Monthly Archives: July 2009

Gastro Concerto

Some of us left the office early last Friday and went out for a few beers, then on the way home I stopped at a Four Deuces’ Breakfast at the Golden House. Then I stopped and got some coffee at Dunkin Donuts before going home. So, there I was at home on the couch, it’s maybe 10:30 and I’m in perfect harmony with the universe.  All I had to do was wait about thirty minutes and the evenings crown jewel would work its way down south.

Yes, timing really is everything. The next thing I know Diane from the office below mine calls and said she’s down the street and wants to come over. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I have four eggs, four pieces of bacon, four sausages, four pancakes, plus a side of hash browns speeding south along the Hershey Highway and she’s going to be here in five minutes. If she wasn’t the hottest piece of ass at work, and if I hadn’t been chasing her since last spring, I would have told her that we could hook up tomorrow night.  But she shows up in fifteen minutes with fresh lipstick, glazed over eyes and her thoughts in the gutter.  Now what would you do?

Well, I did everything to stall. I tried to get her to join me for another drink down the street at a bar I know has a good fan in the bathroom. I even tried to fake the ailing Granny and I’m waiting for a phone call, but then she just wanted to console me. And it’s not like I could say “Man, I really gotta shit like nobody’s business”.

Within a couple of minutes I was in some serious pain from trying to hold back the biggest fart outside a pig farm and I don’t know how to spell the sounds that were coming from my intestinal tract, but I think the horn section was in my traverse colon, the brass in my ascending colon, thestrings in my descending colon and the grand piano was parked at my rectum. The first movement of tonight’s Gastro Concerto sort just slid out when she tickled me and it smelled like something toxic from outer space. Just awful.  Moreover, it created enough room for everything solid to move south at approximately 126 miles per hour.

There was no use in trying to hide my situation. It was as blatant as the free sex presented to me five minutes earlier. (Free as in I didn’t even buy her a single drink tonight). So I rolled off the couch and made my way to the bathroom, where the maestro let loose. Needless to say, you can imagine how this night ended. She got a call from her roommate and she locked herself out of their apt and….

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Eyes Down

I took Tuesday off from work to run errands so I could free up a few hours on Saturday. I balanced my checkbook for the last three weeks, gave the bathroom a good cleaning, picked-up my dry cleaning, got an oil change, and then headed over to Standee’s for a quick lunch.

When I got to there, I saw a bunch of cabbies at the counter drinking coffee and lying. I knew they were lying because their lips were moving. Now, there’s three types of people in this world that I never believe a word they say. Lawyers, Consultants and Cabbies. Cabbies from Western Africa all claim to be princes, doctors of some sort or that they’re from Jamaica. Cabbies from the old eastern bloc all claim to be ex-special forces, doctors of some sort or a fringe member of the Russian Mafia. Whatever.

One cabbie I’ve got to know from riding to O’Hare or Midway is Daniel, from Ghana. He’s a good guy, with a family and a mortgage. I’ve met his wife and kids at the cleaners and they seem like the typical American family. Anyway, the guys were busting Daniel’s chops because his idea of gambling is playing scratch-off tickets. These assholes were trying to pass themselves off as Johnny Chan, talking about being comp’d at the boats and going to Vegas a couple of times a year, yada, yada, and I could tell that Daniel was getting uncomfortable with them. So, me being me, I chimed in and asked these high rollers why they were still driving cabs fifteen hours a day, when they were all card sharks. Nobody wanted to fuck with the big dude (me), so the conversation ended with my question.

So, I sat down and waved Daniel over to sit and have some coffee with me. We talked about this and that, and eventually got back to gambling. Daniel said that while he couldn’t afford to go to a boat or Vegas, he wouldn’t mind playing bingo sometime, but about half of his fares came in the evening when bingo games were being played. I told him about a place in Little Saigon that had an illegal bingo game during all hours of the day. He asked if we could go sometime and I said that I was off all day and we could go now if he wanted to, which he did.

We took the red line down to Argyle and walked over to the place, on Broadway. It’s cover is a Vietnamese restaurant, but everyone in the neighborhood knows what goes on the basement. Now, Daniel hadn’t had much interaction with Vietnamese or Thai because they never take cabs. Never. So, he was rather taken aback when they talked, or should I say talked really fucking loud. This is not a racist statement because they do talk really fucking loud.

Behind the door, we found two old women selling the cards and markers, plus a small entry fee. Both of them were about 5’ and 80 lbs, with Virginia Slims dangling from their lips and the smell of Pho Bo hovering around them. The guy working the microphone in the back looked like he was about 120 years old and mean as hell, like a West Virginian coal miner. If he were 90 years younger, he’d be an MMA fighter or Henry Rollins’ killer. Sorry Henry.

Anyway, I hadn’t been to this place since I lived there about fifteen years ago and I had forgotten something that maybe I should have mentioned to Daniel. The old guy doesn’t just speak into the mike, he screams as though he’s re-living his glory days at the Hanoi Hilton. “ATEE (18)!, ATEE! or NYE (9)!, NYE!”. This scared the living shit out of both of us. I felt like screaming out “Charlie’s in the wire!” and diving for cover, but my seventh sense took over before the words came out of my mouth. My seventh sense is the one that’s kept a few whiskey bottles from shattering the back of my skull on more than one occasion I’m sure.

So, we played for about thirty or forty minutes, winning nothing, of course. Daniel said he had played (and obviously heard) enough and asked if we could leave, which I said sure. But, when we got up and started walking towards the door, the old guy stopped screaming and said something to his comrade seated next to him, who in turn, ran back to the Pho Bo ladies and said something, soto voce, to them. It wasn’t just me and Daniel who saw this. Everybody in the fucking basement seemed to be in on what was about to happen but us.

Comrade came up to us with a wad of cash in his hand, “Everything good, yes?”. Heh? I guess he thought we were five-o or something, like we had been staking out the place for a raid. I told him everything was fine, we just had to get back to work. But neither Comrade, nor the old women, seemed to buy that line, so he said “We happy, yes?”.  Comrade just kept pushing it. It being nothing because he never really came out and said “Here, take this money”. Needless to say, now I’m waiting for Bolo Yeung or somebody to pop out from behind a curtain and start kung-fu fighting us. So, we just kept pressing ourselves towards the door, one foot at a time, and eventually got out of there in one piece. Daniel couldn’t get to the L fast enough. In fact, I think he would have broken the one mile run record straight up Broadway if a car would have backfired.

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Like school is the summertime…

So I’m standing in Dominick’s, buying some Lean Cuisines and Zantac and this fat, food-stained shirt-wearing, bad breathed, old wig wearing, but $100 fake fingernail wearing skank behind me takes a call on her cell. Of course it’s bad enough when she’s gotta talk loud enough to drown out my own thoughts, but it’s even worse when her 4 year old kid wants a candy bar and she responds “Shut up mother fucker, before I embarrass you right here.”

I can’t stand that shit. Seeing kids get grabbed by the collar and told they’re going to get their butt spanked as soon as they get home is one thing, but this bitch needed someone to knock her the fuck out. But, doing that in front of the kid will scar him and send me to jail. So, hopefully, someday I’ll be behind her, when she’s without the kid, going down the concrete stairs at an L station, where there are no cameras.

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Exit Stage Left: Interview Strategies, Tactics and/or Lessons Learned

Don’t think for a second that you can screw around and end up jogging four blocks to your interview and not look like an idiot. I had just wrapped up an interview and was talking to the receptionist, when another guy shows up with five minutes to spar. The receptionist told him to have a seat and complete an application.

The problem here was that he wasn’t going to stop sweating for at least fifteen minutes, as he was a total lard-ass. Even if you’re a Gilligan, you still can’t depend on your sweat glands shutting off just because you’re in some a/c.

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Bubbles

Even though he was seen running from the Neverland Ranch as emergency response personnel arrived,  the Los Angeles Police Department has confirmed that Bubbles, Michael Jackson’s ex-pet Chimpanzee, is not a suspect in the stars death. Bubbles has spent the past four years at the Center For Great Apes, home to forty-two chimpanzees, four orangutans, three Kentuckians and five ex-congressmen.

Bubbles graduated from The University of Southern California-School of Business, where he was a tutor for the Trojans football team, and is currently pursuing his M.B.A at Stanford University. He is the Executive Director of the Liskte Institute for Global Rationalization and on the Board of Directors for several charities.

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