My wife went to pick up my kid from school yesterday. Beforehand, she told me they were going to stay a little extra long to hang out at the playground. I, of course, didn't hear any of that because I was too busy playing in front of 150,000 at Castle Donington in my brain. MASTER! MASTER! MASTER OF PUPPETS IS PULLING YOUR STRINGS!!!
Anyway, she goes off to get the kid, I expect her back at 12:30, and she's not back until much later. Because I didn't hear her say, "Hey, we're staying late," I call her phone multiple times to find out where she is. No one picks up.
I have now reached the age where, if someone in my family doesn't answer the phone or is mysteriously late (or late to me, at least), I immediately assume they've perished in some sort of fiery banana truck accident out on the highway. It only takes about five minutes for me to silently panic and play out the next 20 years of my life as a grieving widower. "Oh, God. I'm gonna have to get married again. And there's no way she'll be as cool as my current wife. And she'll want MORE kids. And then they'll have to coexist with my son in an uneasy half-sibling relationship. Then she'll force me to move to Tampa. Then I'll end up growing a ponytail and working for a catamaran tours outfit. OH DEAR GOD NO PLEASE I WANT TO DIVORCE THIS HORRIBLE WOMAN RIGHT NOW."
And then my wife called and all was right with the world again. I swear to God, if one of us perishes in a banana truck accident, it better be ME. Your letters:
Is it wrong that I silently root for a nuclear holocaust/zombie holocaust?
Not really. Listen, not a day goes by where I don't think about walking out my door and suddenly seeing a flash on the horizon, followed by a huge, billowing mushroom cloud. ZOMG! IT IS OFFICIALLY ON!
I remember after 9/11, and they held these Congressional panels where some prick like Rumsfeld or someone like that was like, "There WILL be a nuke detonated here at some point." Well, FUCK MAN! What the fuck do I do now? WHAT AM I PAYING YOU FOR? Now, I totally imagine some asshole with a suitcase bomb wandering into CVS and blowing my ass straight to Hell. Even though the reality of suitcase nukes is debatable. IT COULD TOTALLY HAPPEN. AND THEN WE'RE FUCKED.
Sometimes I'll watch the news, and the BREAKING NEWS icon will come up, and I'll be like, "Oh shit. This is it. CHICAGO IS NO MORE." And then it turns out some white chick is missing. What a tease. What if they bombed New York? Would my cell still work? Would my bank account still have money in it? Would the cable still be up? I am a very shallow person like that.
I also root for a zombie holocaust because I look forward to the day when we beat the zombies and then are able to horde the remaining few inside a Zombie Zoo for our gawking amusement. How much would you pay to visit a zombie zoo? $50? I would, especially if they put it in San Diego.
I sometimes like to imagine "Malkovich Style", that Ex-Girlfriends and friends that I haven't talked to in God knows how long can somehow have a real time sneak peak into my life, just to see how awesome I have become and what they are missing out on, by breaking up with me/not staying in touch in 5 years.
But every time I think of this, and that they may be "peaking" into my life at that very moment, I am always doing something shitty such as just watching TV, making a frozen pizza, playing video games, etc, which makes me realize why they dumped my ass in the first place and that I really should be doing more with my life.
Am I the only tool out there that does this?
Yes, but now you've got me completely freaked the fuck out. Because there's no reason some prick I only know on Facebook couldn't find a portal into my skull, wherein he spies on me banging my sheets. That's horrible. STAY OUT OF MY RIPE VESSEL, ERIC!
Kidding aside, I rarely fear other people staring into my life. UNLESS THEY ARE DEAD. It terrifies me that everyone up in Heaven has those crazy God powers where they can see and hear everything. When someone dies, what's the first thing some fellow griever will say to you? "Well, I'm sure so and so is looking down at us all right now and smiling." Really? Jesus, that's creepy. Why is Aunt Harriet looking down at me? Shouldn't she have better things to do up in heaven, like playing air hockey with Lincoln? I'm not comfortable at all with this giant army of the dead looking down at me while I'm taking a shit or sneaking peeks at some Victoria Silvstedt crotch shot. That's not right. You dead fuckers have a lot of nerve. I wish the sky had Levlor blinds going across it.
When I was a starving ex-student, me and my friends would often go to the dollar theater (back when it was actually a buck fifty to see the old releases). We never had money for snacks and never had the foresight to actually buy stuff and sneak it into the theater. Once inside, we would scrounge through the garbage cans in the theater and pull out the half eaten bags of popcorn, shake of a couple layers of corn and commence eating. You would be surprised how many bags of popcorn are barely touched, at least we hoped they weren't touched. It really seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.
No one enjoys eating other people's leftovers as much as I do. I've picked up any number of half-full drinks at bars all across this land (FREE GIN!). But I draw the fucking line at thrown out movie popcorn. That is disgusting. First of all, you don't know if a penis has been in that bag. You don't. Someone easily could have pulled a Mickey Rourke and jammed their cock right up through the bag in an effort to get a hanj.
Secondly, have you seen the other people at the movie theater? They're fucking repulsive. Movie theater people are almost as horrid as airport or bus station people. Any time I go to a movie theater, I want to gas at least 80% of the viewing audience. And that's even before they start talking during the fucking movie.
Thirdly, few foods are eaten in as unsanitary fashion as popcorn. Think about how you eat popcorn. You jam your hand in the bag, cram it in your mouth, then dip your buttery, drooly fingers back down in the bag for another go. By the time you're halfway done, that entire bag is painted with your fucking mouthjuice. It's biohazard at that point.
I worked as a table runner at a fancy restaurant once (same one with the Toblerone sundaes), and you would not believe the shit that came back in uneaten. Entire lobster tails. Veal medallions. Steak. Desserts with a single bite gone. Did we eat it all? FUCK AND YES. No lobster should ever go wasted like that. Much better than stranger popcorn.
Some dingleberry got a hold of my credit card number, but instead of getting something cool like a poker table or a sex swing or a home brewery kit, he just bought like 4 songs on iTunes before the bank called to warn me that something was awry. Talk about a failure of imagination! I'm actually disappointed that this criminal mastermind didn't use it to procure enriched uranium or bags of ammonium nitrate or a sword. It's not like I was going to have to pay for it anyway. What would you do a single credit card purchase and no concern with running into the law?
It depends on the card. If it was an AmEx black card, or some rich asshole card that I knew had no credit limit, I'd go with buying a Bugatti all the way. You can buy one of those with a credit card, right? And no matching ID needed? I assume so.
But if it's just some random credit card with an unknown credit limit, I'd have to make sure I bought something that didn't exceed the limit, otherwise I've wasted my opportunity. And something would be a really, really, really nice meal. At a restaurant I clearly can't afford. Champagne. Caviar. A steak sandwich and a steak sandwich. PUT IT ON THE UNDERHILLS, PLEASE.
Or a hover scooter. FUCK YEAH HOVER SCOOTER. I AM KING OF GALAXY.
The maintenance staff here at UNC Law deemed this "out of order" sign necessary. I tend to think that the fact that THE ENTIRE FUCKING SINK HAS BEEN RIPPED OFF THE WALL renders the notice a little excessive. I'm sure there's something to be said about the fact that this is in a law school, but I'll leave that to you.
P.S.: We're told by the Career Services Office to put "J.D. Candidate" in our email signature. Douchey or professional?
Beyond douchey. That sounds like something my parents would make me put on a resume. If you were an undergraduate, would you put "B.A. Candidate" in your email signature? Not a chance, unless "B.A. candidate" indicated you were up to replace Quinton Jackson in the "A-Team" movie. All professional resumes and shit should only indicate shit you ACCOMPLISHED. Not shit that may possibly be coming down the pike. You may as well put "Alien Ambassador Candidate" in there while you're at it. Just to be sure, I asked flubby, who is a lawyer:
"Gotta say douche move— if they're emailing someone regarding a firm about a job, the prospective employer probably already knows they are a law student & if it's for personal email, then they're just a jackass. I have never, ever heard anyone refer to themselves a JD Candidate e& I've seen a shit ton of resumes in my day."
Yeah, it's not like the firm will go, "Whoa hey, this guy is up for a LAW DEGREE! He's leaps and bounds past any other potential hire."
I hate email sigs in general, especially lengthy ones companies always make you put in, AND if they include some gay factoid about the company. "Did you know our firm was ranked in AMLAW's Top 50 last year?" Really? GO FUCK YOURSELF.
How did you put off homework in college before the Internet was what it is now?
Drinking and watching TV in the common room. It wasn't until my senior year that our dorms got outfitted with cable in individual dorm rooms (Yes, I lived on campus senior year, which makes me a fucking loser). Before that, if you wanted to watch cable, you had to go the common room. And there was always some prick watching "Law & Order" or something retarded down there. I used to go down, see who was watching TV, let out an audible sigh, and then constantly check back every fifteen minutes to see if they left. I was a real blast in college.
There are few things more aggravating than getting a structurally weak straw with your milkshake - you know the kind, where you start sucking, expecting deliciousness but ending up collapsing the damn straw in on itself. I don't know who's to blame for this, but I suspect it's the fault of Science.
The upside to that is that those straws are excellent for the whole "winding up and flicking so it pops" move. Man, that never gets old. I showed my kid that the other day. Happiest part of my week.
You should also be glad you got such a hearty, thick milkshake. Could Jesus make a milkshake so thick that he himself could not suck it? Think about it.
If you were in a bar or strip club and ended up having to throw down with another patron (whether he hit on your woman or spilled his drink on you), what music would you want playing in the background? I've thought ZZ Top's "La Grange" would be a good pick for a strip club but have "Ace of Spades" slotted for the sleazy dive bar. Your thoughts?
The first songs that come immediately to mind are "Get In The Ring" and "Shotgun Blues." But it's not 1991 anymore, so I dunno if fighting to Axl bitching out Mick Wall of Kerrang would feel all that appropriate these days. Anyway, I'll pick the end of "Whole Lotta Rosie" for the dive bar, "Bottle of Smoke," by the Pogues at any pub, and the following song at a titty bar.
Special thanks to reader William for the reccomendation. Consider that HALFTIME! "Piece of Me" by Skid Row also would have sufficed.
Since I can remember, I have always been amazed at my dad's ability to secure things in the back of a pick-up truck or on the roof of the car with one or two lengths of rope, using all manner of complicated knots and neatly arrayed criss-crossing patterns that not only held fantastically but then later came apart with ease. Same with my closest friends' dads. It was mind-boggling.
When I graduated college and moved to friggin Japan and witnessed my Japanese girlfriend's dad do the same thing, I realized that this phenomenon might be greater than I could have imagined. Then the real questions came: is it ALL dads?
Well, not anymore. Because I'm a dad, and 90% of the knots I tie come undone within three seconds of my tying them. I think old people back then were forced to join the Navy or something. That's one of the two pluses of being in the Navy: You learn to tie good knots, and you get to fuck a barrel.
I sit in a cubicle for about 12 hours per day, needless to say, it blows. Not only is it mind-numbingly boring, but I have been forced to adopt a completely sedentary lifestyle. It's so bad that when my water cup runs out and I'm forced to walk to the break room to refill (approximately 80 feet round trip), I curse my superiors/the gods for not providing me with bigger cups.
As it turns out, one of my coworkers is unwilling to accept this fate and has suggested that we sit on 75-centimeter yoga balls so that "our core muscles will be firing even when we are sitting." In this way we can combat a sedentary lifestyle while continuing to waste our prime fun-having years in a cubicle. Do you think health is worth sitting on a yoga ball?
No. Listen, I know yoga balls are effective, and I have to do exercises with them for my back every other day, but I'd want nothing to do with them if I had a choice. There is no piece of equipment that simultaneously looks more fun yet causes more pain. Personal trainers have spent years finding ways to make your fucking life miserable by doing situps and pushups and God knows what else on a fucking yoga ball. It's horrible, and all I want to do when I see yoga balls is play dodgeball against a gang of friendly ogres. But does such a game ever materialize? NO! Instead, it's one backbreaking ab exercise after another.
Office laziness and office ass are very real dangers in this world. But you can avoid both problems simply by smoking and doing lots of cocaine. Has to beat a yoga ball any day.
I often daydream of being crucified. Like, terrorists infiltrate our school, catch me trying to foil them, and then I am crucified in the middle of the gym floor. A large, make-shift wooden cross is constructed and I am tortured, hoisted up and left there to suffer in front of all my classmates. The girls, naturally, are weeping uncontrollably. There is much wailing.
I don't know if your terrorist fantasies involve self-sacrifice. But even in my steadfast atheism, I consider myself a Christ-like figure.
But why not go all the way and just fantasize about being Jesus? Who's to say you aren't? I'm not saying I imagine this regularly, but I have considered the idea that I'd be taking a shower one day, and God would pop up and be like, "My child, you're the Second Coming. I'm your father. You have THE MARK." Then I look at my ass in the mirror and there's a birthmark in the shape of a cross or something. That would be fucked up. Me? You sure? Well, what do I do now? Am I gonna have to be crucified? I don't wanna do that. That sounds terrible.
I've wondered, strictly from a secular perspective, what would happen if the Second Coming occurred one day. Like, I turn on CNN and suddenly there's Jesus, turning water into wine and crying blood. That would blow my goddamn mind. Would he get a TV show? Would he sing the anthem at sporting events? Would he solve that thing over the Middle East? Is he a mischievous badger? My Jewish friend Jeremy would be fucking LIVID if he came back and it was legit.
Ever fantasize about getting into a fight with a large dog or a wolf? I have. I love dogs but the thought of striking one repeatedly while trying to remain alive is appealing.
I usually daydream about kicking the shit out of small dogs. Large dogs would have their way with me. I know two people who have had to undergo facial reconstructive surgery after being attacked by Rottweilers. So any Rottweiler I come across, I get as far the fuck away from as humanly possible. I know damn well my face is a steak to them. If one tried to attack me, I know already what I would do. I would dig my thumb into his eye and try and stab his brain. Then I would beat the living FUCK out of the dog's fat lady owner.
As for wolves, I like the idea of shooting and/or impaling them. Like, right when they leap at me, BOOM! Sword to the chest. Good stuff.
Our African American president picked a final four with 3 teams whose names start with K's, plus a university (Vanillanova, my alma mater) that makes Duke look like they are integrated.
Meanwhile, Joe Biden picked Maryland to win it all while filling out his bracket on an Amtrak shitter.
I have been having an issue with an older lady in my office constantly stealing my pens.
That's terrible. Especially if the pens are good. Ever stumble on a solid pen at the office? Like gold, I tell you. Then it's stolen or lost a week later and you feel like committing suicide.
So I'm from northern Wisconsin and was in the basement putting wood in the firebox. Wood heat is nice and cozy. I go down there usually with no shoes or socks on. I grab a pile of wood and one slips out. Fuck. The fucking thing falls directly onto my big toe. HOLY FUCK. That hurt. I look down and watch my toe turn purple and the nail fill with blood.
I decide to start messing with the nail. I know it's going to fall off sooner or later. I decide I want to take it off. Let me tell you. It was funnnnnn. There was slime sticking to the nail and my toe and it kinda turned into a wall of goo. Like in horror movies. Then the stench hit me. The newly removed nail and toe stunk to high heaven. I inched my foot to the dog, he took a whiff, and quickly backed off.
Did I mention Vaughan sent a picture?
GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I DON'T WANT TO REMAIN LIVING!!!!!
You know what is even better than knife blocks? Magnetic wall strips to attach your knives to the wall. Not only do your knives look badass hanging on the wall like that, but also you feel like you're ready to cut a bitch every time you pull one off the wall.
They make me want to throw knives. Just grab one off the wall and huck it at the nearest person. I really would like to spend more time working on my knife throwing technique. There can't be anything more gratifying than being an expert knife thrower.
When I encounter a magnetic knife strip (or anything magnetized), I will take the knife, and see how close I can get it to the magnet before feeling the magnet pull the fucker in. And then I'll see if I can hold the knife steady in that little tractor beam. Magnets are so fucking cool.
Here's my idea for internet porn: a program where you can plug in a girl's picture from Facebook, and this magical software will find the pornos that feature similar looking girls. A convenient way to jerk off to classmates and co-workers? Totally gross and creepy? I will let you decide.
But it needs to go further. It should be able to take that picture, then create a digital model of that person's face, and then superimpose it onto the face of a woman in a porno. So the person you WANT to see naked will virtually star in your customized porn film. You know damn well porn engineers are working on that right now. And when they succeed, we will all lose a bit of our innocence that day.
My girlfriend has agreed to let me have sex with her while blasting metal as a birthday present to me. I'm free to include as many bands and songs as I wish. I was wondering if you had any suggestions for bands but more importantly, the order in which the songs should be played. I've already included a heavy amount of Mastodon, Tool, and High on Fire but I'm unsure in what order to place the songs.
Well, wait a second. There are any number of mitigating factors to this agreement. Did she agree reluctantly? Because then she clearly won't enjoy it, and then YOU won't enjoy it, and then you'll get mad at her for ruining it by not getting into it and violating the spirit of the heavy metal boning treatise.
Regardless, I suggest you get her stoned before you begin. Cook her a nice dinner, have some wine, fire up a joint, and then UNLEASH YOUR FUCKING AXE. Consider instrumentals to warm her up, so she's not distracted by some barking vocalist. A song like "Orion" by Metallica. Or any song by Pelican.
Once you pick up speed, it's Motorhead all the way. Sexy, sexy Motorhead.
Am I the only one that creates a circle with their thumb and forefinger and tries to follow his urine stream all the way down? I never make it without peeing on my hands, and even if I did, what would happen? There is no prize, and I can't tell anyone about my achievement unless it is via the faceless anonymity the Internet provides. I'll keep you updated if I ever conquer this feat.
Well, how could you succeed? Your piss hits the water, so there's no way for your hand circle to slip out of the stream without getting wet. Are you trying to finish your stream with your hand outstretched as far as possible, making sure each drop lands perfectly in the circle? That would be a hell of a thing if you could do that.
I have done this, but I usually break the circle when I feel the stream weakening. Sometimes I get piss on my hand, but that can be washed off. I'm very casual when it comes to getting my own urine on myself.
Did you ever take Adderall to study for a test in college? My god is it one hell of a drug. Depending on the strength of the pill you take you can be wide awake for eight hours. Not only are you wide awake but you feel GREAT. I am never more optimistic than when I take Adderall. Last week, at 4 in the morning, I was seriously contemplating picking up the harmonica after listening to a bunch of Bob Dylan.
Everything you read you retain, plus you can fly through boring ass textbooks. Apparently it's just a smaller dosage of speed and people have compared it to doing coke too. I don't know what I would do without it. Lot of people take it before they go to the bars to stay up all night too. The side-effects are shrunken penis (just while on it), no appetite, unknowingly grinding your teeth, and a terrible crash that I usually offset with weed and a couple 40s That's great way to celebrate being done with a test anyway.
No appetite? That's a BAD side effect? I'd take it just for that.
I don't think I even knew what Adderall was when I went to school. But now I would like to travel back in time so that I can attend school and use it as a study/party aid. Sure, any number of reputable media outlets have published reports that prescription drug use is now epidemic among college kids. But few of those reports appear to tell you just how apparently AWESOME those drugs can be. Kids I knew in school who crammed for tests used shit like No Doz and ephedra. YOU KIDS TODAY DON'T KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU HAVE IT WITH YOUR KICKASS PHARMA PRODUCTS!
Before I got engaged, I always threatened my girlfriend with proposing marriage on the Jumbotron. I ended up pussing out and proposing while on vacation in Greece, but I still think about how gratifying it would be to embarrass her (like telling the server at Chevy's it's her birthday but a million times better). Here's my idea: I borrow my fiancee's ring for "cleaning," take her to a Twins game, then get DOUBLE ENGAGED on the Jumbotron during the 7th inning stretch. I guarantee someone would buy me a beer. Are there any holes in my plan?
You'd be hoodwinking the good people in the stadium by proposing to your lady when you've already gotten engaged for real. That's like when they use a stunt fish on Bourdain's show. Don't make your chick the stunt fish. If I was in the stadium, and I saw you get engaged and cheered for you, then I found out you had gotten DOUBLE ENGAGED, I'd fucking beat you to death with a bat. And it would totally be legal. The whole fun of seeing someone propose is knowing there's a chance you'll be turned down and humiliated in front of tens of thousands of people. If there's no danger of that, that's bullshit. Referee Mills Lane says he will NOT allow it!
Aside: If I were a Kiss Cam operator, I'd get drunk every night and search the crowd for nothing but siblings.
Why do I insist on prying every last bit of toothpaste out of the tube?
Value. There's an eighth of a penny worth of toothpaste in there. Are you really going to waste it? That like pouring money down the toilet! (Meanwhile, every guy who does this also spent $80 out drinking last night and almost certainly bought a shot for some asshole they didn't know).
I use every bathroom product to the bitter end. If I reach the end of the shampoo bottle, I pour in water, shake it, and use the shampoo water for a couple days. Just to make sure it's all used. Drives the wife absolutely fucking insane.
I work at a college and last week I was asked to help support a special event (I work in IT). My immediate supervisor wasn't there, but his supervisor, the provost, and the president of the university were also there. I always work extra hard when I have to do these things because I figure this is my ticket to stardom.
I imagine this spectacular scene where the President or CEO (in previous jobs) watches my uncanny talents and quickly corners me to proclaim my spectacular talents. "Wow, where have you been all these years? You have been working for him? Well no more! I am going to groom you to become my new personal champion of the college/company!"
I then picture me proudly walking into my boss' office the next day and tell him he has been holding me down as I grab my stuff and walk into my new office, complete with multiple secretaries and company car.
This is all because I am able to properly turn on a laptop during their event.
I blame the movie Working Girl for this. That movie convinced a lot of people that, if they were smart and shrewd enough, they could make it all the way to the top. And that is a LIE. No matter how smart and talented you are, there's always some retard above you who will hold your ass down. That's why work is bullshit. All I want is a 10,000 square foot corner office on the 60th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, and one of those fancy Aeron chairs. And a $5 million a year salary, with a generous annual bonus. I don't think it's much to ask.
Mike's fantasizing is equally shitty if you work in a field like advertising. Every time I was about to present an ad to my boss, I would think to myself, "THIS is the fucking ad. This is the one that wins all the awards, gets me invited to Cannes, jacks up my day rate to $3,000 a day, and gets me a creative director slot in Rio. THE WORLD HAS NEVER SEEN A ROY ROGERS AD QUITE LIKE THIS ONE." I'd imagine my boss taking one look at it and throwing his hands up. "Magary, you've outdone yourself. This is a fucking MASTERPIECE." Not only would I envision that, but I would become convinced that would be his exact reaction. And it never was. It was always, "Eh," or something equally devastating. You should see my face when that happens. I look like one of those dipshits that doesn't get picked for "American Idol". It's horrible. Know those scenes on "Mad Men" where Draper shits all over Sal and some poor writer's work, and forces them to go back to the drawing board? All too accurate. Only I never got to get loaded at lunch and be secretly gay.
Would you rather have someone throw up in your face or poop in your bare hand?
Do I have to watch the person poop? If I have to watch, then I'll take the vomit.
One thing I've noticed in my office is that people with bring food in a PF Chang's or Cheesecake Factory bag, but it will be some homemade crap or a can of soup or something. Total BS in my opinion. Buy a freaking cooler or brown bag it instead of bringing a lunch under false pretenses.
Even worse is when someone brings something like that home, like your wife. Whoa hey lady, you went to CPK? SCORE! Wait a second. These are just bananas! FIEND!
I've also gotten presents wrapped in boxes from stores where the item was NOT purchased. My mom just happened to have a box from FAO Schwartz handy. This isn't a toy! It's a sweater! You misled me, woman!
Have you ever heard about the "Marshmallow Test"? I've now read about it multiple times in reference to gauging intelligence in young children. Psychologists gave 4 yr olds a marshmallow and told them that they could either, A) "eat it now", or, B) wait a little while (like 15 or so minutes, not sure about this detail) before eating it and get a second marshmallow. If the kid ate the thing before the time was up they didn't get a second one. Only the kids that waited did. They then followed these kids for the next 14 years (approx) and found that the kids who waited to get the 2nd marshmallow scored, on average, 210 points higher on their SATs. I'm fascinated by this and wish I could go back in time just to take this test and I don't even like marshmallows.
But what about kids who took the marshmallow right away, and then bitched and moaned for a second one until the adult finally broke down, caved in, and gave them the whole bag, like a goddamn sucker? Kids like that will go far.
The actual marshmallow test makes sense. If you're a kid who is impatient, fat, and cannot comprehend how to secure an extra marshmallow, chances are you're fucking stupid. And now I want marshmallows. Right now. NO WAY I'M WAITING, NO MATTER WHAT KIND OF CARROT OR MARSHMALLOW YOU DANGLE IN FRONT OF ME.
I tend to enjoy cans of soup for lunch, and I've made the following progression in how I eat the soup (or, regression):
1. Pour soup in bowl, microwave, enjoy hot. Like a normal adult that does not live in a trainyard.
2. Pour soup in bowl, enjoy cold. Acceptable, as utensils and dishware is featured heavily.
3. Enjoy right out of can, hobo style. Spoon optional.
Is this OK? No bowl to clean, no balancing act of carrying the 99% full bowl of piping-hot soup back to my desk, along the way invariably spilling it on myself, leading to searing burns and cursing.
Or, should I worry about my boss or boss' boss stumbling into my office seeing me chug a can of Chunky Sirloin with Country Vegetables like it's an ice cold Budweiser?
This is Chunky Soup? Doesn't a cold can have little bits of congealed fat on top? I understand the appeal of just eating it right out of the can (it makes me feel like I'm in Mad Max), but that's to be done at home. I think, in public, you have to use the bowl.
NOTE: Whenever I open a can of soup that has a peel-back tab, I cannot avoid spattering myself when I open it. I'll pop it open, peel the lid back, and when it gets to that point where the lid is still just barely connected to the can, POP! It comes off and I have Spaghetti-O shit all over me. So now I only open the an halfway, then I stuff the lid down into the can when I'm done pouring my shit out. Let that be a lesson to you cans.
We end today with a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY.
I was about nine years old and had a neighborhood friend. Let's call him "Kevin." I was over at Kevin's house one particular afternoon playing in his Jacuzzi. We were behaving as nine year olds do, playing grab-ass, seeing who could hold their breath the longest, etc. In the excitement of being able to frolick in this watery playground (I felt like King Triton!), I neglected to realize that I had to take a dump. Badly.
Before I knew it the torpedo was out of the tube. Fortunately for me, I was wearing a bathing suit with the mesh underwear that trapped the turd like a dolphin in tuna nets. Embarrassed, and afraid to get out, I reached down the back of my shorts and grabbed the log, and when Kevin wasn't looking I threw it in the filter trap. I then declared, "We should get out." We did, and I thought I was the smartest fucking kid alive.
A few days later I was back over at Kevin's and apparently my deed had not gone unnoticed. Kevin's dad asked me repeatedly if I had, "taken a dump in his Jacuzzi," which I summarily denied. Apparently he had done the same thing to Kevin and knew it had to be one of us, but neither was admitting it. He eventually stopped the inquisition and I was able to go play G.I. Joes or some shit.
The next week Kevin was over at my house (we were BFFs!) and we were having ourselves a Micro Machine war. Kevin informed me that he had to go to the bathroom, and I didn't think much of it. He came back a few minutes later and we continued to play until he had to leave. After he left, my mom walked into the bathroom he had used and uttered words I will never forget: "I think Kevin missed the toilet...completely." I ran to where she was looking and there, smack dab on the middle of the bathroom floor, was a steaming pile of shit.
Either on his own volition or at his dad's instruction, Kevin had decided that my spa dump had marred the family name. I was revenge pooped.
Get that dad a beer.