A few weeks ago I read a story about Vin Baker, notorious NBA drunkard — not that I’m judging — reportedly losing $86 million in bad investments.
On the one hand I feel bad for the guy. $86 million is a lot of loot to flush down the toilet. But on the other hand, the hand that knows its ass from its elbow, what the fuck was he doing investing $86 million? You invest money so you can GET $86 million. Once you have $86 million you stop what you’re doing and you buy a bunch of coke and an island and a whole mess of shallots (they make everything more delicious). If there’s enough money left over you send your kids to Rutgers.
I’m friends with a dude at work who, all things considered, is a great guy. He’s supportive. He’s honest. We get drunk and cry together. But he has one habit in particular that makes me want to spray him with accelerant in a Brooklyn elevator and light him on fire with a Molotov cocktail.
We go out to eat for lunch a lot, and, as often happens in these situations, someone winds up owing someone else a couple of dollars after the bill’s been settled. Every time I wind up owing him a dollar or two he says, “just buy me a beer or whatever.”
I don’t know if this is just a colloquialism for him, but we work in Manhattan where beers are routinely between five and ten dollars at a bar, plus tip. If I owe you one dollar, spending six bucks for a beer is not an appropriate form of repayment.
I had a dream that my Mom roasted a cat, mistakenly thinking it was mine. It looked just like a crispy roast duck you’d get in a Chinese restaurant, only cat shaped.
When I first saw the abomination (which looked perfectly cooked, to my Mom’s credit) I was devastated. How could my own Mother not only kill my cat, but attempt to feed it to me in an elaborate preparation? I knew I told her about the many problems he was giving me, but surely this was taking things a step too far, don’t you think?
After the initial shock of what had happened wore off, I started to appraise the situation. I had an inexplicable dream hunch that this might not be my cat, so I asked my Mom how she knew it was mine. She showed me a picture of the cat while it was still alive (it’s unclear why she took the picture), and I noticed that this cat didn’t have the same distinctive markings on its haunches that my cat does — black splotches on white fur that make it seem like he’s wearing assless chaps. This cat had no assless chaps!
I quit smoking weed. Well, that’s not exactly true. In fact, I’m smoking weed right now. But in general I quit. I’m not doing it every day any more. That period of my life is over.
I still love weed and everything it stands for, but it makes me lazy to a degree that I am no longer comfortable with. I don’t want to come home, blaze, then sit around marinating in my own mediocrity. It was fun for about ten years, but it’s getting old.
I want to make my life better than it currently is, if only by a little. Maybe if I work hard I can attain a level of success that will enable me to order food three nights a week. And I could get chef specials, too — menu items that are $15 or more, all by themselves. AND I’d get a fucking appetizer. Maybe two! Ooh and some sort of weird tea! The possibilities are almost endless (I think there are 45 factorial possibilities)! The orders would come to around $26 with tax and tip. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
Most vans and trucks have some sort of logo on the side letting you know what businesses they represent. In New York City you see a lot of vans and trucks that forgo this tradition in favor of shoddily applied lettering, and they all use the same cheap letter stickers to do the job. Adding to the bootleggedness, the van owners never line up the letters correctly and the words wind up rising and falling at random. The end result is something very much akin to a ransom note.
Adding to the sketch factor, these vans and trucks never list a business name. It’s always just a street address, as if that holds any meaning for anyone. ”Oh, there goes a truck for 249 Avenue R, Brooklyn, NY 11215. I hear they install great custom awnings.”
I can only assume these vehicles are owned and operated exclusively by rapists, serial killers, and serial rapists. I don’t know why they’d put their own addresses on their vans, but I have a few theories.
I love it when a girl’s pants don’t have back pockets. Without pockets there’s nothing between me and that tush but a thin layer of fabric, easily removed by my mind. I’m assuming classy girls think this look is trashy, but I don’t care. I’m obsessed with it.
Sometimes I’ll see a butt in pocketless pants and start mentally fucking it. Then the owner of the butt will turn around and it’s a 65-year-old, balding, she-beast. And you know what? I’d still fuck that pocketless butt. That’s how strong the allure is.
I completely freak out when I have to wait more than three seconds for an elevator, and if I’m at work, all bets are off. Panic attack city.
First you have the terrifying prospect of Coworker Nuclear Winter. Every second you stand there is another second Creepy Chris can walk out the door and completely fuck your shit up. Ever get stuck walking a block and half to the subway with a coworker? Total agony. I’d rather stick my cat’s dick in a Cuisinart and drink the results.
Last week I saw a subway ad for a pawn shop with a QR-code on it. A QR-code is a small, square bar code of sorts that’s scannable by smart phone. I apologize if that explanation is unnecessary, but I’m not sure if everyone is familiar with QR-codes yet. I’m the last person on Earth with a dumb phone, a point which I finally accepted after seeing this particular advertisement.
Apparently crackheads hawking stolen copper pipes have it together enough to cobble together a few bucks for a smart phone, so what’s my excuse? Why will I not shell out the extra dough for a data plan? It’s not like I don’t spend money on booze and drugs and all kinds of other frivolous, randomly selected shit.
I’m slowly but surely turning into one of my childhood friend’s cheap parents who pretended they were liberal so they didn’t have to pay for cable. I disgust myself.
At work I participate in weekly departmental meetings where I must discuss the progress I have made on the projects I am responsible for. Every so often one of these meetings gets pushed back a day, and when that happens I’m as happy as a human being can possibly be. I don’t care if you’ve just had your first child, hit the winning free throw in game 7 of the NBA championship while somehow simultaneously getting a two-woman blowjob, or polished off a second helping of astoundingly delicious brisket made by your orthodox Jewish neighbors who have invited you over for Shabbat dinner completely out of the blue after never having spoken to you for the first two years you’ve lived in your apartment. You will only be as happy as I am the moment I find out my weekly meeting has been pushed back, and not one bit more.
“You mean I have a full 24 hours to come up with a bullshit excuse for why I haven’t even looked at 85% of my projects? DRINKS ARE ON ME TONIGHT!”
I had sex the other day. Sunday afternoon sex, to be slightly more specific. It was peaceful, tender, yet exploratory, and it happened during halftime of the Giants game. It was everything you could ask for in a sexual experience short of the highly-sought-after, but as-of-yet-unattained two-woman blowjob.
My ass always stinks on the day I buy a new pair of pants, and it’s always the sneaky kind of ass stink. The kind you don’t realize you have until you take off your pants in a changing room and are suddenly confronted with olfactory proof that you can’t take a shit like a normal human being.
I’m always scared that my ass stink is going to make its way out of the changing room, which, let’s face it, is little more than a glorified bathroom stall. If my nose can process the stench and it’s only a couple of feet away from my anus, why can’t the cute salesgirl standing on the other side of the door smell it too?
When you permanently damage your hearing by, let’s say, passing out drunk on the F train with your iPod set to maximum volume, your ears ring. The frequency at which your ears ring is a frequency you will never hear again. It’s that particular frequency’s swan song. I think most people know this Snapple fact by now. It’s not that interesting.
I don’t like using bodega ATMs, but not because I’m afraid of getting my account hacked. I don’t practice caution in any area of my life and ATM selection is no different. I use the first ATM I see, whether it costs me $5.00 or it’s actually a dude in a pirate costume with a box over his head. If it’s there and I need money I’ll use it. There’s a reason why I’m poor.
What I hate about bodega ATMs is that even when I decline the receipt they still show me my balance at the end of the transaction. I declined the receipt because I specifically didn’t want to think about my lack of funds. What kind of fucked up monster programmed these things? He should be prosecuted for war crimes. We kill Osama and dump his body in the ocean but this guy walks free? What’s the difference between the two? There’s no justice in this world.
We were at a wedding this weekend and there were unfortunately no televisions at the venue. Due to these unfortunate circumstances, we were unable to see the one-sided beatdown by the enormous Andre Berto live.
We’ll have more on that fight this evening from our esteemed editor, but first an aside. Between the fourth and the fifth, HBO’s Max Kellerman did an interview with Victor Conte, Berto’s “nutritionist.”
Victor “Walking Fish” Conte is famous for two things: being in Tower of Power and formulating new steroids that were totally undetectable while marketing a mineral supplement that he claimed was the reason for Barry Bonds’ and Marion Jones’ success. He also frequently tested his athletes to make sure that they would be able to beat drug tests.
I love it when someone uses the stall I just took a shit in. It never doesn’t make me laugh, and really, why shouldn’t it? A stranger now has to squeeze poop out of his butt hole knowing full well that another stranger was just in there doing the exact same horrifyingly disgusting thing. Abstractly we all know that other people shit in the toilets we use, but in this situation the poor guy has to literally feel the heat generated by my revolting, hairy buttocks. I know the heat is quietly horrifying him, but he can’t do anything about it. He’s stuck there and I’ve won the game of life for the next few minutes.
We don’t spend much time thinking about public bathrooms because they tend to be unpleasant places that cause unpleasant experiences, but the stuff that goes on in there, both legal and not, is endlessly fascinating to me. I’d watch a 7-season TV series that takes place exclusively in public bathrooms. It could be reality or scripted. Doesn’t matter. I’d download the hell out of it after the first three seasons were finished then watch it on a weekly basis for the rest of its run.