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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table for four?

Put this in your pipe and smoke it:


cornish game hens + 80z. 'pony' beers

Need I say more? No, no I need not.

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no msg!

Check the goddamn rhyme: on the block directly behind the apt. there stands an estabishment which rivals any and all restauranteuring in its grossnesses and cheapnesses. It is The City Super Buffet. It is a "Chinese Food" restaurant that flaunts any possible restrictions of that title.

Hell yes they have pizza.
Hell yes they have jello.
Hell yes they have me eating there for every single day of the rest of my life.

Below is my cellphone camera photo-essay of City Super Buffet:


Vats upon vats of deliciouses? Check.



Do tell sire, where might I find such delicacies of wonder? City Super Buffet, you say? Oh joy!



Oh right, and their beer is priced like it's the goddamn 1950's.

Try 'n stop me when I'm on my way to City Super.

Try. 'N. Stop. Me.

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tko

Slipslap! You ever been in a fight? With me? No, you haven't. But do you want to? The other night a guy wanted to.

I was out on the street at the eatery whereat I work, fetching cabs for jerks, yea? So I snag a cab and tell the driver to go down the driveway to where the jerks are at, and all of a sudden I hear "Yoooo what the fuck!? That was our cab!!"

So I yells "Sorry, I'm just doing my job!"





Not end of story. I turns around and coming at me is this burly nerd-type feller with one heck of a grizzly beard. Uhoh.

Quoth the nerdling, all hopped-up on some righteousness, or the stuff that maketh man: "Oh yea? Does doing your job involve starting fights?!"

Trop clever, I thought, I sense some hostility. So I was all: "Uhh, I wasn't trying to start a fight with you, you nerd--nice corduroy blazer and--inernet-based cartoon-emblazoned--t-shirt ensemble." (italics, my inner jerkalogue)

Then, his 'probably impressed by such manliness' girlfriend comes roaring out of the background, screaming at me in spanglish, all sassy-like. At that point, I was nearing the end of a 14-hour shift, so I indulged this strangely-paired couple, instead of just, you know, squashing it.



"Honestly? Do you really think I want to be out here on the street hailing cabs for people? Really. Do you think that I am personally getting anything out of taking your cab?" (All sadish-angry-like.)

Then, of course, another cab pulled up, so I gave 'em the old 'right this way, your majesty' bow and hand-over-hand swirl. I walked away. In my ears were half-hearted nerd apologies, and the sound of large tears hitting the lapel of my tablecloth-materialed blazer.

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we bought dinner at the liquor store

What say you we fix up some beer-braised brisket, but instead of using that frenchy monk Chimay crap, we git 'r Ameri-dun and slosh it with some Schlitz? Can I get a 'booya'?

And then let's slip into something a little more comfortable as the beast roasts... I know! How about a delectably intoxicating punch recipe created by Alexis Soyer during the Crimean War (c.1854-1856.) According to Florence Nightingale, Soydawg served up eats "of the most nutritious manner for great numbers of men," on the front lines of battle, and they freakin loved him for it.

Anddd apparently they liked to get silly-drunk as well, so he whipped up this ridiculous concoction for the fellers. I'd say after about 10 quarts of this crap (which includes 2 bottles of champy, a pint of henny, and a mess of rum) I'd be ready to take a whole mess of russkies myself--imperial, commie-bastard-- it's all the same with this juice what's now fit for an unfortunate ending to a frat party.

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trailer trash

Well, what better way to celebrate the release of a trailerpark-based canadian movie, than with a so-themed meal?

Let us pray.

Dear Lord, we thank you for the gifts of completely non-nutritious food-type products which you have bestowed upon our barren table. Tater tots so divinely crispylicious, stacked beside mounds of perfectly deep-fried chicken fingers.

Oh lordly Lord. And that pepperoni, spiced to perfection and placed with cheese and pickled jalapenos upon silver dollar-sized hamburglers ("sliders", dear Lord of bounty, as your infinite wisdom would confirm,) your omnipotence in this realm, among others, hits the biblical spot.

What could possibly punctuate such heavenish gastronomy, but a cool can of Old Milwaukee's finest pilsner brew. Thank you dear Lord, and though this feast may or may not cause me to die much sooner than you had intended, I can now surely do so as a happy man.

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everything's better with chocolate, batter, duck fat, nougat, etc.

Recently I pondered with a friend the milestones of aging. Our lives run in cycles, we unclichély decided. Our innocent and beautiful first bikes or kisses, are replaced by the blindingly pathetic first purchase of all black or white generic sneakers, which we then refer to as tennis shoes, and wear on the commute because they are more comfy.

So in futile efforts to retain our youth we engage in self-deceiving throwings of caution to the winds of time.
No need to wait for midlife to meet these crises; just grab a variety of candy bars from the corner store, mix up a floury batter while polishing off that six-pack of happiness, dip the bars, and start deep-fat frying those suckers in the bubbling duck fat that you just used to cook sixteen pounds of french-fried potatoes.

Yes, it may look like a regurgitated beefaroni, but it tastes something like heaven. I recommend a melty plop of snickers with some medium-rare skor bar and charred potato bits on top.

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for your consideration

the new section:
"Pathetic, or Slightly Less Than Pathetic? You Decide! But Really, I Decide."

This Week

Pathetic:
Aqua-Aerobics

Myopia

Newspaper cartoons that are based on TV cartoons

Snickerdoodles
A case of the dropsies

Slightly Less Than Pathetic:

Camping trips when you bring beer

Skunks

Reginald VelJohnson

Anger

Christmas

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beast river!

Yesterday I was at the job that I wish wasn't mine, and if you think I was bored, then you would be right. Well, I brought my newfangled digi-cam (what that I done got from sinter cloose,) so that I might have some photos for my upcoming Times article entitled "Extra! Extra! Why Asians Love to Have Their Wedding Photographs Taken at a Dirty Pier in Brooklyn: An Exposé, Report."


On any given day, Asians (Above, Above-right) can be observed taking weird wedding photographs. [James Irving/The New York Times]

So I'm clickin and clackin, oblivious to the call of my car parkage duties, when what should the karmatic sea gods bestow upon my supple face but a poorly-mixed cocktail of diluted sewage, industrial chemicals, and death. It came at me in a tremendous spray like that from a dying whale's blowhole--the East River, with its infinite power, had displayed for me its infinite grossness.


Actual photograph of actual spray that actually hit me in the face region of my body. [James Irving/Idiots]

Then, of course, I had to park a car, and then some line cook or something was in the crapper for-freakin-ever, so I had to walk around with eau de NYC's toilette all over my face for like 20 minutes.

To relieve the suspense, I finally washed my face and gave it a little spray with the bathroom's lemon-scented Lysol, for good measure. Then I got back to what I really wanted to do, which was take pictures of kitty.

Me-OW! Kitty looking frisky on the driveway.[James Irving/Cat Fancy]

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