Cheeseburger Links

There should be a surgeon general's warning on the side of these things that says "DO NOT EAT THESE, EVER, OR I WILL COME KILL YOU MYSELF." Let me tell the story.

Coming back from last night's Pacers game, Ben, Elice, Matt and I stopped at a gas station to pick up some drinks/snacks for the drive home. Inside, I took a dare from Ben and Elice to actually eat a "cheeseburger link"--a cheeseburger shaped like a hot dog--and let me preface the rest of the story by saying I was a fool to turn down the $2 they also originally offered me to eat it (in addition to them paying for it).

I buttered it up with some ketchup and mustard (wondering where the "cheese" was since it didn't appear to be on the link) and we marched outside. I took my first bite as we neared the car, and my response to Ben's inquiry on taste was quick and simple: "Bad. Really bad." [Note: I still had the bite of cheeseburger link in my mouth when I said this.] As a matter of fact, another gas station patron who I'm assuming had overheard our dare while inside, passed me on the way out and turned around to laugh at me in only a way another man who had made the same mistake could. Perhaps someday I will laugh at a young, adventurous, cheeseburger link-eating person like myself and thus continue the cycle.

With this talk of the Grand Cycle of the Universe, we should step back for a moment and ask ourselves one obvious question: can the meaning of life be found in a cheeseburger link?

Be cautious not to throw staidness out the window, for this is a matter of immense gravity. What is life, if not to take steps previously unknown, and to digest new, previously unlearned combinations of matter not known to both chemists and cooks alike? ...Digestion. Not the mere breaking down of food into usable enzymes, vitamins and nutrients; rather, we shall look at this "digestion" with the evolution of the species Homo Sapien as our backdrop. Much like the Renaissance, the consumption of a cheeseburger link is an explosion of untold thought, undiscovered emotion, and the assumption that future generations will benefit from my zeal for ascertainment [edit: stupidity]. Like man's progression itself, with knowledge a building whose foundation ages back to the Austrolopithicenes, the journey that began with an innocent dare involving a cheeseburger link finished with a "big bang" of it's own*--the Grand Cycle's own brand of poetic justice, where beginnings and ends lose their meaning, and all we are left with is knowledge. Whoever it was that said "Ignorance is bliss" must have, indeed, sampled the cheeseburger link.


(By the way, in case you were wondering, the cheese was injected inside of the link)
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*you can guess what that was!

Cicada Lovin'

Last night I think I either did something bad, or, something pleasingly funny. After thinking about that for a second, though, I guess the two can be one-and-the-same in certain situations. This involves cicada lovin'.

I was entering my house through the back door when--of course--I had to dodge all the cicadas that were either: dead, stuck on their backs, just sitting there, mating, or flying kamikaze style straight to my body. On the step leading to my door, I saw two who appeared, from the scientific induction skills I gained in high school, to be copulating. Let me tell you, this looks absolutly ridiculous--and rightly so, for an absolutely ridiculous bug.

Well, to spoil the fun, I thought it would be pretty funny to kick one of the squirmers on his back over to the couple to create a wonderfully entertaining (and awkward) situation. Mission accomplished. When I kicked him over there, he actually bumped into the other two, who appeared visably uneasy about the whole thing. Well, the squirmer landed on his feet after that and kind of walked gingerly around the other two, as if to apologize for what he had done. [Hahaha! Take that you stupid bugs!!!] Despite what had occured, nature's magic trodded on as the two cicadas ensured the survival of the species for yet another 17 years. Damn it all.

I'm still laughing about this, though.

Lately, I've been missing the ignition in my car when reaching to start it up. I frustrate matters even worse by refusing to take the .03 seconds to actually look down and find it, instead of what I've been doing so far: poking my key around the general area until I eventually give up and cancel the trip altogether.

You've been warned: if I don't show up, you know why.

Today I went shopping. I don't really like to shop; that's why I only do it once every couple of weeks, or, whenever it is unavoidable (read: when my only pair of underwear has withered to approximately a string & 4 molecules).

First I went to the CD shop All Ears, which is going out of business. New CDs are $3 off and used are $2 off. There are a few bargains in there I guess, but since I'm strapped for cash, I didn't get anything. I could probably wait to slap down $5 on a Bjork import with only 5 or 6 songs. But anyway: I hate other CD shoppers. No real good reason, I suppose, but I hate it when I've found a good letter of the alphabet to flip through and some ASSHOLE comes and stands NEXT TO ME to flip through another row. Man, give me some space!!! I gots to breathe! That aint my style! I mean, seriously, dude, back the f*** off. I don't know...ya know? It's like, there are a million other CDs in the store, go look over there. I aint moving from my letter until I've finished flipping EVERY jewel case, you hear me? So keep on moving.

Along the same lines--and I probably shouldn't be irked by this but oh well--a hipster walked in and started flipping through his letter of the alphabet at break-neck pace. Ooh! Everybody! Look at Mr. Flips em Fast. He can flip the CDs faster than anyone in this store! Listen to him go!
RAR RAR RARRRRRRRRRRR.

I also went to Target and Best Buy, and out of the three stores I visited today, I came away with only a spray bottle of Febreeze for my car. Have you ever noticed that at Target, you WILL see someone you know? It happens EVERY F***ING TIME. Sometimes you'd like to see that person, other times you wish you hadn't ever left that safe, cave-like enclosure you call your "bedroom." At Best Buy, I saw a guy I used to work with at the CSR...a real annoying type who I was nice to but was always screaming "Kill me now" inside my head when I had to talk to him. I walked into BB knowing I'd be insincerely greeted by some schmuck at the door, so I kept my eyes aimed to the right like I had a mission or something. I heard "Hey, how ya doin'?" and, without second-thought or even guilt at my own insincerity, I coughed out "good." and kept walking. Then the dude said hey again and it was him. Oh dear god. I wanted so much to either leave the store or just die on the spot.

You know what I mean.

Anti-Perspirant/Deoderant

Bear with me, and don't worry, this won't be gross. I've a little happy story to share (which I am happy about and happy to report) regarding my last purchase of deoderant. Actually, in recent years it has become vogue to call it "anti-perspirant/deoderant" since apparently it achieves two things: it makes you not sweat and it deoderizes the not-sweat. Fascinating product. Since that fateful day when I first realized I needed some, back in Mr. Griffith's 8th grade history class in 3rd period, I've sampled many brands (even the spray-can) and have arrived at what I believe to be the greatest thing. Ever. I present to you now: Old Spice "Red Zone" Anti-Perspirant/Deoderant Soft Solid--Mountain Rush.

Let me first preface this by saying that I didn't used to be an Old Spice guy. In fact, I thought only real big assholes bought this brand since there's, like, a picture of a yacht on the freakin logo. Also, I tried calling the 1-800 number for a free stick, and curiously enough, it was always busy or entirely unresponsive to my call. So, I was a little jaded for a while.

2 years ago I gave it a try, and haven't gone back. But....when I visited my local stand-alone CVS (I still hate going there...you are not a stand-alone kind of store, CVS!!! I hate you!) I was kind of horrified and shocked, really, that they didn't have the "original scent" that I was looking for. How could this be? After panicing (sp?) I gathered myself again and was forced to make a decision...and I chose to stay within the brand, but to try a different scent--Mountain Rush. Really, my main goal in all of this is not to be one of those guys who reeks of the deoderant he is wearing. What I bought brings a daily smile to my face.

Found at www.oldspice.com, you can try to see for yourself what Mountain Rush really is. Keep in mind, though, that this stick is awesome. I'll paste the product description for you: "Are you a big time sweater? Red Zone Soft Solid is our revolutionary anti-perspirant that provides the best form of wetness protection today. The soft solid is absorbed into your skin, and stops sweat before it starts. There's simply nothing stronger." Indeed, quite simply the truest words ever spoken. Mountain Rush smells very subtly like a field of wildflowers in the peaks of Switzerland, a fresh batch of laundry pulled right out of the dryer, or, if you dare, like Heaven. Just as the name implies, it opposes perspiration and will leave you "deoderized". Go out and buy a 2.6oz stick for yourself. Try it.

If you have questions, make a comment below, or call toll free 1-800-677-7582.

Google Returns =/= Good Supporting Evidence!

Ok so that =/= was my best attempt at the mathematical sign for "does not equal." Anyway. Do you know what really annoys me? When people cite how many Google returns they get on a word or phrase as good supporting evidence for their argument.

"A simple Google search for 'women in the workplace' yielded over 900,830 returns. So, clearly, more women are CEOs and more and more women are earning similar wages on all levels. Also, from this data, . . . "


No, that means nothing, you fool!!

Buffet Dumpers

Today I was reminded of one of society's ills. This goes hand-in-hand with two of my previous posts regarding the scourge of Mother Earth, Water Fountain Dumpers and Sidewalk Spitters. I bring you now to Buffet Dumpers.

I was at my local China Buffet tonight, seated in a booth beside the wall (where I like to be). I was facing the buffet kiosks observing the action, you know, making sure things are tip-top and operating smoothly. My eyes drifted to the kiosk closest to the kitchen, that is to say, the one farthest away. I spotted something that nearly brought me to tears--TEARS OF ANGER.

I had been dining in the vicinity of a Buffet Dumper. This Dumper had attempted to grab a cooked crawfish (you may also call it a 'crayfish' or 'crawdad' if you are from Bloomington) from the Specialty Kiosk with the tongs, but he failed. Instead of placing the crawfish onto his plate, it slipped through his careless grasp and landed on the floor. Like any Buffet Dumper he acted quickly. He knelt down, picked it up and it seemed, for a second, that his conscience had broken through the ironclad walls surrounding his soul, like a beam of light from a dark cloud. He turned, faced the closed kitchen window (I'm assuming he would have tossed it at the chef), and then turned around again. After another second of back-and-forth indecision, he leaned down and brought his eyes--those Buffet Dumping eyes--to the Sneeze Guard. He scanned the seating area for witnesses and all was safe....UNTIL our eyes met.

I kept my composure, meaning: I stayed in my seat and didn't immediately rush him. My eyes stayed locked on target, and I let him know that what he was thinking was NOT ok. He was damn near close to putting the dirty crawdad back from whence it came. After his eyes met my disapproving ones, for a good two seconds I might add, he acquiesced and placed the crawdad onto his plate. In keeping with his strict cleanliness standards, he wiped his hand off on the seat of his blue jeans and commenced piling food onto his plate. Well folks, a disaster was averted there tonight but you can't always count on me for these kinds of things. Make sure that you let Buffet Dumpers everywhere know that it is NOT ok to put food back into the pile after they have dropped it onto the floor.

The asshole even had the audacity to sit in my section. Catecorner from me. I about flipped my chopstick at him NINJA STYLE.

Saw a funny

I was walking through the parking lot at the library today when I walked past a guy my age at his car. He had gotten a parking ticket, and instead of taking it, examining it, and promptly stuffing it somewhere in his car never to be thought of again, he flailed his arm in the air and released the ticket at the top and sort of let his arm hang there in the air and fall slowly in a manner not unlike that of intense personal liberation. It was funny because I don't think he was trying to be funny; I think he thought he was a badass.

While I'm ranting

We're all well versed with my hatred for Sidewalk Spitters. Equally so is my hatred for Water Fountain Dumpers.

A Water Fountain Dumper is one who litters on the water fountain, or, dare I even say, spits into it. This topic is near and dear to me, as I think this is something we should all recognize as a monumental flub, a faux pax if you will, of the Expected Rules of Conduct by which we all (well, some of us) have at least a tattered understanding of. Raised right nearby the barn with the mules and chickens (the Sidewalk Spitters, in other words), are the Water Fountain Dumpers in an overcrowded houseboat which is constantly under seige of capsizing. A bitter bunch, they have nothing but contempt for those who play by the rules. Thus, they dump in water fountains.

Just last Friday in Woodburn Hall, bottom level, I was looking for the nearest water fountain because I was just parched. Parched, I tells ya!! When I came to one, I immediately spotted a hideous sight: someone had placed an apple core on top of the drain on the water fountain. I had to ask myself, "Does this in any way resemble a trash receptacle?" and after a thorough investigation (and by "thorough" I mean "not thorough in any way"), I concluded that it did not. Apparently, a Water Fountain Dumper had been in the area. Asshole. Where the hell do you get off putting an apple core right there, huh?! I don't want to put my face near that! Take it away!

Easy now, Nicky. Save it for later. All I can say is someone better hold me back if I ever find a "loogey" resting somewhere on the pan of the water fountain.

Spitting

Spitting. There are two kinds of spit: (1) Sidewalk spit and (2) Other. I will briefly talk about (1) and then elaborate on (2), the intended purpose of this post.

Firstly, if you choose to spit onto the sidewalk, you are uncooth. You lack maturity, a sense of respect, manners, and above all, you are undisciplined. Surely not an attractive mix. Sidewalk spitters do not care who is behind them; they do not care who is in front of them. They might care about themselves, but don't assume this much with this group. Raised in a barn alongside mules and winged fare, SS's lack the delicate and unspoken understanding of not spitting on sidewalks. These people enter the sidewalk and true to form, they proudly hurl their superfluous gobs of saliva in every which direction. What is unclear is whether this is a display of deliberate, freewilled social rebellion or a woeful soliloquy of the unlearned. Generally, my conclusions have brought me to the latter. This brings us to an important question, and one that should induce a slight turbulence of moral dilemma in all of us, that is: should we be angered at the ignorant or simply feign sympathy to their muted calls for understanding, and keep walking up the sidewalk? A heavy question indeed. On one hand, we, as members of civilized society, and they, who are de facto participants on a mere account of opposable thumbs, absolutely must cooperate together, as there is no other way around it. On the other, the High Society should not have to tolerate such heathen rule-breaking. I've digressed, however, in my original quest to explore the second form of spitting (2). I shall continue now, with a focused mind, and save the current questions for a later date.

I have brought you now to the inspiration for this post, the realm of "Other" spits. By and large, my experience with spitting is robust. Growing up playing baseball in the leagues by the boonies, I encountered countless exhibitions of the act of spitting, even honing my own form of pinpoint-accurate projection, and therefore, I deem myself an authority on the subject. As such, I dare to transcend the boundaries of our casual perception of the act of spitting and implore your accompanyment with me as I pose deeper questions into the psyche of male spitters.
Last night I found myself enjoying the company of old friends at a fine apartment on South Fess, off of Atwater. Long story short, the brother of the host owns an automatic gun of some sort, and though it was unloaded, his drunken wielding of it brought uneasy trepidation unto myself and my good buddy. So we decided to spend a few minutes outside, you know, to avoid um, getting shot or something. Anyway, after we stepped outside the door and stood for a few moments, I spotted a nearby bush. This bush was about a foot tall at most, ragged, and not that green. Somehow, as if a primitive instinct had kicked in inside of me, I turned and aimed, and without giving it a second thought, spat on the bush. Additionally, only moments later my friend ceremoniously did the same. We both didn't question our own or each other's act to the bush. I had to stare straight ahead and collect my thoughts on this important phenomenon as my friend then started regular converstaion. Why did we just do this, I thought to myself. Do you know why? I mean, when guys go into public restrooms, many times they will first spit into the urinal before, uh, patronizing it. Admittedly, I am guilty of this too. Even dogs find that they must go onto a bush or a tree. I would if I could. But WHY did we both just lean over and spit on the bush as if it were something we needed to do?

bit o culture shokku.

in japan:

no tipping. even though i knew this well before i came to japan, it is hard to disengage that part of your restaurant-going schema. well, not that hard. i can't get enough of not tipping. also, the service is about 5 times better than america's service. here they thank you for coming in to their establishment, then they continue thanking you until absurdity. the meal will commence with their committing seppuku, or "ritual japanese suicide" whereby one murders self with a sword to the abdomen, in the ultimate form of gratitude and subservience. all around, it is a treat to be a customer here!!

-n