Beauty in Places You'd Never Expect

This is my suitemate (the one in the air) ramming his Ghost into an opponent, while the opponent Spartan Lasers him to death, exploding the airborne Ghost and rider at the same time. If you don't think that's epic, you can go eat a dick.

But regardless.

Stay classy

The Cold

Hey everybody (and by "everybody" I mean Maria, Coinstar, A-Ham, Marteen, and Waffles, seeing as they're the only ones who read this) - let's get something obvious out of the way: January + New York City = FREEZING COLD.

But as much as the cold delivers an icy pimphand to my face every time I leave a heated lobby . . . even though it's powerful enough to shake me from the inside out (my liver's been dancing all day) - and despite the fact that it has the ungodly power to turn my nipples into glass cutters and force my balls to retreat to someplace circa my navel - I like the cold.

Life is cold, for the most part. You start life cold (and wet, and hungry, and back-asswards, too, but that's besides the point). You end life cold. In between, you're always searching for the next thing that will keep you warm for a while, the next warm fire or space heater or whatever the hell you want the metaphor for happiness to be.

The cold reminds you that you're still alive, moreso than anything else, in my opinion. When you feel cold you feel alive - you instinctively know that you need to remedy the situation if you wish to stay alive. It tells you that you're not invincible - you can be as strong or as smart or as fast or as whatever the hell other adjective you wanna put in there as you want, but in the end, something invisible and intangible can bring you down to your knees like you're its bitch. Because truth be told, we're ALL the cold's bitch.

To tell you the truth, I dunno where I'm going with this. It's freakin' freezing outside, and as I was walking down the strip tonight it just hit me that the cold is there and we have to fight it, even while knowing that it's going to get us in the end. It's the fight that counts.

Keep fighting the cold in life.

And, of course, this goes without saying, but . . .

Stay classy

I Think I'll Stick with (Insert Treatable Disease Here)

Hey everybody. This is something I've been sitting on for a while, mostly because I've had more pressing matters to bitch and whine about to you, my faithful readers (all four of you), but also because it took a little research to put this business together and I was too lazy to sit down and look this shit up.

But now that the research aspect has been taken care of, let's start this shit.

Have you ever seen a commercial for a random wonder drug? Of course you have (if you've been watching TV at all in the past three years, anyway). Every single one, without fail, offers the latest, most complete, best, and above all, safest, treatment for some condition that can range from something stupid like a migraine to something damn serious like fibromyalgia. However, have you ever listened closely to the parts that come after the amazing benefits of the drug are laid out? You probably haven't - and what with the announcer's velvety-smooth baritone voice and the animations of little birdies and butterflies and other cute shit flitting all around the screen, that's not really too surprising.

What you're missing is arguably the single most important part of the commercial: the list of potential side effects. Examples, you say? Way ahead of you. Keep reading.

First off, we have Celebrex, a miracle treatment for the debilitating condition known as arthritis (or "arthur-itis" as my old friend Genevieve used to say). It will relieve your arthritis pain, no problem - but I bet you didn't know that it could lead to an increased risk of heart attack and stroke, which, according to the extremely eloquent and well-informed Celebrex website, and I quote, "can lead to death." Thanks for that, Evil Master of the Self-Evidently Unequivocal. I mean if you hadn't told me heart attacks and strokes can lead to death, I would've looked forward to having a couple for myself. Dumbasses.

Secondly, there's Treximet, a relatively new drug for the treatment of migraines. It works in two ways, by first targeting the specific blood vessels and neurons that are thought to trigger migraines, and by reducing brain inflammation to ease the pressure and pain of a migraine. However, at the same time, it could possibly cause a heart attack, stroke, serious stomach and intestinal problems (think ulcers and internal bleeding), and the kicker, a serious rash that, according to the Treximet website, "may be fatal and occur without warning." Well shit. Either I have a splitting headache . . . or a heart attack/stroke with a flesh-eating rash that will probably kill me. I'll take a couple aspirin and lay down. I mean shit - wouldn't you?

So yeah. Miracle drug my ass.

Stay classy

The Wheels on the Bus . . .

Okay, so it's been a while since I've made an observation (due in part to forces beyond my control, and due in larger part to the fact that I've been stuck in the most boring place on Earth - Hamden, CT - for the past two weeks). However, here's my latest observation, hot off the presses!

Or, hot off wherever the hell these freakin' brainfarts come from.

Anyway.

I was on the city bus on Monday for a good portion of the day. I was in the Bronx, staying with my cousin and his friend for the weekend, then going back to Queens to put my luggage and whatnot back in my dorm, then to LaGuardia to pick up my amazing girlfriend Maria, who was flying back in from Ohio. In total, I made five trips by bus on Monday alone: From the Bronx to Queens, back to the Bronx, back to Queens, to the Kew Gardens subway station, and from the Roosevelt Avenue station to LaGuardia Airport. While on the bus, I noticed that there was a specific set of character archetypes for the "average" city bus trip (similar to the way there was a specific set of character archetypes for the "average" group interview). My observations on the subject are listed below. Enjoy, bitches!

First off, and perhaps most subtly annoying, is the Finja. The Finja is a fat ninja, and man - this guy is fat as HELL. I'm talking MORBIDLY OBESE. His rolls have rolls and you need a minute or two to count up how many chins he has.
Yet, despite his TREMENDOUS girth, this guy is still able to sneak past you COMPLETELY UNDETECTED and take the newly-vacated seat that you were looking to sit in . . . and the one next to it.

Then there are the loud, crazy-obnoxious Asian ladies. Now, I'm not trying to be racist or sexist here, but I feel like it's my duty as an Observationalist to tell it like it is (yeah I made that word up, what of it?). For at least 90% of the bus rides I've been on, there has been at least one loud, crazy-obnoxious Asian lady, usually middle-aged (just so you can think I discriminate against older people too, if that's your angle), who pulls out her cellphone and just goes ABSOLUTELY APESHIT. God KNOWS what the hell she's saying, but it's LOUD, it's FAST, and it's FREAKIN' CRAZY. And you're sitting there turning up your iPod to the maximum volume to try to drown this crazy woman out, and at the same time trying to hear the driver's announcements (which aren't loud to begin with - and are incomprehensible as shit anyway), but it doesn't work, and perhaps she knows it, because she has a smirk on her face that never goes away.

My personal favorite are the people who speak to each other in a language other than English, thinking that the people surrounding them don't understand that language. For me, it's Spanish. Now, I'm far from conversationally fluent in Spanish, but I understand a LOT, and while I can't respond in a reasonably timely manner in Spanish, if you're talking about me in Spanish, I'll know. Invariably, there is a couple or group of Hispanics (and I'M Hispanic, so you can't say I'm racist now, ya prick) who will look around and start talking shit about me or someone else in Spanish, laughing to themselves because they think that I don't know what they're saying. Sometimes what they say is funny, so I let it go, no matter who they're talking about. Sometimes it's mean, and when it comes time for either me or them to get off the bus, I'll say something smart in Spanish (something that I spend at least five minutes conjugating and organizing in my head first), just to let them know that I knew what they were saying all along. Their expressions when they get a perfectly-crafted comeback in perfectly-dictated Spanish could probably be the eighth wonder of the world.

Lastly, there's the one guy who by himself only takes up one seat on the bus . . . but because of how he's strategically placed all his crap, he "metaphorically" takes up like two or three seats. On Monday, that guy was me - I had a suit-carrying bag, a bass and a bass amp, spread out on the bus. Now, everything started in my "personal space" and I only sat in one seat, but the seats immediately to the right and left of me remained unoccupied for the whole time I was on the bus.

So yeah. That's basically it. Watch out for the Finja, get those noise-cancelling iPod headphones for the loud, crazy-obnoxious Asian lady, pick up a second language, and tell that guy to move his shit.

And never forget.

Stay classy.

It Takes One to Know One - Y'know . . . or NOT

Hey everybody. Before I get into this observation, I just want to explain something about my relationship with my little sister.

She's a herb. For those who don't know what "herb" means, I'll give you a standard definition.

Herb (pronounced "HURB") (noun): Nerd; dork; geek; generally uncool person. Originated in early 1980s Burger King ad campaign in which a nerd named HERB was featured. The term was subsequently embraced by the hip hop generation. (courtesy of urbandictionary.com)

Anyway.

I was doing the dishes today, and my sister said something pretty stupid that prompted me to say aloud, "Wow, you're a herb." To which my mother replied, "It takes one to know one."

WRONG! It does NOT take one to know one. Let me lay out the illogical nature of this everyday phrase.

By saying that it takes one to know one, you're saying that in order to know a certain type of person, you have to be one yourself. If that doesn't sound stupid enough to you, let me take it a step further.

I know a loser. In fact, I know many losers. Does that make me a loser? No.
I know a Mexican. Does that make me a Mexican? No.

Now normally, these two true statements would prompt a reasonably sarcastic person (who knows me at least a little bit) to say "Oh really? You don't say!" or something related. However . . .

I know a mother. Does that make me a mother? Hellll no.
I know someone who died from sleep apnea. Does that make me someone who died from sleep apnea? How the hell could it?

"It takes one to know one" is a feeble cop-out. If you can't think of anything a bit more potent to say, then you're a herb.

Ya herb.

So, the next time someone you know says, "It takes one to know one," turn to them and say, "Well I know YOU, but that doesn't make ME a retard."

And walk away.

With ya bad self.

Stay classy

A Quickie

Insomnia sucks.

Stay classy

Something that Maria Noticed for which I'm Taking Credit

In the very first post of this blog (and I use the term "blog" lightly), I say that there will probably be a fair bit of cursing, as a warning to potential readers (it must've kept them away. As far as I know, my readership consists of A-Ham, Coinstar, Marteen, Maria, and me). In the unlikely event that someone read the blog and recommended it to someone, I wanted there to be no secrets between reader and blogger. I was laying everything out on the table before shit went down.

From the sidebar archive system on this blog, I can see that since early September of 2008, when this whole business started, I've made twenty-two separate posts (not counting this one).

The word "fuck" appears a total of twenty-one times. Of those twenty-one, one appeared as part of an AIM conversation between my suitemates that I reproduced as your Christmas present. In addition, one was said by my amazing girlfriend, Maria, in the second post of this blog, in an accurate description of herself.

So, personally-conceived iterations of "fuck" appeared a total of nineteen times in twenty personally-conceived posts (that's twenty-two posts total, minus the AIM convo and Maria's self-observation). Now, obviously each post doesn't have "fuck" in it (I'm positive there's at least one where I don't say "fuck"). But if you go by the average, then if you picked a post at random, there would be a 95% chance that "fuck" would be in there at least once.

Ha.

So much for trying to keep it reasonably clean.

And in case you're wondering, in this post I said "fuck" five times.

Wait . . . six.

Fuck it.

Stay classy

(Seven)

Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit? Volume 2

Hey everybody. Hopefully you all had a nice, safe, relaxing holiday and a bitchin' New Years. As promised, here's the first post of the New Year, and I'm gonna start this off with a bang (I hope). Over this past holiday, a few more "wtf" statements have come to my attention, and I'm going to list them all here and offer funny, heavily sarcastic explanations and anecdotes that make them sound infinitely more retarded than they actually are (which is quite a feat on my part - they're pretty retarded as is without any help from me).

Anyway.

First off, we have "Are you sure?" asked as a question. "Are you sure?" Hmmm . . . what a question. The stupidity of this question varies by what it is about which you're being asked if you're sure. Generally, it's pretty dumb, but at worst, it's downright retarded. It can range from "are you sure you want to buy this car?" which isn't too dumb depending on who's asking, to "are you sure you don't want me to put it in your butt?" which is stupid no matter who's asking (but a little more stupid if it's someone with a vag). Bottom line: If I'm still standing here listening to you and I haven't left or kicked your ass (and you're not trying to sell me a used car), I'm pretty sure . . . that I'm sure. Asstart.

Next one: "Did you get a hair cut?" Actually, no, my hair just SPONTANEOUSLY FUCKING FELL OUT. Glad you noticed and brought it up, ya douchebag. Before you ask such a STUPID question, ask yourself a MUCH more sensible one: Is his hair significantly shorter than it was the last time I saw him? If the answer is yes, then you can probably assume that he did indeed get a haircut. Perhaps you could skillfully and subtly steer the conversation towards that and get him to say that he got a haircut without actually asking? Oh . . . wait, of course you can't . . . because you're a dumbass.

And now, even MACHINES are getting on in on the being retarded!? "Send failed - would you like to retry?" Well, let me think about that . . . hmmm . . . I've spent the last five minutes typing out a well-thought-out, (hopefully) funny and witty text message response, meticulously choosing each and every word so as to maximize the funny and minimize the not funny - all with my fucking THUMBS. Do I want to retry to send it? Hmmm . . .
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK?

Dammit.

People. Seriously.

Stay classy