A friend of mine down in New Orleans says that his McDonald's is on the border between the hood and an all right area. All of the employees at this McD's are black, from the hood, and incredibly unintelligible (he can't come close to understanding them, and he's lived in NO for most of his life). When he heard a young, obviously white lady say, "How can I help you today?" he became skeptical and asked, "Where are you? Because I know for a fact you aren't in that McDonald's." Apparently management has the drive-thru orders sent to an office in North Dakota, where white folks plug them into a computer. Then they show up on a screen back in NO for the employees to carry out.
Racist, a sound business decision, or both?
Well first off, the use of offsite centers to handle your fast food calls is 100% true. According to the Boston Globe, Wendy's, Burger King, Mickey D's, and Panda Express all use offsite call centers to handle your drive thru order. I did not know this. That's fucking crazy.
It's not racism driving this. It's purely a matter of economics and efficiency. Oddly enough, it's easier for McDonald's to have your order taken by someone 500 miles away than to have it taken by someone right in your local location. This is because the offsite operator doesn't have to worry about shit like making fries and serving assholes at the register while taking your order. The call center person only needs to focus on YOU, and getting your order right. That means they get your order right more often, and they can make sure it gets to you in less time. Which is fucking SWEET, because waiting at any drive thru – a restaurant, a drug store, a bank, is the longest wait of your goddamn life. Especially if the person on the other end of the drive thru is some mouth-breathing shithead who you can't understand and who can't understand you. Nothing makes me angrier. I SAID I WANTED A FUCKING WHOPPER, ASSHOLE.
According to that Globe article, lots of restaurants use the call centers as a deterrent against in-store theft. Many Wendy's cooks would hand out free food to friends coming through the drive thru window without ringing up the order. So not only is your local fast food restaurant employee a marbled-mouthed idiot who can't multitask, but he's probably also trying to steal all the McGriddles.
I don't blame employees for "stealing" house food. You work there. That shit should be an open buffet. My first job was at Little Caesar's, and I was fucking terrible at it. At the end of the day, I'd always make one huge pan pizza for myself and put a gallon of meat toppings on it. I'd also eat half the pepperoni when making a pizza for a customer. I'm certain the place operated at a loss while I was in their employ. They paid me $4.20 an hour. Giving my fat ass free food was the least they could do.
What do you think about when you see those roadside crosses? My girlfriend thinks of the loved ones of the deceased and the pain they are going though. I can't help but wonder how drunk and/or how drugged the driver was. I never think to consider the feelings of anybody involved or if it was a meth'd out truck driver that caused the accident which cased the death of innocent lives.
I agree. I also, frankly, get a little angry when I see the crosses because, by putting it there, someone has intentionally bummed out everyone who passes by. I was having a great day. I got an apple fritter at the store and I'm in my car and singing and happy, and then suddenly DEATH. I didn't ask for that, man. It's not my fault little Kimberly was wiped off the road by some drunken redneck. Why you gotta make EVERYONE feel shitty about it? Why don't you go grieve in private like a normal person? DICK.
See attached photo. This HAS to be a front for something, right?
Yup. That's a crack factory.
What celebrities could benefit from erasing a few years from their public persona, a la Men in Black? Like if no one ever found out about Kirby Puckett's penchant for molesting women in public bathrooms, or if there was never any rumor about Richard Gere and ass-gerbils?. I would assume that of the many celebrities who could benefit from this, #1 would have to be Tiger Woods. O.J. might be #2.
Dude, OJ murdered two people. I'm pretty sure that should vault him into the top spot over Tiger, who didn't murder two people (not that we know of, at least). Number two would probably be a tie between about three hundred different politicians. I think Clinton probably spends every day wishing he could get Monica Lewinsky of the public's mental resume. I don't remember a goddamn thing that guy did while in office, apart from getting head from a hefty chick. I think you'd also have to have Tom Cruise way up there. If no one knew he was a closeted gay nutjob who thinks volcanic aliens are possessing the living, I think he'd have a pretty sterling reputation. He'd still creep me the fuck out, but whatever.
How bad a stuffed nose would you have to have before you used Vicks Vaporub? I can't think of an over-the-counter medicine that seems even remotely as annoying as smearing a pile of smelly goop on your chest and then trying to go to sleep.
Yeah, but have you ever actually smelled Vaporub? INTOXICATING. It's like sniffing markers, or sniffing your hands after getting gas on them accidentally. I can't stop. I don't use it on myself, but it's a good medicine to use on kids because you don't have to get them to swallow drops or hold still or any of that horrible shit. You just smear it on the little bastards and you're done. Anyway, whenever the kid gets sick, I get a little bit excited because I know I can open up that jar of Vaporub and sniff the fuck out of it. I really get in there. I nosefuck that jar for all its worth. Mmmmm… menthol. Like Kool cigarettes!
Would you ever date a porn star knowing what she did for a living just for the crazy sex? Would you even get the crazy sex you expected or would she come home and say "Sorry honey I did two DPs and a bukkakke today, can't we just cuddle?"
Assuming I'm living in that hypothetical universe where I have no wife and children? Oh hell yes. What man wouldn't want to date a porn star for a week before running away in terror? It would be a blast for three seconds, then unrelentingly agonizing. Because you would want and expect her to act like a porn star in bed, but then she'd probably be like, "I don't do that sort of thing outside of work. Right now, I'm just Pamela." And then you'd be like, "That's bullshit! I got into this because I thought you'd be filthy and disgusting!" Then she'd be all pissed because you treated her like a sex object, which was totally true BUT WHOLLY JUSTIFIED, because she's a porn star and all. Then she'd start throwing shit at you and then you'd run away as fast as possible. Then you'd have to get an AIDS test and sweat bullets for two weeks.
What guy wouldn't want that on his resume? I know I would. I wish, during my single years, I had dated a porn star, a stripper, and a Native American. Every red-blooded American male wants as diverse a hookup resume as possible.
I just turned 30 and I'm a full time musician. No, I'm not in some loser emo band that plays twice a month for girlfriends and the bartender, I mean I make a living. I do 3-6 gigs a week, record bands in my home studio, and get ASCAP checks for my original shit being played in the background of shitty MTV reality shows.
I probably made 40K last year (don't tell the IRS!) and live comfortably working 15-30 hours a week, usually playing cover acoustic solo shows where I charge $50 an hour, and usually working the minimum that I have to. Maybe I'm having some sort of early midlife crisis, but my question is, am I living the dream or a complete slacker? My fiance works a shitty 40+ hour a week job, has a Masters degree, and makes less than me. She doesn't like the hours I keep and I hear about it a lot. She might be swaying me.... Do I need to sack up and join the real world?
No. Are you fucking insane? You're doing what you enjoy and you actually earn a living. It's not a great income, but it's a lot more than the average musician makes. You're never gonna become some world famous rock star, but that hardly matters. You've found a way to do what you love and earn money from it. There are people out there who would kill to be in that position.
The real world is always around if you absolutely have to bolt for it somewhere down the line. But it's not like that shit's a bed of roses. In case you haven't noticed, they aren't exactly handing out jobs these days, even boring horrible ones. There's no guarantee you can instantly pack away your guitar and become an insurance salesman who makes $80K a year, unless your fiancé has a rich daddy with a plum office job waiting for you. Your current job is as secure as any other shitty desk job out there, so you may as well go along with it. If your fiancé doesn't like your hours, what did she expect? You're a musician. You work musician hours. She should accept you for who you are and not attach conditions to shit like that. If you earned NO money as a musician and played some dipshit coffeehouse open mic twice a week, she'd have a right to complain. But you make a steady income.
Tell your fiancé you have a better chance of greater success as a musician if she believes in you. That's one of the big pluses of marriage. If you marry someone who believes in you, it increases your odds of success by a whole lot.
So I spent fall '09 (1st semester junior year) studying abroad in tajikistan. This being the poorest country in the former soviet union, i figured there probably wouldn't be any rest stops to take a piss on our many weekend road trips. I was wrong. i found 1 in the whole country, in the middle of nowhere across the river from afghanistan. needless to say, instead of using it i pissed off the river bank. sadly my stream wasn't strong enough to make it into afghanistan, and i didn't even get to see a predator drone. anyway, in case you were wondering, that's what a central asian rest stop looks like. yes, its a squatter. and if you can survive the smell, you do get to piss into a 6 foot deep hole.
It's a rest stop AND a school!
I had knee surgery last week, torn meniscus. It was my third such surgery. After two days I began changing the dressing on the knee myself. Every day, I sit down on the lid of the toilet, remove the gauze pad, gauze wrap and tape and replace it.
I always feel like I'm Anton Chigurh while doing this. This is a totally badass feeling. But what's even more badass? Removing your own stitches. I did this after my previous surgery. Just wait a couple of weeks, then when the stitches move freely and there is no bloody discharge, you simply grab a pair of tweezers and a small pair of scissors, clip and remove. Be sure to not pull the knot side of the stitches through the skin.
I am fucking indestructible.
Shit, now I really want surgery. I bought my own health insurance over the weekend, which was a horrible process that made me want to fucking die. Anyway, all of the options when you buy your own health insurance are awful. Either you pay a shitload every month, or you pay a shitload at the doctor, or you pay a shitload for the deductible. It's so wildly expensive that I have a legitimate urge to break my own leg, just so I can get surgery and get my money's worth from the insurance company.
Anyway, working with your own bandages and stitches can definitely make you feel badass like that. It's even better when you have children and they get hurt (and they get hurt all the time), at which point you get to become DOCTOR BADASS, ARMY FIELD MEDIC, rush the kid upstairs to apply hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin, and then carefully apply the bandage. I saved your life today, you little brat. Gangrene surely would have set in had I not given you the proper treatment for that laceration, nee "booboo".
I am 32 and losing all my good friends to engagements, kids, etc. Sure we all still hang out, but it's for their kid's birthday party or because one of their wives set up a dinner party. We still hit a game or a bar occasionally, but do I actively seek out new drinking buddies? Seems like a lotta work, although it's slightly intriguing. It'd be like recruiting for a high level college football factory. "DO YOU WANT TO DRINK LIKE A WINNER?!"
You're gonna have to, because growing older means those friends grow more and more distant over time. I went to a bachelor party a while back for a friend, and some very old high school friends of mine were there. They live in different cities and we never kept touch during the time between school and the present. Anyway, we had a fun time, and when I left, I knew immediately that I would never see a good number of those people ever again. Ever. There's no future wedding or bachelor party where we'd all be mutually invited. That was it for my relationship with them. I'm too lazy to go to reunions, and randomly chatting up some old friend on Facebook doesn't count (and I'm too lazy to do even that).
It's a weird feeling. It's weird to think that your relationship with a friend or relative has now come to its conclusion, but that totally happens when you get older. You spend your youth opening up to the world and making all these connections and friends and shit. Then you get married and have kids and you begin progressively whittling that world back down to something you can more easily manage. I have a best friend who lives in California. No way I'm seeing him face to face more often than once a year. Meanwhile, there's some dude down the block who I met a year ago, who I'll now probably hang out with twenty times more often, just because he lives nearby. He's not a better friend. Just a more practical one. Those are the choices you end up making when you get old. It's kinda shitty, but I'm lazy like that.
So yes, find new drinking buddies, because your married boys will eventually phase themselves out of your life anyway. They may say they don't have time to meet up, and that's often true, but just as often they don't WANT to meet up. It's too much effort. Keeping up friendships when you hit 30 turns into real fucking work, and most guys don't wanna bother.
We work in a fairly non-descript, 50-story office building in Chicago. It's all commercial — no condos or anything on the upper floors, just business. Most of the building is taken up by a few major companies, with the rest filled in by law offices, insurance companies, etc. One or two are open around-the-clock, but most are typically only occupied 7A-7P.
Our question: How much sex happens on a weekly basis in our building? Secretary-CEO, two interns in a closet, it all counts. For purposes of the question, we would count any sex act, not just full intercourse. Our guesses range from "3 a month" to "one a day, maybe more."
I think it can vary wildly. You never know if your building is home to at least one torrid love affair between people who, for logistical reasons, can't have sex anywhere else other than the office late at night. All you need is one such affair in your building to jack up the rate to once a day or more.
It's also dependent on how hard each company works its employees. If the law firm keeps a handful of people around late on a regular basis, I say they increases the odds of in-office fucking dramatically, because then lawyers are spending more time away from their families and more time late at the office with Betty Sue, the charming young paralegal who always wears cute pencil skirts and clearly has a killer rack tucked somewhere inside that blouse of hers. All it takes is one late night and suddenly your boss and Betty Sue are loosening up after some Chinese food and beer, and then attacking each other like wild fucking animals at 1AM.
I always wanted to stumble into people banging while at work. Sometimes, I'd pass by a supplies closet and think, "Say, I wonder if there are people fucking in there." Then I'd open the door and just see manila folders. But people COULD have been fucking in there! You never know.
I wonder how many security guards get to witness an affair from their monitor banks on a nightly basis. Is that a common thing in overnight surveillance, or is it like finding gold? If I were a rent-a-cop witnessing a found porn clip in my assigned building, you wouldn't be able to contain my excitement. I'd have to toss one out right at my desk. If you've ever stumbled upon people banging at work, or have some tremendous office hookup story, you'd best email me. We should make a post about this sort of thing.
Has there ever been a day when all of your farts sounded the same, regardless of whether you're sitting, standing, walking, etc.? About a week ago there was an entire day where all of mine had a little up-note at the end so that they sounded like questions. It was delightful.
Indeed I have. I've also had the opposite day, where every fart sounds like it was made by a new person drawn at random out of a hat. There's no rhyme or reason to it. I usually eat the same thing for breakfast and lunch every day. Yet there'll be days when I go through the whole fart catalog. It's baffling. I would like some sort of fart and shit forensic testing kit, that analyzes each fart and determines the precise cause of its odor. I would pay $2,000 for this.
The awesomeness of this boat needs no further words.
Taken just outside Lake Minnetonka.
My oldest girl is 4 and 1/2. We have two younger children so inevitably there are times when you have to change or shower and also keep an eye on all three. During these occasional times, my oldest can and does see me naked. We try not to make a big deal out of it but I also try to be discreet and cover up as best I can. At what point do I have to stop changing in front of her or is it too late? Is she scarred for life from seeing my package?
Well, it's too late, at least in one regard. She's old enough now to have memories, which means she'll remember seeing your hairy dick for the majority of her life. Is she scarred for seeing it? Eh, doubtful. It's much more disturbing for you, the father.
I have two kids, and supervising them by myself means I have to take a whizz with the door open, to make sure the kids aren't murdering each other or something while I'm taking a leak. Inevitably, the one year old will come in, stare at me pissing, and then go and attempt to run into the stream and play with it. This prompts two reactions from me. First, OH FUCKING SHIT I'M ABOUT TO GIVE MY KID A GOLDEN SHOWER AHHHHHHH!!! GOD IS CRUEL! Second reaction is physical: I use my hand to stiffarm his head to keep him away from the stream. Essentially, I give him the Heisman to keep him to playing in my piss. It sounds horrible, but it's actually kinda fun. I feel like Desmond Howard when I do it. NOT SO FAST, KID. THIS PISS AIN'T FOR YOU.
(By the way, when you have a couple of kids, they will ALWAYS start shit when you're using the can. Always. You can never take a ten-second leak in peace. Fucking World War 6 breaks out in a snap. They're evil like that.)
Two stories to end the day. First, a GREAT MOMENT IN SCIENCE CLASS DISSECTION.
My high school skipped dissecting earthworms and went straight to the frogs. After the fetal pigs we got dead cats, which was pretty freaky for anyone in the class with a family cat.
I picked my friend Dan as my lab partner because he had a family cat that he DESPISED and I knew he'd have no problem imagining it was this dead one on the counter in front of us. It turned out I was a little too right about that. Not only did he dissect the cat with ease, while everyone else in the class did it slowly and carefully, but with his extra time he actually SKINNED THE CAT and got permission from the teacher to take the cat skin home with him. Me and my buddies were so freaked out by this idea that we didn't even ask what he was planning on doing with it when he got it home. Would he mock his family cat with it? Would he wrap it around dynamite, let the family cat get curious enough to rub up against it, then blow the thing up?
Two weeks later he brought the cat skin back to school. He had soaked the damn thing is formaldehyde for a week and then let it air-dry for a week so that it wouldn't smell like a dead cat (instead, it reeked of formaldehyde). Then he tied the cat's arm-skin into a knot around the little hook-holder thing at the top of his backpack and wore it like that for a day before being called down to the office and told to take the cat skin home with him. Nobody really messed with Dan after that.
I'd like to shake Dan's hand. Next, a GREAT MOMENT IN INTERNATIONAL TRAVEL UPGRADES.
A buddy and I were flying to Peru for some backpacking. As we were leaving the Mexico City airport for Peru on an airlines called LAN, we were told before liftoff that there was a mistake and we were bumped to business class on this 767 International Flight.
God doesn't fly this well.
Immediately, we were handed kits that contained different toiletries, toothbrushes, sleep masks and wool socks. I was running out of room (no, I wasn't), considering I was just handed complimentary beer and a preflight bowl of almonds and raisins. As I pushed the preset button on my reclining chair to "Bed Mode", a bilingual stewardess straight out of a Robert Palmer video asked me if I'd like to see the menu. "Sure," I said expecting the cordon bleu kit in plastic wrap. It was a five course meal with my choice of duck, pork loin or steak, served on a silk towel over a sterling silver tray. Before dinner, I wiped down with a hot towel and had a red wine that the stewardess actually uncorked, made me sniff the cork and then poured me a sample before she poured the glass. (Keep in mind, my buddy and I are the only ones in this cabin wearing shorts and t-shirts we just slept in at the last airport)
The three giant television screen in front of us could be accessed by the remotes in our chairs. I chose (out of hundreds of free movies) to watch Invictus (Whe nead inspuh-ray-shun!), which was still in theatres at the time, but had I tired of that, I could have flipped the remote sideways to play any number of video games, as the remote doubled as a gaming controller. 12 stewardesses were serving the 10 people in this cabin, and I assume I was missing out on my complimentary blowjob as I slept under an actual down blanket and a goose feather pillow that didn't smell like farts. When we landed we were not told to put our seat backs up, or to put on our seatbelts, WE WERE GODS.
I tell the world all this, because on the way home I had to fly with the rest of you fucks. Now I hate the world, I hate the world so fucking much I can't stand it. All I want to do is fly around the world forever in that goddamn plane, is that too much to ask?
Not at all, friendo. Not at all.