Tuesday, November 05, 2013
I enjoy a kitchen challenge, and turning chicken shit (frozen tasteless vegetarian fake chicken) into an awesome chicken salad seemed like a good place to start mission impossible. Luckily, I had some Empire Bacon Mayo in my fridge make the transformation go smoothly. So, here's some culinary alchemy for you. Making fake chicken taste awesome.
3 vegetarian chicken cutlets, cooked, cooled and diced (Quorn or Tivall brand work best)
1 small red apple, diced (Celery is for suckers)
1 Tbsp + 1 tsp Empire Mayo, Bacon Flavor
Salt and pepper to taste
Kale chips for garnish
1- In a medium bowl, mix all ingredients until fully combined. Season with a pinch of salt and pepper, taste and adjust. 2- Cover bowl and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. 3- Spread on a cracker or your favorite bread type thing (it’s not that important, it’s just the carrier for the awesome fake chicken and bacon salad). 4-Garnish with kale chips, or if you're not a yuppie, just use something green (parsley, cilantro, Bronx dirt weed, whatever) to make it look like you give a fuck.
Monday, April 02, 2012
Limelight- to greatly exaggerate your experience at a place through use of tall tales, third hand stories and flat out lies.
Usage- “Milk Bar cookies are pretty good, but I would have liked them better if everyone didn’t Limelight that place.”
For anyone that isn’t old and from the NY area, Limelight was a nightclub inside of an old church, but not just any club; it was the club that inspired every club you see in movies: girls dancing in cages, crazy hair, wild outfits/costumes, packed dance floor, yuppies and life-as-art club kids co-mingling. It also inspired some of the most far-fetched urban legends concerning what went on inside of that church—urban legends so unbelievable, they’d make the tales of clubland insanity that come out of Stefon’s (SNL character’s mouth) seem run of the mill.
I started hearing about this place when I was 13 or 14 years old. There was always an older kid with a bad fake ID that would regale us with tales of the sickest place in the universe. They’d describe a labyrinth of depravity with each room catering to a different type of insanity. It was all sex, drugs and pissing on midgets. Seriously, someone once told me that there was a bathroom with midgets in the urinal. That’s the kind of shit I’m talking about. According to 16-year-old Brooklyn kids, these are the kind of things that happened when you went to Limelight:
You were required to take a E (or X, depending who was telling the story) at the door as you paid to enter.
The whole club fills up with foam and it turns into one giant orgy where guys who were otherwise virgins (the ones I knew) are suddenly bedding multiple chicks on the dance floor.
Before making out (‘going with’ in the parlance of the time and place) with a ‘girl’ you had to crotch check to make sure she wasn’t a tranny. Rumor had it that 90% of women there weren’t actually women.
Celebrities behaving badly: “Bro, I saw Slash there and he was drinking a bottle of Jack with one hand and still had a needle sticking out of his other arm. I saw him just after I finished hooking up with the singer from Lush.”
I finally got to Slimelight when I was 17 to see the band Christian Death at the Communion alt/goth party. None of the stories I’d heard prepared me for what went on at Limelight…nothing different than any other concert venue than I’d ever been to—except maybe the girls were a little prettier and the space was a lot nicer, otherwise, I could just as easily have been at L’Amour or the Wetlands or CBGB. There were certainly no free drugs, urinal midgets, nudity or anything really out of the ordinary.
I was assured that I had gone on the wrong night. I had to go to Disco 2000, that was where all the wild things went down. So, I went with some friends to Disco 2000. I was immediately suspicious because they let us right in. I had heard about the strict Studio 54-like door policy and we were a bunch of teenage hardcore kids without any ID. I was disappointed to be in a club that would let me in.
It was definitely different from what I experienced at Communion. It was so much worse. The place was packed with Guidos with designer logo t-shirts, baggy jeans and 2 hoop earrings, dancing to throbbing techno, like a rave that somehow replaced all the ravers with meatheads. Instead of a club that was the stuff of legends, I was at what looked just like a dance at my high school. Even the club kids that got so much press looked cheap and corny in person.
In the following years, I had gone to Limelight tons of times to see bands play or to go to the Goth night or for a party and I usually had a good time, but it was just another club, none of those things I heard about as a kid ever seemed to happen when I was around.
I still hear people telling the same fantastical stories now, but it’s in an even more pathetic ‘good old days’ remember when kind of way.
Limelight is a tourist mall now and an IHOP is set to open in there. I think I’m going to make up stories about what happens in the IHOP bathroom.
Friday, February 18, 2011
I have lived around the corner from the Madison Square Park Shake Shack and had avoided it for years due to the lines that are so long, it’s as if they’re queued up for a Justin Bieber kissing booth in the park. I even went so far as to refer to it as the “Shit Shack” and refused to ever wait around with lunch break yuppies, tourists and stroller moms, until I found out that they served booze and I could pass the time by drinking in line. This fact changed my outlook and I was able to find out what all the hype was all about.
As I was getting my beer buzz on, legally and in a public park, I noticed something called a ‘Shroom Burger and my heart sunk a little. Portobello burgers are about as sexy as the big Kardashian sister. I get that the texture is supposed to be meaty, but more often than not they leave the gills on and my burger looks like a lump of coal a naughty kid should get on Christmas.
I half heartedly ordered my ‘Shroom Burger and expected nothing. The beeper they provided went off and I picked up my burger; it was tiny. I reluctantly took a bite and it was like explosions of awesome in my mouth.
This wasn’t just another boring ‘bello burger, this was something amazing. Melted Cheddar and Munster cheese stuffed between 2 deep fried Portobello caps spilled out like it was my own private fondue party when I bit in.
The tomato was so red and the lettuce so green, that you’d swear it was put together by a food stylist for a photo shoot.
You could taste salty, fried, velvety cheese and shack sauce in every bite. The lettuce and tomato covered the entire burger. While it may be slightly small on it’s own, go all American and get it with fries and a shake.
It’s impossible to find a better Portobello burger anywhere. As much as I hate to wait around like a fat girl by the telephone on a Friday night hoping for her crush to call, the ‘Shroom Burger is worth it and actually lives up to the hype.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
I'm a native NY'er and because of that, there are certain things I will not do. I've never been to the Statue of Liberty, I've never yelled "taxi" and expected to get a cab, I've never stood around like a happy jackass at Times Square on New Year's Eve waiting for a ball to drop, I avoid the St. Patrick's Day, West Indian and Puerto Rican Day parades like they're made out of AIDS and bedbugs and above all: I refuse to eat sub par pizza.
Good pizza is a NYC birthright. We might not have the best weather, the cleanest city, the nicest people, the most living space or even a reasonable cost of living, but we make up for it in sheer pizza awesomeness. In fact NY pizza has never been so good. DiFara, Paulie Gee, Totonno's, Motorino, Roberta's and Keste elevated pizza making to an art form, and that's just the really special stuff. Our run of the mill-fold it in half, Tony Manero old school NY style pizza is levels above what people in other states have in their best spot. As a vegetarian (99.2% of the time) I take pizza very seriously; it's one of the few uber delicious foods without dead animal as a main ingredient.
Because I'm starting a food business with my partner (Kebapolis) I've made it my business to check out what other kebab slingers and street food sellers were doing. What I noticed most is what they weren't doing, and that was selling food. Falafel joints were empty, but there was a Soviet bread line at every dollar pizza place. I never paid attention to dollar pizza before. I figured that it was for crackheads, bums, people who didn't know any better and tourists. Traditional NY pizza is the price of a ride on the subway; if it's more it better be special and if it's less: it's not for me.
Yesterday I was walking on St. Mark's to check out the Kebab/Falafel trifecta of Mamoun's, Tahini and Cheeps to see what kind of traffic they were getting and to grab an eggplant sandwich. A few yoga mat carrying penny pinchers from Yoga For The People were at Mamoun's, Tahini was empty and the usual freaks that populate Cheeps were out in force. Again, I noticed that both dollar pizzerias (only 2 storefronts separate them) had lines out the door like they were giving away something for free. Against everything I hold dear, I got on the line.
The first thing I noticed was no one was making pizza and I didn't even see a pizza oven anywhere in site. There were rotating warming ovens filled with slices spinning around and guys with industrial sized vats of tomato sauce coming in from the street and pushing through the crush of customers then scurrying out of sight. I expected the worst as I was handed my slice.
I now found myself eating pizza in the street because dollar pizza is a get it and go type of operation. I expect something along the lines of school lunch pizza and I was totally wrong. First bite and I'm not hating it. The sauce is a little sweet, the cheese a little waxy, but it's far from bad. The more bites I take, the more I'm digging it, I get a bite with a basil leaf and now it's official: I'm enjoying this slice of pizza.
Dollar pizza will never threaten the truly great pizzerias, but it's every bit as good as the hacky, average neighborhood corner slice joint that sells the same quality pizza for two and a half times the price.
A day later and I'm fiending for a slice of dollar pizza. I fully understand now why it's called "Crack Pizza"
Thursday, November 04, 2010
If someone in charge had some fucking sense the CI boardwalk would feature the best and most unique local Brooklyn products. A visitor should be able to get a slice (yes, a slice) of Totonno's (or DiFara or Paulie Gee or even Pizza Wagon) from a boardwalk offshoot, a piece of Junior's cheesecake from their outpost, a local beer at the Brooklyn Brewpub and introduce the world to Georgian fast food, cuchifritos, beef patties etc. at Coney Island Boardwalk Bazaar (think Brooklyn Flea, but less pretentious.) Sell a piece of what's left of Real Brooklyn. Makes locals and outsiders happy.
I know it's not the cool thing to say, but Times Square needed to be cleaned up and rebranded. Tourism is massive business in NYC's economy and if your city tourist center looks like the Calcutta slums mixed with Skid Row, then that needs to be unfucked or potential money will be lost. I don't have a problem with the Disneyfication of Times Square. If the rubes want TGIFridays, give it to them and keep them spending.
Coney is a different thing. It's (and has been for over a century) a grimy beach and boardwalk for poor and working class NY'ers. Tourists may consider it a day trip, but if they're given New Times Square by the Sea, they won't be interested. The weird, trashy, wacky and especially local character give them a taste of old Brooklyn before it became BrooKansas.
The Mermaid Parade is CI's annual 'check us out' for the artistic middle class. They want the sideshow, Shoot the Freak, dive bars like Ruby's and Beer Islands like Beer Island, not a multiplex and Dave and Buster's. They'll come back for the sleaze, not for the chains.
Lots of this changing of Coney is based on the misguided notion that people with money will make their summer homes in CI. This wild idea is based on nothing but the spec prices of the Oceana in nearby Brighton Beach. The fact that successful immigrants wanting to stay within an immigrant community where they're comfortable never dawned on the people who are trying to make this happen.
No one with a choice in the matter is choosing Coney Island over the Hamptons.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
The whole Jesse James-Tattooed Head Chick fiasco was an opportunity for America to sound off about how they really feel about tattoos: they're trashy and for losers.
We fooled ourselves into believing that because a few people were getting highly artistic, well thought out work done that tattoo acceptance was right around the corner. Sleeves weren't just for bikers, junkies and hookers anymore. We all heard about (but never actually met) the brilliant and successful doctors, lawyers and NASA engineers who were somewhere in the process of a full body suit. The abilities of tattoo artists were at an all time high and quality work was accessible for anyone who could afford it. Tattoos had their brief moment in the sun.
Then something happened: Douchebags woke up one day and decided to get insta-sleeves by the end of that day with little or no thought put into it. Like most awful things in recent years it was overrepresented with Mixed Martial Arts fighters and fans of the sport. Then it was everywhere that sucks from clubs in LA to South Beach to the Jersey Shore. Every kind of jackass from Jocks to Guidos (and the women that love them) to VH1 reality show attention whores, were heavily tattooed.
Tattoos were no longer a symbol of belonging to a subculture or being outside of the mainstream; they were the mainstream. But this mainstreaming of heavily tattooed people didn't bring acceptance. These weren't the hypothetical professionals and upstanding members of society that the public was led to believe; they were the type of clowns that deck themselves out in head to toe Ed Hardy gear that Joe and Jane Blow snicker at.
I love all of my tattoos: the ones from amazing artists to the awful free ones and even worse coverups. I just don't expect that people won't pre judge me as a douchebag for having them. It's like wearing a bedazzled shirt, Affliction dragon-on-the-ass jeans and a Von Dutch hat as the cherry on top of a played out sundae.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
I love Dio in the most non ironic of ways. I don't care if he's singing about witches and goblins, he's the world's hardest rocking 60 year old. They still to this day put on one of the best live shows and RJD did Sabbath more justice than anyone gives him credit for. I've seen them a million and one times and will keep going until the man downstairs finally takes possession of Ronnie's soul.
I was all kinds of psyched about seeing them at the Roseland on the 2002 'Killing the Dragon" tour, so much so that a debilitating stomach virus wasn't going to stop me from throwing up the devil horns to answer Dio's question "What do we do?" in the audience participation segment with a loud WE ROCK. I drank Pepto like water and popped a handful of kaopectate and figured I was good to go.
To minimize potential stomach virus disaster I timed it perfectly and arrived just as Dio took the stage, entirely missing King's X. There was a rumble in the stomach, I was trying mind over matter, it was failing miserably. I was attempting to focus on anything but the trouble that was brewing inside me. A Manowar back patch, an elderly singing elf that resembles Rhea Pearlman, breathing exercises, please God just give me one hour and I'll give up my sinful ways for good.
I have a policy against using public bathrooms for anything complicated and this could be potentially as complicated as rocket science, so I fought on. By the time the band was being introduced and the guitar solo began, I was doubled over and desperate, making a mad dash to the bathroom downstairs. It was hot as hell and reeked of weed. Luckily there was a free toilet, unluckily, it was covered in misguided metalhead piss and had a door that didn't lock, I was desperate and there was no longer any shame in my game.
I felt like I was there for an eternity as I blew it up like Nagasaki. It was simultaneously an awful and beautiful experience. When the mission was finally accomplished I re-emerged upstairs 10 pounds lighter, shocked to see the guitar solo was still in progress. The eleven minute guitar solo was the perfect intermission, allowing me to take care of business and continue to rock out as much as one afflicted with swamp ass can
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Even as a former smoker, I miss the days when adults were treated like adults and weren't banned from smoking in bars. I feel sorry for the poor nicotine addicts who are forced, like lepers to leave the warmth of the pub to brave the elements in order to get their nic fix.
If you believe bar owners then the smoking ban has caused a 30% dip in their business. Another consequence has to be lack of questionable hookups. The fog of smoke coupled with lowered inhibitions due to alcohol led to untold dodgy one nighters, but without the smokey haze, all the booze in the world isn't going to help when you have a clear picture of what that not so great mate really looks like.
The one thing that really stands out to me and ruins nights out since the ban is the prevalence of awful smells in bars that would have been masked by the smell of burning cigarettes. I can't go anywhere without smelling someone's awful farts. It's an epidemic everywhere there's a smoking ban. I can't take the curried beer burps and the post burrito flatulence. Something has to be done. I've written to my congressman about it. I should be able to enjoy myself without it smelling like someone crapped their pants.
I'll take coming home with my hair and clothes smelling of smoke anyday that have to smell ass bombs while trying to enjoy myself.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The adult film industry tries really hard to put forth the absurd notion that women account for up to 40% of porn viewers (users?) That may be the silliest notion since some jokers tried to convince the world that men landed on the moom in 1969.
The increased mainstreaming of pornography and porn like things has no doubt led couples to pop a DVD in and attempt to create a spark. This is a terrible idea. Your girl has zero interest in watching your copy of "Weapons of Ass Destruction #37." In fact, it goes far beyond that. She may feel many different things watching porn with you, but be assured that none of those feelings are of arrousal.
Women will judge you for your choice in spank material. Either the girls are too good looking and she'll feel insecure that you're wanking to chicks that are hotter than her or she'll find their looks to be less glamourous than expected and she'll think poorly of you for spanking it to low rent chicks.
The reason she is watching is for more than just judgment; she's attempting to be cool and seem badass and wild for you, but she'll be shocked and mortified at the Discovery Health Network level of camera intrusion. She'll also likely be intimidated by the Fear Factor-esque acts that dominate modern porn. A chick you dig: cannot, will not and should not be doing the things on screen--that's why they have professionals.
The worst form of couple's porn for your relationship is your own DIY home video. There is no way to make a chick feel worse about herself than to see her in the act with bad lighting and camera angles. Couple that with the fear that the video will be viewed by someone other than the two in the relationship and understand that it's a terrible idea.
If you must go through with shared porn viewing: find the mildest girl on girl video possible (the kind that would bore you to tears on your own) and if she shows any interest: it's a good segue into the "would you be into another chick" convo.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
1- The Room- The most amazing film ever made (No hyperbole.) It's as if writer, director, star and producer Tommy Wiseau never had a single human interaction, but that didn't stop him from making a Skinamax quality flick with a massive cult following.
2- Avenging Disco Godfather- Rudy Ray Moore plays a disco dancing, record spinning, crime fighting, karate styling badass better than any man ever has.
3- Night of the Kickfighters- The name explains it all
4- Out For Justice- Steven "Dice" Seagal stars in this prototype of how to make a movie so bad that it turns out great.
5- Windy City Heat- I can't figure out if it's a legitimate prank on Perry or on the viewer, but this may be the funniest film ever made.
2- Avenging Disco Godfather- Rudy Ray Moore plays a disco dancing, record spinning, crime fighting, karate styling badass better than any man ever has.
3- Night of the Kickfighters- The name explains it all
4- Out For Justice- Steven "Dice" Seagal stars in this prototype of how to make a movie so bad that it turns out great.
5- Windy City Heat- I can't figure out if it's a legitimate prank on Perry or on the viewer, but this may be the funniest film ever made.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Everytime I go somewhere some jerk from the place in question has to ask where I'm staying and then 10 times out of 10 they'll come back with this reply: "Oh it's really touristy there" and look at me like I just kidnapped the Baby Jesus. Of course I'm staying somewhere touristy because I'm a tourist and that's what tourists do.
This whole "Be a traveler, not a tourist" thing has gotten way out of hand. I'm there for something slightly different and a good time, not for anthropology. I don't want to live as the locals live. I'm not trying to wake up at 6 in the morning, commute an hour, work 8 hours at a crappy job that I hate, commute another hour, eat some crap local food and drown my sorrows in the local hooch and depending on the culture: beat my wife.
Local spots aren't that great anywhere you go. I always get sucked in and they always suck. I live in NY and by virtue of that fact, I patronize places that are local to me. The last thing you would ever want to waste your vacation time doing is what I do, or what anyone else who lives actually does.
I just want to see some sights, try some new foods (in a proper restaurant, not a roadside shack) stay in a decent hotel (not some hut without indoor plumbing because the locals do) and have some drinks. I did things the other way, and that's fine when you're 19 or a dirtbag. Otherwise, stick to the touristy stuff--there's usually a reason why the other paths aren't so beaten.
Monday, February 01, 2010
So everything is going well. It's the rare occasion that the other couple isn't composed of one cool party and one dud. Wine is flowing, people are laughing, everyone is having fun. Then it happens: once that check comes it becomes get out of Dodge time. The rush that just came over tells me that the person is splitting, not because they are having a bad night out and want to part ways, but because there is a rumble in their stomach and they have to unleash it on the closest toilet. The pressing plop (usually caused by a rich desert) reveals itself when one half of the couple wants to keep the night rolling and go out for a drink and the other is adamant about leaving with a frightened look on their face.
Rule of thumb: if you aren't going out for drinks after dinner: you're laying a log.
Sometimes, make that most of the time, I hate telling people that I live in Manhattan when they ask "Where are you from?" There's only a select few ways to ensure that the person asking will go on the defensive and act like an insecure teenage girl who just saw Christina Hendricks talking to their boyfriend than telling them that you live in NYC. I even go to great pains to talk about how small my apartment is and how it's impossible for me to have a car in the city in order for them to feel less silly about their poor choice of location where they spend the majority of their time.
Things usually are fine until "Where in New York?" comes up. If I were to say some drab suburb or hick town upstate, I'd have a potential new friend to talk about the 8Th wonder of the world that is the Cheesecake Factory, but that fancy Manhattan talk throws a monkey wrench into those plans and I lose out on a potential bestie.
"Oh my gosh, I could never live there." In most cases that's true for the NY Hater. They couldn't afford it here. Instead of leaving it alone, they have to slam the city (from what TV and movies tell them) in order to feel better about their situation. Now here comes the tale about their 50 acres and 72 bedroom house in Shitville USA that goes for the same as a parking spot in NY. That one never gets old to them.
At this point I try to appease them like I'm Neville Chamberlain; keeping a straight face while saying: "That sounds like a great place for when we have kids." Never in a million years would I want to raise kids in a place where the Olive Garden passes for Italian food and culture is limited to the once a year state fair. But, I bite my tongue and let them feel like they won, because i get to go back to NY and they have to go to wherever the hell they came from.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
My most viewed blog entry by a mile was the one about the Viking Resort http://www.impolitesociety.com/2007/11/viking-resort-fantasy-island-or-losers.html
So I figure the idea of a sure thing while on vacation is appealing to lots of folks. Where Viking stressed quality, The similarly set up Oxygen Retreat is all about quantity:
As many as 3 different girls every 24 hours for Standard Packages. (including one girl overnight)
As many as 4 different girls every 24 hours for Penthouse Packages.
(including one girl overnight)
As many as 5 different girls every 24 hours for Villa Packages.
(including one girl overnight)
"Most adult vacation resorts only have 8-10 girls on site. At Oxygen Retreat you will find there is a minimum ratio of 2-3 girls per guest guaranteed. Featuring some of the most beautiful women (eye of the beholder I suppose) and always new faces."
Now you might be wondering how much this third world sex toursim costs in dollars (not dignity.) It'll set you back $1,600-$2,700 a night depending on quality of room and length of stay to be surrounded by impoverised women helping you live out your big shot fantasy.
Monday, November 16, 2009
So it's 70 degrees in November and I'm walking home with my $6 Chinese buffet lunch when I see something insane coming my way. Being that it's most likely the last warm day of the year, women are dying to slut it up one last time before their whore gear hibernates for winter. In the case of the girl walking towards me; it was all wrong. To call her tragically busty would be an understatement, yet for some reason she thought nothing wrong with wearing some sort of catsuit/ballerina top that she was literally (I'm using 'literally' correctly here) bursting out of.
I couldn't look away, but my stare was more "I wish I could fix you" fashion consultant pity than pervy leer. I just can't look away. Being so distracted by her baby feeders, I somehow missed the fact that she was missing an arm. She had 1 regular arm and then a nub. As soon as I saw the nub, I looked away. When I summoned the courage to look back, she was fast approaching and sneering at me. Fuck, she thinks I was checking her out and then got spooked by the nub, when I really was curiously appalled by her choice of clothing for her body type. She's shooting me the worst look ever.
What would Larry David do? L.D. would have to clarify and tell her the truth, leading to an uncomfortable, yet hilarious situation. Larry David is a comic genius and has millions upon millions in the bank because he makes people laugh. I put my head down and refuse to make eye contact.
Shithouse phones have to be the grossest thing known to man. I'm not entirely sure why they exist in the first place. Who in their right mind wants to carry on a conversation while plopping away? You're not fooling anyone. The person on the other end of the line knows that you're dropping bombs and reading Las Vegas 24/7 while talking to them and that you are a filthy animal.
I couldn't imagine a situation where I'd even touch the receiver and put it near my face. Imagine all the filthy fecal particle hands that touched that phone before you and all the hotel maids who never bothered to clean it and then you're supposed to put it close to your mouth? Nope. Not unless I was waiting for a ransom call and was taking a quick shower break would I even consider putting that sewer phone near my face.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I'm standing on the corner arm outstretched trying to hail a cab. Shortly, one pulls over; I climb into the backseat and announce my destination. To my horror I realize that the cabbie is an American born white guy; this ride is really going to suck. White cab drivers deserve a special place in hell. In all fairness this blog was an idea my lovely bride came up with but she writes for millions and on a good week I'll get a thousand readers if you pass me along enough, because she has much more fabulous things to do, I'll give you the business on white boy cabbies.
Him- Hey buddy, aren't you glad you didn't get picked up by a fucking terrorist?
Me- Yeah sure (the fact that my driver is American assures me that the putrid taxi armpit/dirty ass smell will not nauseate me for the course of my ride, forcing me to stick my head out the window and ruin the masterpiece that is my hair. American drivers of any race do not bring the funk, but some brothers have the oldies soul station on and that's the right kind of funky to start a night off.)
This is where it starts to get weird. He picked up a white guy (me) and now assumes that I am just dying to hear his regurgitated ignorant views on race, society and politics. I'm no great fan of practitioners of 'the religion of peace' but I have no interest debating that with a moron. Next thing it's monkeys and N-Bombs flying around and some anti-foreigner talk. At this point I switch into mind fuck mode.
I have one unique superpower. Within minutes of speaking with someone I can tell what their motivations are. I won't agree with him or give him what he wants, I'll switch the convo a little and inquire if the taxi medallion is his (the guy who owns the medallion makes the real loot, they cost up to 300k, the drivers make anywhere from $75-$200 a day.) It's never his and with a little more prodding it turns out that either an Indian or a Nigerian is the owner and money maker off of the cab he drives. I've subtly showed him that a dark skinned immigrant is in fact better than him. Go me.
Now comes the talk of discrimination against the white man, a personal favorite of mine. This guy probably was kicked out or dropped out of school, has sub-par intelligence and motivation, may or may not have had a decade long battle with substance abuse and a spotty employment record at best, yet this does not cloud his tremendous sense of entitlement. It's always somebody else's fault why he is where he is and can't catch a break. Dude, if some guy that was a goat herder a month ago in Sri Lanka or a machete wielding limb hacker in the Congo last week can do your job, you need to look in the mirror and realize that you are a loser despite having all the opportunity in the world to achieve more.
When all else fails it's the Jewish agenda that is keeping him behind the wheel of a cab and our soldiers in Iraq and any other ill in the world today.
I'm sorry if this blog comes off NY-centric, but I don't think it is. I'm sure that wherever you are there is some uneducated, unskilled white guy crying about immigrants stealing his job and how the sky is falling because things aren't like they were in the good old days; you know the ones that never really existed but managed to get Reagan elected.
Feel free to share your very own creepy white cabbie stories
Like the rest of the country I'm a regular viewer of Dateline NBC's To Catch a Predator. I'm not entirely sure why, but I find myself watching a bunch of sad, pathetic losers get shamed on national television week after week. Truth be told, I find kids annoying, but if someone wants to fuck them then that person should be set up and embarrassed in front of their friends, neighbors and co workers. When they walk down the street they should be referred to as "Johnny the kid fucker" or whatever their stupid name is.
Some people have this thing called sympathy. They feel bad for the kid toucher and give the excuse that 'it's not their fault.' Fuck that. Every dude on that show knows what they are doing is wrong and every one of them expresses it so fuck them. If you are a no sex having loser, get a hooker—you can even have your favorite porn star for $1200 bucks, just leave the 12 year olds alone, there is no excuse for that shit.
The thing that bothers me most is that Chris Hansen douchetool. I can appreciate the work he does but I find him to be a self aggrandizing prick. So I have this Idea that would be funny and possibly make for the greatest and most viewed YouTube video not featuring someone's stupid pet.
Trolling a Predator Catcher:
What we need is an old looking high school boy and a hidden camera. Our kid would somehow figure out what chat rooms Perverted Justice are staking out and pretend to be a 23 year old man. So we'll reverse the roles and have our accomplice (the real kid) chatting with a creepy adult (the people working for Dateline.)
When the big meet up happens our juvenile will enter the house with his hidden camera and drink lemonade or eat cookies while the 18 year old adult woman who invited him into the house leaves the room.
Enter Hansen on his high horse…"so what are you doing here?" Our kid would then explain how an adult in a chat room invited him over and a grown woman asked him into the house. He would then pull out his high school ID and declare that he is a minor and wishes press charges and sue everyone, Hansen included in an attempt to steal his innocence. It would be hilarious to watch Hansen backpedal and squirm out of that one.
There must be other ways to punk the show and make a funny video….any ideas?
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Imagine this incredible annoyance for a second: Every 50 feet you pass a bar and hear the loud sounds of someone with a guitar playing "She'll Be Coming Around The Mountain", "Yankee Doodle Dandy", "I've Been Working on the Railroad" and "Turkey in the Straw." Replace those American standards with Irish ones and you have Temple Bar in Dublin; a combination Key West, Amsterdam (without the hookers and weed) with all the authenticity of Times Square 2009.
The amount of Bachelorette or Hen Parties is mind blowing and mind numbing. We're exhausted our first night, but decide to do as the Romans do and pub crawl. It's all a blur of cackling hens in matching outfits singing loudly, drunken men trying to muster up the courage to talk to a woman, sweaty tourists young and old. I think we might hate it here.
I've never been to a place where the disparity of the sexes in the looks department is so great. There is no other place in the world where the men are so much better looking than the women. Even with their awful short and combed forward haircuts and sporty attire, the average guy here is much better looking than me and I'm the barometer for average. My girl is without a doubt the best looking woman in the country. I get reprimanded for checking a girl out by wifey; I had too much to drink and there was an epic ass in tight jeans bouncing along right in front of me. Was I supposed to look away?
I honestly don't know how people manage to reproduce here. There are young women in scandalously slutty outfits (but without makeup) prancing around in a city full of drunk dudes and no one is talking to them or giving them any attention. An outfit that would get a chick so much unwanted attention in NYC that she'd rather wear a burka goes unnoticed here.
Dubliners are wittier than Americans, even witty Americans.
Fuck Me...The Faith No More show is sold out. They haven't been here since '93, someone Irish deserves those tickets more than us.
Chocolate Biscuit Cake at the farmer's market is next level delicious.
After eating at Monte's of Kathmandu, I know why there are no Nepalese restaurants in New York. It's kind of like Indian food, but ruined by the addition of an awful spice. 8 pints of Carlsberg later and my burps could be weaponized and used to fight terrorists.
The city's motto should be "...But unfortunately." "Archaeologists found a thousand year old Viking village at this location, but unfortunately _______ decided to put an office building on the site." Failed rebellions, the global recession, a long history of horrendous decision making and poor planning lead to a slew of "But unfortunately's."
There is bacon everywhere and at any time. A person could eat bacon 3 meals a day if they choose. A bacon and cheddar toastie on a croissant is one of the beautiful things in life.
Dinner with family was fun. I have an excellent Carbonara sauce where they do it the right way instead of that shitty American way where it's a cream laden mess. The Irish bacon 'pancetta' helped.
We have the big drunk night out with an English tattoo artist and an local that looks like Mickey Dolenz we just met in the Auld Dubliner AKA The Auld Foreigner to locals. Whiskeys and lagers are coming at a pace that we can't keep up with. We have to bail before things get too out of hand. We probably left 2 drinks too late and get lectured on why we should have a son, argue with a Gypsy in the street and find myself involved in a conversation with a guy who might as well have 'gangster' stamped on his forehead and can't understand what he's saying through his think Dublin accent, he shakes my hand so I must have nodded at the right points. Lots of funny things happened, but I can't recall. I wish I had a voice recorder, because it was classic. The heavy traditional meal of Boxty, Potato Cake and Colcannon (think potatoes 3 ways) enabled our bodies to handle that amount of alcohol. You should try Boxty if you haven't had it. It's like an Irish burrito/thick crepe.
We do 3 bus tours, but didn't rock a fanny pack. We see the Wicklow mountains, city sights, some ancient things, a castle...you get the idea. It's not bad at all. F- all that live as a local BS you hear on the travel channel, doing thing like a tourist can be fun too.
I really liked it here. I also like the fact that we leave on a Friday afternoon, before Attila and the rest of the Hens invade.
Monday, August 17, 2009
I'm really happy that you read "The Omnivore's Dilema" and care about where your food comes from, but I've had enough of phrases like 'Farm to table', 'plow to plate', 'seed to sucker willing to pay 40% more' and 'horseshit to shithead.' The whole romantic notion of the hippie organic farmer selling you produce with love included at the farmer's market is as real as the moon landing. In fact, I'm not all that down with the farmer's market. There, I said it. Bunch of tote-baggers paying too much for vegetables is all I'm seeing.
Farming is hard, dirty work and I'm glad someone other than me is doing it, but that doesn't mean I have to act like that person is somehow a hero. For the most part, farmers are the people who voted for Bush both times and want women to carry unwanted babies to term. Think about that next time you're on some salt of the earth rant. Plus, they wear overalls. Overalls haven't been cool since Gerardo was singing "Rico Suave." People who wear overalls and are around shit all day, just aren't my kind of people. Sorry.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
10- Fried Ravioli: New Corner, Brooklyn.
Dyker Heights' best (and only) restaurant does an amazing thing with giant ravioli and fried. It's perfectly crispy on the outside and all multi cheese melty inside. Slap some sauce on it and it's more exciting than losing your virginity. For a throwback redsauce joint, New Corner is remarkably veggie friendly. The sauteed Broccoli Rabe and String Bean Marinara could easily make the list on their own.
9- Kimchi Nori Roll: Franchia, NYC.
Who needs to explain why spicy Kimchi sushi is awesome? Not this guy.
8- Mushroom With Egg American Style: Wo Hop, NYC
There is a lot of confusion as to how one would order this dish, but it's worth any hassle you'll potentially have to go through. For whatever reason Wo Hop makes the best omelet in the city. There is zero hyperbole in that statement. It's like they use magic unicorn eggs, dipped in awesome and generously sprinkled with salt to make their omelets. The hard part is getting this instead of the dreaded Egg Foo Young. Make sure to include the phrases "American Style", "Not Foo Young" and "Omelet Style" when ordering.
7- Bourekas: Gazala Place NYC.
If you've never tried Israeli Druze food, you really should. The salads, spreads and hummus are good enough to put Gazala on the list, but their Bourekas are next level good. I can't say enough good things about this place. If you dig Mediterranean food and haven't check this place out; you're missing out.
6- Gnocchi Aurora: LaMarca NYC.
Possibly the strangest and best pasta spot in the city. It looks like a 70's cafeteria with Arbus photos and they have a "you get what we give you" policy when it comes to bread and salad (which come with every meal.) The Gnocchi is the star of the show here. It's the ultimate winter dish. Potato dumplings in a tomato cream sauce with white pepper and vodka, topped with smoked Buffalo mozzarella tastes like winning.
5- Cheese Riceballs: Lenny and John's, Brooklyn.
While most Americans don't even know the joys of riceballs, NY vegetarians have to see them dangled before them in most pizzerias, unable to partake because they are always filled with meat. Lenny and John's is a classic late night drunk pizza joint in the ass end of Brooklyn, but they have meatless riceballs and that makes them champs.
4- ChongQing Spicy Potato: Grand Sichuan, NYC.
I could have went with the Vinegar Potato or the Lotus Root with Black Bean Sauce from Grand Sichuan and either would be a legitimate #4 on this list, but the ChongQing Spicy Potato is an explosion of hot and flavorful in every bite. I honestly can't figure out what's in it (maybe 5 spice?) but it's an absolute must have.
3- Lasagna: Pure Food and Wine, NYC.
Proof that pasta is nothing more than a carrier for other flavors. Raw zucchini and basil-y goodness, and you don't feel like you ate a lead weight like you do with traditional lasagna.
2- Tomato Salad: Spartan, Brooklyn
Tomato, red onion, olive oil, salt, pepper and feta; that's it. For whatever reason Spartan gets better tomatoes than anyplace I've ever eaten at. Once you try this, it will forever ruin you; you'll never be able to look at a pale tomato and consider eating it again.
1- Stone Ground Grits w/ pickled shitakes and a tempura poached egg: Dirt Candy, NYC
It's not even remotely close. This dish is like a Secretariat winning a race by 30 lengths; there is just no competition for it. Every element is perfect.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
"Oh my God, you're not going to believe what happened last night. So we're getting into a cab and all of a sudden this big, tattooed guy with a wolf shirt on barges into the front seat and demands to be taken home. I like totally said "get out" but then he said he would pay for our ride; which was cool until he opened the window and threw up for the next 23 blocks. Who does that?"
I do that. I also learned a lesson: Free bottle service is a bad, bad idea. I'm no mixologist, and maybe I have too heavy of a pouring hand to be trusted to make my own drinks. I'm debating if I should just stick to beer or forget drinking altogether. It was that bad of a night. Sorry taxi chicks.
Monday, February 02, 2009
I can't resist pop economics books, they are one of my guilty pleasures. While Suze's stuff is pretty solid and grounded, this turkey Robert Kiyosaki and his Rich Dad empire tells you that saving and education mean fuck all--great for selling books to the broke and undereducated, but not much else.
Kiyosaki is a 'get rich by doing what I did' information pimp much like Carlton Sheets and my hero Tom Vu before him.
The Cliff's Note version of RDPD: Pay yourself first, you home is a liability-not an asset, saving is for losers, education isn't that important, buy real estate, be a landlord and then sell, but most importantly, buy Mr. Kiyosaki's ever expanding product line and you too can be rich. He is the author of over 20 books, has multiple DVD's and an online community where you can pay for even more info. Seems to me like his products made him rich more so than the lessons his 'Rich Dad' taught him.
Assuming you followed RK's advice over the last few years, I'd venture to bet that his mantra of real estate being the ultimate investment might have meant a Deliverance style fucking, sans lube to your bottom line with this awesome real estate market. Some jackasses snatched up those pre construction luxe condos in Vegas and Florida that are selling for pennies on the dollar after the downturn and over saturation and are now Broke Dad's.
Being rich to me isn't being some jerk's landlord, getting hassled about broken pipes and clogged toilets in the middle of the night. That's a fucking annoyance and not part of what I consider rich. Getting porcelain choppers and selling snake oil doesn't do it for me either, I like to be able to look in the mirror and think I'm not scamming the uninformed.
I wouldn't trade my college years for chasing the same foreclosure nickel that every swing dick in town is after. You don't get to bone nearly as many hot 20 year olds at deadbeat property auctions as you do on a college campus. One day you'll wake up and never be able to sleep with a 21 year old again, through no choice of your own.
Being rich to me is being able to do what you want in life without sweating it. Trip to Japan? Let's do it, a meal at your favorite restaurant without looking at the bill, never saying 'I have to stay in because I only have ______ for the week'. That shit is all attainable if you live within your means, save some dough and don't have kids. Common sense like that doesn't sell many books though.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Chicks dig dancing, Like really dig dancing--it's right up there with getting attention from dudes, being the prettiest girl in a room, cocaine and shoes. There is a very simple equation that proves this assertion: Girl + Music + Drink = Dancing. Chicks even like guys who dance more than guys who don't until they figure out that dancing guys like other dancing guys. Anyway, you get it: every girl loves to cut a rug.
Well...not every girl. It seems that the only women morally opposed to dancing are the ones that are actually paid to dance. Try to go to a bachelor party and have the 'dancers' that come to your place actually dance. They have no moral objection to dealing with a room full of dudes penis', but ask them to dance and they become shrinking violets.
Not every guy is a pay for sex type, but no one is really opposed to a naked chick dancing. This just happened at my friend's bachelor party. We were rocking out to some Foghat from the cheapest Sounds of the 70's CD Walgreen's had to offer, and the chicks stood there like statues, wanting nothing to do with what they were hired to do.
That wasn't even the first time I've been stung like this. I've been party to 3 separate sets of exotic dancers refusing to dance. WTF, it's like being a mail carrier and refusing to deliver letters but willing to give a beej or a handy instead. Be advised.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Seems like it happens every holiday season: a family warmly invites man's best friend into their home to share in the spirit of the season and then some Scrooge wants to give them back to the pound and tell the kids that they ran away. My wife is that Scrooge.
Just the day after Jesus' birthday was Tough Tim's bachelor party in Atlantic City. A good time was had by all except for my white t-shirt which made it look as if I got a lapdance from Aunt Flo or was a shy German porn star due to the fact that I spilled Disco Fry gravy all over myself. This tragic event spawned true love.
As my friends ridiculed me with chants of 'Homeless man, homeless man' down the boardwalk, I walked into a cheapo gift shop to replace my shirt and fell in love with my 3 little canine darlings. The most beautiful shirt God or a Laotian in a sweatshop ever created was right in front of me and only ninety nine cents. I was so excited that I ran onto the boardwalk and changed my shirt, right motherfucking there...the cat calls were ear shattering. For the first time in my life I was truly happy; thanks to those 3 little doggies with the nonsensical message: "Beach Bums, Atlantic City."
I wore my special shirt to a New Year's Eve party and was the belle of the ball. Every chick wanted me, every guy wanted to be me. It was all to much for the missus. She hates the site of the dog shirt so much that she refuses to perform her wifely duties if I'm rocking it and looking cool. So I have to give it away. I gave 2 bags to Goodwill today, but I couldn't fathom seeing a real bum wearing the Beach Bums. This shirt needs a good, loving home with an owner and sig other that will truly understand it.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
I like comedy. I really do. I'll watch any hacky standup do their thing on television; I'll even read books written by comedians (Norton, Leary, Lange). There is one truth in comedy and that is: black comedians are funnier. They're funnier because they are allowed to do race jokes and let's face it: race jokes are fucking hilarious. I know that the whole 'white people is craaaaazzzzzy' bit can become one-notish, but I'll still laugh at a black comic doing an impression of a black comic doing the Average White Chump voice.
I used to laugh at AWC's getting taken to task for being responsible, having good credit, paying bills, raking leaves, saving money, buying stock, trusting the police, having garage sales, swimming in the ocean, cavorting with dangerous animals, skiing and whatever else black people think white people do. I laughed until I realized I was one of them.
I, like millions of other Americans did the 'responsible' thing and took my financial advice from so called reputable sources like: my broker, fund managers, CNBC, Jim Cramer, The Wall Street Journal, ragingbull.com and any swinging dick with a stock tip. Because of this I'm fucked. Half of my money just up and vanished this year like Amelia Fucking Earhardt. I should have listened to Kat Williams instead.
Instead of stocks and mutual funds I should have bought a diamond encrusted chalice with my name on it or a fucking silly looking grill or the biggest rim ever made...even better a necklace with a big rim on it, because however tacky, that garbage will still have some value to someone. I could pawn it or sell it to a broke pimp which is more than I can say for my investments. Even if I invested half of my money in bottles of Moet champagne, I would have had fun watching it dwindle instead of sippin Mylanta and watching the ticker.
Next time you're in your sensible car, wearing your Dockers, on your way to a home you can afford, with your 401k and Roth IRA, don't snicker at the guy in the Escalade with the spinners and the obnoxious bass: he's got it figured out, you and I are the suckers.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
I was talking with some friends about newly formed relationships and how to bullet proof them. To put it mildly, my friends have zero faith in female virtue. We discussed how the man must cheat first to ensure that her big emotional reveal won't sting that much when it inevitably happens down the line. So here's what I came up with:
Women want 3 things in a relationship:
1- They want your attention. They want you to make them feel sexy
2- They want security. Income is a good thing.
3- They want badassery. Badassery can range from dating someone with a different religious background or skin color to felony convictions and bodies under the floor boards; it just depends on an acceptable level of 'danger' for the broad in question.
The first 2 things are obvious and you should have them covered. It's time to focus on making her feel like a bad girl in a safe way. At some point early in the relationship you must have the three drink lesbian conversation. Make her feel comfy and dirty at the same time (booze helps) and then play the hypothetical (but not really) game of "would ya do her?" This gives you a feel for the type of chick she's into, which is important for some reason to women; guess it's that whole 'standards' thing.
Now that you have the info, get some champagne, Viagra and make it happen. Be like Indiana Jones and give her some adventure. If she's not down with the plan, kick that goodie gumdrop out of your life. If she's boring from the jump, it can only get worse.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
For the life of me I can't put a year to the show. One would assume that the big hair and cheeseball makeup of the strippers automatically equals sometime in the 80's; but I'm not so sure. Some of the girls shave their hoohaa and have nipple piercings (but no tattoos) which would make them way ahead of the times in the 80's, so I lean towards early 90's, (not the mid 90's where every girl got a tramp stamp or now when strippers have more ink than bikers) but I'm still not convinced.
The early 90's might as well have been the 80's regardless of what VH1 and it's revisionist historical agenda will have you believe. I started high school in 1990 and people were rocking out to glam cock metal and didn't care who knew about their love of Trickster, Extreme and Firehouse. Straight people still thought they could get AIDS from other straight non IV drug users back then; could it have been more 80's?
Someone please give me an answer.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
People get all testy when I start spouting off about how everyone is a secret scumbag that can be corrupted into cheating (yep, you too.) They think I'm accusing them of doing something or shitting on their morals, but I'm just being an Honest Abe. I know people who are 'that guy': dudes who are banging other guy's fiancees and wives with alarming frequency. For every girls night out, some broad meets a stranger, hooks up, gets shellacked, then calls her husband up with a 'good night honey. I love you' before cleaning up.
Men will cheat when their girl becomes a sweatpants (regular Rocky 2 style sweats, not even a flattering in the ass tracksuit) bore and women will cheat because they need constant attention. There is a simple solution to maintaining a good relationship: treat your woman like she's the hottest piece in the world and really believe it. If you can't or won't, your relationship sucks and one of you could and should do better.
Even in the strongest of relationships, nostalgia and the ex factor can lead to some catting around. People are inclined to make justifications that it won't increase their partner number or that old gag about ex sex is like riding a bike; but the truth of the matter is that nearly everyone is still carrying a strong flame for someone they practiced making babies with in the past.
Once again men and women have completely different takes on the matter. Guys get all sorts of flack for supposedly thinking with their dicks, but it's always 'the one that got away' that they long for. Men are super sentimental about their favorite ex. Over the course of time she has transformed from a chick you broke up with to the most perfect, virtuous, flawless goddess that ever lived. I can't believe how many dudes have created this fantasy woman in their mind, based loosely on a failed relationship. They amplify whatever good their was and completely forget about the negatives. That's the bitch he'll throw it all away for.
Women and logic don't mix, ever. The person from their past that they want to fill 'em up is the wrongest motherfucker they ever dealt with. The dude who treated them like shit, cheated on them, banged their friends and or family members is the one they want. Chicks love scandalous shit and being with this jackass again turns them on something fierce. Unlike men, they aren't trying to throw their current relationship away for an unstable misfit, they'll just bang him and keep it their little secret.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
The criteria was pretty simple: what'cha gonna do for me? And only one candidate stepped up; his name: Barack Hussein Obama. Forget about distractions like POW camps, crazy reverends, experience, American troops in harms way, illegal immigration, shit for an economy, social security collapsing, hockey mom's that could get it after half a bottle of Jack, Biden's choppers, 'bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb Iran', abortion and all that other nonsense...the BHO is going to hand me $1200 of that Obama money and McCain isn't.
Here's how it works: People like you are the tax payers who pay my pension (thank you) and pay for all that government bullshit too. Under the Obama plan everyone will get a $1200 'tax rebate' check from Uncle Sam if they pay taxes like you people and even if they don't like me, bums, the unemployed, brokesters who don't make enough to be taxed on and the like. This is beautiful: a tax rebate for a non tax payer. I smell what Barack is cookin' and that's some change I can believe in.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
What'cha know about the infamous La Piedra?
From Ebay. Blogger won't let me link:
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Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Those Bob Barker loving fucko's at the Game Show Network stopped airing Love Connection reruns, right in the middle of the 1986 season. I can't live without Whollery's gaudy Rolex, blue eyeshadow, guys with non-ironic mustaches and people who listed their occupation as 'clerk.' The GSN website even put Love Connection on the pay no mind list:
Your search found the following documents:
If you did not find what you were looking for:
* Make sure all words are spelled correctly.
* Try different keywords.
* Try more general keywords.
* Use the Site Map to find what you need.
Those GSN network execs really took a sleeping pill and a laxative at the same time with this decision.
When I was a kid my parents insisted on eating dinner at 5PM while all the other kids would eat like normal Americans at 6. This would drive me crazy. I'd feel like I was missing all kinds of good shit, but in reality it was just another hour of stickball or vandalism. The notion of 'missing out' on something is used to coerce people into doing shit they wouldn't otherwise do, and I'm tired of hearing about it.
I had no intention of going to my senior prom, but the 'you'll regret it later' brigade got to me and I rented a tux, went in on a limo with Blackford and Coughlin, brought the best looking date (hands down) and had one of the worst nights of my life. Instead of playing at the Ft. Hamilton battle of the bands with Indecision, Chokehold (Queens) and a host of other notables, I was pretending to be rich whilst breaking up with a chick (the really hot one), eating rubber chicken, not dancing and paying over a grand for the displeasure.
I got married really young and everyone warned me about all the great things I would be missing out on. I really regret missing out on that desperate loneliness, trolling bars for any port in the storm and the painful realization that no one cares about me. Great stuff.
Fuck graduation ceremonies, Spring Break, New Years Eve, $80k weddings and especially having kids. I'm really OK with missing out on spending all my time and money on a kid that'll put me in a home one day, looking at me as nothing more than a breath away from their inheritance. You can keep that shit. We'll continue to live like the gays; not the get married and adopt a black kid domesticated gays of today, but the ones who travel the world, had a great time and disposable income.
Friday, August 08, 2008
If all customer service reps were African-American women and all customers were me, the world would be a great place. If you need assistance and get some Indian calling himself 'Reginald', a white guy or a perky white girl on the phone, hang up and try again until you get a Sista on the line. Those other Jabroni's are a bunch of by the book stiffs who will waste time transferring you all over the world and are afraid to make a decision without consulting with their manager. Fuck that.
I call up and act like a gentleman with a problem in need of sympathy and action. For instance: I forgot to pay my cable bill for 4 months and my service just went out. I'll call up talking about having people over and the embarrassment that I'll be subjected to if I'm not showing the DeLaHoya fight as promised. The nice lady on the other end allows me to pay my bill and get the PPV while every other person working there would treat me like a culprit and not return my service for days, and forget about Pay Per View privileges.
There are certain phone numbers that 311 won't give you, unless you come at them the right way. They will not give you the number to the finance department (where you pay overdue tickets) if you tell them some car story; But if you start talking about being 3 months behind on your mortgage and finding out your name was on a list of people owed tax rebates, it just might get you the number.
I'm not just a star on the phone, I'm better face to face. You hang around the DMV like a fart in a phone booth, while I'm out of there in 5 minutes. I go to the one in Coney Island and upon arriving you will witness a Russian person and a clerk engaged in a heated, language-barriered screaming match....That's where I step in like Prince Charming. "Hey, just let the lady do her job. She doesn't need you screaming at her like this" etc. Now that the sitch is cooled down, she doesn't even check my number and I'm out like a champ.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Spread hummus on your hot dog bun to start
Use a Morningstar dog; all others are inferior and for savages
Boil, grill, pan fry, smack it up, flip it rub it down, whatever--cook it
Dice some cilantro and raw Spanish onion. Mix and sprinkle generously over dog
Top with Wasabi Mustard.
Monday, August 04, 2008
There are only a handful of things that I couldn't live without: coffee, food, water, xanax and above all: air conditioning. I dread the summer sun like Nosferatu. I hate being sweaty and get paranoid about smelling although I shower 2-3 times a day from June-September. So, I'm all about the AC....you get it.
Ever since Rich White Fucker raised the price of gas to near European levels, cabbies around NYC have been skimping on the AC in order to get a few more miles out of their tank before they get pump-raped again. I just can't take it anymore. I feel for you dude, but you've been roasting and ripening in a yellow sweatbox for a 12 hour shift and when I get in the back seat it feels and smells like someone locked me in a supermarket dumpster on a 100 degree day. I know some of that hot funk is going to get on me and my clothes and when I'm around friends I'm going to smell like cabbie pit and ass--and I can't live like this. See you in September.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
So, I was in the library with all the bums and old people looking for something to read. The only problem was: i wasn't looking for a diet/exercise book and that's all they seem to have on the shelves these days. I could have picked one up and used it as an inspiration to drop a few pounds, but that would make for a crap blog. Instead, I figured that I'd outline a fat plan- the opposite of all this diet and exercise bunk. I went from fit to fat in 2 years and now you can too, if you follow my plan.
1- Quit Smoking:
This is the most important thing a regular person wanting to become fat can do...more important than eating itself. If you are a non smoker I suggest you develop a 2 pack a day addiction, quit and get with my program. You'll be so pleased with yourself for kicking the habit that you'll feel entitled to treats, and since the average quitter gains 15-20lbs it's no big deal--think of your clean lungs while you're gorging yourself. After a few smoke free weeks, your sense of taste comes back with a vengeance and you'll enjoy the taste of food like never before.
2-Get Down With Fatty Meat:
I've had an on again/off again relationship with vegetarianism for years and didn't become beefy without the beef. Quit being a malnourished hippy and enjoy things like sausage, lamb and pork. Grilled chicken sucks compared to a Philly cheese steak. You'll never want a bean burrito again after some proper carne asada
3- Liquid Calories:
Any nutritionist worth their degree will tell dieters to eat, rather than drink their calories....well fuck that. Throw back a six pack a night to make certain that you will never have a six pack of your own.
4- Get Injured:
Walk out into traffic or some shit and fuck your leg up bad enough that it makes physical activity nearly impossible for at least 6 months. If you require surgery, find your local butcher and get him to do it. Nothing put on the pounds like sitting on your ass and fucking around with crutches.
These 4 steps worked for me and they can for you too.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Every time I turn my television some broad is talking about eating some Bifidus Regularis Probiotic jive yogurt in order to take a better dump. We have Activia, DanActive, Yogourmet, Proviact and Yoplait's Yoptimal all competing for your hard earned constipated yogurt consuming dollars.
When did going number 2 become such a problem that eating bacterially fermented milk daily for 6 weeks became a reasonable solution? Couldn't a little fiber do the trick and spare us all from yet another dingbat droning on about her bowel issues.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
2 hrs of sleep and off to Newark Liberty. "Drillbit Taylor" on the micro screen means that I get to finish reading 'American Vertigo'-- which is great news. In a world of bullshit job titles Bernard-Henri Levy is a good 'ol Philisophe and I dig what he does. Do you know what 118 degrees feels like? Serious shit, like a hairdryer on high right in your face. The shade isn't much better, it's like a hairdryer on medium.
Toby Keith has a place called "I Love This Bar and Grill" that serves fried bologna sandwiches, but it never happens. Vegas is Douche City, USA. The official uniform is head to toe Ed Hardy, a hat on sideways and cherub locks sticking out looking like Nick Hogan impersonators or the classier Affliction Guido fauxhawk look. This makes me ill. People pretending to be rich makes me even iller. Seems like every successful club/restaurant has a satellite in Vegas with assholes stepping over themselves to give the fat doorman a c-note for the opportunity to buy a $400 bottle of Grey Goose and mix their own drinks...fuck that.
My blackjack karma is good, but my hotel room sucks. The AC unit is weak as fuck and the beds have down comforters which means a feather in my throat and cartoon like snoring. Wolfgang Puck's MGM joint is the best in Vegas--Veg friendly too. Wifey's friend is a trooper: partying in Vegas one day after being diagnosed with a Guatemalan stomach parasite; fucking hardcore. I saw Mike Tyson in person and he's like 300lbs and looks nothing like my childhood idol.
I'm staying downtown in some grind joint next time. Those are my people, I don't need Michelin stars and South beach nightclubs. I want lounge singers, cowboy hats, fat people at the pool, sequins, 100 ounce margaritas, $5 table minimums, pregnant strippers, ill fitting suits, old cocktail waitresses, free shows that are worth every penny, karaoke singing and shady characters. That's my Vegas. I'll leave the strip for the rubes. 2 weeks after Amsterdam and Vegas ain't shit.