Daily Trials

Breaking our self imposed rule on not eating in restaurants, the wife and I met up for lunch at the Olive Garden near her office. We got a table within five minutes. Server came by, took the order, brought back salad and breadsticks. And then, nothing. We waited nearly 40 minutes without seeing hide nor hair of our server. With the lunch break draining into nothingness, I got the credit card ready and tried to flag down anyone I could find. A food runner arrived with our meal, which we asked to be immediately boxed. Our server magically appeared and asked if she could run the cedit card in my hand. No explanation. No apology. Nothing. She returned the card and receipt and simply walked off. I'm sorry, did I do something wrong? Is it taboo to get pissed about lunch taking 40 minutes? Perhaps an hour is the new industry standard. Oh well. Ugly service begets ugly tips, and for once I don't feel the slightest bit bad.

After lunch I had to hit the downtown post office to retrieve a package needing a signature. At the counter was an interesting specimen. Male. About 40 years old. Five foot five. Bleach blonde 80's metal mullet...with the back side having a triangle (yes, three sided polygon) of reddish brown hair in the middle. Grey pinstripe suit from Goodwill. Grey shoes from your grandfather's closet. Black gloves with the fingers cut off.

As I waited in line, this fine fellow spends 10 minutes reviewing every stamp for sale in the branch. After holding a few up at arms length, our philatelic friend finally opts for the biplanes. Thinking my time had come, I nearly started moving when the collector says "Now I've got to pick out something for Mother." What? Who goes out to the downtown post office at 3 o'clock in the afternoon on a fucking weekday to collect stamps for mother? This guy. That's who. This guy.

Please don't ask why I have time at 3pm on a weekday to go to the downtown post office. It is my local branch though. Whatever.

Today's must have track is Shadowlands by Bruce Hornsby. It can be found on the soundtrack for Spike Lee's Bamboozled. Shockingly beautiful song. The overall tone consistently makes me think of fall nights in the West Village of NY. I've never lived there, but the narrow tree lined streets always come to mind. Such is the power of music.

I suppose it has more to do with the power of art. The trailer for RENT came on the other night and I could feel the tears forming in my eyes. Why? I've seen the show several times and the movie will be a near exact production (as far as I can tell). Something about the music, the story, the overall feeling of hope always gets me in the soft spot. The story of Jonathan Larson is part of it. He devotes something like 8 years of his life to write this show and try to put it on. Finally successful in getting a major production, he dies less than 24 hours before opening night. An aneurysm hits while heating up some water on the stove. Dead on the kitchen floor. He never sees the critical and commercial smash hit that his show would become. I can't tell if that's the ultimate demonstration of the Buddhist belief that life is suffering, or if it's the perfect proof of fate and order in the universe. My head spins when trying to reason through that one. That's what I want though. To create something immortal; something that brings people to their knees with hope and appreciation for life. Jonathan Larson lives forever. On stage, every night.

Fell Off The Wagon

It's a damn good thing I'm not an alcoholic...because yesterday I wouldn't have fallen off the wagon, I would have flipped it over, burned it to the ground, and then shot the driver. It was that kind of day.

"You are not your job."

My new job, which will be another 'rat in the cubicle maze' kind of thing, was scheduled (please say this with a British accent: shed-eweled) to begin today 10/24. While I was not eager to get up before the sun and come home in the dark, I do need the money. And I'm ready to work hard for the money, so hard for it honey. Fate had other plans. Start date has been pushed off to the first of November. Looks like time to sell those DVD's after all.

"You are not your khakis."

I took my car for a state inspection. They promised it would be in the garage within 15 minutes. They lied. I stewed. The car finally goes in and I keep reading. Billy Service Advisor comes out to ask for the wheel lock key. Fuck me running. I don't have it--VW neglected to include it when selling the vehicle. I've known this for about 4k miles, and yes, I should have had it taken care of well before now but I'm lazy about things...even those things that could strand me on the side of the road with a flat tire right when some psychotic killer with a hook breaks out of a nearby mental hospital for the criminally insane. The inspection was nixed and I went outside while they pulled the car out of the garage. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Finally the door opens and the car is produced. The tech gets out and starts to walk away. I noticed the 8 x 10 red plastic sign hanging from my ignition that says "Loose Lug Nuts". Here's the exchange:
Me: (pointing at the red sign) Is this yours?
Tech: It's your car.
Me: No, the Loose Lug Nuts sign.
Tech: What?
Me: This giant red thing that says Loose Lug Nuts.
Tech: That's not yours, we need that back.
Me: I know it's not mine. I don't want it. Are they loose?
Tech: Are what loose?
Me: The lug nuts.
Pause. Blank stare.
Tech: Nah.

Apparently deeming this to be a done deal, he turns and retreats to the garage. I gently pull away, calling information for a personal injury attorney nearby.

"You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake."

This blog will be moving over to its own site in the very near future. You might ask why I would put in that kind of effort since nobody actually reads this. And you'd be right. But I want a bigger space to showcase photography, finger paintings, film projects in the works, and other things that I haven't even imagined yet. It's going to be great.

Here's a new feature that I'll start here: track of day.
Today's track is "My Doorbell" by The White Stripes from their album Get Behind Me Satan. I'm not a huge fan of the stripes, but this song always lifts my mood. It's got some Jackson 5 flavor with the guitar traded in for piano. End result: check it out.

Another Waiter Thing

The movie Waiting has made me reflect on my experiences behind the apron. Here is an account of the typical white trash customer:

1.) Walk in with a lit cigarette. It's not like I didn't figure out who you were by the NASCAR hat and the shirt with the arms conveniently missing, but this leaves no room for doubt.
2.) Put all six kids on one side of the booth so you can see the TV in the bar. Brandine can sit on your side though.
3.) Try to be the waiter's new best friend. Be loud, obnoxious, and most importantly...promise to take care of me before I've even gotten your fucking drink order.
4.) Have me specify which drinks have free refills and which do not.
5.) Two kids meals for six kids. "Brandine don't want nuthin but I'll have that $1.99 side salad with what kind of dressin' you like baby? Right, ranch. Gimme extra ranch."
6.) Continue the gregarious behavior. Laugh when I bring you two refills this time so as not to wear out my shoes by the time you leave through constantly refilling your Coke.
7.) Optional. Order the biggest thing on the menu, eat half, send the rest back.
8.) Less friendly now.
9.) Berate the manager over how awful the 24oz steak was and why didn't it come with any shrimp even though those cute little tails on the plate came from somewhere.
10.) Eat 90% of the free dessert even though your five kids and the other kid whose daddy you ain't, but you don't know that, look on with hungry eyes. And no, I can't feel the distance between you and I.
11.) Drop the severely discounted check. All happiness gone. In fact, you look like you're ready to throw me over the bar. Angrily try to compute the bill on your own, convinced there is some mistake, and then remember that you can barely add. Brandine does the math and realizes that the computer is, in fact, not ripping you off. Get angry with Brandine for taking my side. Throw down a $100 bill and demand change.
12.) Drop off change. An unlit cigarette is dangling from your mouth. You quickly grab a single and happily pronounce that it's for me. I don't even smile anymore. You wrangle your kids and common law wife out of the booth and light up the cigarette just inside the front door, much to everyone's displeasure.

For You Sinners

Let Us Pray

.

Click HERE for an MP3 of the Buffalo Beast's prank call to the 700 Club.

What kind of job is this? Taking phone prayers? Where do I apply?

A Cavalier Thought?

virginia1
Originally uploaded by me.

Bush Family Vacation

Bush Family Vacation
Originally uploaded by ME, bitch!.

Please understand that I'm not making light of the tragedy to hit the Gulf Coast. My wife and I donated to the Red Cross as well as bestfriends.org, an animal rescue working in the area.

That said, this is the fucking truth. Political commentary at its finest. Where is Kanye?

"Vacation, all I ever wanna do..."

Did I ever think I'd be happy to see gas at $3.29 a gallon?

.

In a word, no. In two words, fuck no. I certainly knew that fuel costs would continue to escalate as time went on, but in my mind, that would be the price for a gallon of horse semen to fuel my sperm-propulsion hybrid hover car in the year 2028 (patent pending, obviously).

Is there a more abundant natural resource than sperm? Hell, each...um..."semen battallion" contains millions of soldiers, right? And most of them are alive and wagging their wavy little tails. Why can't we harness the power of all this collective tail wagging and cart our fat asses around?

You would never get stranded on the side of the highway when you can pull over and pump your own fuel. Critics might ask how this would benefit women; how do they get a fill up? I've got several methods you can employ that will guarantee enough 'gas' for that roadtrip to Aunt Luanne's. It would actually be easier for women. If a female pulls over to the side of the road, within seconds, fifteen men would pull over and race to be the first 'help' on the scene. Or, get a slutty friend and you'll always be on the road.

It might be harmful to public beauty to see every manner of asshole jacking off next to his gas tank along the side of the road, which is why we should tap into the animal sperm kingdom. It's an endlessly renewable resource. Seriously, invest now...because you don't want to miss out.

Designer Lunch

.

Headed into the communal kitchen to wash my water bottle, I saw the best lunch bag ever: a Prada shopping bag. I would attribute this to either a very snarky, anti-consumerism environmentalist showing his or her idea of using a Prada "bag", or, more likely, one of the young women in the office next door trying to upsell her image to the other females toiling in obscurity. Seeing how there isn't anybody that cool in the whole fucking building, I'll bet on the latter.

And what, exactly, does this say about her? It was a small bag, so she's extremely brand concsious, but doesn't have a lot of disposable income. Paying $195 for a tie, for her ex boyfriend, who can burn in hell, was a bit pricey, hence the need to get some extra mileage out of the bag. Bringing it to work is clearly a show for the other crotch sniffers hunting around for a NJ husband.

Seeing the bag would probably turn off all but the wealthiest potential mates, because if she's willing to spend (read: waste) that kind of money while she's making entry level income, imagine the damage she can do to your Amex once you're married. This does have the slightly positive effect, for her, of weeding out the less-than-flushed suitors. She may miss out on a happy match, but who the fuck wants that? Show me the money!

She is one of many young women in the New Jersey area who don't want a career, though she protests to her friends and family that she'll only be with a man who respects her intelligence and desire to be a professional. No, the calculated plan has been in motion since high school. Her mother bought her the Coach bags and stayed at home to raise (read: drink red wine all day) the kids, showing that a life of leisure is the right of all semi-attractive girls who know how to buy expensive clothes. On to a private new england college, the goal becomes more focused: a professional job amongst up and coming young men who need a wife to bear a child to shut up their mothers. So she struggles through accounting because the job placement rate is high and she'll be in an office of tie-wearing frat boys who want a wife who will stay home with the baby and stop asking so many questions about their constant late nights at work and mysterious hotel charges on the credit card statement. She'll have a huge wedding with 300 of her closest friends and enemies to show everyone that she was worth it and that's why she was anorexic for seven years, so she could find such a great frat boy and settle down. Pregnant within a year, she starts to lose her mind being trapped in her 3500 square feet of air conditioned suburban splendor so her mother comes over and teaches her how to drink red wine all day but still drive well enough to pick up hubby's dry cleaning without putting any dents into the Escalade. The baby cries a lot but at least it can't tell her to shut up or work seventeen days in a row and "sleep" at the office. She wonders what all the people at the office are up to and if Michelle is still such a bitch. She'll complain to her frat boy that she doesn't know him anymore but it'll blow over when he threatens to trade her Escalade for a Kia Sportage if she wants him to take an easier job and they can also move back to the townhouse but we all know how that would look to the other mothers on the block, tsk tsk. And life will go on like this, until she has her own daughter to dress up like an Asian hooker for Little Miss Beauty Pageants but of course she'll have to lose some weight if she's going to be the bestest five year old in Monmouth County so you didn't want any butter on that roll anyway, did you? And little miss lipstick whore will grow up into a bulemic and/or anorexic cheerleader with her mother carefully looking on from the stands, every now and then using her two index fingers to remind little miss lipstick whore to smile big for all the people who came to see her, forget about the football game. And little miss will head off to a private college in new england where she'll major in business so that she can get that entry level job at 33k a year and buy a Prada tie for her boyfriend who is probably cheating on her but he can burn in hell. Then she'll take the Prada shopping bag out from its spot on the side of the closet in her 1 bedroom condo that her father bought to give her a leg up and she'll carefully unfold that white shopping bag to make sure there are no tears or other visual clues to show that it might not be from this fall's line. The bag will make it to the suburban NJ office kitchen where a stranger will notice it and wonder who the fuck uses a prada bag, to carry a plum and tupperware container of baby carrots, as a lunch bag.

And life will go on.

Jason Mulgrew dot com

Mulgrew can be a really funny read at times. Dig through the archives and you'll find some genious comedy. This paragraph had me laughing out loud at work today. Why was I reading this at work? Shut your fucking face. What are you, some kind of NARC?

It's about Cold Stone Creamery and their policy of singing when you tip them. I couldn't agree more...

"The sad thing is that I don't think I can tip these guys anymore. I mean, I really want to - what with them giving me a delicious and over-sized ice cream treat - but I can't take that singing. And I feel like if I tried to tip the guy but said something like, "You don't have to sing", it would turn into some Larry David-esque episode with him calling me out on it and saying, "What? You don't like our cheerful singing?" and then a customer saying, "Yeah - what's wrong with you?" and then some hot chick saying, "He's just bitter because he's fat!" But unlike Larry David, I would grab a fucking chair and hit the bitch who called me fat and would scream "You fucking bitch! I will kill you and shit on your grave! I will shit on your fucking grave in front of your family and your pets! I was in People fucking magazine! Do you know who the fuck I am! I have a blog! I have a fucking blog!". I am sensitive about my weight. "

Lunch Quiz

Does the kitchen at work smell like:

a.) Curried mystery meat
b.) Burnt maple syrup
c.) Something remotely palatable
d.) A and B but not C
e.) All of the above




The correct answer is...D. Congratulations, you win. Joy.

Five Stars

Sherry?

Once in a while I prove to my wife that I am truly the jackass that she imagines me to be. This particular incident took place back in 01 or 02; I can't accurately remember.

We were up in Jersey on a mini-vacation from NC. Being the discount travelers we are, we booked three nights in NYC at a hotel on Madison Avenue. This was back in the day when you could still get a great deal through Priceline. For $100 a night we got into the Hotel Wales, a very posh boutique on the UES.

I knew I was out my element before I made it in the door. How? Two doormen and a bellman unloading the limo at the curb. We felt it more economical to forgo the cab or limo, taking two trains from Penn Station and schlepping the ten blocks from the Lexington Ave subway station. First class.

Not feeling so debonair in my North Face climbing jacket, I braced myself for the potential snubbing. One of the doormen came over to open the door and welcome us. Nice. The lobby was awash in handsome wood trim and plush carpeting. We made our way to the front desk to explain that we were the degenerates who just raped their $375 room rate via Priceline.

Then it happened. I had to open my mouth and erase all doubt. To this day it remains unclear whether the front desk attendant did it to make us uncomfortable or simply because he was the consumate professional and followed his procedure to the T, regardless of the college students and their backpacks.

"Mr. Brooks, would you care for some sherry while you check in?"

"No, thank you, I just had some sherry on the subway."

This is why my wife loves me, and why the Hotel Wales cancelled its Priceline affiliation before we made it to the elevator.

LDR, again

blointl
Originally uploaded by ME.

Once again I find myself in a long distance relationship, if only for two weeks. My wife is setting up the new homestead in Buffalo while I'm finishing my last two weeks of work here in Jersey. I should be using this time to concentrate on the various projects that need pruning, yet I feel so unhealthy that I'm getting little to nothing done. The hectic sleep schedule and excessive consumption of Pepsi last week have me feeling more than a little run down. Extra water today might help. Probably not. Tried to grill a burger for dinner. As luck would have it, I can't can't grill in the dark. Burned the shit out of it.

At the grocery store I was in the aisle next to this high school kid wearing his Polo inside out so that the label could be read by all. This bothered me.
"Hey, dude."
"Me? What?"
"What are you driving?"
"I've got a BMW three-"
"Shut the fuck up. Nobody cares what you drive. Nor do they care who made your fucking shirt, you fucking tool"

I really should have said this, but starting a fight with a 17 year old isn't going to help me land that dream job, now is it?

Second choice photo

Lindsay diet(&)coke

This was the early front-runner to be the photo representing cocaine and its many splendors in my previous post. Unfortunately, Lindsay slipped to 2nd place when she collapsed halfway through the selection process due to fatigue and narcotic withdrawal.
She's...so...gross...

Cultural vacuum

It's with a frightening regularity that my wife accuses me of being evil: being able to boil holy water, angering god, no heart, etc. It has caused me to be more cognizant of situations where I might be fitting this accusation all too well.
This morning, at the Mobil on the Parkway (have to fill up today, prices change on Fridays), I'm parked next to a passenger van. The driver is wearing a yarmulke. So is the passenger. So are all the passengers. A few in the window were reading what I can only assume to be the Torah, since I don't read hebrew up close, let alone from fifteen feet. They might have been reading erotic bondage stories written in hebrew for all I know; I'm just the goyem. Regardless, it was something solemn.
Where does this involve me? Seeing these people using their commute time to read, pray, and reflect made me take a look at myself. After all, the driver and a few others were looking at me. I had the windows open, eating my frosted strawberry pop-tarts (now with more heathen), sunglasses on, shirt wrinkled and untucked, and the stereo pumping out Eric Clapton's "Cocaine" at 7:45 in the morning. I'm a grade-A cultural ambassador. Does anyone know the hebrew word for godless sinner? Hey, if the cloven hoof fits...

*I have never tried cocaine, nor do I endorse the psychotic lifestyle that goes with it. The picture is the best visual I could find to depict that feeling, and it was a tough selection process.

The cat has escaped its bag

CoverMay
Originally uploaded by BRM.

The word is now official: we are moving to Buffalo. No more secrecy, no more back alley planning and research. I gave my notice on Monday (4 weeks! I'm such a good guy) and the painful process of moving shall commence.

Many or most of you may wonder why the hell a young couple such as ourselves would move to an industrial graveyard of a city like Buffalo; a place once described as the first North American ghost city. Between the ages of 18 and 24, I would ask the same question. After high school I hightailed it out of Buffalo to the farthest school that offered me a full scholarship: Houston. I only spent a year there before leaving to knock around North Carolina and Florida before settling back down and finishing my oh-so-valuable film degree. We were faced with several decisions about where to live after university. LA was ruled out as being too far and too much of a risk. My film career ambitions weren't connected enough to warrant the cross country risk (I only knew 3-5 people there 'in the business').

Eager to return to the liberal northeast, we packed up the Jetta and landed in Jersey...my wife's native land. It's been fun here, but really fucking expensive. After Karen's debacle with her ex employers have left her out of work since early July, we were getting crushed by the high rent and my seemingly endless commute. Her resume is all over the garden state without a nibble. Don't you think a UNC graduate warrants an interview? I certainly do.

My wife and I met in 99, and one of the first things we discovered was our Buffalo connection. She had extended family and both her parents were born there. My entire clan is based in the area. She was, however, very quick to say that she would never live in Buffalo. Never. Too cold, too gray. I couldn't have agreed more; why would I ever go back? Wouldn't that be a defeat?

Perhaps its my maturity (ha) or my desire to own a piece of real estate before I'm 45, but Buffalo is looking mighty fine. The city is experiencing a rebirth; the Elmwood/Richmond/Delaware Park areas are becoming hot places to live again, yet real estate prices are still the lowest of any major city. The winters are still long, yes, and the long term employment outlook is still shaky. However, there is a thriving cultural scene and most of the amenities for young professionals with a couple dollars of disposable income to enjoy.

It comes down to the money. We're getting an expensive apartment, yet it is 1/2 of our rent here in Jersey. There is little to no traffic and aside from gasoline, the cost of living is generally much lower than here. Car insurance goes down by several hundred dollars. If we make the same that we make here, which is looking all but guaranteed, we'll have almost 2k a month to spend or even save (gasp!). It just makes sense.

Who knows what will happen. Perhaps my writing prowess will get noticed and I'll be whisked into a bi-coastal existence, flying to LA every other week to cash big checks--I mean, to be validated as an artist(e). That might suck; I hate flying. It's not that I'm afraid of air travel, it's that I find the process to be excruciatingly tedious and difficult. I'm simply incapable of arriving two hours early for anything.

Okay, let's recap: moving to Buffalo is a good thing. Typical city involved in your typical daydream. It's a great community in the midst of a renaissance. Cost of living puts a ton of extra cash back into my pocket, which means we might be able to do the traveling that we always talk about.

Four more weeks in the cube, then truckin' up to Buffalo. I been thinking you got to mellow slow...

Eat the rich (kids)

I really must make an effort to stop being angry that I wasn't one of the children born to money. The greeting cards say that if I work hard and persevere (perspire), I'll get the things I want PLUS the satisfying feeling of achievement that the rich-born will never know. Sacrifice? Hard work? How lame (read: I suck at staying focused long enough to achieve anything significant). Fuck today, I'm already in a shit mood.

The New Global Economy (or why Neil Young is screwing with my business)

So we called one of our suppliers regarding a missing shipment. He apologizes, claiming that he is out of stock on the papers we need because Neil Young has bought the world supply. Pardon?

Yes, while I've been taking Mr. Young's advice and rocking in the free world, he has decided that his new album insert should be printed on my rare Nepalese paper. To make this happen, his people have been buying up any and all of it they can find. This leaves small business owners such as myself facing a severe shortage (and I would guess upcoming price hike) in the rare paper market.

Damn the free market!

Gaza Strip Club

Have I ever been interested in the Israel-Palestine debacle? Not really. My stance has been clear: shut up. I'm sick of hearing about this never ending struggle to live on a desolate patch of sand. Both sides are equally annoying.

Palestinians- Stop bombing people. Do you want to be taken seriously as a state? Then stop blowing shit up in Israel. It only strengthens their resolve.

Israelis- Shut up. I'm obviously not sympathetic for the simple reason that I don't respect Zionism. In fact, I think it's a big fucking problem. This land was given to you by God? If your grandfather built a house here, or you were most upset about leaving a community that you love, I could sympathize. A little. I might even argue on your side for property rights that help define the modern social contract. But saying that you deserve to live there because your god gave it you? Shut the fuck up. Because my god gave me the red Ferrari F430 Spyder at the dealership. Seriously, he told me. But you don't see me wrapping it in razor wire and defending it with my life, do you?

It comes down to this: anything given to you by your god, especially things that someone else currently owns, doesn't really count. If god disagrees, let him/her/it come down and enforce his/her/its holy property laws.

As long as I'm getting it out on the table, Zionism is pretty ballsy. And stupid. I'd be fine if that entire area sunk into the ocean; they could all fight over the holy fishing rights. What amazes me is American Jews who uproot their children and move them into a war zone. Isn't a parent obligated to keep their child as far out of harm's way as possible? Instead, you're infecting their head with Zionistic fever and a near-militant belief in their religion. Hasn't there been enough bloodshed in the name of god?

The Australian Sexual Euphemism Matchting Game

As long as I've started it, I might as well post this list of Australian euphemisms and dysphemisms. Can you match the description at top with its meaning on the bottom? The winner gets nothing. And Australians can't play...that would be cheating.

Euphemism

To part the corn beef curtains

Blue veined custard chucker

Go in off the red

Knocks like a Mack truck

Horizontal folk dancing

Sink the saveloy

Get your jollies

Exercise the ferret

Park the prawn

Gnash the gash, gnaw the 'nana

In and out like a fiddler's elbow

Tummy banana

Muff munching

Whip the clit

Snapping a widey

Having a wide-on

Map of Tasmania

Bangs like a dunny door

Pyjama python

One-eyed trouser snake

Point Percy at the Porcelain

Flash Fanny at the Fowlers

Norgs, Norks

Pocket Billiards

To make the beast with two backs

Country matters

Skin golf

Rumpy Pumpy

Worm hole

Rub uglies

Horizontal Mambo

Meaning:

Is good at sex

Oral sexSex

To become aroused

Female genital area

Masturbate

Have quick sex

Breasts

Public masturbation

Vagina

Wetter Record Settor

At twenty six years, 7 months, and 7 days old, I have:

Taken a Leak

Taken a Whiz

Made Tinkle

Pissed

Made Weewee

Micturated

Relieved Myself

Spent a Penny

Introduced Mr. Thick Dick to Mr. Urinal

Drained the Snake

Drained the Lizard

Drained the Main Vein

Gone Number One

Pointed Percy at the Porcelain

Splashed One's Boots

Had a Gypsie's Kiss

Had a Jimmy Riddle

Strained the Potatoes

Watered the Garden

Shook Hands With My Monster

Pumped Ship

Had Some Business in the Porcelain Department


approximatly 24,250 times. This is based on an average of 2.5 times per day, which is probably a very conservative guess. Somewhat related, I have never gone Upper Deck nor have I done a Mr. Chicken. Don't ask.

Can you add to this list? Hit the comments with your best and I'll add them to the list, giving full credit of course.

Overheard in New York, again

It's that time again. Time to lift the best stuff from Overheard in New York.

College girl #1: Ooh, bubble tea. I've never tried that. I see signs for it everywhere.
College girl #2: I think it's chai tea but with little balls of tapioca.
College girl #1: Like tapioca pudding kind of tapioca?
College girl #2: No, like...they're bigger. They're blobs and they're kind of black.
College girl #1: No way.
College girl #2: Yes way. Someone at school dumped their leftover bubble tea in the toilet on the first floor of my building, and they didn't flush.
College girl #1: So that's how you knew the balls, the blobs, were black?
College girl #2: Well, yeah. It looked like an octopus had a miscarriage.
--44th between 7th & 8th


Guy: So people ask me, "What am I?", and I say, "Firstly, I'm a person and an American." It's such a contextual paradox. I just can't explain it.
Girl: Huh?
Guy: I just said I can't explain it, it's a contextual paradox.
--N Train

A crazy man mutters to a girl walking by. She ignores him and keeps walking.
Crazy man: God kill all the lesbians. God please kill all the lesbians. Kill the lesbians. God please kill all the lesbians!
Woman on bench: Yeah, I'm sure it's because she is a lesbian, and had has nothing to do with the fact that he has three combs stuck in his afro and smells like a dead goat.
--Columbus Circle station

Drunk guy #1: Hey, how come we never banged our neighbor?
Drunk guy #2: Because she's 17 years old!
Drunk guy #1: OK, then why didn't we bang her mom?
Drunk guy #2: Because we're faggots!
Drunk guy #1: OK, then why haven't we banged each other?
--V Train

Woman: Excuse me, I left my passport in the ladies' room.
Stewardess guy: I'm sorry, madam, you'll have to wait until we make our way down the aisle.
Woman: But I need to get my passport.
Stewardess guy: I understand that, but we cannot move this cart back far enough. We should be through in a few minutes.
Woman: But it's in the bathroom! What if someone takes it?
Stewardess guy: If it's not in the bathroom when you get there, let one of us know and we'll make an announcement.
Woman: No, I can't wait for that to happen, I have to go and get my passport now.
Stewardess guy: I understand, but as I've explained to you before, you must wait. Please return to your seat.
Woman: Oh, you're very nice. You know, in the United States, people don't behave like that.
Stewardess guy: In the Netherlands people don't dress like that.
--KLM Flight to JFK

Why not...

Ever visit T-Shirt Hell? Very funny stuff. Here's a list of the funnier phrases I came across. I certainly don't agree with all of them, but they're funny enough to pass on. Check out the site because many of the shirts with funny graphics need to be seen (and can't be described here). It's not that I'm above stealing their graphics and reposting them, it's more of a laziness thing.
Here's the list:
123 OUT OF 124 HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS AGREE: VIVA ARUBA!

MARY WAS ONLY A VIRGIN IF YOU DON'T COUNT ANAL

MY MEXICAN WORKS FOR LESS THAN YOUR MEXICAN

RAPE IS NO LAUGHING MATTER(unless you're raping a clown)

ARREST BLACK BABIES BEFORE THEY BECOME CRIMINALS

MACE JUST MAKES ME HORNIER

YOUR SISTER IS HOT BUT YOUR MOM DOES THAT THING WITH HER TONGUE

PUT MY WILLY WONKA IN YOUR CHOCOLATE FACTORY

YOU CAN'T HAVE MANSLAUGHTER WITHOUT LAUGHTER

MICHAEL JACKSON DID NOT MOLEST THOSE CHILDREN: HE MADE LOVE TO THEM

I SUPPORT WHATEVER'S TRENDY

I ONLY SUPPORT GAY MARRIAGE IF BOTH CHICKS ARE HOT

OB/GYN KENOBI

I'D RATHER BE FIGHTING THE MAN

I STILL THINK LINDSAY AND NICOLE ARE FAT

WHY DID THE GAYS HAVE TO RUIN THE RAINBOW FOR EVERYBODY ELSE?

Can't Resist

This is some funny stuff. The top pic is the original, and all others are the hilarious variations that people sent in.

Don't view this one unless you're already going to hell.

When you're done laughing, this is just as evil.

Fire Safety

My office has strategically placed fire extinguishers, presumably for my safety. I am, after all, valuable company property. Though not as important as the 450mhz Pentium II on my desk, I'm still worth keeping around.

Like any fire extinguisher, there is a pin that goes through the handle to prevent premature expulsion of the white foam if someone touches the handle by accident. What amuses me: the pins preventing the handle action are zip tied to the handles.

Yes, you read correctly, to prevent losing the pins, they were zip tied to the mechanism that, in an emergency, they desperately need to detach from.
Moral of the story: if there's going to be a fire, carry a fucking knife with you to hack at the zip ties while you and your Pentium II go up in flames.