this here is for my [fellers] that be flippin' them birds

So, across the street from our Irving-ree-la here in Brooklyn is located the most ridiculously crappy bodega in all of the crappy world. Its shelves overflow with only the most expired of weird products, in addition to the most perfectly random, dusty, not for sale bric-a-brac.

Oh, and why not throw some cats in there. Yea, that's good, drape them about like bunch of sloppy clowns.

So where I'm going with this is: its owner is this woman from a Spanish-speaking country, who doesn't do much English-speaking, but does plenty of Irving-judging.

Sure, we basically only buy beer, toilet paper, and the occasional candy bar from her candy bars-only-deli case, so maybe her assumption that these items comprise our entire diet would be deserved fodder to fill her cannons what be firing judgmental looks on the reg...

But atop that, she stands on the street corner all day, casting glares up through our windows as I lawfully strut about our creepartment shirtless, hatted, and maybe also singing.

And really, it's more her fault than ours that it requires drinking a few cocktails for a person to even consider shopping at her bodeguernica, so the fact that we are, on occasion, less than 'not drunk' should be stricken from the record in the prejudiced case that I just know she has against us.

So we suffer sentences of half-smiling, sideways looks, and the shakings of a head in utterance of a Spanish idiom that roughly translates to 'confused disgust'.

Hey lady! Guess what?! I'm a weird person. Consider these observations a sneak-preview of the straight to 6 train dvd-bootlegger's bag movie, which will be based on the tell-all My Little Pony diary entry, written unauthorized by my brother Peter, and maliciously e-published post-my eating the last of his marzipan in the freezer just to spite him because I don't even like marzipan. If you follow.

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I WROTE THIS IN 2007, BUT I THINK IT IS STILL AS IRRELEVANT TODAY

I was in the park the other day. I was relaxing as i am wont to do; but this sort of chilling was especially inclusive of illing. Anyhoo, at one pointI swung my head about to survey the luscious mid-brooklyn greenage, when what do I see and cellphone-cam, but this dapper fellow doing stretches on the grass nearby:

Hard to make it out, but yes, he is wearing a bandana on his scraggly long hair. Oh yea, also a bright yellow g-string.

After feeling mildly disgusted by the scene, and sort of laugning about it, I took a step back from my own self. And what should I see but a sweaty, smelly guy on a bench, newspapers scattered all about, shoes off, coffee spilled all over shirt, black and white cookie smeared on face.

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Ready With Ready Wit

I am now employed at a place d'employment where the outfit I'm made to wear is, you guessed it: plaid on plaid on plaid. And not the really attractive plaid you're definitely thinking of. Oh, and part of it is a vest.

And people ask (make fun of, subtly) about the outfits all the time.

"Do you like wearing that?"

"Do you wear that outside of work?"

"Who came up with that horrendous outfit?"

Well, this forced fool-makery has got me thinking.

I wish to someday start a Morrissey-themed restaurant where the uniforms will be leather pants and half-open sweat-soaked shirts, which we waitrons will change like every 15 minutes, or between songs--and we'll play non-stop Morrissey, and we'll only have tables for one; and oh my, well I haven't worked out all of the specifics! Let's just say you'll probably leave crying, but I won't.

For more Morr, please see Ricky's sensical blog: http://morrisseyandpicturesofcats.blogspot.com/

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wait! wait!

My father once, at a rather melodramatically unfabulous time in my life, bestowed upon me a bit of advice that his friend George had received from his father. It was that "girlfriends are like buses-- if you miss out on one, there will always be another coming soon."

And sure, the attitude enabled by this sentiment might be considered the hose end of the slip n'slide to full-on sociopathic behavior. But he told me this because it is funny, and it made me feel better, if by simple distraction.

At any rate, I have recently found in this argument a very serious flaw. What happens when you miss the only bus that was devoid of stenches, and creepy dudes with band-aid hands, and ladies screaming at you about their alimony? And what if that bus was impossible for you to reach in the first place?

I have found that bus. It is my 60-something year-old land lady, Lydia. And oh what a primo bus she is.

Insane? Sure.

Overly talkative and reptitive in her ramblings about painting cabinets and what one might hypothetically cook on a stove (coffee was all she could think of)? Hell yes.

But she has already been taken. Long ago. By a small bald fellow, whom I thoroughly, ragingly envy. If only I had been there to scream this in the Polish church on that fateful day:

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remember that movie 'there goes the neighborhood'?

Because it has become abundantly clear that our hermitic ways will surely guarantee lifetimes of creepy and secluded bachelorhood, Peter and I have decided that the house warming party (the long-awaited Irving Invitational) next month or so will also be your opportunity to give us all of the presents for the weddings that we will never have.

What follows is a gift registry of sorts, but you know, be creative and we DO NOT need another teak salad bowl set. We have two already.

Our new ceilings are pretty high, so don't let this picture limit your generosity.

Peter has always wanted this electric trampoline coffee table. I know, weird, right?

If we want to truly rep the hermit lifestyle, we're going to need a hell of a lot of old newspapers with which to build a complex tunnel system and deter intruders.

Any fallout shelter-type sundries and other supplies that one or two might find useful in an armageddon sort of situation would be great. These gifts would be given without strings like 'please let us into your spooky hermit refuge, the world is ending and remember we gave you all those fabulous sundries' attached.

Yea, so hope to see you at the Invitational, and best of luck out there in the cruel world if we don't.

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if you have nothing else to do...

I support this list 1000%
BOOM

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it tastes like chicken because it is chicken

The other night, I had a lengthy discussion about the land of Africa with a plump, mature employess of a Popeye’s Chicken restaurant, which was located in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn—not coincidentally proximate to the bar where my drink had been gotten on.

After a preheating of African geography quizage, I proved deserving of the cultural informational fruits she could provide me, so we discussed not just her motherland Mali, but Western African culture generally.

She explained the differences between these many countries, but more remarkable was her insistence on their true similarity. I continued to baste her with questions, succulent questions, for five to ten minutes continuously.

NEXT, the manager came over and told me that I could learn about Africa at the library. And that they have maps there, at the library. I thanked him kindly, but explained that I was more interested in the culture and such, and so I continued to speak with the employee.

“Yeaaa. They have books there too. Lots of books. Books about Africa. Books about everything. At the library.” He said, glaring at me with a most ghastly stink eye.

I guess we finally got the manager’s angry point because she went back to boxing chicken, and I took my chicken box back home and ate, like, the whole thing.

By the way, her name is Sonny-something-something (it was printed on my receipt that I just spent 20 minutes looking for, with no success,) and we’re shooting for mid-January for our Malian destination wedding, so best you find safe passage, post-haste.

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i wish it was sunday, cause that's my funday

Hit me with the rock. The latest news in blogsylvania is that Sir Donnie and I have been getting a rather frisky on the athletic front. Oh yes, you are still able to read words and process their frost-brewed meanings correctly. Sportz!

No more hypodermic handball courts for us, we've moved up to the big leagues, and by that I mean to say that we have taken to playing basketball in the playground of an Hasidic elementary school with 12-14 year old young men who come from what we narrow-mindlessly assume are public housing projects. The tougher they seem, the better we feel, because we have been kicking their collective asses.



And don't start thinking it's because we are at all 'good' at this sport of ball and basket. No, we are not. Or that those legally-defined as 'children'/our opponents are necessarily 'bad'. No, they are truly very good at bouncing and throwing the ball around the court, yes they are.

If you really need to know, it's because we are physically taller than they are.

Ohhhh I've watched with tears of joy in my eyes as Sir Donathon, standing in one spot, attempts the same lay-up an astounding eleven times. Missing every time. Gathering every rebound. And the pathetic minors jump and slap at his tank top-clad and tattooed torso, screaming "It's just cause they tall!" Mmmm, and their older brothers watch and laugh at the whole thing from the sideline. Oh sweet winged victory, we shall lock thee in our basement pit of empty pride for all eternity.

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Triple Lutz

Sorry for the delay. I've suffered some trauma of late, and of which I would not care to speak; except to say that it involves me, my bicycle, and a honda civic full of esses who were as high as this cat/chicken hybrid is cute.

I will also divulge that said civic pulled into the path of the route which I navigate to find my way to work. And just between you, me and the internets: they pulled directly in front of me so that I was left with little means to avoid death by hoopdie--save what I actually did to do so, which was kicking a huge dent in the front fender and then rolling over the hood.

The narcotically-endowed gentleman who happened to be in the driver's seat, shoved his doo-ragged numb-skull out the window annnnd:

"Yo, uhhhuhhuh, is it scratched yo?" 

"BleepBleep--¿que dijo we?--Bleepbleep" 

(sweet sounds of the cellphone that he was free-chirping on as he crashed into me, and during all that followed.)

"Yes, there is a huge dent. You hit me with your car."

All the while a large contingent of Hasidic Jewish fellas began to gather on the side of the street so as to get a view of the action.

"BleepBleep--Yo we, una bicicleta loco!--BleepBleep," he explained to his friend on the other end of the freakin speakerphone.

"Uh, actually you were driving loco, man." I retorted, in a somewhat jocular fashion. One might think it unwise to rile a car full of young gentlemen who had been in the process of leaving the Housing Projects, Marcy. 

Anyhoo, if you promise to keep your fat mouth shut, I'll also say that I was in a rush to get to work and he was in a rush to avoid involvement of anyone in uniform, aside from the already present religious nuts; so we shook hands and went on our now somewhat less than merry ways.

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Discobiscaphobia

I just seen a pretty kitty and he had a heart on his collar and he was on the loose when I was on my way home from what may or may have been a bar.

At any mortgage rate, I follow his sonabich for like three blocks (certainly out of my route homeward) and was fixin to fetch him, but like the thorn to the lion, I was overcome by the dipsy doodles whats was in my paw. They desperately needed some t.c.o., with them being the business.

So I walked a little too slow for the rascally beast, and thus I sit at home catless, though fulla corn chips. Glutiosity safed the kitty.

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Le Lilliputiafication de Mon Dignitay

Me: "And here's your check, thank you so much!"

Fat Texan: "Thank you son! Hey, are those eyes blue or green?"

Me: "They're usually blue, but you know, it depends on the color of my bow-tie."

Fat Texan: "Oh! Are you on drugs?!"

Me: "Not yet sir!"

Me: "So, is there anything else I can get for you today?"

Old Beast: "No, but now let me ask you something: when do you get to graduate from the bow-tie to the real tie?"

Me: "Well madame, it actually works the other way around; those gentlemen in the 'real ties' are the bus boys."

Old Beast: "Oh! Well in that case, congratulations!"

Me: "Well thank you! I tied it myself!"

Old Beast: "I'll have some more decaf. And you can take these plates away."

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Not in this Economy!

So apparently The New York Post, (the "'I am Tiger Woods', 'Oh isn't he precious for thinking he, a mentally-deficient 49 year-old roller derby participant, could be Tiger Woods'" of journalism), thought it was necessary to make my job far worse than it already is--now see here! 

The established practices of this, our beloved restaurant industry, make it necessary to add gratuity (a paltry 15%, of which we notify them thricely) to the checks of those dirty, dirty foreigners. 

And not toot my own horn, but honk: my lil restaurant demands a level of service that makes 15% a pretty crappy tip, (id est: we split these tips, our only (and completely taxed) form of income, betwixt about 15 people on an average night, but usually more than that.) And if we put nothing, they leave nothing.

They make it so hard to love them. So. Very. Hard.

So the managerialists of the place put gratuity adding on hiatus, and lo and behold onto your day jobs, the crappiest tips this side of a Boca Raton Denny's start arollin' on in.

Couple of Exempli Gratia wif ratin's:

Table 16, 8:30pm

Guests: Lovely Scottish family if three; dad, daughter, and son turning 12, and "becoming a man." Awesome.

Review: Loved the meal. The view. And me, of course; we actually discussed Scotland and determined that it was quite possible that we were related, as we shared the same last-goddamn-name.

Tip: $41.00 on $435.00 tab (10.6%)

Rating: Negative 3 stars because they were nice, and also he asked his 9 year-old daughter how much to tip because he didn't know.

Table 9, 10:35pm

Guests: 14 yr-old son and his mother, or really rich kid who prefers older escorts and older escort. Spanish. Definitely Spanish.

Review: After drinking the older woman's champagne and acting like he's the king of patchy mustaches throughout the meal, this little bastard has the huevos mas grandes to demand we bring him "una braandeeeez" (a brandy,) at which I laugh and walk away. We then send them a few desserts on the house, so as to coax an earthly tip from them; all they do is sneer and say "No, we do not order theese thiingsss."

Tip: $21.08 on $235.00 tab (11.14%)

Rating: Negative 5 stars

I'll bet you five potatoes that I get to the poor house before you do.

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Editorial

We here at reagnomicsyall would like to take a moment to address a very serious issue afflictingfar too many in this cruel world. A blog-shattering phenomenon which results in a clash of personal universees, and often causes permanent damage to a blog-artisan(s). Of course we are speaking of the unintended discovery of one's blog by their grandmother. Made worse perhaps, by the unheard of grandmother-created counter-blog, which has the apparent aim of completely freaking-out said blogster. 

This should never happen to anyone, and so we beg you to not reveal the newest and improved blogaddress to anyone who might give it to my older relatives.

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Ladies Love Cool Wade

A lil heads up to la corte suprema:

Today, at le restaurant of my discontent, a sweaty-browed lawyer fellow fully solved the abortion issue for me, where no one else has been able to. 

"A life is a life, is a life, and I am so opposed to that thing, [(that which we do not name)], that it makes me freakin' sick! Ughh."

His non-wet companions, apparently sensing the crack of genius and wanting him to elaborate, asked if would ever be willing to talk about the issue with someone of a pro-choice viewpoint. 

 

He says "Listen! Would you sit down and have a discussion with someone who thought it was okay to go into someone else's house and take a [poo*] on their face? Would you? I said, would you ever..." And he stated this concrete comparison a few more times, at increasing volumes and bac levels.

Actually, he repeated this j'acusery just enough times to leave any rational or otherly-mentally-situated person up poofaced creek without an argumenting paddle. It was the dopeness. I hid in the coffee room with Javier.

(*A little censorship; he did, in fact, drop the 'shit' bomb here.)

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Portmantoholism

Blogus passus, et sepultus est, et resurrexit tertia die, secundum scripturas...

Annnnd Reblogification. Inspired by a few three things concurrently. Please, please try to keep up.

Table of Soul Soup Slurping Blogtents

1 ...................... The experiencings of near-death experience.

2 ...................... The New York Times finally agreeing to publish a photograph of my underwears.

3 ...................... The discovery of my life's calling. 

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1:

One dark and spooky night betwixt Xmas and the NYE,  I was gallantly peddling my bicicletta homeward from my place of employ. Upon passing the pesky peejays Farragut, I seen some fellers wrestling on the ground next to a car--about 15 yards from myself. 

And then biggidyBAP the gunz start firing.

I'm here with the wind flowing through my locks, and then BLAPBLAPBLAPPIDYBLAP. 

Yes, twas mas gunfire from these mariposas. The adreneline was surely covering my bullet wound pain, and I pushed on, tears astreamin'. Got home, had some cookies and I guess i just got grazed, cause the bleeding had stopped before I could find it. Really made me think.

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2:

Over leftsided hipster's right shoulder are, in true fact, my underpants. Made me realize that I am simply destined for delicious greatness. Also fame. Click pic for full scoop.

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3:

Frialatorial gastronomy. Deep fat flash of geniuspiration. More to come.

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Webloaf

Three things I am thankful for this year? Frosted. Ribbon. Loaf. So thankful, in fact, that I have been moved to continue this piece of crapola web-based log.



Well, Peteypablo has gone and done it again, he's found an obscure and objectively disgusting recipe from some wacky source, then whipped that crap together providing a ambush of delicious something. It is called Frosted Ribbon Loaf. It is from a 1962 issue of Better Homes and Gardens. It is amazing.

White bread, layers of: egg salad, tomato, ham salad, and the frosting? le cream cheez. Then throw some parsley on that bitch. It resembles a ribbon when sliced. Yumzilla.

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sure do, two .22's in my shoes

Laws do not apply to me. I'm like the prodigal freakin son of goddamn mayor bloombergo. I guess some back story is necessary.

Yesterday I went to court. I was 'summoned' there, as it were. And so I went to fight an erroneous persecution by the powers that be jerks. I guess some back story is necessary.

So right, this one time I was mad illin with Reba on the roof of her building. We were having a marvelous time checkin out the view, when all of a sudden the fuzz came bursting out the roof door with flashlights and tickets drawn.



Unbeknownst to us, or the group of pot-smokin hipstersauruses who were also up there, the roof had just become private property--even to the people who live in the building.

So the poh issued a trespassing ticket to Reba. And then they give me an 'open-container violation,' saying something like I was "drinking this really big can of delicious danish beer, you know the one with the viking on it" or something. Jerks. I think the hipsters hid their pot smokings, so only I got the open container violaysh. I didn't say anything though cause of no snitches.



SOOOO, back to yesterday, I stomped into court repeating to myself: "we're gonna beat this thing. We are gonna beat this thing!"

I waited in a long line with other offenders who were there with similar feelings ("I told that cop I wasn't smokin nothin in that hallway, and I said 'taste it, taste my cup, it ain't no liquor! There wasn't no liquor in that cup!' Not guilty!")

Got to the window and punk behind the counter said: "Your case was dismissed sir. Go home, have a nice day."



Boomshakalaka-shakalaka-shakaboom, I do what I want. I'm gonna go start a methlab in the Statue of Liberty's foot.

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we be clubbed

So Pete really wants to go to this old sailor bar called the "Navy Yard Cocktail Lounge." He passes it everyday on his way to work, but has never found the courage or self-destructive impulse to enter it's creepy front door. See this picture of it's lovely facade? There's just gotta be some ghoulies in there playin a spooky game of ghost darts or something.


Make me an appletini sir! Chop chop!!

'I ain't afraid no spooks,' you say? Well, spooks ain't our biggest concern, you big jerk. It's getting shot or stabbed or fish-hooked by a crusty old sailor with one leg and a bad attitude that's been intoxicatedly stewing since his Navy left the area without him in aught-six.

Anyway, if anyone's interested in going, do tell. And if this outing should prove to be my last, I hereby bequeath this blog to Reginald Veljohnson.

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fishin usa

Once upon a few weeks ago, Pete and I rustled up the fellers for to reassert our Ameri-manliness. And redundantly, to drink beer outside. But how might we truly git r dun in a place like Brooklyn, a frenchy metrosexual's eden? Friggin fishin, der.

So we rented some boats and other fishin fixins, and we were off to encounter god knew what.


Crusty Eric at the prow, living le dream.

We also wanted to bring home the fish bacon, so we made an earnest effort to catcha the fish. We knew this was sure to lead to manly adventuring, and then it did, as predicted. We braved the waves, the soggy sangwiches, and the green squid bits they give you for fish-coaxin. We were awesome.

But then we started catching all this creepy crap like skates and flounderish things, and our wills were tested further.

As the day's end was growing nigh, it began to sprinkle, and there suddenly came from the briny deep a tug upon my rented line. Then ensued a battle betwixt man and fishbeast for what seemed like minutes, and was, until finally I pulled this sucker out the ocean:


Uh, sea robin? Eww.

That thing was so spooky and scratchy-looking. At any goddamn rate, we were all a little queasy, and I was pretty drunk, and it was starting to actually rain, so we went home.

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girls just want to have fun, it's all they really want.

Well Dr. Martin, yesterday I discovered that the color of one's skin can, in fact, be substance enough for a fair judgement of their person, and especially so of their character's content.

It all started and ended when I went to the Hamptonians with my pal Dan, and his younger brother Michael, who is also my pal. As you may know: for many, a trip to the Hampsters is a symbol of status, which they should flaunt in conversation before and after the journey. For me, it is an opportunity to drink beer outside. This fact is key to the story.


Dan munching on seashells like a damned chikmuk.

Well, we made it to the beach all happy and gay, took a swim, ate some sangwiches; the usual beach routine. Of course, what should happen next involves me drinking beer and falling asleep on the beach. Oh, and when you drink beer, you are invincible to the sun's ruthless rays, so no sunscreen required! Or so my drunken self thought!



Anyways, my legs were lobster-red by the end of the day, and this made my bus and subway rides home simultaneously painful and embarrassing-- the latter because it is obvious to the lay passerby that I am an idiot. People pointed at my lobster legs. People whispered about my lobster legs. So I shuffled my lobster legs off the subway and took a cab.


Lobstorious.

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