I didn't expect to be stretch-molested on the train this morning, but then again, I rarely do. Today, I was riding into work on the train, minding my own business as the only person in a block of four seats, listening to music, and reading a book. All of a sudden, a tall, manic looking hipster slides into the seat next to me. Keep in mind that I'm sitting in the inside window seat of a four seat block. Unspoken train etiquette clearly (but silently) states that you don't sit DIRECTLY next to a person on the train if a diagonal seat is available. If you do, you shouldn't be surprised if you are pick-pocketed, knifed, or tickled (a fun creepy prank you should try is tickling someone while glaring at them with a look of complete hatred on your face). It's odd to sit next to someone and take their arm space and it's odd to sit directly across from them and take their leg space. This is a universal truth, like don't drink water in Mexico and if you call yourself Grizzly Man, you're going to die by Grizzlies.*
So I was more than a little surprised when this guy plunked down in the seat next to me. I was then MORE surprised when he started stretching-- for an extended period of time. Stretching is like peeing-- it's acceptable for a short period of time, but after a minute or two it becomes awkward and uncomfortable. Only two types of people have the social leeway to stretch in public-- white women clearly dressed for yoga, and elderly asian people dressed primarily in sweat-gear. White, shaggy hipsters are not on the list. The guy proceeded to stretch his legs, his sides, and his arms, which was a lot like he was playing a game called, "How close can my arm inadvertently come to your face without my noticing or you saying anything?" He then flipped himself forward and grabbed his knees, which was exactly as awkward as it sounds. Fortunately, his next move was to shake. Just like, in general. Just shake. Naturally, this drew some attention, and naturally I was partially subject to this attention, which meant I had to first ignore the looks, then give the "Fuckin' nuts, right?" look back, and then go back to ignoring them when I realized that THEY were giving looks of concern, not judgement. Go figure.
This is not the first time stretching has been out of context in my life. I'm cool talking with you in the gym, but not if your groin is, in any way, being manipulated. In fact, let's just assume I'm generally willing to talk to people as long as they aren't mid-stretch. Because when we're talking AND stretching, we're not having a conversation, we're playing a game called, "Continue Making Eye Contact At All Costs So It's Not Weird." When someone's legs are above their head, it's an elephant in the room-- and it's damn near impossible not to eventually look at that elephant's crotch. Fact of life.
DiscoSoup.Com -- Happy Birthday to The ATX! Even if you don't live in Austin, you should checkout his new website/company www.discosoup.com because it'll be coming to a city near you soon (well, hopefully the ACTUAL city you are in). Get live wait times for restaurants so you don't waste your lunch hour, get all psyched up for nothing, or not have any time to get your hot date drinking before your table is ready.
This Post Was A Stretch,
Witz
*Crocodile Hunter being an obvious exception to this rule. Who saw sting-ray comin?? NOBODY! (too soon?)
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: My Saturday -- A Tale of Dry Cleaner Timetables, Stephen Hawking Impersonations, and Sharks.
It's come to this-- My Saturday
After taking it easy Friday night, and watching "Sex Drive" with my friends, I was ready for a big Saturday. While the movie was far funnier than we expected and had some great one liners, visual gags, and cameos, my Saturday took an immediate turn for the worse.
I woke up, got out of bed feeling great, and promptly threw out my back. How did I do this? Oh, it was while I was completing the incredibly active task of LOOKING DOWN. Yep. Lookin' down. Try it now-- if you can look back up to keep reading, you bested me. Much like how I threw out my entire back in December while DRYING OFF MY HAIR, I managed to render the upper half of my back and neck useless by looking down at my goddamn keyboard. I considered the fact that I might be similar to Benjamin Button: I LOOK young, but I actually have the immune system and body integrity of a 90 year old man. Following this logic, I should be looking forward to when I'm 90 and have the immune system and bodily virility of a 26 year old-- which means having more retirement home STDs than vitamins I am currently taking. But as Titan AE pointed out, "Great. Then you'll be old, healthy, and alone-- because everyone you know will be dead." Maybe then I'll finally have some time to lay back and watch The Wire.
The upside of this injury, of course, was that I knew I'd be able to do a kickass robot impression the rest of the weekend as my head, neck, and shoulders were a team now and only capable of moving in unison. I thought maybe I'd go down to a park and do some street performing for quick cash, but I was all out of silver paint and even if I had some, I'm still not ready to be the guy who "Died from asphyxiation while pretending to be a robot in the park." The downside of the injury was that MY ENTIRE WEEKEND WAS RUINED.
While my fun might have slipped the proverbial spinal disc, Saturday was meant to be a day to get things done, and I'd be damned if I was going to let Looking Down ruin my ability to check off "Deposit Check" and "Go to Dry Cleaners" from my to do list. So, doing my best Christopher Reeves impression, I slid into my car and drove to the bank. It only took me a minute to realize that switching lanes was going to be a problem as I couldn't turn to see the other lanes or the mirrors very well, so I decided to let fate dictate my day some more and just drive like old people or most asian women (This isn't racist. While I don't think that all asian women are bad drivers, more often than not, when I encounter an oblivious driver, it turns out to be an asian woman. The more this happens, the less surprised I am) and switch lanes whenever I felt like without checking to see if a car was already there. I can only assume people were honking at me to alert me of my success as I switched between lanes and eventually parked at the bank.
The Bank is not an interesting part of this story other than the fact that I was an unshowered, unshaven, poofy haired, paralysis impersonating robot AND STILL wasn't the most homeless looking person in the bank (95% chance there was an actual homeless person). I got a double take from the teller who probably assumed my check was fake, but banks aren't exactly in a position to be turning away money, so I was set. The check was, in fact, the "found money" check that was excrutiatingly frustrating to acquire. No part was more painful or amusing, than the hold music for the CT Unclaimed Property Division. Instead of your typical upbeat or classical music, they have the most depressing music I have ever heard. It is essentially sad guitar or piano with a guy woefully telling you his problems in more of a list format than a narrative. "She's gone forever. I'm all alone. I can't afford rent. My dog died. I can't sleep. And also I'm feeling sick. I wrecked my car," and so on. It feels like an overwhelmingly last ditch effort to get whoever is on hold ot kill themselves so they don't ever claim their property and the state can hang onto it.
My next stop was the Dry Cleaner. I'd never been to the Dry Cleaner before to drop off my own clothes, but after depositing my check, I felt cocky and determined to make other people do things that I didn't want to do. I dropped off some shirts and some pants that I haven't worn in months because they were "dry clean only" ("These pants are dry-clean only, which means...they're dirty!" -Mitch Hedberg). The girl asked me when I wanted them ready, which I thought was odd, and so I told her, "Well, as soon as possible, I suppose..." to which she replied, "We typically take 3-4 days," to which I replied, "Ok then," to which she bafflingly added, "Unless you need them sooner, in which case we can put a rush on them for you," to which I had to ask, "How much is that?" to which she had to reply honestly, "The same price."
..........
..........
THEN I WANT THE CLOTHES IMMEDIATELY. Of course I do! Each and every time. I promise that I will always want my clothes as quickly as possible for the price that I am paying. I'm never gonna say, "You know what, fuck it, why don't you hang on to these for a while so you can potentially lose them and they can be useless to me."
CUT TO POTENTIALLY RELEVANT CONVERSATION LAST NIGHT:
Jeremy: How'd you throw out your back?
Witz: Looking down.
Jeremy: Ah. Are you really stressed?
Witz: Not really.
CUT BACK TO DRY CLEANER:
Girl: (knowing full well I have no idea) Would you like your shirts starched?
Witz: (feeling like I was 7 and a friend asked if I'd seen a movie I hadn't, but didn't want to sound stupid) A little.
Girl: A little?
Witz: Yeah, some places...use too much (basing this assumption on the logic that because my mom used to say to me, "You shouldn't eat too much starch," then you shouldn't over-starch your shirts.)
Girl: That's true, some people like them so they stand on their own.
Witz: (exhale). Whew.
These are the reasons why looking down causes me problems.
My last menial task of the day was to vaccuum out my car. My roommate had recently bought a mini-vac to use on her car, so I went to use it. It's badass because it's called THE SHARK! and much like a shark, it's POWERFUL and is mostly concerned with CLEANING THINGS. As it turns out, sharks aren't vaccuums for a reason. While I kneeled on the ground, extending my ruined back out across the seats, I watched as the "head" of the shark (hammer head shark I guess) failed again and again to pick up any crumbs, sand, or leaves that had accumulated in my car (I have no idea how these are the things that accumulate. I mean, sure, there was that brief stint in the Fall when I was picking up children from playgrounds and feeding them cookies to shut them up, but on advice of counsel, I've had my car cleaned since then).
At different points in life, we realize that we are stuck-- either physically or metaphorically. As I lay there across my seat, kneeling on the pavement, unable to raise my upper body, while gripping The Shark vaccuum in one hand and a bag of trash in the other, I realized I was both. Stuck with dealing with the stress (or DOESN'T Picks, if you will) of the world, and physically stuck in the "station wagon fluffer" position. After a few minutes of wondering how I ended up at that point in my life, I crawled my way out of the car and went back inside to enjoy the weekend.
Somewhere In the World A Bubble Is Missing Its Boy,
Witz
After taking it easy Friday night, and watching "Sex Drive" with my friends, I was ready for a big Saturday. While the movie was far funnier than we expected and had some great one liners, visual gags, and cameos, my Saturday took an immediate turn for the worse.
I woke up, got out of bed feeling great, and promptly threw out my back. How did I do this? Oh, it was while I was completing the incredibly active task of LOOKING DOWN. Yep. Lookin' down. Try it now-- if you can look back up to keep reading, you bested me. Much like how I threw out my entire back in December while DRYING OFF MY HAIR, I managed to render the upper half of my back and neck useless by looking down at my goddamn keyboard. I considered the fact that I might be similar to Benjamin Button: I LOOK young, but I actually have the immune system and body integrity of a 90 year old man. Following this logic, I should be looking forward to when I'm 90 and have the immune system and bodily virility of a 26 year old-- which means having more retirement home STDs than vitamins I am currently taking. But as Titan AE pointed out, "Great. Then you'll be old, healthy, and alone-- because everyone you know will be dead." Maybe then I'll finally have some time to lay back and watch The Wire.
The upside of this injury, of course, was that I knew I'd be able to do a kickass robot impression the rest of the weekend as my head, neck, and shoulders were a team now and only capable of moving in unison. I thought maybe I'd go down to a park and do some street performing for quick cash, but I was all out of silver paint and even if I had some, I'm still not ready to be the guy who "Died from asphyxiation while pretending to be a robot in the park." The downside of the injury was that MY ENTIRE WEEKEND WAS RUINED.
While my fun might have slipped the proverbial spinal disc, Saturday was meant to be a day to get things done, and I'd be damned if I was going to let Looking Down ruin my ability to check off "Deposit Check" and "Go to Dry Cleaners" from my to do list. So, doing my best Christopher Reeves impression, I slid into my car and drove to the bank. It only took me a minute to realize that switching lanes was going to be a problem as I couldn't turn to see the other lanes or the mirrors very well, so I decided to let fate dictate my day some more and just drive like old people or most asian women (This isn't racist. While I don't think that all asian women are bad drivers, more often than not, when I encounter an oblivious driver, it turns out to be an asian woman. The more this happens, the less surprised I am) and switch lanes whenever I felt like without checking to see if a car was already there. I can only assume people were honking at me to alert me of my success as I switched between lanes and eventually parked at the bank.
The Bank is not an interesting part of this story other than the fact that I was an unshowered, unshaven, poofy haired, paralysis impersonating robot AND STILL wasn't the most homeless looking person in the bank (95% chance there was an actual homeless person). I got a double take from the teller who probably assumed my check was fake, but banks aren't exactly in a position to be turning away money, so I was set. The check was, in fact, the "found money" check that was excrutiatingly frustrating to acquire. No part was more painful or amusing, than the hold music for the CT Unclaimed Property Division. Instead of your typical upbeat or classical music, they have the most depressing music I have ever heard. It is essentially sad guitar or piano with a guy woefully telling you his problems in more of a list format than a narrative. "She's gone forever. I'm all alone. I can't afford rent. My dog died. I can't sleep. And also I'm feeling sick. I wrecked my car," and so on. It feels like an overwhelmingly last ditch effort to get whoever is on hold ot kill themselves so they don't ever claim their property and the state can hang onto it.
My next stop was the Dry Cleaner. I'd never been to the Dry Cleaner before to drop off my own clothes, but after depositing my check, I felt cocky and determined to make other people do things that I didn't want to do. I dropped off some shirts and some pants that I haven't worn in months because they were "dry clean only" ("These pants are dry-clean only, which means...they're dirty!" -Mitch Hedberg). The girl asked me when I wanted them ready, which I thought was odd, and so I told her, "Well, as soon as possible, I suppose..." to which she replied, "We typically take 3-4 days," to which I replied, "Ok then," to which she bafflingly added, "Unless you need them sooner, in which case we can put a rush on them for you," to which I had to ask, "How much is that?" to which she had to reply honestly, "The same price."
..........
..........
THEN I WANT THE CLOTHES IMMEDIATELY. Of course I do! Each and every time. I promise that I will always want my clothes as quickly as possible for the price that I am paying. I'm never gonna say, "You know what, fuck it, why don't you hang on to these for a while so you can potentially lose them and they can be useless to me."
CUT TO POTENTIALLY RELEVANT CONVERSATION LAST NIGHT:
Jeremy: How'd you throw out your back?
Witz: Looking down.
Jeremy: Ah. Are you really stressed?
Witz: Not really.
CUT BACK TO DRY CLEANER:
Girl: (knowing full well I have no idea) Would you like your shirts starched?
Witz: (feeling like I was 7 and a friend asked if I'd seen a movie I hadn't, but didn't want to sound stupid) A little.
Girl: A little?
Witz: Yeah, some places...use too much (basing this assumption on the logic that because my mom used to say to me, "You shouldn't eat too much starch," then you shouldn't over-starch your shirts.)
Girl: That's true, some people like them so they stand on their own.
Witz: (exhale). Whew.
These are the reasons why looking down causes me problems.
My last menial task of the day was to vaccuum out my car. My roommate had recently bought a mini-vac to use on her car, so I went to use it. It's badass because it's called THE SHARK! and much like a shark, it's POWERFUL and is mostly concerned with CLEANING THINGS. As it turns out, sharks aren't vaccuums for a reason. While I kneeled on the ground, extending my ruined back out across the seats, I watched as the "head" of the shark (hammer head shark I guess) failed again and again to pick up any crumbs, sand, or leaves that had accumulated in my car (I have no idea how these are the things that accumulate. I mean, sure, there was that brief stint in the Fall when I was picking up children from playgrounds and feeding them cookies to shut them up, but on advice of counsel, I've had my car cleaned since then).
At different points in life, we realize that we are stuck-- either physically or metaphorically. As I lay there across my seat, kneeling on the pavement, unable to raise my upper body, while gripping The Shark vaccuum in one hand and a bag of trash in the other, I realized I was both. Stuck with dealing with the stress (or DOESN'T Picks, if you will) of the world, and physically stuck in the "station wagon fluffer" position. After a few minutes of wondering how I ended up at that point in my life, I crawled my way out of the car and went back inside to enjoy the weekend.
Somewhere In the World A Bubble Is Missing Its Boy,
Witz
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Witz Pickz: Supermarket Best Friends & Costco Sized Philanthropy
The Safeway grocery store by my house is known as the Safeway where single people go to be seen...theoretically seen buying toilet paper, frozen pizzas, and anti-itch cream, but seen all the same. I'm not sure if any couples have ever emerged from the Marina Safeway scene, but I do know that, in classic Witz fashion, I now have a super best friend.
The other night, I was standing by the deli, waiting to buy some turkey, when the guy in front of me ordered, "1/2 a pound of turkey..." and then said the six words that let him into my heart: "...and can you slice that thin?"
For some reason, the west coast serves up deli meats unlike anywhere I have been before. Instead of taking your order and slicing what you want, they have displays of different meats, pre-cut and haphazardly thrown in a heap. It's the "abusive husband" way of displaying meat. It's as if they're saying, "No matter how poorly we treat you, you're gonna keep coming back because we're all you've got." And they're right. So what I have started doing is asking for them to slice the turkey at a different thickness so I know my turkey is fresh (and I like thin sliced turkey as opposed to the GD thanksgiving portions slices they have pre-cut). This usually results in me getting a glare from the woman behind the counter, an awkward piece of test turkey (awesome), and generally fresher turkey than I would have gotten.
So when I heard those six words come out of my mystery friend's mouth, I knew I'd found somebody special. I got cocky, like, "This guy is gonna get so psyched when he hears me order..." and started getting anxious, hoping I wasn't going to freak out and say, "and thin can turkey slice?" After some hapless woman ordered roast beef straight from the display it was my turn.
"I'd actually like the turkey too, please."
"Turkey?"
"Yeah-- and could I actually have that thin-sliced too, please?" Boom. These are the moments we analyze and agonize over-- or is that just me? And then--
"Hey, alright, man-- thin sliced!"
"Yep!"
"They slice it so thick!"
"And the heap of meat is gross!"
"Right??"
"I'm just glad I'm not the only one."
And there you have it. Nobody wants to be alone in this world. Everyone is just looking for someone else to order thin-sliced meat with-- or something like that. The rest of this conversation is not entirely accurate:
"Can we be Super Best Supermarket Friends?"
"But not in a gay way?"
"I don't even know how that'd be possible."
"Well, restroom hand jobs."
"Oh. Right. Then no."
"Cool, then I'm for it."
"I'm for it, too, Guy Whose Name I Don't Know and Don't Care To Know."
And from that moment, we became Super Best Supermarket Friends. What does this mean? It means that if we ever run into each other at the deli again, we'll remember and probably be like, "What's up, man?" or "Hell yeah, thin sliced turkey." And if we run into each other in OTHER parts of the store, we'll probably be like "..." and not talk, because "where do I know that dude, from?" And that is the most anyone could EVER expect out of a supermarket friendship-- which is why we are Super Best Supermarket Friends.
Costco-Sized Philanthropy:
I had the best idea ever yesterday. I inexplicably have some random found money coming to me (no, not from the King of Uzbekistan), which is not only proof that the world is illogical, but also that my entire, "Eh, things will work out for me somehow" world view is absolutely correct-- because there is no reason in hell why I should be the recipient of found money. For this reason, I decided that I need to use at least a small portion of the money to help someone. I also recently learned that I still have an active Costco membership, which led me to a brilliant conclusion.
I am going to take at least 100 dollars of my found money and buy bulk Costco food to give to homeless people. Not LOTS of homeless people, but several homeless people. I want each individual homeless person to receive an inordinate amount of ONE THING. "Hey, Homeless Guy, are you hungry? Because here are FORTY FIVE CROISSANTS!" This idea is brilliant because it involves so many aspects:
1) Philanthropy - Feeding the Homeless. Simple.
2) Comedy - Feeding the Homeless obscene amounts of food. The joke potential is huge, and the best part is, the joke isn't on the homeless person, it's simply in the act itself-- like manatees sex. "Hey homeless guy, would you like a dollar...AND FORTY-THOUSAND GOLDFISH CRACKERS!?"
3) Exercise - It would be naive to think we aren't going to have to run away from a lot of people-- homeless and otherwise.
4) Element of Danger - Partially covered by Exercise, this is not necessarily a GOOD philanthropical idea. While we're helping people, we also might be assaulted, knifed, shot, chased, and potentially impregnated. Zen question of the day: If you get pregnant from a homeless person, can you theoretically leave that child anywhere and say "It's living with its father?"
5) Documentary Potential - Absolutely ripe for youtube. A comedic adventure into the true soul of America's streets. Learn who these people are as we give them hilariously oversized, but nourishing goods.
6) Tax Write-Off - Maybe?
7) Feel Good About Myself - Most importantly, I imagine I'm going to feel great about myself after this-- and you should feel great about me too. After all, what's the point of doing something like this, if you aren't going to BLOG ABOUT IT AND TELL EVERYONE??
Here are some more of the things I'm excited to say:
"Hello, do you like ham and turkey, because HERE'S AN EIGHT FOOT PARTY SUB! And here's a twelve gallon tub of mustard because we didn't know if you wanted any on there or not!"
"You should eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, because WE BOUGHT YOU FORTY GALLONS OF PB&J AND TWELVE LOAVES OF WHOLE WHEAT BREAD!"
"Hey, symbiotic homeless couple-- why don't you have a romantic dinner? Here are some candles, garlic bread, and NINETY POUNDS OF FETTUCCINI ALFREDO!!!"
I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait.
Medium-Sliced,
Witz
The other night, I was standing by the deli, waiting to buy some turkey, when the guy in front of me ordered, "1/2 a pound of turkey..." and then said the six words that let him into my heart: "...and can you slice that thin?"
For some reason, the west coast serves up deli meats unlike anywhere I have been before. Instead of taking your order and slicing what you want, they have displays of different meats, pre-cut and haphazardly thrown in a heap. It's the "abusive husband" way of displaying meat. It's as if they're saying, "No matter how poorly we treat you, you're gonna keep coming back because we're all you've got." And they're right. So what I have started doing is asking for them to slice the turkey at a different thickness so I know my turkey is fresh (and I like thin sliced turkey as opposed to the GD thanksgiving portions slices they have pre-cut). This usually results in me getting a glare from the woman behind the counter, an awkward piece of test turkey (awesome), and generally fresher turkey than I would have gotten.
So when I heard those six words come out of my mystery friend's mouth, I knew I'd found somebody special. I got cocky, like, "This guy is gonna get so psyched when he hears me order..." and started getting anxious, hoping I wasn't going to freak out and say, "and thin can turkey slice?" After some hapless woman ordered roast beef straight from the display it was my turn.
"I'd actually like the turkey too, please."
"Turkey?"
"Yeah-- and could I actually have that thin-sliced too, please?" Boom. These are the moments we analyze and agonize over-- or is that just me? And then--
"Hey, alright, man-- thin sliced!"
"Yep!"
"They slice it so thick!"
"And the heap of meat is gross!"
"Right??"
"I'm just glad I'm not the only one."
And there you have it. Nobody wants to be alone in this world. Everyone is just looking for someone else to order thin-sliced meat with-- or something like that. The rest of this conversation is not entirely accurate:
"Can we be Super Best Supermarket Friends?"
"But not in a gay way?"
"I don't even know how that'd be possible."
"Well, restroom hand jobs."
"Oh. Right. Then no."
"Cool, then I'm for it."
"I'm for it, too, Guy Whose Name I Don't Know and Don't Care To Know."
And from that moment, we became Super Best Supermarket Friends. What does this mean? It means that if we ever run into each other at the deli again, we'll remember and probably be like, "What's up, man?" or "Hell yeah, thin sliced turkey." And if we run into each other in OTHER parts of the store, we'll probably be like "..." and not talk, because "where do I know that dude, from?" And that is the most anyone could EVER expect out of a supermarket friendship-- which is why we are Super Best Supermarket Friends.
Costco-Sized Philanthropy:
I had the best idea ever yesterday. I inexplicably have some random found money coming to me (no, not from the King of Uzbekistan), which is not only proof that the world is illogical, but also that my entire, "Eh, things will work out for me somehow" world view is absolutely correct-- because there is no reason in hell why I should be the recipient of found money. For this reason, I decided that I need to use at least a small portion of the money to help someone. I also recently learned that I still have an active Costco membership, which led me to a brilliant conclusion.
I am going to take at least 100 dollars of my found money and buy bulk Costco food to give to homeless people. Not LOTS of homeless people, but several homeless people. I want each individual homeless person to receive an inordinate amount of ONE THING. "Hey, Homeless Guy, are you hungry? Because here are FORTY FIVE CROISSANTS!" This idea is brilliant because it involves so many aspects:
1) Philanthropy - Feeding the Homeless. Simple.
2) Comedy - Feeding the Homeless obscene amounts of food. The joke potential is huge, and the best part is, the joke isn't on the homeless person, it's simply in the act itself-- like manatees sex. "Hey homeless guy, would you like a dollar...AND FORTY-THOUSAND GOLDFISH CRACKERS!?"
3) Exercise - It would be naive to think we aren't going to have to run away from a lot of people-- homeless and otherwise.
4) Element of Danger - Partially covered by Exercise, this is not necessarily a GOOD philanthropical idea. While we're helping people, we also might be assaulted, knifed, shot, chased, and potentially impregnated. Zen question of the day: If you get pregnant from a homeless person, can you theoretically leave that child anywhere and say "It's living with its father?"
5) Documentary Potential - Absolutely ripe for youtube. A comedic adventure into the true soul of America's streets. Learn who these people are as we give them hilariously oversized, but nourishing goods.
6) Tax Write-Off - Maybe?
7) Feel Good About Myself - Most importantly, I imagine I'm going to feel great about myself after this-- and you should feel great about me too. After all, what's the point of doing something like this, if you aren't going to BLOG ABOUT IT AND TELL EVERYONE??
Here are some more of the things I'm excited to say:
"Hello, do you like ham and turkey, because HERE'S AN EIGHT FOOT PARTY SUB! And here's a twelve gallon tub of mustard because we didn't know if you wanted any on there or not!"
"You should eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, because WE BOUGHT YOU FORTY GALLONS OF PB&J AND TWELVE LOAVES OF WHOLE WHEAT BREAD!"
"Hey, symbiotic homeless couple-- why don't you have a romantic dinner? Here are some candles, garlic bread, and NINETY POUNDS OF FETTUCCINI ALFREDO!!!"
I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait.
Medium-Sliced,
Witz
Friday, March 06, 2009
Witz Pickz: 300th Post
This is my 300th post here on Witz Pickz. To be fair, it probably should have arrived sooner, but after the movie "300" came out, I had to delay the release of this pick to avoid any confusion:
"Want to see 300?"
"Wait, the movie or the witz pickz post??"
See. Chaos. So after some months, the 300th post has finally arrived, and it seems only appropriate after these last 299 posts that I am sick. After all, what is Witz Pickz if not a venue for me to passive-aggressively express my woes and cry for help? My immune system has been a top theme here, and so, in a way, I'm glad it has let me down one more time for this post.
There's some kind of mutant cold going around that people all over the country are coming down with. Here's how my mom was able to enlighten me:
MOM: Oh! You have that flu-cold!
ME: Flu-cold?
MOM: Yep-- it's like part flu part cold (part man-bear-pig).
ME: Hm-- my limited medical knowledge tells me that's impossible.
MOM: Nono, it's true-- it's like a flu that shows up as a cold.
ME: A flu that's actually a cold?
MOM: Or a cold that has flu symptoms.
ME: But those are two separate things. Wait, my cold has the flu?
MOM: I'm just telling you what I know! It's gonna get worse.
ME: Wow, thanks Mom.
Which is why I found myself in the waiting room of the doctor's office at 10am this morning, just in case I was about to enter the weekend without meds that I could have used.
I love my doctor's office because it is predominantly asian-- and when I say predominantly, I mean that I am the only white person in a sea of asians. If the waiting room were a can of mixed nuts it'd go, "peanut, peanut, peanut, cashew, almond, cashew, peanut, cashew, FILBERT???" I'm the Filbert. Nobody knows why I'm there or where I came from, and while they shouldn't be frightened of me, my shear size makes them wary. Having said that, it's kind of nice.
The waiting room is a little less depressing and a little more interesting. Why does that guy have a "Quarantine Matters" hat on? Oh well, he's prooobably not massively contagious. Just this morning, a woman next to me was talking on her cell phone loudly. She had cupped her hand around the phone and her mouth to theoretically mask the noise, but it ended up just making her sound like a megaphone-- and because she was speaking another language, she also ended up sounding EXACTLY like the phone voice in Charlie Brown. I like that I can't understand most of the conversations going on, and therefore, don't know what diseases are just around the corner, waiting for me to walk into their wake-- although I have learned that some cognates exist-- "japanese japanese japanese Bronchitis japanese japanese." I like how when the R.N. comes out to call me in, she has absolutely no idea how to pronounce my name. I like that she has to check my sheet to make sure I'm saying the same name she has written down. I like how she takes my blood pressure and weight, but then asks, "How tall?" and nods, impressed, when I say five-ten. "Yep, five-ten, I'm of complete average height."
I didn't expect much out of my visit this morning, and didn't get much. After a quick visit, the doctor informed me that I didn't have an ear infection, but I felt ok because I'd essentially paid 20 bucks to get my accurate weight and blood pressure taken, and to confirm that I wasn't sicker than I thought I was. Worth it. I briefly considered asking for some candy (after all, I'd thought I might have an EAR INFECTION, so since I'm apparently five years old, I might as well make a stab for some treats), but then remembered that I'd most likely get some kind of asian candy, which I'd already had some experience with. Here's how:
While working an event in Los Angeles, my friend Drea and I were given "Strawberry Pocky" as a thank you for helping a couple of Japanese women get registered for the event after the RSVP deadline. I'll save you the trip to the wikipedia and just tell you that Pocky was introduced in 1966 and was a hit amongst Japanese teenagers. It consists of biscuit sticks covered in chocolate and is named "pocky" because it is onomanopoetic for the sound pocky makes when you eat it (awesome). Strawberry Pocky was invented in 1977 (it took them ELEVEN YEARS to make that leap). SO, these women giving us pocky was like me giving someone malt balls as a thank you (Pocky briefly tried to sell their product in malt ball form under the name "Pock-Marks"-- the product was quickly removed from stores). The gift was appreciated, but I wasn't interested in more Japanese candy, this time from the doctor's office.
Which leaves me now, back home, sick, once again telling you about my immunal woes. When I told my boss that I was going to be out again today, she told me with motherly concern, "No partying this weekend!! We'll see you on Monday." I appreciate the sentiment, but this time around I don't think partying had anything to do with it. To the contrary, I wanted to reply that, "I'll also avoid standing out in the freezing cold for 3 hours driving old people in golf carts," which is the real culprit for catching this sucker, and is very much work related.
So here is my plight: My Netflix has left me in this state with only Zak and Miri Make A Porno, which I don't want to waste by watching alone, and Appaloosa, which is one of those movies that sounded like a good idea, RIGHT up until I got it in the mail. I'm out of snacks, but live in a goddamn forest, so I'm going to have to either take a drive to the store or start hunting rabbits (which I was good at in The Oregon Trail). Going out is only a problem insomuch as I haven't shaved in two days, look like late night with Joaquin Phoenix, and am hosting a game of Body Temperature Tag between Arctic Chills and Hot Savannah Nights. I'm also dressed suspiciously like Dexter's "killing suit," but that's not really the dealbreaker. So I'm house-bound. Either the cuddle-crazed cat or a misplaced midget has been pawing at my door for the last hour, so I don't see myself leaving anytime soon. I'm all out of House, Lost, and Entourage episodes to watch online. And I'm about ready to start rooting through the trash for that pocky.
So where am I after 300 posts? Not very far from where I was on post #1. Sure, I have a lot less shame and sure, we've had some good times. I'm PROBABLY more recognizably racist, and certainly lack some morals that we all thought I had. All the same, thanks for readin these last 300 (or the last 100 and then complaining that there aren't more posts for you to read even though you could go back and read the 200 that you missed out on the first time around), and if I survive this round of mutant flu that has a cold that's pregnant with anemia, I hope you stick around for more.
"I Liked the Movie Better,"
Witz
And now, here's a sketch based on in inexplicable scene I saw in which I have to assume two rapists discuss their van purchase:
LARRY: Frank, what the hell is this!
FRANK: What are you talkin' about, you told me to buy a rape van!
LARRY: Ohhh, no, no, no, no, no-- Frank, this is a Dodge Stratus!
FRANK: And?
LARRY: Are you kidding me? And this isn't a rape van!
FRANK: Well not YET it isn't!
LARRY: No, Frank, it never will be! EVERYONE knows that a rape van is a WHITE van with tinted windows. You bought us a-- a FAMILY van!
FRANK: What??
LARRY: Oh come on!
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Seriously??
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Great. Just great. What the hell do we do now-- we look like idiots.
FRANK: Well...At least we don't look like rapists!
LARRY: But we ARE rapists, Frank, we ARE rapists...
FRANK: Yeah...you're right.
LARRY: Now we just look like a gay couple struggling with the adoption process.
The hot new comedy, Frank N' Larry: Serial Offenders, coming soon on Fox.
"Want to see 300?"
"Wait, the movie or the witz pickz post??"
See. Chaos. So after some months, the 300th post has finally arrived, and it seems only appropriate after these last 299 posts that I am sick. After all, what is Witz Pickz if not a venue for me to passive-aggressively express my woes and cry for help? My immune system has been a top theme here, and so, in a way, I'm glad it has let me down one more time for this post.
There's some kind of mutant cold going around that people all over the country are coming down with. Here's how my mom was able to enlighten me:
MOM: Oh! You have that flu-cold!
ME: Flu-cold?
MOM: Yep-- it's like part flu part cold (part man-bear-pig).
ME: Hm-- my limited medical knowledge tells me that's impossible.
MOM: Nono, it's true-- it's like a flu that shows up as a cold.
ME: A flu that's actually a cold?
MOM: Or a cold that has flu symptoms.
ME: But those are two separate things. Wait, my cold has the flu?
MOM: I'm just telling you what I know! It's gonna get worse.
ME: Wow, thanks Mom.
Which is why I found myself in the waiting room of the doctor's office at 10am this morning, just in case I was about to enter the weekend without meds that I could have used.
I love my doctor's office because it is predominantly asian-- and when I say predominantly, I mean that I am the only white person in a sea of asians. If the waiting room were a can of mixed nuts it'd go, "peanut, peanut, peanut, cashew, almond, cashew, peanut, cashew, FILBERT???" I'm the Filbert. Nobody knows why I'm there or where I came from, and while they shouldn't be frightened of me, my shear size makes them wary. Having said that, it's kind of nice.
The waiting room is a little less depressing and a little more interesting. Why does that guy have a "Quarantine Matters" hat on? Oh well, he's prooobably not massively contagious. Just this morning, a woman next to me was talking on her cell phone loudly. She had cupped her hand around the phone and her mouth to theoretically mask the noise, but it ended up just making her sound like a megaphone-- and because she was speaking another language, she also ended up sounding EXACTLY like the phone voice in Charlie Brown. I like that I can't understand most of the conversations going on, and therefore, don't know what diseases are just around the corner, waiting for me to walk into their wake-- although I have learned that some cognates exist-- "japanese japanese japanese Bronchitis japanese japanese." I like how when the R.N. comes out to call me in, she has absolutely no idea how to pronounce my name. I like that she has to check my sheet to make sure I'm saying the same name she has written down. I like how she takes my blood pressure and weight, but then asks, "How tall?" and nods, impressed, when I say five-ten. "Yep, five-ten, I'm of complete average height."
I didn't expect much out of my visit this morning, and didn't get much. After a quick visit, the doctor informed me that I didn't have an ear infection, but I felt ok because I'd essentially paid 20 bucks to get my accurate weight and blood pressure taken, and to confirm that I wasn't sicker than I thought I was. Worth it. I briefly considered asking for some candy (after all, I'd thought I might have an EAR INFECTION, so since I'm apparently five years old, I might as well make a stab for some treats), but then remembered that I'd most likely get some kind of asian candy, which I'd already had some experience with. Here's how:
While working an event in Los Angeles, my friend Drea and I were given "Strawberry Pocky" as a thank you for helping a couple of Japanese women get registered for the event after the RSVP deadline. I'll save you the trip to the wikipedia and just tell you that Pocky was introduced in 1966 and was a hit amongst Japanese teenagers. It consists of biscuit sticks covered in chocolate and is named "pocky" because it is onomanopoetic for the sound pocky makes when you eat it (awesome). Strawberry Pocky was invented in 1977 (it took them ELEVEN YEARS to make that leap). SO, these women giving us pocky was like me giving someone malt balls as a thank you (Pocky briefly tried to sell their product in malt ball form under the name "Pock-Marks"-- the product was quickly removed from stores). The gift was appreciated, but I wasn't interested in more Japanese candy, this time from the doctor's office.
Which leaves me now, back home, sick, once again telling you about my immunal woes. When I told my boss that I was going to be out again today, she told me with motherly concern, "No partying this weekend!! We'll see you on Monday." I appreciate the sentiment, but this time around I don't think partying had anything to do with it. To the contrary, I wanted to reply that, "I'll also avoid standing out in the freezing cold for 3 hours driving old people in golf carts," which is the real culprit for catching this sucker, and is very much work related.
So here is my plight: My Netflix has left me in this state with only Zak and Miri Make A Porno, which I don't want to waste by watching alone, and Appaloosa, which is one of those movies that sounded like a good idea, RIGHT up until I got it in the mail. I'm out of snacks, but live in a goddamn forest, so I'm going to have to either take a drive to the store or start hunting rabbits (which I was good at in The Oregon Trail). Going out is only a problem insomuch as I haven't shaved in two days, look like late night with Joaquin Phoenix, and am hosting a game of Body Temperature Tag between Arctic Chills and Hot Savannah Nights. I'm also dressed suspiciously like Dexter's "killing suit," but that's not really the dealbreaker. So I'm house-bound. Either the cuddle-crazed cat or a misplaced midget has been pawing at my door for the last hour, so I don't see myself leaving anytime soon. I'm all out of House, Lost, and Entourage episodes to watch online. And I'm about ready to start rooting through the trash for that pocky.
So where am I after 300 posts? Not very far from where I was on post #1. Sure, I have a lot less shame and sure, we've had some good times. I'm PROBABLY more recognizably racist, and certainly lack some morals that we all thought I had. All the same, thanks for readin these last 300 (or the last 100 and then complaining that there aren't more posts for you to read even though you could go back and read the 200 that you missed out on the first time around), and if I survive this round of mutant flu that has a cold that's pregnant with anemia, I hope you stick around for more.
"I Liked the Movie Better,"
Witz
And now, here's a sketch based on in inexplicable scene I saw in which I have to assume two rapists discuss their van purchase:
LARRY: Frank, what the hell is this!
FRANK: What are you talkin' about, you told me to buy a rape van!
LARRY: Ohhh, no, no, no, no, no-- Frank, this is a Dodge Stratus!
FRANK: And?
LARRY: Are you kidding me? And this isn't a rape van!
FRANK: Well not YET it isn't!
LARRY: No, Frank, it never will be! EVERYONE knows that a rape van is a WHITE van with tinted windows. You bought us a-- a FAMILY van!
FRANK: What??
LARRY: Oh come on!
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Seriously??
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Great. Just great. What the hell do we do now-- we look like idiots.
FRANK: Well...At least we don't look like rapists!
LARRY: But we ARE rapists, Frank, we ARE rapists...
FRANK: Yeah...you're right.
LARRY: Now we just look like a gay couple struggling with the adoption process.
The hot new comedy, Frank N' Larry: Serial Offenders, coming soon on Fox.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Witz Pickz: Ever Onward-- Wednesday
Here's where I'm at today-- I'm potentially getting the cold that everyone else has (either that or I sleep-swam last night and woke up at 4am covered in pool water and super parched from all my hard work), and have had a song stuck in my head the whole day-- which song? Oh, just a little gem known as "Oh Come All Ye Faithful." WTF?? Fortunately, I only know the good parts, so here's a little window into my brain:
"Oh come all ye faithful.................................Chriiist the Lord!"
Dutch Crunch Bread:San Francisco has an indigenous* bread! Ever since I've been in California, and on the west coast in general, I've seen an overwhelming prevalence of DUTCH CRUNCH BREAD-- rolls to be more precise. I'd never seen this bread before, and started wondering how this phenomenon occurred...WHO is making NEW BREADS??? The answer is NOBODY. Nobody says, "I like sourdough BUT--" they just eat sourdough bread. Chances are, whatever bread you desire has already been made, which is why the next great bread idea turned out to be slicing (and, to a lesser extent, croutons).
SO WHERE DID DUTCH CRUNCH COME FROM, WITZ? Well, reader, it's been around for years, the name is just specific to the San Francisco Bay Area. This explains why, back east, I had the following conversation with my dad while he was on his cell phone at Stop & Shop:
NoPaullution**: What kind of rolls would you like me to get you?
Witz: Dutch crunch if they have it...
NoPaullution: Do you mean a KAISER Roll?
Witz: No, I mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution: Do you mean a CIABATTA Roll?
Witz: No, I really mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution:...Do you mean a BAGUETTE?
Witz: No, I really mean a Dutch Crunch roll.
NoPaullution: Forget it! You'll get what I bring you!
He had never heard of the Dutch Crunch Roll, and therefore, like many, was both frightened and confused by the unknown.
The bread's ACTUAL name is "Tiger Bread" which, as far as I know, is the most badass name of any bread, and is so named for it's cracked pattern. I'm not sure why SF delis took the name and decided to change it to "Dutch" -- a word that is most closely associated with wooden clogs, splitting cost, or a tree disease (although the exterior does look like bark-- sweet, delicious bark), but they did. It has quickly become dear to my heart, and while it does sometimes cut the roof of my mouth mercilessly, I know that, much like tigers, you must take the good with the bad (the good being how cool tigers are-- the bad being a brutal mauling death at the hands of a tiger).
A brief update on Nitro's work-situation: He is alive, but his supervisor went over to the guy and said, "So Kenji...WHAT is WITH the SURGICAL MASK??" Apparently, either Kenji or other people are sick. Nitro's screwed.
Weight Watcher's Mug:
I was just in the work kitchen and there is a Weight Watchers mug. Who, in their right mind, would possibly tote around a mug with "Weight Watchers" on it? Either you used to be fat and now you're skinny and don't want people to know about it, or else EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS YOU'RE FAT. No need to draw attention to it with a logo mug. Plus, the mug was huge which was weird. Like, I'm not sure if it was for tea, a lunch shake, or a bucket of fried chicken. Is it a mug or a burrito koozie? Even weirder, the mug was in the "feel free to use my stuff" area-- like somebody NOT on Weight Watchers is going to pick it up and advertise for the day. That's like wearing a "Race for the Cure" shirt that you found at Salvation Army. Participation is mandatory for these types of things.
Emphatic Diseases:
I realized earlier today that AIDS is one of the most emphatic diseases out there. Like, it is impossible to type AIDS without it looking like you are emphasizing the word.
Person 1: What do you have?
Person 2: AIDS.
Person 1: SHIT!
Person 1: Hey, hope you don't have AIDS! (that'd make a great t-shirt)
AIDS demands the exclamation point-- which is totally fair. It's that visual onomonapoeia that I was talking about a while back. I mean, DAMN, it's AIDS!
I'm Like A Germs Koozie,
Witz
*No matter how you look at it, this is not the proper use of indigenous.
**My dad is an energy consultant named Paul.
"Oh come all ye faithful.................................Chriiist the Lord!"
Dutch Crunch Bread:San Francisco has an indigenous* bread! Ever since I've been in California, and on the west coast in general, I've seen an overwhelming prevalence of DUTCH CRUNCH BREAD-- rolls to be more precise. I'd never seen this bread before, and started wondering how this phenomenon occurred...WHO is making NEW BREADS??? The answer is NOBODY. Nobody says, "I like sourdough BUT--" they just eat sourdough bread. Chances are, whatever bread you desire has already been made, which is why the next great bread idea turned out to be slicing (and, to a lesser extent, croutons).
SO WHERE DID DUTCH CRUNCH COME FROM, WITZ? Well, reader, it's been around for years, the name is just specific to the San Francisco Bay Area. This explains why, back east, I had the following conversation with my dad while he was on his cell phone at Stop & Shop:
NoPaullution**: What kind of rolls would you like me to get you?
Witz: Dutch crunch if they have it...
NoPaullution: Do you mean a KAISER Roll?
Witz: No, I mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution: Do you mean a CIABATTA Roll?
Witz: No, I really mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution:...Do you mean a BAGUETTE?
Witz: No, I really mean a Dutch Crunch roll.
NoPaullution: Forget it! You'll get what I bring you!
He had never heard of the Dutch Crunch Roll, and therefore, like many, was both frightened and confused by the unknown.
The bread's ACTUAL name is "Tiger Bread" which, as far as I know, is the most badass name of any bread, and is so named for it's cracked pattern. I'm not sure why SF delis took the name and decided to change it to "Dutch" -- a word that is most closely associated with wooden clogs, splitting cost, or a tree disease (although the exterior does look like bark-- sweet, delicious bark), but they did. It has quickly become dear to my heart, and while it does sometimes cut the roof of my mouth mercilessly, I know that, much like tigers, you must take the good with the bad (the good being how cool tigers are-- the bad being a brutal mauling death at the hands of a tiger).
A brief update on Nitro's work-situation: He is alive, but his supervisor went over to the guy and said, "So Kenji...WHAT is WITH the SURGICAL MASK??" Apparently, either Kenji or other people are sick. Nitro's screwed.
Weight Watcher's Mug:
I was just in the work kitchen and there is a Weight Watchers mug. Who, in their right mind, would possibly tote around a mug with "Weight Watchers" on it? Either you used to be fat and now you're skinny and don't want people to know about it, or else EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS YOU'RE FAT. No need to draw attention to it with a logo mug. Plus, the mug was huge which was weird. Like, I'm not sure if it was for tea, a lunch shake, or a bucket of fried chicken. Is it a mug or a burrito koozie? Even weirder, the mug was in the "feel free to use my stuff" area-- like somebody NOT on Weight Watchers is going to pick it up and advertise for the day. That's like wearing a "Race for the Cure" shirt that you found at Salvation Army. Participation is mandatory for these types of things.
Emphatic Diseases:
I realized earlier today that AIDS is one of the most emphatic diseases out there. Like, it is impossible to type AIDS without it looking like you are emphasizing the word.
Person 1: What do you have?
Person 2: AIDS.
Person 1: SHIT!
Person 1: Hey, hope you don't have AIDS! (that'd make a great t-shirt)
AIDS demands the exclamation point-- which is totally fair. It's that visual onomonapoeia that I was talking about a while back. I mean, DAMN, it's AIDS!
I'm Like A Germs Koozie,
Witz
*No matter how you look at it, this is not the proper use of indigenous.
**My dad is an energy consultant named Paul.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: Threat of Death! (but not death threats yet...I'm not that well known...)
I had turkey chili in a bread bowl last night, so I apologize if I come off a little cocky today. Also last night, I learned that my dreams are only getting less creative.
After watching Lost, I was chased around by John Locke for approximately ALL OF THE GOOD HOURS OF SLEEP. At first I thought maybe he was chasing me because he wanted me to be the recipient of a monetary reward or because we were playing a game of Rock N' Jock Tag (First of all, does anyone remember Rock N' Jock sports on MTV? Why was the Burger King spokesman of the time always involved?? Secondly, I'm not sure why I'd be involved in this game of tag, although I suppose being in a local band does constitute some mild rocking). As it turned out, he didn't want to do either of those things-- he wanted to kill me (really creative, brain). I wasn't sure if he wanted to kill me right up until the point where he declared, "I'm going to kill you," and I guess I appreciated his honesty. Apparently, he was planning on using his bare hands, so I grabbed a knife and stabbed him a few times, but check this out: in dreams, Witz can't even grab a quality knife-- I stabbed him with a serrated bread knife, which did little to no harm, but certainly gave him the idea of producing a LARGER non-bread themed knife with which to murder me. I took this as my cue to run upstairs to my parents room and hide behind the door.
Now, I don't know if you've ever seen any movies ever, but running upstairs and hiding behind the door rarely works. It didn't even work when I was a kid playing real hide and seek, so I'm not sure why I would think "John Locke: Dream Murderer" would be foiled. He wasn't foiled and right before I got stabbed repeatedly, my brain decided it would be a good time to wake up and realize it was exactly 1 minute before my morning alarm was set to go off. Fantastic. "Well, you're not murdered-- now get up and go to work." The scales remain balanced.
Back to real life. It has recently come to my attention that a man in Turbo's office has started wearing a surgical mask to work. Turbo is not a doctor, nor does he work in a hospital. He is in film production. Context is important in situations like these, so let's back up. If this man had previously learned that his lungs were fragile and he needed to avoid as many germs as possible, the mask would be ok. If the man was considering a career change to construction, but wasn't sure he could handle the facial constraints on a daily basis and wanted to try it out for a bit before quitting his current job, that would be ok. If the man drew different faces on the surgical mask each day as hilarious jokes to pass the dreary routine of the work week-- that would be ok. But none of these things are the case. The case is that about a month ago, this man went apeshit in the office (like, Take Your Face apeshit), destroyed his cubicle and went off on one of his co-workers.
Somehow, because of his talent, he wasn't fired. This means that if ever asked "How good are you at your job?" he can reply, "Well, I pulled a Chris Brown on my cubicle, physically threatened my office neighbor with company property that I then destroyed, and still work here..." To which the only possible reply is, "I didn't know you could sing." After a brief departure, he returned and for the last week, he has sported the surgical mask look. There are only two options left: the man IS Asian, and therefore, through simple facts, it is possible that he has reached that time in his life when he inexplicably dons a surgical mask in public. It's a lot like what I understand The Happening to have been about-- only this mask thing would probably get better reviews. So MAYBE that's the case. But since we all know that's NOT the case, let's just state the obvious-- Turbo is about to have a front row seat for biological warfare. "Everyone in the first three rows WILL get skin lesions," type stuff. This raises an interesting question: Can Turbo ask for paid time off given the fact that a dude in his office is clearly planning something?
Turbo: I'd like to not come in for a while.
Boss: And why is that?
Turbo: Well, uh, exhibit A is the batshit crazy tech guy wearing a goddamn surgical mask to work.
Boss: Hm. Do you have any reason to believe he's dangerous?
Turbo: ...I mean, there was that incident where he picked up an "Anatomy of a Human" statue and beat it repeatedly against his cuble wall until it broke into a thousand pieces.
Boss: Goo...and how long did that take to do?
Turbo: An awkwardly long time!
Boss: That does sound violent.
Turbo: It was terrifying!
Boss: And now he's--
Turbo: --wearing a surgical mask to work, yes.
Boss: Is there ANY chance he's considering becoming a construction worker and wants to test out the facial restraints before getting into a life of heavy sanding?
Turbo: It's possible, yes. But I don't--
Boss: --Alright. Well. Let's go with that for now...aaaaand...let me know if he shows up wearing any air-tight suits, k? This is my home phone number-- you can reach me there if he does.
Turbo: What? You're leaving?
Boss: Hell yeah, I'm leaving, are you kidding me? The guy's wearing a surgical mask in the office-- I'm not dying for a Michael Bay film!
I say it's more than valid to get out of the office-- "If you see something, say something," the NYC Subway says, and in this case, Turbo has definitely seen something. Otherwise, what I think Turbo needs to do is take the offensive. Start wearing OTHER crazy shit to the office and make sure he sees you. Borrow my, "Gun Control Is Being Able to Hit Your Target" t-shirt. Watch The Rock really loudly and keep repeating the, "Paper or plastic!" scene to get him thinking about the consequences of his actions. Put on TWO surgical masks and say, "Gotta double bag it, bro." Get in his head. And in the off-chance that the guy reads Witz Pickz and uses this as a reason to speed up his attack-- my bad!
I'm DEFINITELY Wearing A Surgical Mask to Work,
Witz
After watching Lost, I was chased around by John Locke for approximately ALL OF THE GOOD HOURS OF SLEEP. At first I thought maybe he was chasing me because he wanted me to be the recipient of a monetary reward or because we were playing a game of Rock N' Jock Tag (First of all, does anyone remember Rock N' Jock sports on MTV? Why was the Burger King spokesman of the time always involved?? Secondly, I'm not sure why I'd be involved in this game of tag, although I suppose being in a local band does constitute some mild rocking). As it turned out, he didn't want to do either of those things-- he wanted to kill me (really creative, brain). I wasn't sure if he wanted to kill me right up until the point where he declared, "I'm going to kill you," and I guess I appreciated his honesty. Apparently, he was planning on using his bare hands, so I grabbed a knife and stabbed him a few times, but check this out: in dreams, Witz can't even grab a quality knife-- I stabbed him with a serrated bread knife, which did little to no harm, but certainly gave him the idea of producing a LARGER non-bread themed knife with which to murder me. I took this as my cue to run upstairs to my parents room and hide behind the door.
Now, I don't know if you've ever seen any movies ever, but running upstairs and hiding behind the door rarely works. It didn't even work when I was a kid playing real hide and seek, so I'm not sure why I would think "John Locke: Dream Murderer" would be foiled. He wasn't foiled and right before I got stabbed repeatedly, my brain decided it would be a good time to wake up and realize it was exactly 1 minute before my morning alarm was set to go off. Fantastic. "Well, you're not murdered-- now get up and go to work." The scales remain balanced.
Back to real life. It has recently come to my attention that a man in Turbo's office has started wearing a surgical mask to work. Turbo is not a doctor, nor does he work in a hospital. He is in film production. Context is important in situations like these, so let's back up. If this man had previously learned that his lungs were fragile and he needed to avoid as many germs as possible, the mask would be ok. If the man was considering a career change to construction, but wasn't sure he could handle the facial constraints on a daily basis and wanted to try it out for a bit before quitting his current job, that would be ok. If the man drew different faces on the surgical mask each day as hilarious jokes to pass the dreary routine of the work week-- that would be ok. But none of these things are the case. The case is that about a month ago, this man went apeshit in the office (like, Take Your Face apeshit), destroyed his cubicle and went off on one of his co-workers.
Somehow, because of his talent, he wasn't fired. This means that if ever asked "How good are you at your job?" he can reply, "Well, I pulled a Chris Brown on my cubicle, physically threatened my office neighbor with company property that I then destroyed, and still work here..." To which the only possible reply is, "I didn't know you could sing." After a brief departure, he returned and for the last week, he has sported the surgical mask look. There are only two options left: the man IS Asian, and therefore, through simple facts, it is possible that he has reached that time in his life when he inexplicably dons a surgical mask in public. It's a lot like what I understand The Happening to have been about-- only this mask thing would probably get better reviews. So MAYBE that's the case. But since we all know that's NOT the case, let's just state the obvious-- Turbo is about to have a front row seat for biological warfare. "Everyone in the first three rows WILL get skin lesions," type stuff. This raises an interesting question: Can Turbo ask for paid time off given the fact that a dude in his office is clearly planning something?
Turbo: I'd like to not come in for a while.
Boss: And why is that?
Turbo: Well, uh, exhibit A is the batshit crazy tech guy wearing a goddamn surgical mask to work.
Boss: Hm. Do you have any reason to believe he's dangerous?
Turbo: ...I mean, there was that incident where he picked up an "Anatomy of a Human" statue and beat it repeatedly against his cuble wall until it broke into a thousand pieces.
Boss: Goo...and how long did that take to do?
Turbo: An awkwardly long time!
Boss: That does sound violent.
Turbo: It was terrifying!
Boss: And now he's--
Turbo: --wearing a surgical mask to work, yes.
Boss: Is there ANY chance he's considering becoming a construction worker and wants to test out the facial restraints before getting into a life of heavy sanding?
Turbo: It's possible, yes. But I don't--
Boss: --Alright. Well. Let's go with that for now...aaaaand...let me know if he shows up wearing any air-tight suits, k? This is my home phone number-- you can reach me there if he does.
Turbo: What? You're leaving?
Boss: Hell yeah, I'm leaving, are you kidding me? The guy's wearing a surgical mask in the office-- I'm not dying for a Michael Bay film!
I say it's more than valid to get out of the office-- "If you see something, say something," the NYC Subway says, and in this case, Turbo has definitely seen something. Otherwise, what I think Turbo needs to do is take the offensive. Start wearing OTHER crazy shit to the office and make sure he sees you. Borrow my, "Gun Control Is Being Able to Hit Your Target" t-shirt. Watch The Rock really loudly and keep repeating the, "Paper or plastic!" scene to get him thinking about the consequences of his actions. Put on TWO surgical masks and say, "Gotta double bag it, bro." Get in his head. And in the off-chance that the guy reads Witz Pickz and uses this as a reason to speed up his attack-- my bad!
I'm DEFINITELY Wearing A Surgical Mask to Work,
Witz
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Witz Pickz: Tuesday Grab Bag
To prove to you all that I'm not thinking clearly these days, I need to tell you that Pepperidge Farms Sausalito Cookies were on sale for two dollars a bag last week and I only bought two bags. Let me say that again: Delicious cookies chock full of macadamia nuts and chocolate chunks were being sold for 25 cents each and I only bough two packages of them. I SHOULD BE SLEEPING IN BEDS OF COOKIES! I should be exfoliating with the crumbs of sugary goodness. "Witz, your skin looks amazing, what are you using?" COOKIES! My car should be overflowing with bags of desserts, with the windows down, so as I go over bumps, bags of glory fly out the windows like a package of Jiffy Pop. People should be saying, "There goes Witz, he really knows how to live," but instead they're saying, "There goes Witz, his car sounds like two cow-bells boning. So clearly I am not thinking correctly, and can't be held accountable for my lack of posting
National Pancake Day:
Today is National Pancake Day which means that PANCAKES have the exact same number of holidays per year as black people! Sorry, Martin Luther King, Jr., but you affected people just as much as bisquick mix. Now, I understand that MLK Day is a NATIONAL holiday and that some people get the day off, but some people don't get the day off. On National Pancake Day, EVERYONE gets a free short stack of pancakes at IHOP, and that's even more of a bonding experience because then everyone who got the free pancakes can feel massive indigestion together. The only way MLK, Jr. Day brings people together is by making all white people super awkward and have to pretend they're way more into African Dance Exhibitions than they actually are.
Ordering Pizza:
The pizza server girl at Whole Foods screwed me over last night. She took one look at me and seemingly decided, "I hate this human being." How come when I get slices of pizza, I don't feel like it's socially acceptable for me to say, "I want THAT piece!" like I'm still five years old? MOREOVER, how come people don't look at me and KNOW that "He wants that piece!" when they grab a slice for me. I obviously want the huge, "Oops, we cut the pizza into fourths" slice for my three dollars instead of what Mitch Hedberg deemed the "Donate it to charity" percentage slice (% of people who if they won the lottery would donate the money to charity). Is it just a power trip? Do the pizza slingers do it just to taunt me and show that they hold some level of control over my life? I mean, I would feel a certain sense of SHAME giving someone the tiny slice and charging the same amount as the huge slice. Is this their way of calling me fat? I mean, I might be one pizza encounter away from being nicknamed, "Big Slice Witz" but I'm kind of ok with that. Big Slice is kind of a dope nickname. I'm prooobably gonna start calling someone I know Big Slice as soon as possible, and it's not necessarily because they're large. So maybe it's time we took a stand and started telling them exactly which slice we want. Maybe we need to get aggressive about it. "Nope, not that slice you fucking moron, the good one. What are you, retarded?" Everyone knows which slice, "the good slice" is. So let's start acting like it.
This Was An "How Much Do You Love Work" Slice of Comedy,
Witz
P.S. A special farewell to The Big Ho (self-titled) who is off to join the Peace Corps in Honduras today and will inevitably suffer a painful death at the hands of the chupacabra. Never underestimate the chupacabra my friends, for that is when they are at their most dangerous. Until the inevitable, though, stay safe.
National Pancake Day:
Today is National Pancake Day which means that PANCAKES have the exact same number of holidays per year as black people! Sorry, Martin Luther King, Jr., but you affected people just as much as bisquick mix. Now, I understand that MLK Day is a NATIONAL holiday and that some people get the day off, but some people don't get the day off. On National Pancake Day, EVERYONE gets a free short stack of pancakes at IHOP, and that's even more of a bonding experience because then everyone who got the free pancakes can feel massive indigestion together. The only way MLK, Jr. Day brings people together is by making all white people super awkward and have to pretend they're way more into African Dance Exhibitions than they actually are.
Ordering Pizza:
The pizza server girl at Whole Foods screwed me over last night. She took one look at me and seemingly decided, "I hate this human being." How come when I get slices of pizza, I don't feel like it's socially acceptable for me to say, "I want THAT piece!" like I'm still five years old? MOREOVER, how come people don't look at me and KNOW that "He wants that piece!" when they grab a slice for me. I obviously want the huge, "Oops, we cut the pizza into fourths" slice for my three dollars instead of what Mitch Hedberg deemed the "Donate it to charity" percentage slice (% of people who if they won the lottery would donate the money to charity). Is it just a power trip? Do the pizza slingers do it just to taunt me and show that they hold some level of control over my life? I mean, I would feel a certain sense of SHAME giving someone the tiny slice and charging the same amount as the huge slice. Is this their way of calling me fat? I mean, I might be one pizza encounter away from being nicknamed, "Big Slice Witz" but I'm kind of ok with that. Big Slice is kind of a dope nickname. I'm prooobably gonna start calling someone I know Big Slice as soon as possible, and it's not necessarily because they're large. So maybe it's time we took a stand and started telling them exactly which slice we want. Maybe we need to get aggressive about it. "Nope, not that slice you fucking moron, the good one. What are you, retarded?" Everyone knows which slice, "the good slice" is. So let's start acting like it.
This Was An "How Much Do You Love Work" Slice of Comedy,
Witz
P.S. A special farewell to The Big Ho (self-titled) who is off to join the Peace Corps in Honduras today and will inevitably suffer a painful death at the hands of the chupacabra. Never underestimate the chupacabra my friends, for that is when they are at their most dangerous. Until the inevitable, though, stay safe.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: "Only the Good News"
KJR-FM thinks you're an idiot (but thinks your friend is cute!). I have been recently informed by Sparks Gal that 95.7 FM in Seattle is featuring "Only the Good News" on their station. This means that they are avoiding all negative headlines and simply giving the listeners some positive views of the world. As I've stated before with "Just the Bunches cereal," we don't live in a "Just the Bunches" world and we don't live in an "Only the Good News" world. Moreover, just like how the best books have tragic endings, USEFUL news is usually the bad stuff. I don't need to know that 3 orca whales had babies in Puget Sound (though I bet they are cute as helllllll and might eat me), but I might want to know that a plane crashed in Buffalo. I can't imagine this conversation going in my intellectual favor:
Person: Did you hear about the down-swing in the Asian markets that could potentially cause millions of people in the US to lose their jobs?
Witz: No, but did you hear about how baby seals are adorable?
Person: ...You're an idiot.
Witz: True.
Beyond that, how do you have "Only the Good News" on a radio station. What about the fact that TRAFFIC exists?? "For those of you taking 405...take this time to think about all the people that love you! For those of you NOT taking 405, realllly good decision-- we can't say why." Or maybe just, "There's absolutely no traffic on Quarry Road today!" If it's raining outside, do they just skip over weather? How do they judge if that's good news or not-- maybe there's a drought or someone wanting to watch a movie and not feel guilty for staying indoors? "It's a great day to not have to go outside!"
You know who listens to the station with "Only the Good News?" Everyone who's going to die in the event of an emergency. I'll be hearing about the Earthquake or the Tornado or the Alien Invasion and packing my things and getting out of town while Good News Gary gargles a tsunami.
But hey, let's give them the benefit of the doubt. Let's take a closer look at some of their Good News:
Country at 93% Employment! GREAT! Ohhhh wait, that means we're at 7% unemployment, which is actually considered quite high! Thanks for manipulating statistics-- that's not good news, that's just you thinking I'm dumb.
Walmart Posting Record Sales! Phew! I was worried the large mass corporation that treats their employees the worst and sells primarily to poorer people would go under! That sounds great for Walmart, but I'm not exactly sure how it helps anyone else. Luckily, they're posting record sales, which means more people feel they have to shop at Walmart in order to afford their lives, which means more people are getting poorer. That's one step above saying, "Food Stamp demand at all time high!"
As Sparks Gal says, "How does their announcement that they are hosting a Rod Stewart show at Quilceda Creek Casino constitute 'good' news? And how will they report a serial killer on the loose? Maybe in terms of 'the victims have all been unpopular, thus far'??"
If 95.7 was being remotely facetious, I could understand, but they mean it and that worries me. Are people that dumb? That fragile? If so, I plan to rob them. Again and again.
"Who's breaking into my house? Who's there??"
"It's ME-- the tanking U.S. economy!"
"The who? I've never heard of you...are you sure you're not conjoined monkey twins that can juggle?" (Note: All monkeys look like twins to me. I also believe all monkeys can and ought to be able to juggle. Furthermore, identical twins would be so much easier to tell apart if they were conjoined. "I can never tell which one's Ricky! Oh-- yes I can-- he's the one always on the left.")
Not Only the Good Posts,
Witz
Person: Did you hear about the down-swing in the Asian markets that could potentially cause millions of people in the US to lose their jobs?
Witz: No, but did you hear about how baby seals are adorable?
Person: ...You're an idiot.
Witz: True.
Beyond that, how do you have "Only the Good News" on a radio station. What about the fact that TRAFFIC exists?? "For those of you taking 405...take this time to think about all the people that love you! For those of you NOT taking 405, realllly good decision-- we can't say why." Or maybe just, "There's absolutely no traffic on Quarry Road today!" If it's raining outside, do they just skip over weather? How do they judge if that's good news or not-- maybe there's a drought or someone wanting to watch a movie and not feel guilty for staying indoors? "It's a great day to not have to go outside!"
You know who listens to the station with "Only the Good News?" Everyone who's going to die in the event of an emergency. I'll be hearing about the Earthquake or the Tornado or the Alien Invasion and packing my things and getting out of town while Good News Gary gargles a tsunami.
But hey, let's give them the benefit of the doubt. Let's take a closer look at some of their Good News:
Country at 93% Employment! GREAT! Ohhhh wait, that means we're at 7% unemployment, which is actually considered quite high! Thanks for manipulating statistics-- that's not good news, that's just you thinking I'm dumb.
Walmart Posting Record Sales! Phew! I was worried the large mass corporation that treats their employees the worst and sells primarily to poorer people would go under! That sounds great for Walmart, but I'm not exactly sure how it helps anyone else. Luckily, they're posting record sales, which means more people feel they have to shop at Walmart in order to afford their lives, which means more people are getting poorer. That's one step above saying, "Food Stamp demand at all time high!"
As Sparks Gal says, "How does their announcement that they are hosting a Rod Stewart show at Quilceda Creek Casino constitute 'good' news? And how will they report a serial killer on the loose? Maybe in terms of 'the victims have all been unpopular, thus far'??"
If 95.7 was being remotely facetious, I could understand, but they mean it and that worries me. Are people that dumb? That fragile? If so, I plan to rob them. Again and again.
"Who's breaking into my house? Who's there??"
"It's ME-- the tanking U.S. economy!"
"The who? I've never heard of you...are you sure you're not conjoined monkey twins that can juggle?" (Note: All monkeys look like twins to me. I also believe all monkeys can and ought to be able to juggle. Furthermore, identical twins would be so much easier to tell apart if they were conjoined. "I can never tell which one's Ricky! Oh-- yes I can-- he's the one always on the left.")
Not Only the Good Posts,
Witz
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: Restaurants Making Me Sound Like A Tool
Maybe I haven't posted since last week, but YOU haven't either, so think about THAT! Now...let's talk about how restaurants feel the need to make us sound like complete assholes.
I want to know exactly when it was that restaurants decided to be "wacky." When did the first person say, "You know what this hamburger place needs? Deep Sea Diving equipment on the walls." When did somebody first think that putting crazy crap on the walls of a place would make me want to eat there. I'm not saying it hasn't worked, I'm a sucker for Applebee's, Ruby Tuesday's, Friendly's, and Chili's (at least before they reduced their fry portions, which was literally the smallest change they could have made that generated such a huge reaction out of me), but I have to assume that the "wacky" aspect of restaurants came from somewhere, and it feels American. I have a hard time believing that some German place said, "Zou know vut zis place needs? Snow shoes and tennis rackets on zee walls!" Then again, Germany and "flair" haven't worked out so well in the past. Probably not a lotta "Stars and moon" themed birthday parties-- "What if we just have moons, honey?"
So let's assume this is an American thing. A "we have so much stuff, we're putting our stuff on walls where we eat just for the fuck of it" type thing. Nobody's gonna fire a nuke at us when we have spare guns, nets, and fishing spears strung up on the walls of Red Robin. HOWEVER, America took it too far. The crazy shit on the walls evolved into crazy stuff on the menu-- not cuisine, but names of dishes. Red Robin is a good place to start. I feel slightly foolish ordering the Honky Tonk BBQ Pork Sandwich. Unless I'm getting kick-backs from them, I don't feel the need to say that I want the WHISKEY RIVER BBQ Burger-- I'll just take the BBQ Burger. That's tame, though, compared to some places where you have to say things like, "I'd like two Al Pacinos, one Chick-quille O'Neil, and a Sly Stallone please (also, I'm either ordering for several people or am ridiculously fat in this scenario)." Sandwiches probably started this trend, with delis giving their eats clever names after people they know or geographic locations. Historically, I don't think ancient peoples had this. "Gimme two King Ramses II's, one What Sphinx In Here, aaand three Incest In the Mornings...thanks."
I blame America, and things have gotten out of control. Fine, I'll order a "Robin Williams" in SF if you have some sandwich that's "totally off the wall and enough meat to put hair on your chest." I'll order a "Jerry Seinfeld" in NY if I want to know, "What's the deeeeeal with turkey bacon!? Is it turkey? Is it bacon? Is it just a way for Jews to wink at God and say, 'Gotcha!?' Who cares! This sandwich is delicious!!" BUT I WILL NOT sit there, looking a waiter/waitress in the eye, and say something that we are both aware makes me sound like a complete tool. Case and point, here is the worst menu I have ever seen in my entire life: CAFE GRATITUDE IN SF...if you read the menu and don't want to stab someone's eyes out, then you aren't literate. I understand it's a healthy lifestyle type place, but wouldn't you then want to make it MORE accessible to the average person? For those of you not perusing the menu, well, first of all, that's really lazy and you probably have the time to do so, and second of all, take this one example off the kid's menu:
I Am A Hero: Noodles and Sauce (Spiral-sliced vegetable “noodles” in marinara sauce with Brazil nut parmesan).
Who would order that? No children are ordering that for themselves. Moreover, do you order it as, "I Am A Hero" or "He/She Is A Hero" when ordering for a child? The menu only gets worse as you run into "I Am Dazzling" which apparently means you're gonna have wicked bad garlic breath, or "I Am Eating At Cafe Gratitude" which means, "I'm really effing rich, because these mediocre, condescending, barely food dishes are expensive." What you really mean to say is, "I Am Vegan" or "I Am Lactose Intolerant" or "Gluten-Intolerant" or "A Really Good Friend of One of the Aforementioned People."
As My Friend Formerly With A Pool said,
"I wouldn't say a single one of those things. I would say "give me the noodles with sauce" or just "give me directions to another restaurant, because you have awful names and also noodles in sauce sounds like something you might get in jail"
So please stop making us sound like idiots. Nobody says, "Hey, let's go to Bobby's for lunch! They make you say, "I'd like to order the I'm Easily Amused and Borderline Retarded Burger!" Just make good food and if you really feel the need, tack something up to your walls that doesn't belong there. It'll be so wacky we'll practically throw our money at you.*
I Like Restaurants That's Walls Reflect My Inner Emotions...Full of Ski Poles,
Witz
Photo comedy magic performed by Nitro
*Note: I actually DO pay waiters by balling up and throwing my money at them. It's really really condescending and demeaning and it not only makes me feel better about myself, but it makes them feel worse about themselves, possibly leading to them killing themselves-- and with the current economy, if I get laid off, those open jobs will be warm and cozy cribs for me to sleep in. Literally.
I want to know exactly when it was that restaurants decided to be "wacky." When did the first person say, "You know what this hamburger place needs? Deep Sea Diving equipment on the walls." When did somebody first think that putting crazy crap on the walls of a place would make me want to eat there. I'm not saying it hasn't worked, I'm a sucker for Applebee's, Ruby Tuesday's, Friendly's, and Chili's (at least before they reduced their fry portions, which was literally the smallest change they could have made that generated such a huge reaction out of me), but I have to assume that the "wacky" aspect of restaurants came from somewhere, and it feels American. I have a hard time believing that some German place said, "Zou know vut zis place needs? Snow shoes and tennis rackets on zee walls!" Then again, Germany and "flair" haven't worked out so well in the past. Probably not a lotta "Stars and moon" themed birthday parties-- "What if we just have moons, honey?"
So let's assume this is an American thing. A "we have so much stuff, we're putting our stuff on walls where we eat just for the fuck of it" type thing. Nobody's gonna fire a nuke at us when we have spare guns, nets, and fishing spears strung up on the walls of Red Robin. HOWEVER, America took it too far. The crazy shit on the walls evolved into crazy stuff on the menu-- not cuisine, but names of dishes. Red Robin is a good place to start. I feel slightly foolish ordering the Honky Tonk BBQ Pork Sandwich. Unless I'm getting kick-backs from them, I don't feel the need to say that I want the WHISKEY RIVER BBQ Burger-- I'll just take the BBQ Burger. That's tame, though, compared to some places where you have to say things like, "I'd like two Al Pacinos, one Chick-quille O'Neil, and a Sly Stallone please (also, I'm either ordering for several people or am ridiculously fat in this scenario)." Sandwiches probably started this trend, with delis giving their eats clever names after people they know or geographic locations. Historically, I don't think ancient peoples had this. "Gimme two King Ramses II's, one What Sphinx In Here, aaand three Incest In the Mornings...thanks."
I blame America, and things have gotten out of control. Fine, I'll order a "Robin Williams" in SF if you have some sandwich that's "totally off the wall and enough meat to put hair on your chest." I'll order a "Jerry Seinfeld" in NY if I want to know, "What's the deeeeeal with turkey bacon!? Is it turkey? Is it bacon? Is it just a way for Jews to wink at God and say, 'Gotcha!?' Who cares! This sandwich is delicious!!" BUT I WILL NOT sit there, looking a waiter/waitress in the eye, and say something that we are both aware makes me sound like a complete tool. Case and point, here is the worst menu I have ever seen in my entire life: CAFE GRATITUDE IN SF...if you read the menu and don't want to stab someone's eyes out, then you aren't literate. I understand it's a healthy lifestyle type place, but wouldn't you then want to make it MORE accessible to the average person? For those of you not perusing the menu, well, first of all, that's really lazy and you probably have the time to do so, and second of all, take this one example off the kid's menu:
I Am A Hero: Noodles and Sauce (Spiral-sliced vegetable “noodles” in marinara sauce with Brazil nut parmesan).
Who would order that? No children are ordering that for themselves. Moreover, do you order it as, "I Am A Hero" or "He/She Is A Hero" when ordering for a child? The menu only gets worse as you run into "I Am Dazzling" which apparently means you're gonna have wicked bad garlic breath, or "I Am Eating At Cafe Gratitude" which means, "I'm really effing rich, because these mediocre, condescending, barely food dishes are expensive." What you really mean to say is, "I Am Vegan" or "I Am Lactose Intolerant" or "Gluten-Intolerant" or "A Really Good Friend of One of the Aforementioned People."
As My Friend Formerly With A Pool said,
"I wouldn't say a single one of those things. I would say "give me the noodles with sauce" or just "give me directions to another restaurant, because you have awful names and also noodles in sauce sounds like something you might get in jail"
So please stop making us sound like idiots. Nobody says, "Hey, let's go to Bobby's for lunch! They make you say, "I'd like to order the I'm Easily Amused and Borderline Retarded Burger!" Just make good food and if you really feel the need, tack something up to your walls that doesn't belong there. It'll be so wacky we'll practically throw our money at you.*
I Like Restaurants That's Walls Reflect My Inner Emotions...Full of Ski Poles,
Witz
Photo comedy magic performed by Nitro
*Note: I actually DO pay waiters by balling up and throwing my money at them. It's really really condescending and demeaning and it not only makes me feel better about myself, but it makes them feel worse about themselves, possibly leading to them killing themselves-- and with the current economy, if I get laid off, those open jobs will be warm and cozy cribs for me to sleep in. Literally.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: McDonald's Commercials, Bathroom Etiquette, Facebook Philanthropy
McDonald's Radio Ad:
The second ad featured a sassy black woman (not a stereotype-- McDonald's has spent millions of dollars cornering the Sassy Black Woman demographic) getting aggravated because, "Oh no you di'in't just cut in front of me in line! I know you saw me there!" Fortunately for the offending party, "I'm getting a McGriddle for breakfast, so I'll let it go this time!" Translation: I'm a sassy black female stereotype who comes here a lot and am VERY familiar with the McDonald's menu, ordering process, and feeling of temporary joy that I experience from endorphins that are released after consuming McDonald's breakfast products. In addition, while I don't appreciate your complete disrespect for the line and myself, I understand that my sass can get a little out of control, especially when I'm hungry, and will let you off the hook this time, especially since I am morbidly obese, and couldn't possibly do much more than make a lot of noise and fulfil the role that McDonald's has seemingly assigned to me in their world. Besides, you'll get yours after breakfast, when you are forced to call in sick to work because you're shitting your brains out and don't think you will ever experience anything else ever again.
Formerly A Good Person,
P.S. What's with the ubiquitous "Two Rules to a Flat Stomach" internet ad with the before and after shot of the "flat stomach?" It's everywhere and makes even safe, work friendly pages seem like gross awkward porn. Since when did "photos that make you want to throw up" become good marketing?
I heard an ad on the radio this morning for McDonald's breakfast and couldn't ignore it. It was one of those two part ads, where they do one scene and then follow it up with another quick scene of the same idea. The first one is a guy calling into work and telling them that he woke up with a bout of optimism and after having a McDonald's breakfast doesn't think he's going to be coming in because he's enjoying life too much and having too good a time now that he's eaten his McGriddle sandwich. It was supposed to be ironic and witty, but here's the actual translation: I woke up early, ate breakfast at McDonald's, and am now shitting my brains out and don't think it's going to end within the 9 hour window we call the work day. In addition, he says, "I feel like I was hit with a ton of teddy bears," which is supposed to be the opposite of "hit by a ton of bricks" I imagine. Only, as IQ test takers know, a TON of teddy bears is the SAME as a TON of bricks. That dude felt like he was hit by a TON of weight-- now you try and tell me it's not from the McGriddle.
The second ad featured a sassy black woman (not a stereotype-- McDonald's has spent millions of dollars cornering the Sassy Black Woman demographic) getting aggravated because, "Oh no you di'in't just cut in front of me in line! I know you saw me there!" Fortunately for the offending party, "I'm getting a McGriddle for breakfast, so I'll let it go this time!" Translation: I'm a sassy black female stereotype who comes here a lot and am VERY familiar with the McDonald's menu, ordering process, and feeling of temporary joy that I experience from endorphins that are released after consuming McDonald's breakfast products. In addition, while I don't appreciate your complete disrespect for the line and myself, I understand that my sass can get a little out of control, especially when I'm hungry, and will let you off the hook this time, especially since I am morbidly obese, and couldn't possibly do much more than make a lot of noise and fulfil the role that McDonald's has seemingly assigned to me in their world. Besides, you'll get yours after breakfast, when you are forced to call in sick to work because you're shitting your brains out and don't think you will ever experience anything else ever again.
Bathroom Etiquette:
While we're on the subject, I might as well throw this in: WHO THINKS IT'S COOL TO TALK ON THE PHONE IN THE BATHROOM??? That wasn't cool 10 years ago, and it's still not now. Whenever anyone does it, I make a point to flush every urinal and stall in the place, just so the person on the phone hears. Sometimes multi-tasking isn't the answer.
Also, who decided that the gym bathroom is a sound booth where you can make whatever noises you feel like? I go to wash my hands and I hear all the worst parts of the Bible coming out of stall three. Another time I walk in and it sounds like some dude is watching his daughter perform a gymnastics floor routine from the bleachers: "Eeeeeeesh, ohhhhhh, wheeeeeew, ugggggh, phewwww, alllright, hmmmmm, stick the landing, yesssss, ahhhhhh, exhale." Awful. The worst is when there's a someone makin' a lot of noise from the handicapped stall and I don't know if they're just making sound effects or if they fell and are struggling to get back into their wheelchair. And it's not like I can give a peek under the stall because the last thing I want to do is make eye contact with some paraplegic lying pantsless on the floor of a public restroom-- I don't want to see his shame and more so, it'll make it even more awkward when I turn and walk away.
Facebook Philanthropy:
I'm sick of all the "causes" and "petitions" that people send me on facebook. I get twenty of these things a week, and end up feeling like a major douchebag and terrible human because I just click ignore on them. Meanwhile, it takes someone about 30 seconds and minimal effort to invite everyone they know to join this cause they are interested in, and somehow they're supposed to come off as good people. They don't actually care if I join their cause, they just want everyone to know that they care about stuff. Of course I care about major issues and global/national problems, but who is going to take me seriously when I have 50 causes that I'm for and 500 petitions that I've signed? So what am I supposed to do with these things?? Yeah, I'm not pro-global warming, but do I really need to accept your "Fight Against Global Warming" cause invitation?? It doesn't sound like a problem, but do I really support a White House Victory Garden Re-planting enough to "sign" a PETITION?? No! If you're my friend on facebook, then you PROBABLY aren't the type of person that supports Neo-Nazi Movements, Ethnic Cleansing, or Extreme Poverty. I don't need you to advertise that you want to help people in Darfur or are in favor of working towards more balanced wealth distribution in our nation and others. Just because I don't join your cause against seal clubbing, doesn't mean I go out on weekends and club seals, nor do I support seal clubbing organizations (other than organizations that are in favor of physically clubbing the singer Seal).
So stop. Please. We know you're good people. Or we know you're not good people. AND we know if WE are good people or not. You don't need to lead us in one direction or another.
Formerly A Good Person,
Witz
P.S. What's with the ubiquitous "Two Rules to a Flat Stomach" internet ad with the before and after shot of the "flat stomach?" It's everywhere and makes even safe, work friendly pages seem like gross awkward porn. Since when did "photos that make you want to throw up" become good marketing?
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Witz Pickz: State IOU's
California is being forced to issue IOU's instead of state tax refunds to millions of residents. At first, I was concerned. You know there's something wrong when you trust your state government less than you'd trust a homeless guy when they say, "I'll pay you back later!" Sure you will, State of California-- you prooobably just casually decided to go the direction of IOU's-- it's proooobably not a sign of a major economic collapse that will haunt the state for years...
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
Really puts the whole Prop 8 thing in perspective-- "As your state, we say that you can't get married because you're gay! Also, as your state, we're broke as shit, dude! Spot me some g's?" I'm sorry, but I don't let broke people tell me what to do. If you owe me fifty bucks and tell me not to borrow your Forgetting Sarah Marshall DVD-- I'm gonna go ahead and borrow it, thanks. If you owe me money and ask for a ride to the store, guess who's not paying for gas. I don't think we should let broke-ass California have control over us anymore. If you wanna get gay married, go for it. If you wanna confine your chickens before you slaughter them-- you do that. If you don't like stop signs-- then let your roads be stop sign free. And this is exactly why I'm way in favor of State IOU's.
Getting an IOU from your state is like having them say, "Don't worry about speeding anymore!" Because when that cop pulls me over, I'm gonna be waving my tax return form at them. Parking tickets? Nope. Paying for public transit? Put it on my tab. Any public works or utilities item should suddenly be available with my new Municipal Gift Card. It's like we all suddenly became celebrities and have political sway to get away with stuff.
Having the state use IOU's opens the door for a ridiculous IOU economy (oh wait, we do that already).
Police: Sir, you just drove your car at 160mph (which is really impressive for your Subaru station wagon) off the highway, through the city, barrelling over hills and eventually crashing into Fiddler's Green-- we need you to come with us.
Witz: Sorry, sirs, but no dice-- lemme just get out my IOU book and write you one for "8 years jail time served." Also, I hate Fiddler's Green.
Boss: So are you planning on coming in this month...because we've been paying you for the last three and you haven't been here?
Witz: Uhp, my bad-- I totally meant to write you an IOU for the 3rd quarter, but I thought maybe I was just getting severance! Here you go, 640 hours, that should cover it. Now, I'm gonna need you to wait until 2010 before you cash this.
Finally, where in the Constitution does it say you can issue IOU's??? Was Ben Franklin like,
BEN FRANKLIN: Also, add a part in there where if the country becomes obscenely broke, it can cover all expenses and commitments to its citizens via a slip of paper with the letter's I-O-U scrawled on it.
THOMAS JEFFERSON: What?
BEN: You know, like, just in case.
THOMAS: Dude, are you hiiiiigh?? We can't do that!
BEN: Whyyyyy not? We're writing the CONSTITUTION!
GEORGE WASHINGTON: Thomas, stop being such a pussy and just do it.
BEN: Are you kidding me? IOU's??
GEORGE: It'll be hilarious!
THOMAS: It's not like it's gonna happen, just do it!
JOHN HANCOCK: Haaaaaancock!
BEN: Fine. Douchebags.
IOU More Jokes,
Witz
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
Really puts the whole Prop 8 thing in perspective-- "As your state, we say that you can't get married because you're gay! Also, as your state, we're broke as shit, dude! Spot me some g's?" I'm sorry, but I don't let broke people tell me what to do. If you owe me fifty bucks and tell me not to borrow your Forgetting Sarah Marshall DVD-- I'm gonna go ahead and borrow it, thanks. If you owe me money and ask for a ride to the store, guess who's not paying for gas. I don't think we should let broke-ass California have control over us anymore. If you wanna get gay married, go for it. If you wanna confine your chickens before you slaughter them-- you do that. If you don't like stop signs-- then let your roads be stop sign free. And this is exactly why I'm way in favor of State IOU's.
Getting an IOU from your state is like having them say, "Don't worry about speeding anymore!" Because when that cop pulls me over, I'm gonna be waving my tax return form at them. Parking tickets? Nope. Paying for public transit? Put it on my tab. Any public works or utilities item should suddenly be available with my new Municipal Gift Card. It's like we all suddenly became celebrities and have political sway to get away with stuff.
Having the state use IOU's opens the door for a ridiculous IOU economy (oh wait, we do that already).
Police: Sir, you just drove your car at 160mph (which is really impressive for your Subaru station wagon) off the highway, through the city, barrelling over hills and eventually crashing into Fiddler's Green-- we need you to come with us.
Witz: Sorry, sirs, but no dice-- lemme just get out my IOU book and write you one for "8 years jail time served." Also, I hate Fiddler's Green.
Boss: So are you planning on coming in this month...because we've been paying you for the last three and you haven't been here?
Witz: Uhp, my bad-- I totally meant to write you an IOU for the 3rd quarter, but I thought maybe I was just getting severance! Here you go, 640 hours, that should cover it. Now, I'm gonna need you to wait until 2010 before you cash this.
Finally, where in the Constitution does it say you can issue IOU's??? Was Ben Franklin like,
BEN FRANKLIN: Also, add a part in there where if the country becomes obscenely broke, it can cover all expenses and commitments to its citizens via a slip of paper with the letter's I-O-U scrawled on it.
THOMAS JEFFERSON: What?
BEN: You know, like, just in case.
THOMAS: Dude, are you hiiiiigh?? We can't do that!
BEN: Whyyyyy not? We're writing the CONSTITUTION!
GEORGE WASHINGTON: Thomas, stop being such a pussy and just do it.
BEN: Are you kidding me? IOU's??
GEORGE: It'll be hilarious!
THOMAS: It's not like it's gonna happen, just do it!
JOHN HANCOCK: Haaaaaancock!
BEN: Fine. Douchebags.
IOU More Jokes,
Witz
Monday, February 02, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: Racist Lights
My room back home hasn't been updated since I was five years old. This means that all my furniture, my bed (which is actually larger than the bed I currently sleep in), my walls, my rug, are all the same as they were over twenty years ago. And apparently, twenty years ago, a gay five year old lived in my room. Every piece of furniture is rainbow colored-- meaning the outline is blue, but each drawer, shelf, etc. was a different color of the rainbow. Super ironically, I'm partially color-blind, so every time I walk in my room, it's as if my room is welcoming me with a big "Fuck You!"
One item in my room, however, drew my attention when I was home in December. In the middle of my ceiling, there is a light, and I realized this time around, that it is, through no fault of its own, an extremely racist light. As you can see in the picture below, my light depicts a number of athletes in sports poses-- only, to allow for the most light possible, they are all extremely white. The whole thing plays out like a "People about to lose" montage. Let me explain:
Boxer: As far as I know, tiny white boxers haven't dominated the sport (or underwear culture) since the thirties. This guy is about to get his ass handed to him by Oscar de la Hoya.
Basketball Player: Whoah, whoah whoah-- whatcha doin' buddy? That's a funny lookin' pass! Our boy in red is seconds away from getting that ball smacked back into his face reminding him that John Stockton was the last of his kind and even Steve Nash doesn't think he's as good as people say.
Skiier: Alright, that's legit, but it's amusing that they made the guy doing the whitest sport all bundled up in color except for his face and hair. He looks like the bad guy brothers in Die Hard.
Baseball Player: Nothin' much to say other than the fact that this guy looks EXACTLY LIKE SAN DIEGO PADRES INFIELDER, KHALIL GREENE.
Tennis Player: Again, nothin' much to say about the super white tennis player, other than the fact that he looks EXACTLY LIKE SAN DIEGO PADRES INFIELDER, KHALIL GREENE!!! Also, some South American white guy would kick the crap out of this guy.
Hockey Player: So there are only like, three black people in the entire NHL, and hockey players wear badass gear and are rough dudes, but this light STILL made this guy look nerdy and white-- feels like they're compensating.
Nascar: Let me explain how this is racist. Having NASCAR on my light makes it so that any black person walking in my room would take one look at my light and say, "Oh-- I'd better go..." He'd also probably add, "But for what it's worth, I think there's a gay five year old living somewhere in your room." It's a slippery slope-- first you get the Nascar light, then you get the swastika face tattoo.
Football Player: Do a little research and get back to me on how many white running backs there are in the league. Either this light is racist, or we're supposed to believe that this guy's team just blocked a punt and the offensive lineman picked up the ball on his long trudge down towards the end zone. You be the judge.
Oh yeah, and just in case the rainbow furniture and racist light weren't enough, I have a print by an apparently famous Native American painter of a small topless boy being stalked by a guardian bare-chested spirit in the clouds. I guess it was painted during the awkward, "The Gods Might Touch You There" movement of the 80's. The weirdest part is that when I was really little and scared to go to sleep, my Dad would say, "Don't worry, just look at your painting of the guardian spirit," which was like saying, "Don't worry, there's a creepy Indian looming over you just outside your sight."
Two Words: Night Shirt,
Witz
Oh hey, just a nude Indian on a ghost horse, nothin' to worry about here...
One item in my room, however, drew my attention when I was home in December. In the middle of my ceiling, there is a light, and I realized this time around, that it is, through no fault of its own, an extremely racist light. As you can see in the picture below, my light depicts a number of athletes in sports poses-- only, to allow for the most light possible, they are all extremely white. The whole thing plays out like a "People about to lose" montage. Let me explain:
Boxer: As far as I know, tiny white boxers haven't dominated the sport (or underwear culture) since the thirties. This guy is about to get his ass handed to him by Oscar de la Hoya.
Basketball Player: Whoah, whoah whoah-- whatcha doin' buddy? That's a funny lookin' pass! Our boy in red is seconds away from getting that ball smacked back into his face reminding him that John Stockton was the last of his kind and even Steve Nash doesn't think he's as good as people say.
Skiier: Alright, that's legit, but it's amusing that they made the guy doing the whitest sport all bundled up in color except for his face and hair. He looks like the bad guy brothers in Die Hard.
Baseball Player: Nothin' much to say other than the fact that this guy looks EXACTLY LIKE SAN DIEGO PADRES INFIELDER, KHALIL GREENE.
Tennis Player: Again, nothin' much to say about the super white tennis player, other than the fact that he looks EXACTLY LIKE SAN DIEGO PADRES INFIELDER, KHALIL GREENE!!! Also, some South American white guy would kick the crap out of this guy.Hockey Player: So there are only like, three black people in the entire NHL, and hockey players wear badass gear and are rough dudes, but this light STILL made this guy look nerdy and white-- feels like they're compensating.
Nascar: Let me explain how this is racist. Having NASCAR on my light makes it so that any black person walking in my room would take one look at my light and say, "Oh-- I'd better go..." He'd also probably add, "But for what it's worth, I think there's a gay five year old living somewhere in your room." It's a slippery slope-- first you get the Nascar light, then you get the swastika face tattoo.
Football Player: Do a little research and get back to me on how many white running backs there are in the league. Either this light is racist, or we're supposed to believe that this guy's team just blocked a punt and the offensive lineman picked up the ball on his long trudge down towards the end zone. You be the judge.
Oh yeah, and just in case the rainbow furniture and racist light weren't enough, I have a print by an apparently famous Native American painter of a small topless boy being stalked by a guardian bare-chested spirit in the clouds. I guess it was painted during the awkward, "The Gods Might Touch You There" movement of the 80's. The weirdest part is that when I was really little and scared to go to sleep, my Dad would say, "Don't worry, just look at your painting of the guardian spirit," which was like saying, "Don't worry, there's a creepy Indian looming over you just outside your sight."
Two Words: Night Shirt,
Witz
Oh hey, just a nude Indian on a ghost horse, nothin' to worry about here...
Friday, January 30, 2009
Witz Pickz: Friday Grab Bag (aka Witz Slides Closer to Hell)
I let The Deaflympics simmer for a little while and you know what? Nothing but positive results! I was sure someone was going to get upset or write a hate letter, but it turns out that a) I don't have that many people reading this blog b) people don't care all that much about deaf people and c) deaf people can't hear all the buzz about Witz Pickz! Here's a whole bunch of randomness to end the week:
Vitamin Water:
I've become addicted to this stuff. I'm not one of those people who hates regular water (as noted in one of my way earlier posts), but I am one of those people who feels the need to try and take control of a seemingly uncontrollable situation by taking action-- be it cleaning my room when my life is chaotic or taking vitamins to try and stave off an inevitable cold. What Vitamin Water has that other vitamin and fluid products don't have is the power of 50 Cent. Vitamin Water is in direct competition with Life Water which chooses to give package deals instead of individual vitamins (Immunity vs. Vitamin C). But Life Water was never shot up. Vitamin water has street cred and so now I do too. If someone asks me if I've ever sold hit rap albums, performed in front of millions of people, and been shot repeatedly, I now feel comfortable answering, "Kind of." Also, Safeway inexplicably has them permanently on sale for 10/$10. So that helps...
Repeated Rapes:
Witz DOESN'T pick rapists. I'd like to say that one up front. Witz also DOESN'T pick repeated raping (for the obvious reasons and because I'm not a big fan of marathons-- I think running a full marathon is too far, I think CSI and Psych marathons on tv are unnecessary). HOWEVER, I've been reading news articles such as THIS ARTICLE where a 12 year old boy was "raped repeatedly" by a 19 year old he met on xbox live. First of all, the 12 year old apparently invited this guy he met on xbox live to come stay with him for a while-- I don't know where the parents were at, but isn't 90% of the point of xbox live so you don't put yourself in a position to be shot, stabbed, or raped by your competitor? All I'm saying is that the 19 year old probably lost a lot of games to this kid. And why does the media always have to assume that video games cause violence and now rape? I lose to Nitro regularly in FIFA 09 and you know what-- I haven't raped him. Call me a hero. As Nitro so eloquently put is:
"I hate how there's an almost universally accepted notion that people that play video games are dangerous and maladjusted. It's like saying anyone that plays Pogs will fuck your mouth while you sleep."
Anyway, back to my "raped repeatedly" post....yikes: Between the video game kid, the Austrian guy with the creepiest basement ever, and numerous other incidents, it's gotten to the point where if I read an article that someone was raped, but not raped REPEATEDLY, I wonder why the rapist was so lazy. Is there an undiagnosed case of ADD involved? Did the rapist get distracted by a House marathon? If the rapist was distracted by a Friday Night Lights marathon, then I think that counts as an automatic bid for another season. That's how shows should judge if they stay on tv-- would a rapist choose your show over more raping? Welcome back, Arrested Development! Sorry, Private Practice. You barely slipped by Top Chef-- Super Bowl episode my ass...
Flowers, Puppies, Ice Cream, Philanthropy:
Gotta off-set that rape post somehow! I'm WAAAAY INTO THE AFOREMENTIONED THINGS! Flowers let us know a forgiving God who forgives things like making fun of deafness and rape exists (P.S. way to create deafness and rape God...maybe Sunday would have been a good "checking your work" day, huh?). Puppies are like, awesome, right? Ice Cream-- well, that's just the bomb, and how lucky are we that we now have dairy free ice cream for our lactose and dairy intolerant friends? Right?? Wow, we sure have come a long way. Philanthropy is awesome. I'm a huge fan. I'm also able to receive cash, checks, and paypal donations. Coincidence? Doubtful. After all, SOMEBODY needs to fuel my Vitamin Water addiction.
And They Never Spoke of it Again...,
Witz
Vitamin Water:
I've become addicted to this stuff. I'm not one of those people who hates regular water (as noted in one of my way earlier posts), but I am one of those people who feels the need to try and take control of a seemingly uncontrollable situation by taking action-- be it cleaning my room when my life is chaotic or taking vitamins to try and stave off an inevitable cold. What Vitamin Water has that other vitamin and fluid products don't have is the power of 50 Cent. Vitamin Water is in direct competition with Life Water which chooses to give package deals instead of individual vitamins (Immunity vs. Vitamin C). But Life Water was never shot up. Vitamin water has street cred and so now I do too. If someone asks me if I've ever sold hit rap albums, performed in front of millions of people, and been shot repeatedly, I now feel comfortable answering, "Kind of." Also, Safeway inexplicably has them permanently on sale for 10/$10. So that helps...
Repeated Rapes:
Witz DOESN'T pick rapists. I'd like to say that one up front. Witz also DOESN'T pick repeated raping (for the obvious reasons and because I'm not a big fan of marathons-- I think running a full marathon is too far, I think CSI and Psych marathons on tv are unnecessary). HOWEVER, I've been reading news articles such as THIS ARTICLE where a 12 year old boy was "raped repeatedly" by a 19 year old he met on xbox live. First of all, the 12 year old apparently invited this guy he met on xbox live to come stay with him for a while-- I don't know where the parents were at, but isn't 90% of the point of xbox live so you don't put yourself in a position to be shot, stabbed, or raped by your competitor? All I'm saying is that the 19 year old probably lost a lot of games to this kid. And why does the media always have to assume that video games cause violence and now rape? I lose to Nitro regularly in FIFA 09 and you know what-- I haven't raped him. Call me a hero. As Nitro so eloquently put is:
"I hate how there's an almost universally accepted notion that people that play video games are dangerous and maladjusted. It's like saying anyone that plays Pogs will fuck your mouth while you sleep."
Anyway, back to my "raped repeatedly" post....yikes: Between the video game kid, the Austrian guy with the creepiest basement ever, and numerous other incidents, it's gotten to the point where if I read an article that someone was raped, but not raped REPEATEDLY, I wonder why the rapist was so lazy. Is there an undiagnosed case of ADD involved? Did the rapist get distracted by a House marathon? If the rapist was distracted by a Friday Night Lights marathon, then I think that counts as an automatic bid for another season. That's how shows should judge if they stay on tv-- would a rapist choose your show over more raping? Welcome back, Arrested Development! Sorry, Private Practice. You barely slipped by Top Chef-- Super Bowl episode my ass...
Flowers, Puppies, Ice Cream, Philanthropy:
Gotta off-set that rape post somehow! I'm WAAAAY INTO THE AFOREMENTIONED THINGS! Flowers let us know a forgiving God who forgives things like making fun of deafness and rape exists (P.S. way to create deafness and rape God...maybe Sunday would have been a good "checking your work" day, huh?). Puppies are like, awesome, right? Ice Cream-- well, that's just the bomb, and how lucky are we that we now have dairy free ice cream for our lactose and dairy intolerant friends? Right?? Wow, we sure have come a long way. Philanthropy is awesome. I'm a huge fan. I'm also able to receive cash, checks, and paypal donations. Coincidence? Doubtful. After all, SOMEBODY needs to fuel my Vitamin Water addiction.
And They Never Spoke of it Again...,
Witz
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: The Deaf Olympics
The Deaf Olympics-- yep-- they exist. If you're anything like me, you're furious. I believe in equal rights, gay marriage, buying alcohol on Sundays, watching Entourage and stopping global warming, but when it comes to my athletics, I'm a staunch conservative. It's not that I don't think there should be opportunities for deaf people, it's just that I want people to be able to fail just as equally as the rest of us.
Not only do the Deaf Olympics exist, but they call them THE DEAFLYMPICS. The Deaflympics sounds like a hip-hop crew, not a majestic international competition. Apparently, they have been going on for years, and you've probably heard the marketing, but couldn't really understand what was being said and just kind of smiled and nodded until it went away. This summer, they will take place in Taipei, and in the winter of 2011 The 17th Deaflympics will take place on the "smallest high mountain" in Slovakia. Clearly a lot of time and effort is going into these games, which raises the most important question: WHY DO DEAF PEOPLE NEED SPECIAL OLYMPICS (but not THE Special Olympics). Here's what The Deaflympics have to say:
"The need for separate games for deaf athletes is not just evident in the numbers of participants. Deaf athletes are distinguished from all others in their special communication needs on the sports field, as well as in the social interaction that is an equally vital part of the games."
Being deaf is a disability, but not a disability that effects sports. If being deaf is an athletic disability, then being 5'10'' with a 6'' vertical is also a disability and I want to play in the Totally Average Build Olympics (aka The Thanks For the Shit Genetics Mom and Dad Olympics). The Deaflympics site (yes, www.deaflympics.com) says that their are language issues, but isn't sign language the same as having to have someone translate for you? It's even better, because you can see it from farther away than you could hear someone shouting in Cantonese. There is only one scenario in which I can see a bunch of deaf athletes having a problem-- Track and Field.
Announcer: Runners ready! Aaaaand ::GUNSHOT!:: Uh...hm. ::GUNSHOT!:: Goddamn it.
That's it. Nobody starts. Would it be that difficult to have some other cue announce the start of the race for the 1-3 events involving deaf racers? I have a tough time believing that there are millions of amazing olympic caliber athletes out there that are only being held back by their inability to hear. The previous quote would have you believe that simply because there are so many deaf people IN the Deaflympics, there are that many athletes that could compete at the Olympic level if they weren't deaf. That logic is flawed-- maybe there are 5-6 Deaflympians who would make it, but everyone else is probably more need of a Deaf Backyard Pickup Game. As Nitro says,
"Have you ever tried to run really fast when you couldn't hear where the ground was and all you could do is give your 100% focus or what you're doing given the sheer LACK of distractions? Those guys are heroes. That's like being a deaf golfer. Who gives a shit?"
The Deaflympics serve only to give complete impunity to people who want to heckle athletes (who goes to THE OLYMPICS and heckles athletes???). You can say absolutely whatever you want without the athletes knowing. Which leaves the door wide open for going to the Deaflympics and making heckle signage:
"Hey-- run faster asshole, they're RIGHT behind you!"
"Dude, you're running so fast you broke the sound barrier-- oh wait, nevermind, you're just deaf!"
"Why are you reading this sign?? You're getting distracted by a sign in the audience and throwing away your one chance at glory? You're making a joke out of The Deaflympics!"
"Wow, you're really good at rowing. I can hear MUSIC!"
Deaf competitors have an equal chance of socially interacting at the Olympics as everyone else. Hundreds of languages are represented-- I promise Lebron James doesn't speak Russian, but I bet if he wanted to, he'd find a way to communicate with them. The Olympic Committee isn't letting in more South Indian athletes just so everyone who speaks Tamil can get wasted together knock over Pakistani mailboxes with their cricket bats (this is something I believe might happen both in India and the Olympics), so why give people who "speak" sign language their own olympics? Which brings up ANOTHER question: What about the barely deaf?
The Barely Deaf have been running society for thousands of years. Ignoring what they don't feel like dealing with, but paying attention when it is to their advantage. The Barely Deaf live among us without you even knowing. You might be Barely Deaf. I might be Barely Deaf. There is no way of knowing until it is too late, and they have stolen your television, your loved ones, and ultimately, your dignity and self-respect. There is without a doubt a rift within the Summer and Winter Deaflympics. The Barely Deaf have been holding the For Realsies Deaf hostage (metaphorically, not like a big Deaf Munich-- too soon? I'm gonna make the movie Deaf Munich...then Deaf Prefontaine...Deaf The Mighty Ducks) since the very beginning of the Deaflympics-- using what small advantage they may have to take gold again and again. Ending the Deaflympics would be a huge step towards equal deaf rights, as well as equal rights in general. The time is now, and we need to hear the call to action-- because the deaf never will. Ever.
Tongue In Cheek (Is How Deaf People Sound),*
Witz
P.S. Fun note-- there are 20 Summer Deaflympics events and only 5 Winter Deaflympics events. I guess barrelling down a mountain without being to hear a gd thing isn't such a big thing. I also believe I'm good enough to play on a deaf hockey team. There, I said it.
*These are just jokes people**
**I'm still going to hell***
***Maybe I'll play in the Hellympics
****There are no Winter Hellympics
Not only do the Deaf Olympics exist, but they call them THE DEAFLYMPICS. The Deaflympics sounds like a hip-hop crew, not a majestic international competition. Apparently, they have been going on for years, and you've probably heard the marketing, but couldn't really understand what was being said and just kind of smiled and nodded until it went away. This summer, they will take place in Taipei, and in the winter of 2011 The 17th Deaflympics will take place on the "smallest high mountain" in Slovakia. Clearly a lot of time and effort is going into these games, which raises the most important question: WHY DO DEAF PEOPLE NEED SPECIAL OLYMPICS (but not THE Special Olympics). Here's what The Deaflympics have to say:
"The need for separate games for deaf athletes is not just evident in the numbers of participants. Deaf athletes are distinguished from all others in their special communication needs on the sports field, as well as in the social interaction that is an equally vital part of the games."
Being deaf is a disability, but not a disability that effects sports. If being deaf is an athletic disability, then being 5'10'' with a 6'' vertical is also a disability and I want to play in the Totally Average Build Olympics (aka The Thanks For the Shit Genetics Mom and Dad Olympics). The Deaflympics site (yes, www.deaflympics.com) says that their are language issues, but isn't sign language the same as having to have someone translate for you? It's even better, because you can see it from farther away than you could hear someone shouting in Cantonese. There is only one scenario in which I can see a bunch of deaf athletes having a problem-- Track and Field.
Announcer: Runners ready! Aaaaand ::GUNSHOT!:: Uh...hm. ::GUNSHOT!:: Goddamn it.
That's it. Nobody starts. Would it be that difficult to have some other cue announce the start of the race for the 1-3 events involving deaf racers? I have a tough time believing that there are millions of amazing olympic caliber athletes out there that are only being held back by their inability to hear. The previous quote would have you believe that simply because there are so many deaf people IN the Deaflympics, there are that many athletes that could compete at the Olympic level if they weren't deaf. That logic is flawed-- maybe there are 5-6 Deaflympians who would make it, but everyone else is probably more need of a Deaf Backyard Pickup Game. As Nitro says,
"Have you ever tried to run really fast when you couldn't hear where the ground was and all you could do is give your 100% focus or what you're doing given the sheer LACK of distractions? Those guys are heroes. That's like being a deaf golfer. Who gives a shit?"
The Deaflympics serve only to give complete impunity to people who want to heckle athletes (who goes to THE OLYMPICS and heckles athletes???). You can say absolutely whatever you want without the athletes knowing. Which leaves the door wide open for going to the Deaflympics and making heckle signage:
"Hey-- run faster asshole, they're RIGHT behind you!"
"Dude, you're running so fast you broke the sound barrier-- oh wait, nevermind, you're just deaf!"
"Why are you reading this sign?? You're getting distracted by a sign in the audience and throwing away your one chance at glory? You're making a joke out of The Deaflympics!"
"Wow, you're really good at rowing. I can hear MUSIC!"
Deaf competitors have an equal chance of socially interacting at the Olympics as everyone else. Hundreds of languages are represented-- I promise Lebron James doesn't speak Russian, but I bet if he wanted to, he'd find a way to communicate with them. The Olympic Committee isn't letting in more South Indian athletes just so everyone who speaks Tamil can get wasted together knock over Pakistani mailboxes with their cricket bats (this is something I believe might happen both in India and the Olympics), so why give people who "speak" sign language their own olympics? Which brings up ANOTHER question: What about the barely deaf?
The Barely Deaf have been running society for thousands of years. Ignoring what they don't feel like dealing with, but paying attention when it is to their advantage. The Barely Deaf live among us without you even knowing. You might be Barely Deaf. I might be Barely Deaf. There is no way of knowing until it is too late, and they have stolen your television, your loved ones, and ultimately, your dignity and self-respect. There is without a doubt a rift within the Summer and Winter Deaflympics. The Barely Deaf have been holding the For Realsies Deaf hostage (metaphorically, not like a big Deaf Munich-- too soon? I'm gonna make the movie Deaf Munich...then Deaf Prefontaine...Deaf The Mighty Ducks) since the very beginning of the Deaflympics-- using what small advantage they may have to take gold again and again. Ending the Deaflympics would be a huge step towards equal deaf rights, as well as equal rights in general. The time is now, and we need to hear the call to action-- because the deaf never will. Ever.
Tongue In Cheek (Is How Deaf People Sound),*
Witz
P.S. Fun note-- there are 20 Summer Deaflympics events and only 5 Winter Deaflympics events. I guess barrelling down a mountain without being to hear a gd thing isn't such a big thing. I also believe I'm good enough to play on a deaf hockey team. There, I said it.
*These are just jokes people**
**I'm still going to hell***
***Maybe I'll play in the Hellympics
****There are no Winter Hellympics
Monday, January 26, 2009
Witz Pickz: Back In Action
Work has kept me busy for the last week or so and so Witz Pickz has been absent. To be fair, I really wanted to ask you all to bear with me, but I then realized that I have no idea how to spell it. My instincts say it's "Bear with me," but then it kind of looks like I'm either asking you to place yourself in the midst of wild life danger or am telling you that I am currently being accompanied by a Bear. "Where's Witz? He better not be with that goddamn bear again!" It leaves the door open for the outside chance that I'm hanging out with Man vs. Wild host Bear Grylls, but let's be honest, if I was invited to hangout with Bear Grylls, I'd have to decline on behalf of my entire immune system.
Bear: Let's jump in this frozen lake, just to see what happens!
Witz: What happens is that I'll get a cold.
Bear: Let's sleep in this leafy mud hut just to see how we do!
Witz: I'll get a cold is how I'll do.
Bear: Let's get naked by this cavee for no real reason other than it's satisfying to feel your balls against Mother's Nature's bounty!
Witz: No.
The other option is "bare with me," which sounds like I want everyone to get naked Bear Grylls style and come hang out. It'd be really awkward if everyone did show up naked and I was just chillin' fully clothed. Never in my entire life has somebody asked me, "Who do you want to hangout with naked" and answered, "EVERYBODY!" I'm not entirely sure anyone ever asked me "Who do you want to hangout with naked," at all, but if they did, I bet it was weird and hopefully I didn't answer "YOU!"
So that's my weak-ass post for today-- telling you that I can't post, but will be back tomorrow with some attempts to make your life a little better, or at least, make that 2:34 on your clock turn into a 2:36 without too much pain.
"Witz Didn't Seem All That Back In Action Today...,"
Witz
Bear: Let's jump in this frozen lake, just to see what happens!
Witz: What happens is that I'll get a cold.
Bear: Let's sleep in this leafy mud hut just to see how we do!
Witz: I'll get a cold is how I'll do.
Bear: Let's get naked by this cavee for no real reason other than it's satisfying to feel your balls against Mother's Nature's bounty!
Witz: No.
The other option is "bare with me," which sounds like I want everyone to get naked Bear Grylls style and come hang out. It'd be really awkward if everyone did show up naked and I was just chillin' fully clothed. Never in my entire life has somebody asked me, "Who do you want to hangout with naked" and answered, "EVERYBODY!" I'm not entirely sure anyone ever asked me "Who do you want to hangout with naked," at all, but if they did, I bet it was weird and hopefully I didn't answer "YOU!"
So that's my weak-ass post for today-- telling you that I can't post, but will be back tomorrow with some attempts to make your life a little better, or at least, make that 2:34 on your clock turn into a 2:36 without too much pain.
"Witz Didn't Seem All That Back In Action Today...,"
Witz
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Witz Pickz: Medical Mysteries Unsolved
Welp, I can no longer say that I've never gotten an ultra-sound. Last night, some champion driving got me to my ENT doctor's appointment right before he left despite a major train delay (Witz 1 - Environmentally Conscious Public Transportation 0). Dr. Salvatore La Quinta (last name vaguely disguised to be more like a hotel chain) was not what I expected, but he was finally a doctor that took my horrible immune system and proclivity for getting every cold imaginable seriously. Which is why I now know that my neck is not pregnant.
PHOTO:
This is a self-admittedly unnecessary photo by Nitro. It is meant to depict me being owned by disease. It also looks like I am either a Mexican Wrestler about to square off against this Mucusal Marauder in an epic performance art manifestation of my physical state, OR I am about to reveal some magic tricks-- er-- illluusssions-- to a crowd on FOX. Either way, I'm bound to develop a cough.
After some initial questions, he cut right to the chase and told me to, "Lie back so I can get an ultrasound of your neck." Boom. After talking extensively with my other doctors, they were wary of even offering the advice to get "Cold-eeze when you start to feel sick." This guy went from zero to hero and busted out the ultrasound right out of the gate. And why not?? If I had an ultrasound machine hanging around, I would be looking at the phosphorescent insides of EVERYTHING. Leave me in a room with an ultrasound for more than 15 minutes, and I guarantee you'd walk in on me naked as the day I was born, with ultrasound gel all over me like I was straight outta the womb.
Unfortunately/Fortunately, he didn't leave me with it, but used it to look at my lymph nodes and salivary glands. I wasn't able to turn my head and see the screen, but my peripheral vision let me understand that on ultrasound, they look exactly like a game of Asteroids with that old school computer coloring of yellow and black. In fact, there's a pretty solid chance that this guy just smeared some vaseline on my skin, rolled an Atari controller over my neck and played video games while I waited:
Unfortunately/Fortunately, he didn't leave me with it, but used it to look at my lymph nodes and salivary glands. I wasn't able to turn my head and see the screen, but my peripheral vision let me understand that on ultrasound, they look exactly like a game of Asteroids with that old school computer coloring of yellow and black. In fact, there's a pretty solid chance that this guy just smeared some vaseline on my skin, rolled an Atari controller over my neck and played video games while I waited:
"Ok, everything looks-- FUCK!"
"What?"
"Oh nothing-- you're...triangle gland...just teleported right in front of...a large moving lymph node."
"Triangle glands can teleport!?"
"Yes. Yes they can. But no more than twice in a row or they blow up."
"Issss that something I should be concerned with??"
"No, no, you should be fine."
"Hah, wow-- evolution's neat."
In the end, the doctor was only able to confirm that I didn't have anything horrible, like a thyroid cyst or a tumor. He asked if I was fatigued a lot as a symptom of mono, but he didn't ask if I went to sleep too late, slept terribly, occasionally drank on weeknights, had 32 cans of Sparks in my fridge, was currently in a territorial war with an overly aggressive cuddling cat, ever regained consciousness into the business end of a police flashlight, or knew the La Barca bartenders by name-- so I said "no," to avoid any confusion. I remain undiagnosed.
PHOTO:
This is a self-admittedly unnecessary photo by Nitro. It is meant to depict me being owned by disease. It also looks like I am either a Mexican Wrestler about to square off against this Mucusal Marauder in an epic performance art manifestation of my physical state, OR I am about to reveal some magic tricks-- er-- illluusssions-- to a crowd on FOX. Either way, I'm bound to develop a cough.
Almost Friday,
Witz
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Witz Pickz: Sneaky Accomplishments
When peeing at a urinal with an iPod in one hand, there is zero margin for error. Not peeing on yourself OR the iPod is a tight-wire act deserving of a documentary not unlike Man on Wire. I did this yesterday. Success like this is everywhere. A lot of the time, not hitting a biker is a really big accomplishment. A can of soup fell out of my cabinet, but I reflexively made a no-look catch to save it from hitting the ground. These are the every day accomplishments that go unnoticed, and I think it's about time we gave everyone some credit for the absurd successes that life allows for on a regular basis. Did you quit your job today? Me either. We're practically heroes.
Here are some sneaky accomplishments of readers-- post more of yours in the comments section and I will update them on this main page:
It Dave Burns When I Pee says:
Today for lunch I ordered a chicken-salad sandwich on a poppyseed bagel and managed to finish eating every single poppyseed that fell off because I paid 10 cents extra for them.
The Bruhniverse says:
Today I made bacon for myself. This is usually my wife's "job", but in a pinch the microwave is almost as good as her oven method. A microwave is to the common man, as the vibrator is to the common woman, devices of conveniences that one almost-but-not-quite finds fulfilling.
The Kapps Report:
Yesterday, I successfully ducked a crazy person stalker in Starbucks...
My Friend Formerly With A Pool:
Today I changed out of my work clothes, into my gym clothes, back out of my gym clothes into a towel, dried off and changed back into my work clothes all within a 3 foot radius of other co-workers without anyone seeing my equipment. Who says you never use the things you learn in middle school?
Euro-Witz (aka Witz Sis):
Today I climbed over a spikey fence to escape a french zoo...
(http://thefrenchlifeparis.blogspot.com/)
MP Hammer:
Last Thanksgiving, I helped myself to a few too many cocktails before dinner. Upon sitting down for the meal, having ingested nothing other than mass quantities of liquid for much of the afternoon, I found that my body was in dire need of substance. I filled two plates with everything I could get my hands on, and ate like I have never eaten before. Unfortunately, the convergence of about three-quarters of a liter of Maker's Mark and three-quarters of a ton of turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing, resulted in catastrophe. Midway through my second massive serving of sweet potato casserole, the first wave of nausea hit me like a ton of bricks. Although I somehow managed to subdue the urge to empty my stomach all over the carefully constructed holiday centerpiece, I was soon slammed by several others. Desperately attempting to maintain a sliver of composure in front of my entire extended family, I quickly yet quietly excused myself from the table. As my vision began to blur, I stumbled through the hallways of my second cousin's fourth floor apartment in search of a bathroom... a garbage can... an out-of-the-way potted plant... anywhere that I could expel the tremendous amount of matter that was fighting its way up my esophagus. I quickly began to panic when I discovered that the apartment's sole bathroom was occupied. No other appropriate receptacle in sight, I realized that I had to reach back to my college days and do what I had done following almost every case race and double power hour in which I had ever participated. Locking the door of the guest bedroom behind me, I prepared my dignity and self-respect for what I was about to do. Opening the bedroom's window, I hung nearly my entire upper body out of the building and spewed about 4 pounds of liquor and Thanksgiving fare onto the sidewalk 40 feet below. After what seemed like an eternity, I completed the task at hand and returned to the dinner table. Although I'm sure everyone noticed my extremely bloodshot eyes, the telltale sign of a mid-meal purge, I was never asked why I suddenly left the table for 20 minutes. Hopefully, my parents just assumed I was bulimic.
C-Murder:
Witz: Give me a sneaky accomplishment that you've had. Like something subtle, but impressive. Like how I peed at a urinal with an ipod in one hand without any disaster.
C-Murder: Wait what? A sneaky accomplishment? Does it have to be in the peeing arena?
Witz: Nope. Anything.
C-Murder: I can chug water really quickly. I make good meatball subs for a vegetarian...
Witz: Those are pretty good...
C-Murder: Oh wait. How about how I can FUCKING SPEAK CHINESE-- how about that??
That Was Kind of a Sneaky No-Post,
Witz
SPARKS ADDENDUM:
Sparks, Nevada must be the craaaaaziest town around (sorry Red Bullsville)! Nothin' but injuries, drunk driving, and sexual assault there. Also, and maybe I'm wrong, but isn't it possible that Sparks doesn't cause MORE of these negative occurrences, but, in fact, the people who choose to buy and drink a caffeinated alcoholic drink that tastes like sweet tarts and comes in a can that looks like a battery might ALREADY be more prone to drunk driving, injuries, or sexual assault? And explain how the last one works? "Welp, ordinarily, I'd be drunk on beer, call it a night, and pass out, but since I've had some caffeine, I'm gonna force myself on this passed out chick who wasn't smart enough to be drinking Sparks, too." The problem isn't people drinking Sparks-- it's NOT ENOUGH people drinking Sparks!
Yesterday, somebody told me that my post left it ambiguous as to whether or not I was pro-Sparks. To anyone who isn't sure, I defer to the 32 cans currently in my refrigerator-- every can a baby miracle (but hopefully never leading to the miracle of babies).
Here are some sneaky accomplishments of readers-- post more of yours in the comments section and I will update them on this main page:
It Dave Burns When I Pee says:
Today for lunch I ordered a chicken-salad sandwich on a poppyseed bagel and managed to finish eating every single poppyseed that fell off because I paid 10 cents extra for them.
The Bruhniverse says:
Today I made bacon for myself. This is usually my wife's "job", but in a pinch the microwave is almost as good as her oven method. A microwave is to the common man, as the vibrator is to the common woman, devices of conveniences that one almost-but-not-quite finds fulfilling.
The Kapps Report:
Yesterday, I successfully ducked a crazy person stalker in Starbucks...
My Friend Formerly With A Pool:
Today I changed out of my work clothes, into my gym clothes, back out of my gym clothes into a towel, dried off and changed back into my work clothes all within a 3 foot radius of other co-workers without anyone seeing my equipment. Who says you never use the things you learn in middle school?
Euro-Witz (aka Witz Sis):
Today I climbed over a spikey fence to escape a french zoo...
(http://thefrenchlifeparis.blogspot.com/)
MP Hammer:
Last Thanksgiving, I helped myself to a few too many cocktails before dinner. Upon sitting down for the meal, having ingested nothing other than mass quantities of liquid for much of the afternoon, I found that my body was in dire need of substance. I filled two plates with everything I could get my hands on, and ate like I have never eaten before. Unfortunately, the convergence of about three-quarters of a liter of Maker's Mark and three-quarters of a ton of turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing, resulted in catastrophe. Midway through my second massive serving of sweet potato casserole, the first wave of nausea hit me like a ton of bricks. Although I somehow managed to subdue the urge to empty my stomach all over the carefully constructed holiday centerpiece, I was soon slammed by several others. Desperately attempting to maintain a sliver of composure in front of my entire extended family, I quickly yet quietly excused myself from the table. As my vision began to blur, I stumbled through the hallways of my second cousin's fourth floor apartment in search of a bathroom... a garbage can... an out-of-the-way potted plant... anywhere that I could expel the tremendous amount of matter that was fighting its way up my esophagus. I quickly began to panic when I discovered that the apartment's sole bathroom was occupied. No other appropriate receptacle in sight, I realized that I had to reach back to my college days and do what I had done following almost every case race and double power hour in which I had ever participated. Locking the door of the guest bedroom behind me, I prepared my dignity and self-respect for what I was about to do. Opening the bedroom's window, I hung nearly my entire upper body out of the building and spewed about 4 pounds of liquor and Thanksgiving fare onto the sidewalk 40 feet below. After what seemed like an eternity, I completed the task at hand and returned to the dinner table. Although I'm sure everyone noticed my extremely bloodshot eyes, the telltale sign of a mid-meal purge, I was never asked why I suddenly left the table for 20 minutes. Hopefully, my parents just assumed I was bulimic.
C-Murder:
Witz: Give me a sneaky accomplishment that you've had. Like something subtle, but impressive. Like how I peed at a urinal with an ipod in one hand without any disaster.
C-Murder: Wait what? A sneaky accomplishment? Does it have to be in the peeing arena?
Witz: Nope. Anything.
C-Murder: I can chug water really quickly. I make good meatball subs for a vegetarian...
Witz: Those are pretty good...
C-Murder: Oh wait. How about how I can FUCKING SPEAK CHINESE-- how about that??
That Was Kind of a Sneaky No-Post,
Witz
SPARKS ADDENDUM:
Sparks, Nevada must be the craaaaaziest town around (sorry Red Bullsville)! Nothin' but injuries, drunk driving, and sexual assault there. Also, and maybe I'm wrong, but isn't it possible that Sparks doesn't cause MORE of these negative occurrences, but, in fact, the people who choose to buy and drink a caffeinated alcoholic drink that tastes like sweet tarts and comes in a can that looks like a battery might ALREADY be more prone to drunk driving, injuries, or sexual assault? And explain how the last one works? "Welp, ordinarily, I'd be drunk on beer, call it a night, and pass out, but since I've had some caffeine, I'm gonna force myself on this passed out chick who wasn't smart enough to be drinking Sparks, too." The problem isn't people drinking Sparks-- it's NOT ENOUGH people drinking Sparks!
Yesterday, somebody told me that my post left it ambiguous as to whether or not I was pro-Sparks. To anyone who isn't sure, I defer to the 32 cans currently in my refrigerator-- every can a baby miracle (but hopefully never leading to the miracle of babies).
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Witz Pickz: Sparks
I have eight packs of Sparks in my fridge and that's not a metaphor. It might be by the time this weekend is over. Back in September, Sparks had a number of lawsuits brought against them (MillerCoors) for both health and marketing reasons (both obvious-- fast + slow = heart attacks, and it was marketed as an energy drink...with alcohol...). Now, they have decided to either pull their product from shelves or eliminate the caffeine from their product. I guess they decided something ridiculous like mixing 6-7% alcohol with caffeine and taurine wasn't a good idea-- and by "decided" I mean, "combined extensive research of the product's ingredients with sound, reasonable logic and came to a completely appropriate conclusion."
Only this is America, and if we want to combine our uppers with our downers, we shouldn't have to buy two products. America is the home of the 2 for 1 deal and the 2 in 1 product. Take shampoo and conditioner for example. Shampoo makes my hair really frizzy. Conditioner makes my hair really soft. An "upper" and a "downer." Opposites, but they sell that in a 2 in 1 bottle. It's just like Sparks.
But this isn't just another post about Sparks and their lawsuit-- it's about shame...it's always about shame:Last night, My Friend Formerly With A Pool and I wandered into Safeway before my soccer game. My goal? To buy one Powerade. That's it. Except, right next to the cold drinks section was the alcohol section, and right at the edge of that alcohol section was SPARKS (which I guess sort of proves the point about it being marketed like a regular energy drink to underage kids). The Safeway by my house was completely out of Sparks, and all of my friends have had trouble finding any-- there is only a limited supply left in stores with "the original recipe" intact. "SPARKS!" I declared, like advertisers imagined a tween in search of tasty alcoholic beverages would. "SPARKS PARTY!" My Friend Formerly With A Pool proclaimed, which a) does sound like a singles mixer b) does sound like a homosexual singles mixer c) is still a great idea. We then proceeded to pull all of the Sparks Plus (the plus stands for heart disease) off the shelf and put it in a hand basket while a semi-grizzled man watched us and laughed softly. "We're never gonna sleep again," I told him (hm, see aforementioned "b"). "We're gonna need another basket," we decided.
We then went ahead and filled a second hand-basket with four-packs of Sparks. We cleaned them out. Unfortunately, we hadn't finished shopping, so we then wandered throughout the entire store holding our bounty. What else did we buy besides 8 packs of Sparks? Two vitamin waters. We considered buying some condoms or asking if they sold ecstasy, just to top off the absurdity of the purchase.
Walking to checkout, I saw a slightly shorter line and stepped into it, My Friend Formerly With A Pool close by.
"Line's back here, guy!" came a voice from behind us. I turned around and saw some guy with a shopping cart, leaving room in the aisle for people to go by. I instinctively apologized, but what I was really thinking was that I should raise my basket with 16 cans of Sparks in it and say, "You really wanna fuck with me, bro?" (Sparks Plus where the plus stands for being brutally beaten with your own torn off limbs) Instead, the guy added, "Too good to be true, huh?" referring to the length of the line. I glanced around at the other lines which were all roughly the same length. Douchebag. If only he'd met me when I had been drinking Sparks, and therefore been prone to, "more drunk driving, more injuries, and more sexual assault."
Getting into another line, we began the long, awkward wait. "Oh shiiiiiit!" I whispered, as I realized something important-- I didn't have my ID. I'd left it at home in the pocket of my jeans. I couldn't buy Sparks. Suddenly, we weren't even just two mid-twenty year old dudes buying 32 cans of Sparks. We were those underage guys with one ID between them, pretending not to know each other so they could buy a drink allegedly marketed for teens. Many many eyes were upon us or at least it felt that way. As we neared the checker, my fears were allayed by my racism, when I saw that the girl looked "Off-the-boat-asian." We got up to the register:
"Ok, ID?" She asked. I wasn't wrong....still probably racist...
"Here you go," MFFWAP said as I hung back, just another customer giggling at the customer in front of him...
"K," she said, ringing him up. "Safeway card?"
"I don't have one..." he said.
"K,"
"Wait, I do!" helpful customer behind Guy Buying Too Much Sparks chimed in (that's me).
"Too late," she snapped. Wait for it...
"But those Sparks are onsale for like, six bucks..." Curiously over-interested and fiscally aggressive customer in the on-deck circle replied. The checker looked at me, questioning my involvement. I froze. "I'm just saying, I have a card..." I waited as her eyes scanned me for deceit, just waiting for her to ask for my ID, thus ending our dream of a Sparks Party.
"Too late," she told us, and turned away. The Sparks was ours.
While we had been in line, slowly sauntering forward, customers in other lines had looked over at our baskets and smiled, shaking their heads. As we left the store with our shopping bags of ill-health, I could still feel their eyes on our backs. If I were to get pulled over on the way home, the police would find me in a station wagon, without a driver's license, with an entire trunk full of Sweet-Tart tasting alcohol. He'd probably charge me with conspiracy to sell to minors-- after all, having more than four Sparks in your posession at any time is suspect, and it's reasonable to assume that you're selling to anxious tweens, just looking to make some bad decisions. I've told stories on this site about being scared by my own back hair. I've told stories about trying to swallow cinnamon and hacking my lungs and sinuses out. I've made mention of how excited I get when I walk into a bathroom and the automatic lights go on just for me. But last night, in the checkout line with armfuls of Sparks, I finally felt shame. It was both an adrenaline rush and super depressing. An upper and a downer. Sparks.
"Maybe Witz Shouldn't Complain About His Immune System Anymore,"Witz
Photos courtesy of Turbo (first) and Nitro (second and third)
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: Cat Nap
It's possible to love too much. Furthermore, it is possible to love too hard. My roommate's cat is an overly aggressive cuddler. She goes one step beyond the usual brushing up against you and actually rams you with her head and body. It's not that she wants to feel your touch so much as she wants to knock you out and make you bleed. The purring never stops.
My roommate is out of town and so, last night, my first night back, I learned that aggressive cuddling and domestic abuse aren't so far apart. The following encounter is factual:
10:30pm -- Godiva the cat wanders into my bedroom as I am settling my jet-lagged self into bed. "Oh good," I think. "Perhaps the cat will settle into bed with me while I sleep, thus comforting me. How shall I entice it?" I then proceeded to say, "Godiva!" because naming things gives you power over them.
10:45pm -- Godiva the cat has jumped up into bed and has been circling me routinely for the past fifteen minutes. She hits against my face, my arms, and my legs. I pet her, and she's purring, but she better settle soon so I can sleep.
12:45am -- Godiva the cat refuses to settle and I've started taking a tone with her. "Godiva!" I whisper-yell insanely. "Go to sleep!" Instead she smacks her head against my face and I think to myself, "She's only doing this because she cares about me." I lie completely still, trying to trick her into thinking I'm asleep. Apparently, Godiva has no problem sleep-assaulting me, as she continues to go after my exposed hands and head. I hide my limbs under the blanket and start in on the crazy swearing: "Godiva, fucking knock it off or I will fucking throw you out the window to your cat doom nine times!" Then I add, "Just leave!" If he can hear me, my other roommate must think I'm insane. Fair enough.
1:00am -- "Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!....Ohmygodstop!"
1:01am -- Godiva the cat is locked on the outside of my door crying in the way that cat's cry and sound like old people. "Shuuuuuuut up!" Mew. Mew. Mew. I consider my options. I can suck it up and let the cat cry, but then I both feel bad AND don't fall asleep-- after all, I'm the guy who needs the white noise of a fan to mask...SILENCE...to fall asleep. So that's out. I can take Godiva and lock her in a room farther away. That sounds like my best option, but then, theoretically, that means I should move the litter box into whichever room is with the cat and I don't see that happening, especially because the litter "box" is actually more like an igloo and I'm not entirely familiar with litter igloo technology. So I open the door and give Godiva the cat a stern, "Shut the fuck up." Then I get back in bed.
1:02am -- Godiva the cat climbs in bed with me. Anticipating the move, I have my hands, arms, feet, and most of my face and head tucked under the comforter. My eyes are locked shut, and while it is extremely warm beneath the covers, it is my only hope at sleep. Godiva sniffs around me, but doesn't make a move. I tense as I hear her curl up between me and the wall. Then I hear nothing.
3:00am -- "Goddamn motherfuckin' piece of I'll kill you!" My eyes snap open to the wet sniff and headbutt of Godiva the cat. I snap upright and for the first time in my life, I wonder what the ethics are on punching a cat in the face. My fist is clenched, wound up, inches from her face, per my human-like reflexes when startled awake. I hesitate and think of how I won't be able to say, "Well, at least I've never punched a cat in the face before..." ever again without lying and so I slowly put down my hand. "Maybe I could just Lenny this one to death..." I think, but then realize that however incidental Godiva's death might seem, my roommate will not forgive me for such occurrences-- plus, I've always considered myself a cat person, and it'd be tough to make that claim in the future when I have to add, "I mean, I've only killed ONE!" Furious and exhausted, I flop back into bed, return to my coccoon, and hide. Sleep comes slowly, and always with that slightly audible purr just outside of reach, a promise and a threat.
6:00am -- You don't need an alarm when you have Godiva the cat. Godiva doesn't have to go to work. Godiva's gonna be sitting at home watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall on blu-ray while I wander half-dazed through my day. Godiva's going to be listening to Muscles turned up full blast on our speakers and eating the last few bites of my Expresso Burrito while I fall asleep at the wheel, and Godiva will be curled up snugly in my bed, purring, as my last few moments in this world fade away.
Disney Movie In the Making,
Witz
My roommate is out of town and so, last night, my first night back, I learned that aggressive cuddling and domestic abuse aren't so far apart. The following encounter is factual:
10:30pm -- Godiva the cat wanders into my bedroom as I am settling my jet-lagged self into bed. "Oh good," I think. "Perhaps the cat will settle into bed with me while I sleep, thus comforting me. How shall I entice it?" I then proceeded to say, "Godiva!" because naming things gives you power over them.
10:45pm -- Godiva the cat has jumped up into bed and has been circling me routinely for the past fifteen minutes. She hits against my face, my arms, and my legs. I pet her, and she's purring, but she better settle soon so I can sleep.
12:45am -- Godiva the cat refuses to settle and I've started taking a tone with her. "Godiva!" I whisper-yell insanely. "Go to sleep!" Instead she smacks her head against my face and I think to myself, "She's only doing this because she cares about me." I lie completely still, trying to trick her into thinking I'm asleep. Apparently, Godiva has no problem sleep-assaulting me, as she continues to go after my exposed hands and head. I hide my limbs under the blanket and start in on the crazy swearing: "Godiva, fucking knock it off or I will fucking throw you out the window to your cat doom nine times!" Then I add, "Just leave!" If he can hear me, my other roommate must think I'm insane. Fair enough.
1:00am -- "Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!....Ohmygodstop!"
1:01am -- Godiva the cat is locked on the outside of my door crying in the way that cat's cry and sound like old people. "Shuuuuuuut up!" Mew. Mew. Mew. I consider my options. I can suck it up and let the cat cry, but then I both feel bad AND don't fall asleep-- after all, I'm the guy who needs the white noise of a fan to mask...SILENCE...to fall asleep. So that's out. I can take Godiva and lock her in a room farther away. That sounds like my best option, but then, theoretically, that means I should move the litter box into whichever room is with the cat and I don't see that happening, especially because the litter "box" is actually more like an igloo and I'm not entirely familiar with litter igloo technology. So I open the door and give Godiva the cat a stern, "Shut the fuck up." Then I get back in bed.
1:02am -- Godiva the cat climbs in bed with me. Anticipating the move, I have my hands, arms, feet, and most of my face and head tucked under the comforter. My eyes are locked shut, and while it is extremely warm beneath the covers, it is my only hope at sleep. Godiva sniffs around me, but doesn't make a move. I tense as I hear her curl up between me and the wall. Then I hear nothing.
3:00am -- "Goddamn motherfuckin' piece of I'll kill you!" My eyes snap open to the wet sniff and headbutt of Godiva the cat. I snap upright and for the first time in my life, I wonder what the ethics are on punching a cat in the face. My fist is clenched, wound up, inches from her face, per my human-like reflexes when startled awake. I hesitate and think of how I won't be able to say, "Well, at least I've never punched a cat in the face before..." ever again without lying and so I slowly put down my hand. "Maybe I could just Lenny this one to death..." I think, but then realize that however incidental Godiva's death might seem, my roommate will not forgive me for such occurrences-- plus, I've always considered myself a cat person, and it'd be tough to make that claim in the future when I have to add, "I mean, I've only killed ONE!" Furious and exhausted, I flop back into bed, return to my coccoon, and hide. Sleep comes slowly, and always with that slightly audible purr just outside of reach, a promise and a threat.
6:00am -- You don't need an alarm when you have Godiva the cat. Godiva doesn't have to go to work. Godiva's gonna be sitting at home watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall on blu-ray while I wander half-dazed through my day. Godiva's going to be listening to Muscles turned up full blast on our speakers and eating the last few bites of my Expresso Burrito while I fall asleep at the wheel, and Godiva will be curled up snugly in my bed, purring, as my last few moments in this world fade away.
Disney Movie In the Making,
Witz
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