift
If your face is the only thing being lifted where is the rest of your body supposed to go? Might as well get a full body lift.
Upside: wrinkle-free skin
Downside: muscle immobility resulting in being stuck with whatever last expression you had on your face before going under.

Implants
Wondering which one to chose; the boob or butt silicone? Go for both because it’s hot.
Upside: everything is up.
Downside: no one sees your facelift.

Hair transplant
Always dreamed of it? Now you can have it. The unnecessary carpet on your chest and back is moving on up.
Upside: you’re covered
Downside: knowledge is leaking out of all the extra (vanity) holes in your head

Veneers/lumineers
The dream of all dreams is to have that million-dollar, pearly-white smile. Nobody wants to see the nasty, yellowing stalagmites attached to your gums. Also, it’s not cute to never smile, it looks suspicious.
Upside: instant good looks, charisma and charm
Downside: speech therapy not included

Liposuction
The single, fastest weight loss method on the market today. Walk in bloated, walk out perfectly sculpted.
Upside: Rapid procedure. Say goodbye to all the happy meals you ever had.
Downside: Say hello to all the happy meals you ever had (rapid procedure). Also, shifting of all the implants, lifts and transplants may occur and only your veneers can save you.

Criminal

That’s it, I’ve had it! Time to make something of myself. After looking over my options, the voices in my head have unanimously decided that I am perfectly equipped to become a gangster. Turning to a life of crime after being a respectable member of society is not exactly the way most gangsters start out but on the bright side it will serve as a defense at a potential future trial of mine: “Look at this face ladies and gentlemen, does it look like the face of a guilt-ridden evildoer or the hardened mask of a merciless killer? Examine the writing style of this person. She’s highly educated and a great speller. There is no way she committed the crimes the prosecutor is accusing her of”. There will be new standards-my own. First things first: A letter will be mailed out advising all mobsters that a new Godmother is emerging. I already see the panic and the division within the mob world. Some will welcome the newcomer while others will start making preparations for my untimely execution-all of which I will be ready for. Next item on the agenda will be to make new purchases; in my case robbing the clothing stores blind. I need new suits, fedoras and ties (for everyday activities like high-profile police chases and shootings) and evening gowns for special occasions. The most difficult task will be recruiting members who will obey me and carry out my requests without question. To accomplish that I will need to make a name for myself as the most notorious villain who ever set foot in the Big Apple. This has to be done by word of mouth since I am not planning on doing all the dirty work myself, at least not in the beginning. I will send out a new memo amending my initial one, taking credit for all the jobs which have been done by the worst kind of sadists. After enough fear has been instilled into the members of the general public I will make my first appearance at a gathering of the heads of the mafia families, having only two guys at my side to show my fearlessness and total lack of respect for the more veteran and aging thugs. I will be wearing a burqua and only my eyes will be visible. My undergarments will consist of a full-body bullet-proof vest. When the shooting erupts I shall remain standing like the untouchable soldier that I am. Shortly after this publicized incident the notoriety and infamy will follow. This is the kind of life every kid dreams of but is too afraid to embark on. Let me be the first to pave the way. I will also need high doses of prescription (or non-prescription) medicine as a preventative measure against crapping my pants while I perform all the above-mentioned tasks.

phrases

Whoever coined the phrase “The sky is falling” obviously had no idea about astronomy and physics. I know it was originally a fable about a chicken who mistakenly thought that the sky was falling. This, however, was written by some author so lets not blame the poor chicken. The sky that is visible to us is made up of our atmosphere, the stars, the moon, other planets and asteroids, the sun, galaxies, comets, meteors, etc…So which of these things all of a sudden decided to fall and when should we expect it? Moreover, how did this guy know that they are falling? Did someone place a collect call to him and say “Hey, I’m about to fall so warn the public” and the guy having no idea who “I” am just assumed it was the sky? Maybe he got tired of staring up and decided that it was time to bring the whole thing down, literally. But I can see his point; in order to fall something has to come from upstairs. Being very meticulous he made a list and crossed off all the things already on the ground. This still left too many things in the sky (including man-made objects) so he just said to hell with it and lumped it all under “sky”. To fall by definition means to descend under the influence of gravity. Well although gravity is present in space nothing is descending, objects are merely colliding (except asteroids and comets that enter our atmosphere and have no choice but to fall being in the hands of gravity or this guy). Maybe this guy and gravity are one and the same.

Same goes for the expression “piece of the sky”. This saying can be found in some book titles and even a song by Barbara Streisand. What are these people talking about? When did the sky all of a sudden become a cake or a pizza pie? If so, can I place an order? Give me the slice with the Andromeda Galaxy layer and Jupiter on top, thanks. Like there is nothing else to divide so we have to rip the sky into pieces. Normally we’re selfish and want the whole thing to ourselves but when it comes to the sky all of a sudden we’re generous and everyone can have a piece. People are such strange creatures anyway, wanting to own intangible objects. They name stars after themselves and proudly announce that those stars now belong to them. In reality everything “up there” belongs to the afore-mentioned guy. I, for one, want no part of the sky especially since it’s falling anyway.

For the land of the free, and the home of the Russians?

Living in Brooklyn, aka little Russia, has its perks but after a while I question whether it’s the best place for me to inhabit. Kings Highway is one of the “few” predominantly Russian neighborhoods and it’s where I decided to plant my roots. I’m sure many wonderful things can be said about this place but I won’t because it’s not in my nature. Instead I will dispel any positive myths you may have had in your delusional mind.

I came to this country when I was just a pre-teen. I’ve blended in fairly well, for the most part, except for my eastern European looks and a tinge of an accent which I can’t shake off. I used to watch A LOT of Russian television and read Russian books to make sure that I don’t lose my language skills (who are we kidding, I just wanted to keep up with their [pop] culture). I’ve finally managed to wean myself off this addiction and place all my energy into the language and culture of the county I reside in. So what happens when a sudden wave of nostalgia rolls over me? Do I have to cross the Atlantic to catch a glimpse of Russians scurrying around to satisfy my thirst for their latest developments? The answer is no. I just have to knock on my neighbor’s door; or any door on my floor; or any door in my building; or any door inside the building within the five mile radius. Convenient or disturbing? You be the judge.

Kings Highway is a fairly stretchable street. All along its path you got an array of Russian food and clothing stores only to be diversified by an occasional Rite Aid or Sushi restaurant. Meanwhile, there are plenty of Russian pharmacies on every corner that offer much stronger solutions to your everyday ailments. I don’t even want to talk about the popular Russian food store Domino where every Russian family does their shopping. I now know better. Apparently Domino buys their food from other Russian stores and keeps it out in the sun for a few weeks until it’s nice and rotten before placing it out on their shelves to vend. If I ever struggle with constipation my surefire laxative is anything from their deli section; two hours later the contents of my bowels will be on their way to the nearest river. This is better then any “master cleanse”. Now, on to the “clothing boutiques”. When I first moved into the ‘hood I needed a place to shop so I gave those stores a shot. What do you know? The $300 shirt is not as “sturdy” as I thought it should be for that price. I’m better off shopping at Rainbow. Same outcome, cheaper price.

Herein lies the problem. My long-lost previous culture, as it turns out, is neither long nor lost. It is alive and well, relaxing in my backyard. Now, instead of seeking out any Russian-related information I seek solace from it. Where can I go? There is only so much time that a person can dedicate to hanging out at Rite Aid reading magazines. Off to the sushi restaurant then. Of course, the only thing that’s Japanese about the sushi places is the employees. The consumption of sushi by the Russians has no rivals. I have a friend who single-handedly supports the business of at least ten sushi restaurants by ordering “all you can eat” on an hourly basis.

There is nowhere to run or hide. I guess it’s back to New Jersey for me then. I better make it quick since the Russians are slowly but surely seeping into to the most remote crevices of that state as well.

Yodelayheehoo

I visited Switzerland in 2005 and remember it fondly. While on tour I learned that the Swiss pretty much like to keep to themselves by staying out of wars and not accepting new citizens. They are everybody’s friends and they have no friends. Somebody had a problem with this lifestyle and said “lets detain Roman Polanski now!” Their impatience finally kicked in. Right away the uncontroversial country is getting more hits than Iran. Everybody’s shocked. Oh shit, are they not selling enough chocolate? Are they sick of having the ‘Geneva conventions’ and not participating in any of them? The rest of the world should’ve been suspicious from the start. It’s always the “quiet” ones that end up making the ruckus. The loud ones, like Muammar al-Gaddafi, end up looking like, well the way Gaddafi looked during his UN speech (in his defense it was his first and he was probably nervous). Meanwhile the Swiss have been sitting all quiet, pretending not to give two craps when in reality they’ve been planning something “big” for a while now (32 years), in an attempt to become a dominant European power. Either that or they just got bored. It is a very boring country. Too many cliffs, not enough suicides. Too many farms, too much yodeling. Not enough worries.

Too bad for Polanski that he happened to be a pawn in this scheme of theirs. Come back to the U.S. Polanski, we’ll treat you much better then the Swiss.

PPP

I’ve switched so many careers since graduating college that I’ve been dubbed a “professional professions pursuer" (PPP). A word about what that entails (this will be short because it doesn’t entail much). Basically a person who is constantly switching ‘professions’ and ‘pursuing’ something new, accumulating sufficient experience in the process, becomes a ‘professional’. Pretty impressive if you ask me, especially since I don’t discard any old professions when I start practicing the new ones. If I play my cards right I might accumulate a staggering amount of careers by retirement age; good enough to be in Guinness. I will have a new nickname by then, something like: (Re)tired of searching. This is almost the same as being a professional student who is constantly studying a different major to be able to utilize on the job market. I simply skip that step and go straight for the new venture. Might as well since I am full of vitality and youth and in need of monetary gain- considering that only one of my professions is bringing home the bacon, the others are sleeper cells. They will wake up eventually when food becomes scarce.

I am mulling over the idea of opening up a school to instruct others how to do this. I will play the role of a teacher/motivational speaker and enlist my friends as instructors, giving them the evening classes with all the immigrants (they will probably end up teaching ESL). In the end it doesn’t matter so long as something gets taught. This is what happens when you’re bursting with ideas. Pure brilliance.

Thank you

  I am starting to experience my first dose of fame. My blog is even more popular than I’d hoped, soliciting a whopping number of four faithful followers-three of which are my parents and brother and one of which is my best friend (this sentence will be edited as the list expands). Oh and my co-worker might also be secretly following. It seems as though no matter what I do people are always searching for me. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that my blog is public and so is every other website I register for. See? My paranoia is not senseless. I just can’t get away from anybody. I am also grateful and would like to take a moment to thank my readers/fans for their support. Thank you for reading my incredibly awe-inducing material without having to pay for it, thank you for having enough time on your hands to do so, and thank you for the inspiration you throw my way just by being yourselves.

P.S. I know you’re only reading this to make sure I don’t mention your real names.

Music and me

No one is aware of the fact that I have always secretly thought of myself as a musical genius. I know this but conceal it from the world. Instead this little genius is forced to live inside me and stay silenced along with the beautiful thin woman who is hidden behind my chubby persona. I hope the two of them are friends. In my own mind I have already accumulated all kinds of awards over the years. I am currently in possession of at least ten Grammys, four Tonys and two Oscars for best original music score. I imagine rejecting phone calls from Paul McCartney eager to purchase the rights to my music catalogue to get back at Michael Jackson for purchasing the rights to his. The sad part is that I have the sinking feeling that all these awards were stolen from me by Britney Spears, who broke into my apartment while I was asleep, took my Grammys and is currently holding them hostage somewhere in her ten million dollar mansion. I am letting her enjoy them for now mainly because there’s nothing I can do about it.

In reality it is too late to finally break onto the scene at the tender age of twenty eight. It’s difficult to imagine my little genius jumping on stage, taking my body with him and regurgitating the materials he’s been safeguarding since birth.

All this time instead of sharing my gift I masked it under an array of strange professions. I don’t really know where my great talent comes from since both of my parents are computer programmers. Ok that’s not entirely true. In actuality my mother and father are almost as talented as I am but also chose to cover this up  under the pretense of being programmers. It runs in the family. In fact my brother does it so well that no one is 100% sure that his talent exists but who cares because he is now a stock trader. Apparently being musically gifted is on the same level as being a spy. No one can know the truth. Either that or it’s some sort of embarrassment for our clan. When my parents met they probably said: “So you got it?" "Me too. It’s ok we’ll learn to live with it”. Now everyone assumes that we all got it and we keep it on the down low. It’s a genetic predisposition which is there but can never be allowed to fully flourish.

I wonder how many generations this is going to affect. Will my descendant finally have the courage to stand up and declare “I’m sick of living a lie” and sing an aria at a very important business meeting? I hope so. Currently there are no plans to form the family band and tour around the globe.

psych ward vs nursing home

There is absolutely no difference between a psychiatric facility and a nursing home if you ask me. Just like in the nut house, everybody is unsure of where they are, everybody is evenly split between the silent catatonics and the loud, spotlight-seeking performers, and everybody is highly medicated. The "assisted living" facility patients are way past their prime and they've all fallen off the deep end (and into the toilet [literally]) long ago. There is one woman who is on the john every time I come there, screaming "get me off this thing!" and no one does (hence the euphemism of assisted living). It would be sad if it wasn't so comical. Another woman is like a prehistoric exhibitionist. She walks around with nothing on but a diaper and pauses for visitors. I dread going into that place but my hands are tied. The women who work there are only slightly more stable then the "patients" themselves. They wander the halls like ghosts, occasionally peeping into some room to see who needs to be changed. Sometimes I catch them sneaking into the empty rooms to relax. This used to anger me but now I understand. The only "positive" thing about the experience is that I am subjected to the amorous advances of the security guards who work there. The other day one of them said: "Every time you come you brighten up my day". I should hope so buddy. If I fail to brighten up your day after you've been watching old ladies strip for the past twenty hours then I must've really let myself go.

Health food nut or just plain nutty?

   Hey you , you know who you are. Let me ask you something. Why all this pressure to eat healthy? Isn’t it better to just relax and throw whatever tastes good onto your palate and enjoy yourself? Don’t give me that “healthy eating to prolong life” bullshit. You want to prolong your bad-tasting life go right ahead but let me do what I want to do while I’m still here. It’s bad enough you want to torture yourself but why are you trying to include me in this masochistic behavior? It’s a good thing I’m not easily brainwashed. When it comes to food I like whatever tastes sweet, yummy, and delicious, plain and simple. If it ain’t good it ain’t my kind of food. You can stick your carrots where the sun don’t shine and use them as a colon cleanse for all I care. It is especially irritating if someone has been eating junk all their lives and all of a sudden had an epiphany at a ripe old age of seventy. Jack LaLanne is the only dude who did it all his life and that’s why he’s in great shape. In comparison I also know some out of shape folks who claim to lead a healthy existence which they just started last night while watching infomercials. I am not angry with you. I am slightly annoyed that you are trying to confuse me and are meddling in my happy relationship with my food.

   I am not ashamed to admit that one of these individuals happens to be my own mother. I am ecstatic for her but sorry for myself. Every time she calls I only hear “advice” on the other end of the line. I’ve accumulated more advice than I can crap out. Every time I even look at a slice pf pizza I start hearing voices in my head, mainly this: “Don’t you eat that pizza. You want to be fat like your mother?” She refers to herself in third person as if she’s not really talking about herself but some other mother of mine who used to be fat. No I don’t want to be fat like my mother or any other mother walking around the supermarket picking out cakes and pies for her family. What I do want is that slice of pizza though. I have such a guilty conscience after consuming something I actually like that I’m shocked how I managed not to develop Bulimia so far. It must be because I have so much respect for whatever I’ve just consumed that I want to keep it with me until it’s time for it to exit my system gracefully. Anorexia; however, has never crossed my mind. That’s just pure starvation. Why would I want my own body to start eating itself from the inside out? I’ve got enough problems on my plate. Bottom line: Eat, enjoy, live, and be happy that your stomach is able to digest all the garbage you put into it.

Marriage material

   I just came across an article about a woman in Malaysia , Mrs. Wook Kundor, who is 107 years old wanting to leave her 37 year old husband, Muhammad Noor Che Musad, because she fears he might abandon her for a younger woman. The most impressive part is that at that age she can still remember that she’s a crucial player in a love triangle. They got married four years ago. She said that she has been feeling insecure lately and needs to find out whether he still loves her or not. I quote: "Lately, there is this kind of insecurity in me.” I realize that I am an aged woman. I don't have the body nor am I a young woman who can attract anyone.” Really grandma? You just came to this realization now? Just a measly four years ago you were not aged and had the right kind of body to attract someone. Those last four years must’ve been hard on you to lose your looks like that. Maybe the fact that you had 22 husbands had something to do with it. I can’t fathom having to keep up with all these Mr. Wrongs let alone to find the time to have a marriage and divorce ceremony with each of them. No wonder your looks have withered. Look at Liz Taylor and she only had seven husbands. No worries, you still got it in you to squeeze in a few more. Keep looking. Register on a dating website. Call the village matchmaker. It’s not too late.

    While this woman was just doing what any other hot-blooded 107 year old woman would do if she could, I cannot begin to imagine what this husband’s problem was. He was just 34 when he married this mummy. How hopeless was his situation? Did his parents throw him out of the house? Was he jobless and needed someone to support him? You be the judge. He did say this: “it was God's will that we fell in love”. You mean it wasn’t her body? Is ‘God’s will’ secret code for gerontophilia? Why don’t you tell it like it is buddy, we’ll understand.

    Currently he is in rehab voluntarily seeking treatment for drug addiction. Coincidentally the old woman’s fears surfaced. Obviously she was keeping him locked in the basement on some serious “medication”. She clearly had high self esteem but it certainly helped to slip some concoction she’s been working on since before his parents were born into his cup every now and then to keep their marriage alive (along with herself). Talk about lying about your age. At 107 it’s not even appropriate for this kind of deceitful behavior. Normally people can get away with shaving five or even ten years off their real age but in this case even if you take off thirty you’re not fooling anybody. On their wedding night she said “I have a confession to make I am 103 and not 85 like a told you when we first met.” That’s when he turned to drugs. Now that he’s trying to sober up she’s already looking for lucky victim #23. Find me one too while you’re at it Mrs. Kundor.

I want to write a book

    Both Mackenzie Phillips and Kathy Griffin are coming out with books. Kathy writes about her pedophile brother and her torrid affairs with comedians, while Mackenzie aims straight for the best-seller list with the intriguing topic of incest, revealing she slept with her own father. Alrighty then. I was also astounded by the long list of men both of them claim to have had. Those are some impressive numbers even for attractive girls. These women, however, are one fruit away from the ugly tree. As soon as Mackenzie turned eighteen, Mick Jagger “forcefully” seduced her saying he’s been waiting to do that since she was ten. This seems fairly plausible, considering he was at a shortage for women (models in particular) at the peak of his popularity and she was just that irresistible. All I gotta say is that such a union pretty much guaranteed gorgeous children. Oh and what an underhanded way to mention that Mick was also a pedophile. I’m starting to wonder if there’s anyone who isn’t nowadays. It’s almost becoming chic or something. Mackenzie talks about being high her whole life as well. What is she trying to do, induce sympathy or more revulsion? I was fonder of Valerie Bertinelli on One Day at a Time anyway, even before I heard all this about Phillips.

     Are there no topics left to write about except the sins of the past? Kathy is a comedian for God’s sake; can’t she write a book about something funny? Pedophilia is not funny, especially in this country. No matter how sarcastic you try to make it sound. It’s up there with murder and arson. If an unknown person seeking fame wrote such a book, went on Oprah to discuss it, and then straight to rehab, I’d understand because that’s the claim to fame but she’s already famous so why take this path?

     The wheels in my head have been turning trying to conceive a good idea for my autobiography. I had it pretty good compared to these women so do I need to resort to making stuff up? How far can I take it before somebody realizes that I’ve got to be lying? A realistic title would be something like: Very sheltered. Who would buy that? Therefore I am leaning towards a more provocative version: Potentially mentally unstable druggie with incestuous tendencies and lurid desires for children, all of which have not been acted upon as of yet. Ha! I’ve got them both beat.

No blog is complete without at least one mention of a train commute episode

     While I was on the train trying to focus on both my music and book simultaneously, a portly fellow with a large pinkie ring was yelling into the phone for at least fifteen minutes. It was the kind of language that made even the most foul-mouthed riders uncomfortable. He was either in the process of putting on a hit or fixing someone’s internet connection. Everyone was anxious, feeling that they inadvertently became witnesses to some mob-related activity and all eyes were on the ground (as if a person automatically becomes invisible if his eyes are cast downward). The scene looked worse then when beggars walk around demanding cash and/or food. Even if they come right into your face you just look down as hard as you can and they will assume you’re deaf and move on. I happened to be one of the unfortunate souls in that cart. My eyes probably burned a hole through page 95 of my book. You can imagine my surprise (along with everyone else’s) when the Brando wannabe finally said: “Alright mom, I’ll talk to you later” and hung up.

A "friendly" hookup

A co-worker came into my office today to tell me the awesome news that she's got a man for me. He's attractive and "the coolest guy ever!" He's also divorced with two kids. Ok, I thought, at least there's no pressure to pop anything out anytime soon. She then proceeds to tell me that, like everyone else, he's not perfect and there is one little thing I must overlook. I mean, you already told me he's a balding divorcee with grown potential future step kids of mine. What else you got? “He’s done time”, she says.

After I returned from my blackout (because nothing registers anymore after the words “he’s been to prison” even if followed by “for giving the orphans too much food and money”), I was able to piece together the following circumstances of his manslaughter conviction. This happened when he was in High School and wouldn’t you have it, somebody pulled a knife at him. Obviously he pulled out his own knife and stabbed the fool. I can totally relate to that. When I was in school every time anyone as much as pointed a pencil at me, they’d automatically get shot. The jury in my case was bright enough to see that it was blatant self-defense. What was wrong with the members of his jury is unknown but he definitely got the short end of the stick. This by no means should deter me from dating this guy. The booming threat of a little manslaughter never hurt anyone, has it? Looking back, I should’ve thanked her for such a great referral and the fact that in her opinion I can’t do any better then an old, bald, deadbeat criminal. I've dated law-abiding citizens and where has that gotten me? Time to switch it up a bit. Instead I told her that if I wasn’t currently having conjugal visits with five inmates already, I’d totally take her up on her offer.

My beef with doctors

     Every time I go to a doctor’s office I think why do I bother? I’d leave having recited my whole medical history with nothing but a useless prescription in my pocket. Shouldn’t they at least perform some kind of procedure at least just for show? They’re more like psychiatrists sitting there listening to you speak and prescribing the first thing that comes to mind when they’ve had enough of your incessant chatter about third generation colitis. “That’s nice, don’t worry it can be treated with this -(pulls a fancy name out of his ass).” You think you’re cured and go home after having paid your month’s salary. These charlatans are expert brainwashers. It’s the easiest to take advantage of someone who’s a hypochondriac since they’ll believe anything. I am an example of their worst nightmare. I keep coming back telling them that what they gave me is not working and I got a whole bunch of new problems now in addition to my old ones. That’s like a slap in their face. “What do you mean you’re not cured yet? Have you been doing everything I said? Have you been sitting in a bathtub with chamomile and sticking suppositories in your anus?" No I’ve been bathing in milk like Cleopatra instead. Why do I have to perform the treatment on myself anyway? You’re the quack so do what needs to be done and I can come up with something else to worry about. They’re lazy and uncaring. That’s right I said it. But the worst kind is the DENTISTS. These creatures are willing to drill your perfectly healthy teeth into oblivion just to make a buck. I swear I leave their office with half the amount of teeth I had when I entered. The first thing they do is Xrays because the ones you brought are probably damaged and it’s safe to assume that you’ve developed a whole lot of issues in your mouth since last week. “You got cavities and need root canals everywhere." "Great, as long as you bleach my remaining stubs of nerveless decay”. They won’t quit until all their patients are sporting veneers or dentures. Is it too hard to ask for an honest opinion or do I have to ask them if they’d do this procedure on their daughter? The answer is yes anyway, they probably would do that to their daughter.

This is why our healthcare needs a reform. Not because people can’t afford it but because they aren’t being treated properly even if they shell out the cash.