a better learning curve

Just a couple days ago, a street near my apartment that has been under construction for three years was paved, therefore ending the extensive project once and for all.

I was shocked that it was finally completed, because construction workers have the ultimate job when it comes to procrastination.

I mean, the men who worked on that street were given three years to complete it.

Three years.

Meanwhile I’m expected to learn that four shots of Petron will make me yell Mean Things at people in the short amount of time I’m at a bar.

I wonder what life would be like if everyone had the same kind of timeline to complete tasks that construction workers do.  Just think about the ways it would make life easier.

When a baby can’t talk – no worries – he has until turns seven to start annoying his parents!

When there’s a kid who’s awesome at dodge ball but can’t seem to figure out his multiplication tables, don’t even think about it.  If he learns them by the time he’s 44, he’ll be fine.

When a boss calls an employee into his office and asks him to order new hole punchers – no problem there.  The employee gets three months to get those bad boys poking holes in documents that no one actually reads.

When a guy is about to make Sexy Time with a woman and can’t get her her bra off without angrily cursing the heavens because who the hell makes those things so difficult in the first place – he’ll be fine.  He has until the third year they’re dating to get it right.

Every single thing you can imagine could take infinitely longer than usual to complete if you ran on Construction Worker Time.

Of course this also means that we would be a nation comprised entirely of people who are just learning that pooping in their pants is not good at the ripe age of 27, but I guess things could be worse.

more than you asked for

I’m not one to do follow up posts, mainly because my life is completely disjointed and anything that happens in succession is purely accidental and mostly boring, but I just have to add on to The Towel Situation that I wrote about on Wednesday.

I know – you are beyond excited.  

In fact, this is probably the best day of your life aside from that time you made out with that ugly chick and no one found out.

Anyway, this morning there was simply a handwritten note explaining that there were no towels at my gym, even though they were still supposed to be provided until next week.

I decided to go in anyway because I have time to kill before work, so I just hoped for the best.

As I went through my workout I gathered from the talk of the gym that the towel company wasn’t getting paid, so they came early this morning and took back the clean towels that were at the gym.  Rumor also was that people were stealing towels off the truck, basically acting like wild animals grabbing at one piece of dead carcass.  

Of course I was extremely upset that I missed that, because nothing says fun like watching adults attack other adults for items wanted.  Just ask those people who trampled that Wal Mart worker.  What a blast!

After I got enough gossip and had finished my work out, I decided to leave and finally deal with how I was going to dry off after my shower.

My solution?  My undershirt.

I used my undershirt to dry off after the shower and now I am at the office without a shirt on underneath my dress shirt, which happens to be white with thin black stripes.

White is kind of a see through fabric.

My nipples are showing through my shirt is what I’m trying to say.

i don’t like sushi anyway

On Saturday night, Ari and I went out to dinner at a Japanese tapas place for our friend’s birthday, and things went slightly different than planned.

From the beginning, the people working at the restaurant seemed a little confused.

Drinks were wrong, food came out differently than it was supposed to and one guy even had to wait almost forty minutes for his beer.  Which he never got.  He ended up having to get a different one because after all the waiting, our server finally told him that the beer he wanted was out.  The guy is nicer person than me, because if I had to be sober for that long in public I would’ve punched someone’s baby.

As the night went on and I tried to pretend that the girl sitting across from me didn’t make me want to stab my hand with my fork, everyone got their final course, except me.

So I sat there.

And sat there.

I was being Adult Chris, mainly so that Ari didn’t give me A Talking To, so I just asked the server a couple times where my food was.

Forty-five minutes later, the owner comes out, and this is when the fun began.

He came to the table because he heard that we were complaining to the server about my food.  At first, he was calm, hearing about all the things that had gone wrong, and then, I think maybe he lost his mind.

He gripped the end of the table with both of his hands and yelled, “This is our best!”  Then he stormed off.

I thought about this, and how awesome it would be to always give this response, no matter the situation, but decided that yelling, “This is my best!” at people would just be another thing I do that does not make Ari very happy.

After the owner yelled at us, we decided, “Whatever, let’s pay and bounce.”

Meanwhile I was about as drunk as William Shatner because I’d been drinking Goose and sodas and still hadn’t eaten.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, the owner was back at our table.  He looked repentant, so I was thinking he was going to apologize for flipping out and making me grip my knife in defense mode, but he instead proceeded to accuse of us saying that we hate Japanese people.

I think that was the point we decided to leave without paying.

Not only was the dinner terrible from start to finish, we were now outed as the secret Japanese haters that we all knew, deep down, we really were.

Having gone and experienced this place and its loony owner, I think I’m now qualified to write a review:

Bozu offers a quaint atmosphere.  If you and your racist friends have always wanted to not get your food and get yelled at by an owner, then make a reservation.  For the full treatment, just be sure to make it under “Stupidjaps.”

before 7:56

On my way to the gym, I’m sitting on the train and listening to some rocking jams when my phone freezes. Of course this is not shocking to me, because although the iPhone makes you 37% cooler than other people, it fucks up all the time.

I decide to just forget it and brave the commute without music.

The snoring coming from the Dog The Bounty Hunter lookalike to my left makes me want to vomit in my mouth, but somehow I don’t.

I get to the gym and realize that I didn’t pack my shorts.  I think for a second about how fun it would be to just work out in my boxer briefs, but then realize that it might be against club policy, so I decide that I’m going to have to buy some new ones at the store.

The store is closed.

I ask one of the personal trainers what time it opens and she tells me seven.

It is 7:10.

I decide to wait around for a couple minutes.

I stand in front of the store looking like some kind of jack ass as people pass by me and wonder if maybe I’m trying to get a peep in the women’s locker room, which is located right next to the store.  I think I even see one of the women mouth “Pervert” as she walks by.  I take it as a compliment.

After standing there for way too long and freaking out some of the women, I decide to leave.  Just as I’m about to walk out with my bag in tow, I see the guy who runs the shop opening it up.

I am excited.  I think that maybe my morning might not be so shitty after all.

The store does not have any shorts my size.  The guy tries to convince me that a extra large would fit me, but I just look at him and say, “I don’t think this is going to work out” and leave.

I walk to work and when I get there, I realize that because my phone won’t work, I can’t access the code to turn off the alarm once I get inside.

I decide to go in anyway because I think I can remember the code.

I get in and the alarm starts blazing.

I can’t remember the code.

I start searching the other desks frantically, hoping that someone has it written down somewhere. Meanwhile the alarm is going off, my phone won’t work and dammit I am not an extra large.

My ears are about to begin bleeding when I plug my phone into the charger to see if that will turn it on.  It works.  I turn off the alarm and sit down at my desk.

Ten minutes go by.

I hear the door to the front of the office open, and in walk two cops.

I tell them that I set the alarm off and they just shake their heads.  They ask me if I have any dead bodies hidden under the desk.

I smile and say, “Not yet.”

They leave and I turn back to my computer.  I try my phone and it does not work.  I tell it that it is going to burn in hell.

It is 7:57.

a-okay

I had to buy deodorant yesterday.

Deodorant is in the Personal Items category, and the Rules Of Life say you must buy something else when purchasing a product from said category.

If you walk up to a cashier and slam down just a stick of deodorant, you might as well just go ahead and grab them by the shoulders, pull them over to your armpit and say, “Smell me, go ahead, do it!  I stink.  Please, this is all I need to be normal again – please help me!”

It would not be pretty scene and the cops may also be called.

So when I went into the Duane Reade I knew I had to buy some other item to make it look like I was not on the verge of making people vomit with my body odor.

I perused the aisles searching for The Perfect Thing that would not make the cashier judge me.

Cards?

No.

No one is playing cards with a dude who stinks.  The cashier would never believe that I have friends.

Shampoo?

No.

I did not want the cashier thinking that not only did my armpits smell, my hair was also Not Quite Right.

I finally decided on a Kashi energy bar after much debate and brought it up to a cashier that was giving me a face like she loved her job.  Or maybe she was just hating her life and wanted me to know it.

It was when I sat my items down on the counter that I noticed that the label on the Kashi bar proudly proclaimed, “Now With 3X The Fiber!” in big bold type.

Perfect.

I was now a smelly man and approximately 85 years-old and/or had a severe problem with my plumbing.

I couldn’t say anything in my defense.  I just paid and left as quickly as I could.

I think I’ll stay away from that Duane Reade for at least a week or two, just because I don’t want to have to face that cashier again.

I’d go up to pay, she’d look at me then ask, “So how are we feeling today?”

And I’d have to lie and say, “I feel fine.  I feel perfectly normal.”

 

(I’m not gonna be around tomorrow, because I’ll be eating semi-charred foods and drinking too much alcohol, so if you’re looking for something to read, please take the time to check out the posts that I linked to on the Okay Playa! page.) 

watch your step

I haven’t fallen down in seven years.

I’m serious.

Think about that for a minute. It’s quite the feat don’t you think?

I haven’t fallen on the ground once since I was 22 years old.

I know this because I remember the last time I fell down vividly. It was winter and as I was walking to work I slipped on some ice and hit the ground with a thud.

It made my butt wet.

Wet butts are not fun.

Falling down is a traumatic event for people, it really does affect us more than we realize.

I bet if you thought about it right now, you can pinpoint the exact moment the last time you fell down.

And that’s because when we were kids, falling down was cute and basically something that we were supposed to do. “Oh look at little Johnnie, he fell again! Hahaha! Back to your cage now, you silly guy.”

But now when we fall, it is quite the predicament.

How are we supposed to act?

We can act like it never happened, but you know this is a mistake. People who say, “Yeah man, I totally busted my ass and then just played it off like nothing happened and no one even noticed!” are lying.

Everyone noticed.

Everyone saw you clip the table that you somehow did not see even though it was directly in front of you and everyone saw you tumble in slow motion down to the floor, grasping thin air for something – anything – to keep you from your impending doom.

Or maybe you go the laugh it off route?

While this seems the best way, it has its negatives too. Because even though you are admitting that you fell, you are still sitting there in a crumbled mess, one pant leg up to your knee and a foot tucked under your ass. This is not the best look for most people.

Falling down is not good for anybody, and there really aren’t any solutions.

You can hope that you wake up tomorrow and you’re a spider, because I’m pretty sure spiders don’t fall down, but that doesn’t seem likely to happen, does it?

Your best bet is to just keep your eyes open, watch out for Dangerous Situations, and maybe keep a dry pair of underwear in your desk.

shocking

I think that I may not be as smart as I think I am.

Every morning, when I come into the office, I take off my coat.

Usually, I’m thinking about Something Important, like how I wish my life was like Perfect Strangers, because Balki would always make me laugh at his Funny Foreign Ways.

Then – with this pleasant thought still in my brain – I go to hang up my coat.  And every single time, I get shocked by the doorknob on the closet door.

This happens every fucking day of my life.

Okay, Monday through Friday.  Or maybe not even that much, if I happen to be “sick” and stay home, which really means that I’m watching Sportscenter.

Tell me, what is The Deal with static electricity?  It doesn’t help anyone.  It’s not even beneficial to society, like public toilets.

Every day it gets the best of me.

I reach for the doorknob, get shocked, and then: “Fuck!”  Luckily, I’m usually in before the boss, so my yelping obscenities hasn’t had too much affect on my job status.  Yet.

I don’t understand.

We are an Advanced Society, right?  How is it that no one has tackled the epidemic that is static electricity?

We have phones that can take pictures of Ugly People (I don’t do this, other people do this) and yet we live in a world ruled by little electric shocks that either make your hand sting or make your clothes stick to you in a way that makes people wonder if you’re homeless.

Well, today was the last straw for me.

No more being outsmarted by static electricity.

I’m going to dedicate all of my time, money, and Wits to defeating it.  Or maybe I’ll just bitch about it some more and do the same thing tomorrow.

be mine

I wasn’t gonna write about Valentine’s Day, but fuck it, because today is everyone’s favorite day to whine about. It’s really a lose – lose situation too.

Think about it.

If you’re single, you feel awkward all day long about not having that special someone to cuddle/do it with. Some people feel this way more than others, but every single person does feel it. If you know someone who is single and says they don’t care about today – they’re lying.

If you’re in a relationship you have to act like you care about it and do something special to make your girl happy. You’d really rather watch the game tonight or do anything else, but you have to Figure Something Out. Even if you have a girlfriend who doesn’t stress about it (like mine) you have to do something, and that involves thinking, and thinking can suck sometimes.

The single person and the relationship person both hate today, just for different reasons. So lets give each other a hand for making it through another day that makes us want to drink a bottle of red and tell people what we really think.

We deserve it.