Let It Blow

Christmas is complete. The stockings so carefully hung by the chimney have spilled out goodies galore. And while the kids fight over the controls of their new Wiis, a significantly less innocent scene is taking place up north. Twelve reindeer stand still hitched to their sleigh, just outside of a front door swinging back and forth in the North Pole Wind. For Mr. Claus was still too fucked up to remember that, as his wife nags every night, “This isn’t a barn!” A trail of patent leather boots, socks, a over-sized belt and various red winter gear leads to his bedroom, where Santa lays on his bed, starring at the ceiling, a chest that thuds hard enough to even make his belly shake. An open bottle of Tylenol PM, Xanax and several empty liquor bottles litter the scene. At its center is a cherry red nose caked in slowly hardening snot, mixed with the same white devil that blankets his entire neighborhood. For, my friends, it is my theory that the North Pole is blanketed in not snow, but blow.



Right now you could quite possibly be horrified by this apparent blaspheme of an xmas fable you’ve hung by the chimney of your traditions with care, but I do believe a quick examination of the evidence will have you chiming in with unrelenting agreement, when I call Santa Claus the greatest crackhead of all.

First off, there are obvious points, like “How else could he get around the world in one night?” And if he sees you when you’re sleeping and awake, then clearly he’s up at all hours.

But to really drive this theory home, let’s examine his motives for jumping in the sleigh in the first place. Of course we’d like to all believe it’s the magic of Christmas that inspires Cracky-Claus to grant the wish of every girl and boy. But, please. When else would anyone get the idea to jump off their happy ass and voluntarily trek the entire the world delivering gifts to billions of children with otherwise perfectly capable present-buying parents unless they’re a continent deep in blow? You don’t have to sit through too many teeth chattering sessions until six am to know some pretty stupid ideas get tossed around the mirrored table. This also proves his little green shirted midget cronies are hitting the slopes with him. Because the fateful night Santa’a eyes got all wide with the big idea as he said, “Oh my god, you know what we should do?" only another crackhead would respond by jumping into a toy factory and start building spinning wooden tops.

And then there’s that poem. The one that should be called, ‘Twas the Night on a Bunch of Mutherfuckin’ Blow.

We all know how this one goes, Santa ends up in this rhyming dude’s living room with his reindeer and sack o’ crack.



His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

‘Course he left out the part about dilated pupils, but otherwise the evidence is all over his beard.

”The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.”



Cocaine can also be freebased and smoked in a drug called crack.



”And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!”

Often in literature, poets employ a technique called metaphor. I don’t think it takes a degree in English, to decipher the true meaning lurking in these lines. Plus Santa, at least as modern marketing understands him, is quite the corpulent old soul. One who really should have trouble squeezing himself through a narrow smokestack. But what better way to shed a few emergency pounds that a quick ride on the white horse? It’s all night fuel and a chimney squeezing diet all in one.

And then who could forget some of the poem’s most famous lines of all:

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!”

Is it me or do those eight reindeer sound like they were renamed after the stage full of strippers? And where do cokeheads go when all the bars have closed but they’re not ready to face their angry Mrs. at home? Strip clubs. Sounds like Santa went and named his reindeer after his eight favorite whores of all time. And seeing as Santa hails from a continent covered in nose candy, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume he was a welcome customer.



ho ho ho!

But all Christmas Eves must come to an end. And it’s there we’ll find our Santa back at the north pole after his binge, in the blog’s opening scene, undoubtedly swearing off coke for the rest of his life. And to me, this is the biggest proof of all. Because, mhmmm. Yeah. “This was the last time I swear." I’ve heard that one before. See you next Christmas, crackhead.



oh...and there was this

I'm Pretty Convinced that Cactuses are People, but Plants

Christopher Walken puts googly eyes on his cactuses.


“Cactuses have pricklers,” he explains. “They can stab you in your hands, in your face. And the only way to know where you stand with someone is by looking into their eyes, right?”

Right is mutherfuckin’ right. I’m on to you, Cactuses. I’m pretty much positive that you are people. Plant people.

Take a gander at the anatomy of your basic cactus:





Look how guilty this guy looks. He's come out with his hands up, like a busted drug dealer on an episode of Cops, Compton. Only instead of crack, this cactus was caught with a lie. A lie about his very existence. His people existence.

According to the most omniscient Wikipedia , Cactuses are spine plants. Hmmmm. Spine plants you say? Sea Sponges don’t have spines. But you know who has spines? Your vertebraed cousin People. Concha Libre may be a giant dumbass, but it doesn’t mean I can’t figure out the most obvious lie of all times stabbing me right in the face.

Take a look at these Cactuses who clearly cannot hide their very human fibers bursting from underneath their pricklers.



What's up, Cactus Club? Yeah, that's right. Get those hands up where we can see 'em.




Do bears have their own motels? Do seahorses? I think not, plantman.



Did somebody forget to hide their valentine from the real humans?



Bush's unfortunate influence on the plant people.



I found the cover of Perfect Ten Cactus Magazine.




What is this, Dance Party USPlantpeople????



What's up, Cactus. Copy the O Christo Redentor Statue much?







Yoda cactus people plant have.



Kids play outside, man. Put some fucking pants on, will you?



The cactus cheerleaders say, "Raa raa ree! We're people, I mean Plants...shit."



Looks like somecactus forgot to take his Valtrex...



I just hope the cactus people are more tolerant of gay parades than California.




Laugh it up, dickhead!




If this isn't proof, I don't know what is.



What are we to do with this news? Since the cactuses aren’t talking back and explaining (believe me, I’ve tried) I’m just going take The Man Who’s Very Scared of Plants’ advice: “A good rule of thumb is, don’t turn your back on a cactus.” Thanks, Christopher Walken. You are my favorite indoor gardener. To this I say, more cactus!



Gotta watch out for those ferns though.

loyal fan club of 8

i am very very sorry i have not blogged in so long. i'm working on a piece about how much i hate xmas music, but i have been very busy shooting a bad commercial and keeping up this drinking habit. right now my brain feels like that last pickle in the pickle jar. i'm pretty sure it smells like a soggy bar wipe but i'm not about to go in and find out. i will finish the new blog soon, because i really fucking hate xmas music. i also think that xmas mart they got goin' on over in union square is pretty crap too. was thinking of profiling that, but it'll have to wait. i'm in LA and taking pictures of it from over here has proven impossible so far.


oh, and now would be a good time to suggest some songs for me to hate on. if you think of some good ones i'll give you a prize.

Wee Wee Wee, all the Way Home

Two months ago, I became the lucky lessee of what I’m convinced is the greatest apartment in the world. Your first few shoe boxes in New York can make any space that’s slightly more sophisticated than a freshman dorm room seem worthy of giving Robin Leach call. And I might, just as soon as I finish painting my kitchen, hanging curtains, and my new favorite hobby, using the power drill.

Upon, my first cathartic thrust into the plastered wall, I was overcome with envy. This must be one of the reasons guys love their dicks. So powerful. So liberating. Plus the entire world is your personal toilet – the bottom half of an oyster shell whose very cupped nature exists for your convenience.

Thanks to an ad in my Gmail a few days ago, I discovered that there is a product determined to erase one of my jealousies for good. Ladies, behold, the Shewee – the portable urinating device for women.






The Shewee is basically a plastic cup attached to a funnel, designed to make the often awkward process of unzipping and squatting as easy as it is say, for a guy. No more uncomfortable hovering or removal of the underpants. With the Shewee, answering the call of nature is as easy as, “securing the device to your crotch,” with "panties pushed to one side," (this order still puzzles me) and, “aiming at a convenient tree!” The ad I saw in my Gmail suggested giving it as a gift, creating new meaning to the Song “Dick in a Box.”



When to Shewee

The website offers examples of women who can benefit from a plastic urine funnel.

So many women, the site claims, can benefit from using the Shewee. From walkers, to landscape architects to bird watchers, there’s not a lifestyle or hobby that the Shewee can’t accommodate.

When camping, it says, “no more cold bottoms. You can Shewee right inside your tent!” I hope I speak for all ladies with a resounding WTF??? This behavior may be perfectly acceptable to the gender born with the Shewee built right in, but if one of my girlfriends friends woke up in the middle of the night in our tent, pulled out a plastic funnel and pushed aside the crotch of her panties, I’d kick her bottom outside in the cold for the rest of the night, and probably the rest of the camping trip altogether.

If traffic is moving slower than the coffee to your bladder, they suggest using the Shewee, “standing up on the grass verge - just turn your back to the jam and your dignity is maintained.” Because there’s nothing un-dignifying about stopping your car during rush hour, walking to the side of the road, fondling around your privates, pushing aside the crotch of your panties, and placing a small plastic urine funnel up to your hoo-ha in view of the passing, honking traffic – as long as your back is turned. Probably something to keep in mind when the urge to masturbate ever springs up behind the wheel, if that’s your thing.

It also suggests that hang gliders should use the Shewee, but offers no reasons why. My imagination suggests that a hang glider and a Shewee adds up to 100% chance of afternoon showers.

The list labeled for the “less mobile” is admittedly more sad. Proving that women recovering from surgery to the incontinent to the bedridden are not immune to ridiculous marketing.

It even attests that the Shewee is as much of a handbag essential as your mobile phone. I don’t know about you, but when I’m on the side of the road with a flat tire, “I sure wish my vagina had better aim” is really the last thing I’m thinking. However, having a Shewee would make drunk dialing interesting, especially to any nearby observers lucky enough to witness me try to make a booty call with a plastic, urine smelling funnel.


Finally, when the website offered a “Tip! Practise with Shewee in the shower to find the best position for you,” I kinda just Sheweed all over myself.

The future of Shewee

Since they already have a website, I think the next advertising foray the Sheweeres should jump into is the infomercial world. I can just imagine the beginning, where we’ll see black and white shots of otherwise housebroken women struggling with the call of nature. One woman might open up a public bathroom stall, shaking her head at it’s sprinkled and toilet paper covered seat. Another may look at a nurse with horror as she hands her a sample cup in the doctor’s office. “Such a small opening had to have been invented by a man!” And of course there’s the inevitable scene outdoors, where our bladder burst woman shakes her head at the camera as it pans down to reveal her urine soaked trousers and failed attempts to hit a tree’s bulls eye. Then the screen suddenly becomes colored when the Shewee debuts, as women exuberantly jump through prairies and fields, liberated from the old ball n’ chain they call a vagina. Baby, you’ve come a long way. An entire plastic funnel long to be exact.



You and I may wee, but we all Shewee!

These are the troubles born to the dickless – along with lower than average pay and the chance you might wake up one morning with another human in your stomach. But as I shudder to think how the makers of Shewee would try to remedy these sorts of problems, I'm quite happy squatting outside my camping tent. Both genders have their pros and cons, but mine was born with the from-experience-empathy to ridicule such a device. And if ever a day comes where the grass seems greener, I can always find something new to hang on my wall, and live vicariously through my power drill.

cry babies

It’s New Years in November. Obama is king. Champagne and overjoyed tears flow in equal time. A percussion set of noisemakers keeps the beat of screaming that could rival a Beatles reunion. Jen is standing across from me, a glass of prosecco in one hand, a phone in the other.

“Mom,” she’s crying halfway to the receiver, the other to the sky. “I can have kids now. This is the world I can bring them into.” Certainly Paul Krugman would have been proud of this scene. As, he said in the Times, “If the election of our first African-American president didn’t stir you, if it didn’t leave you teary-eyed and proud of your country, there’s something wrong with you.”

Tears of joy dry quickly, but the opposite kind still were falling all over Facebook the next morning. After last night’s scene of street dancing, hugging and hi-fiving strangers, and the sudden resurgence of faith and Obama fervor electrifying the streets of New York, it seemed like the only kind of McCain supporter that could be immune to it all, would be the kind of person who can’t catch a fever. The kind that’s dead. But the Facebook sphere was alive and kicking with status updates fueled by bitter resentment, growing like weeds in an otherwise pretty damn hopeful garden.

A few of my favorites:

XXX…is asking for privacy and respect during this grieving process.

Did someone die? I thought. Shit, should I call this person? But then I remembered the high cost of sympathy flowers, and that they’re not exactly how you consol the death of someone’s pride.


XXX…is hoping the next four years go by very quickly.

You and me both. Because no matter which man was elected, the next four years aren’t exactly going to be the heaven in the sky you and your God fearing friends think you’re headed to. We’ll have to do things like say, “work,” and “follow through on our word,” to repair the country. I know McCain swore he’d cut all earmark spending and other unrealistic promises of perfection the second he was sworn is, but as a democrat I’d like to introduce you to a little concept I call reality. A four years that will be difficult no matter who’s in office. Hopefully now, we’ll be better off when they’re over. Plus, considering you Christians are already wishing away your time on this Earth for afterlife’s reward, I’m sure you’ve gotten good at this by now.

My very favorite was some woman I who left a comment on this status. “I’m keeping my McCain sticker up in my office as a reminder to all.”

Next to your Bush poster perhaps? Or maybe your plunging 401k statements. Do you have footage of dead American soldiers playing on repeat? Or are you the kind that frames photos of Iraqi mothers carrying their dead innocent children, next to the kitty poster that says, “Hang in there!” Seriously, if you’re going to hang onto McCain paraphernalia, do so Marky Mark “Fear” style and carve “McCain Forever” on your middle-aged chest. I got a feeling there aren’t too many people are going there, and you’ll keep the foot-in-mouth moments to a minimum.

Another claimed she wanted to vomit. After reading that, it made two of us.

After I swallowed the urge to aim mine in a doggie bag and express mail her a sample, I still couldn’t figure out why, unlike McCain’s humble exit, his supporters were acting unsportsmanlike. Fuck me if I’m wrong, but after the announcement was made, I didn’t see any Obama supporters taunting the so-called losers. What we seemed to understand, and McCain even pointed out, is that the election wasn’t about chasing some political Stanley Cup. As Obama said, “Victory alone is not the change we seek, but the chance to make that change.” We weren’t taunting losers, because there were no losers to make fun of like Florida State Seminoles. It wasn’t a game! Even if you didn’t vote for him most of your taxes will still be lower. You’ll get the healthcare, the education and basically all the spoils of the war you claim to have lost. And (with the exception of racist rednecks and the KKK) I don’t think there’s an Obama supporter out there who wants to rob you of the winning days ahead. And if you feel like a loser saving money on taxes, I’ve got a bank account that can relieve you of all your losses. For more information, my email is in my profile.

Paying the cab driver who drove me home last Tuesday night, “God Save the Queen,” randomly erupted in my ear buds. I found it a pretty fitting soundtrack to the coup’ de failed politics and hopeful spirit of democracy restored that evening. Except as Johnny Rotten lamented on the lack of tomorrow, in my head I tweaked the lyrics a bit.

There is a future
There is a future.

And if any of you are still admitting with your tears that you don’t agree, well, what Krugman said.

tomorrow

when i was eight years old, i remember sitting in the passenger side while my dad drove down the highway. Upon seeing the driver of the car in front of us had adorned their bumper with a Dukakis sticker of support, I promptly turned to my dad and announced my hope that the driver “fall off the face of the earth.”

I had no idea what Dukakis stood for. I didn’t know what it meant to be Democrat a Republican for that matter. All I knew was that the administration of our Baptist Christian school had given us that day off from the normal school day to hold mock elections. The local news had come, and we were driving home to see if I had gotten on TV. Our principal told us that when we each walked into the homemade election booths, we were free to make whatever choice we wanted, as long as it was for George Bush. George Bush Sr. was of course on the side of God and Pro life. And we knew you were either for God and little babies, or you were for Satan. Hence my vehement wish on the driver’s fate—a long walk off a short earth.

Little did I know that at eight-years-old, that my word was completely flat.

Not only would the earth have to be level to have an actual “face” from which the evil driver could fall, I was too young and misinformed to see a round world and take both points of view into consideration. I knew one side, and it was God’s. Why would He, or my principal waste time with the wrong side? But what scares the living shit out of me was my instinctive reaction to armor myself with blind hatred. I didn’t know anything about Dukakis, his party, or even the driver. But in a sort of primal way, it shows us how fear of the unknown and the desire to be "correct" are often just what the bartender ordered to mix a hate cocktail.

I’ve since sobered up from this kind of thinking. As a former republican, the past eight years have forced me to swallow the notion that I was wrong. Unfortunately I’ve seen much of the McCain camp still drunk on my eight-year-old attitude. People see someone they don’t identify with, talking about completely new ideas, and suddenly they’re making tenuous connections to Acorn. Using convenient puns like “Obamanation.” Accusing him of being a terrorist because of his middle name. Calling his tax plan “wealth redistribution” as if the Democratic Party is really the Bolshevik Army in disguise, biding their time before they come dump out their grandmother’s hope chest of heirlooms. They’re reduced to my eight-year-old logic desperately defending their beliefs because they haven’t seen or refuse perceive a world from all sides, one that’s round. Or simply because they’re so set in their ways and they don’t want to face the daunting proposition that they just might not be right.
Luckily my dad scolded my little Earth exiling ass that day. Although a republican, he at least knew it wasn’t right for anyone to be pushed out of the atmosphere over a bumper sticker. The other night I think I may have convinced him to take that logic one step further, and admit with his vote that the policies of the past eight years have failed. And to anyone else who takes that step, thank you. It’s gut wrenchingly difficult to face facts and admit you may have been wrong. But thanks to the nature of the curtains that surround you tomorrow, no one will have to know. I hope you can soften the armor of your heart, and find the part of it that knows how to do the right thing.

if you actually got to the end of this, thanks.

My Fucking Roommate

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Ikea sucks swedish meatballs

We went to the Port Authority and arrived at door #5. That’s we saw them. Hundreds of them. Yacking on cell-phones. Hoarding the oxygen. Bulbous and porous handfuls of sweaty flesh. Bellies soft with stupidity.

“This isn’t the fucking line is it?” I asked. “This can’t be the line.”

It stretched to Harlem. I was pretty sure we’d never make it on the bus. The line was too goddamn long. But as it disappeared through door #5, it appeared as though we might make it on. Suddenly, however, the line stopped right as we were about to board.

“No more seats,” said the woman in charge. “Only standing room.”

“Standing room?” we both asked in unison. “What the hell is standing room?”

But before she could answer, the crowd behind us had nudged us aboard. We discovered that "standing room" meant two things:

1) Standing in the middle of the isle of the charter bus
2) Holding on for your fucking life.

I gripped and held. For we were aboard and on our way. On the free Ikea bus to Jersey.

It reminded me of the time I was late for my train in Europe and had to ride in the cargo car. Only now I felt more like a chihuahua's ass drippings.

“This feels European,” I commented to the Rican.

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Carpooling to a destination seems like a responsible thing a European would do. If we were big, stupid Americans we’d be driving to Ikea, polluting the air with big, stupid gas guzzlers.”

“No.” He shook his head as we stood in the crowded middle isle. “It doesn’t feel European. It feels Mexican.”

When we arrived, we discovered that Ikea is probably Mexico’s cousin. Cheap stuff, little order, and delinquent children overran the floor, like they were auditioning for the movie, City of God. (Yeah, I know that’s Brazil.) As I watched the swarms of screaming kids circle around the floor, I had only one thought. What the fuck were these parents thinking, bringing their kids along to Ikea? Because really. What were they going to add to the experience? Will the sleeping infant be able to help the arguing parents come to a decision between a new chartreuse throw or an extra set of curtains? Will the screaming toddler be able to provide insights on wallpapering Vs hiring a painter? Or were they really there to do the duty they seemed to be sent there to perform: stomping on my feet.

“I’m getting my tubes tied tomorrow,” I leaned over and whispered to the Rican. In the country of chaos, I was trying my best to eliminate any confusion.

But despite the disorder, we had to focus. Screaming bastards or not, it was time to turn our new home into Omm.


(Wow. I am super gay.)

After a few hours, we had to put a temporary hold on the torture in order to refurnish our empty stomachs. The only option for food was the Ikea cafeteria, so we grudgingly joined the line of oversized customers eager to stuff their faces with Swedish meatballs.

As we picked up our trays, I couldn’t help picturing the Swedish chef from the Muppets preparing the food. But when I took my first bite, I realized that my imagination was pretty accurate.



“This food looks like it would be good,” The Rican observed. “But when you eat it, it’s just crap.” This was becoming a common theme. The beds seemed stylish and comfy, but were like sleeping on top of a snoring grandpa. The pots and pans looked functional, but during cooking, the handles get hot and bite you. And the although the food, appeared tasty, it could have only been prepared by a chef with the brain of a puppet.

Hours pass. Days maybe. Lamps. Loveseats. Spatulas. It's a blur. All I know is that it ended. So we found a sales associate and asked him how we could get out furniture and end the pain, man!

"Oh you guys gotta go back and get da shit."

You mean the fucking giant sofas and shelves? ....we, uh... we just wanna get it delivered.

"I know, but you gotta get one of dees carts and, you know, put da shit on it, and take it over there," he said, pointing to a line of people that stretched to Rhode Island.

We thanked him, checked the time and realized it would be totally fucking impossible to order our furniture and board the last bus to New York before it abandoned us in this hell. Frustrated, we marched out the door and quickly boarded our last chance for escape. As we sat down, thankfully securing seats this time, I looked down at the bag I was carrying. And I realized, uh…we never got in line. We, um…

“Babes…we didn’t pay for shit.”

We just jacked Ikea. Looking around to check for swat teams, I felt bit of tugging in the pit of my stomach. At first I thought my super strict Christian upbringing was making me feel bad for stealing. But upon closer examination I realized it was not guilt but regret.

“Damnit,” I said to the Rican, “Why didn’t we take more?!”

But there wasn’t room for anything else. Cause everybody left their common courtesy behind in favor of mexi-packing the bus full of overcrowding shit. Bags were the size of obese Americans. Cardboard boxes seemed to stretch as long as backyard diving boards. And then, of course – children.

As I listened to a screaming toddler while simultaneously being poked by the corner of a flat cardboard box scrunched next to my seat, I started to realize that children were a lot like the items sold at Ikea. Lunch looked yummy but tasted like a Dr. Scholl’s shoe insole (used.) The beds had comfy potential, but felt like sleeping on old man flesh (hairy.) So then there’s the kid. He looks cute and cuddly, but he’ll start screaming his fucking fuzzy head off when you forget to do the littlest thing. Like feed him. Even once! Forget Swedish meatballs, this is false advertising at its most misleading.

“Well,” said the Rican, trying to raise his voice above the decibel of the screaming child, “at least we got all this shit for free.”

For a second I agreed that our heist made it all worth it. But then my toe got smushed for the eight time by an out-of-control toddler. Nothing is free, bitches. Nothing. Not even stolen pillows.

Update: I'm pretty pumped you guys all hate Ikea as much as me. Feel free to share your miserable stories and keep the comments coming. Maybe Ikea will see it and feel compelled to clean up their act. But, maybe not...

no sleep till brooklyn!

So this, might be what we call a "light post week." (right, like i post so much anyway...)

I have to a) start my new job, meet my partner and try to remember how to concept for ads

b) move to williamsburg -- the rican and i got a fabulous new place which we will be moving to over the week which means...

c) multiple trips to ikea (a blog may be coming about the wretchedness of that place. went yesterday and made a few "observations"...)

d) lots of cleaning. and oh how i hate that....

e) finishing my other job. I'm such a noble employee i decided to give them proper notice and still finish all the shifts i was scheduled for. (barf)

and then there's f) keeping you, my loyal readers, updated with regular posts of hilarity. (see, even that was funny.) ok. i know. i'm not funny. shut up.

and don't forget....




that's it!

Self indulgence and a Streets metaphor

(Warning...this one's whiny. And I guess it won't make sense to you if you don’t listen to the Streets. But given his recent rise to popularity, I’m betting that most of you have. So I’m using his song as a fucking weak metaphor. And if you haven’t, sorry, dude. This probably isn’t worth reading anyway. i only ramble on and on. I just kinda wrote it for myself....and of course, this one goes out to all my homies in the struggle...)

It was supposed to be so eaaaaasyyyyy.

Finish ad school. Move to New York. Get a job. Almost exactly one year ago that was our plan. “Our” being the Rican and me. And it sounded simple enough. I had savings. He had his mama. Never mind that the total combined times he and I had visited New York was under eight. Cause fuck, man. We were smart. And (while I didn’t believe it) everybody told us we had good books. Shit, a few people went so far as to flip out when they saw him. ”Oh, you guys definitely won’t have a problem.” Plus I had Donnell’s list of contacts in my little job searching black book. With hook ups like that I’d been turnin’ the fuckers down! And if all else failed (which it most certainly wouldn’t) I could always waitress at my old manager’s night club. New York, man. We were much too talented to go to some little agency out in Kansas. It was like fucking destiny or something. So goddamn easy.

But little did I know, a grand don’t come for free.

And just like that, easy, quick snap, we had jobs. Like good ad school grads, we printed out ten books and twenty CDs and marched to the portfolio review. And got our egos fucking stroked. “This is nice stuff,” The recruiters said. “Funny.” “Love your work.”

“I really need a writer. You think you can come in tomorrow to start?”

Fuck yeah, I can come in. Hired. On the spot. The Rican too. We didn’t really want to work at the same place, given that we were living together in sin and all, but shit. It was a job. Right-a-fucking-way. Who else could boast such quick employment? No one ever gets hired from these things. But we did, cause we were meant to be here. New York, man. I guess it was destiny after all. So easy, indeed.

But easy come, easy go. We went to our first day of work. The Rican overslept and was late. I got there an hour before he did only to learn the news I already feared in the back of my head. We weren’t just hired to work at the same agency, but in the same office. As a team. “But we’re dating,” we protested, hoping our new CD would just find us new partners. “Then that might be a problem,” he agreed. So the Rican got to keep his job. “And don’t worry, CD said to me. “You’re a great writer, you’ll find something else in no time.” And just like that, I was back on the streets. (This kind of thing is also great for a relationship, by the way.)

So I failed on the DVD,
But I still had to get the money….

Ah, but there was always plan B. The nightclub in Meatpacking. Under any other circumstances I’d never set foot in that herpes infestation. The smoke, superficiality and kamikazie shots were more nauseating than a night of chugging Belevdere. But my old manager offered me the job. And given my situation, I had to swallow my nausea cause I needed the money. The hours were horrible. The girls were bitches. I barely saw the Rican. And my ego, inflated by a portfolio review, was immediately popped by the customers who treated me like a dumb blonde cocktail waitress. A grand don’t come for free, indeed. Too scared and miserable to even enjoy the money, I continued to live like a pauper, spending none of it. I simply spent all my free time worrying I would never get a job. And began wondering why the fuck I’d left Miami, my home, everything I knew, in the first place.

So I failed on the DVD.
Couldn’t withdraw any money.
But I still had to call Mom.
Get the savings and then hurry.

And in this case, "Mom" was a list of agencies. Call. Email. Unreturned Email. Unreturned Call. Fuck! How busy can these people be? On the off chance I actually got through, I’d get the same reassurances. “Oh don’t worry. You're good. It’s just a matter of time.” A matter of time like eternity? Like never? Like I the two years I just wasted in ad school?

Oh, but there was the freelance. The horrible partnerless freelance that strung me along week by week. Month by month. The insecure income that forced me to keep two jobs, the club and the agency, lest I lose one. I was living a schizo double life, with my heart in neither one. Uncertainty began to creep all over me in this shaky state. And this horrible thing kept happening to me. Every day. It started with a little worry. Then the world got a little shaky, like I was on the verge of a ‘shrooms trip. But instead of spending the evening laughing at silly visuals, I began crying. For no fucking reason at all. “Shit, I’ve never cried like this before. What the fuck is wrong with me?” And that’s how I learned what a panic attack feels like. And learned over and over, every time I sat down to write. Kinda makes it hard to get your headlines done. But at least I still had that lucrative club gig. I may not have a career, but I couldn’t complain about pulling in that kind of money.

And then, for reasons out of my hands, the bitch fired me.

So there I was. In the middle of a winter I didn’t know how to handle. Losing one income. Knowing that if I didn’t start writing like I used to, if I didn’t get my shit together, I’d lose the other too. Pressure ain’t good for the anxiety. And, fuck it was cold. And ugly. Where were my palm trees? What the fuck was I doing here? Standing in the middle of a frigid crowded street in giant Uggs I should have never spent the money on, I felt like I was in the middle of that Streets song. Except, it wasn’t just about a bad day, it was a fucking bad life. A stupid fucking me. A whiney immature bitch who just couldn’t get her shit together. So easy, my ass. What the fuck was I doing leaving Miami? For what? For here? For this?

Today I have achieved absolutely now.
It’s just being out of the house I’ve lost out.
If I wanted to end up with more now,
I should have just stayed in bed like I know how.

My freelance ended like I feared it would. It seemed like a good thing at the time – my CD promising me all the contacts I needed. But, of course, the prick never came through. Never returned an email or a phone call. Just like all those other working bastards who at one time or another assured me my book was great. So great. So fucking great. So great everyone I know is working but me.

A thousand pound disappearing from me, is not what I call funny.

Getting up was gratuitous. The alarm would go off, but I’d just roll back over, hiding safely behind my eyelids. Good morning, Day, now fuck off. My twenty-seventh birthday was coming. After 8 months of CD hounding I had no job, and no career to speak of. Waa-waa. Boo-fucking-hoo. Even Dave Eggars was not this whiny.

But then one day I just said fuck it. Stop pondering the suckiness of this hole I'd let myself fall in. And start climbing the fuck out of it. You’re depressed? Really? STOP THE DRAMA! GET THE FUCK OVER IT! Get a waitressing job. Start writing. Just do it. No, it’s not fucking easy. It’s actually really fucking hard. But a grand don’t come for free, goddamnit!

So I went back to old faithful and started waitressing again. It didn’t pay like the club job did. But who was I to complain? There was no time for that. “All writers get shitty jobs,” the Rican told me. “Much worse than this one.”

Easy for his employed ass to say. But still, he was right. It wasn’t great, but it could have been a lot worse. So I just did it. Yoga. Write. Work. I didn’t have a spot at Chiat, but I was a hell of a lot further ahead than I was a few months ago – unemployed and crying hysterically on my bed. And I felt better too. Routine keeping me busy. A month passed and I was about to start working on my book again, my confidence restored and my finances (while minor) intact.

And then the restaurant closed without notice, leaving me out of a job again. Goddamnit! What else can go wrong??? No, no. Don’t ask that question. Cause the universe will always answer you. Just find another job and keep writing. You’ll have a new book by the new year, and then you can start chasing the ad thing again.

And I found a new job. And a better one at that. Mo’ money. Better peeps. And a month later I started luxuriating in the comfort of income and routine. Now I can start working on my book again. Just two kick ass campaigns, by the end of the year. I can do this. Just like I did it before.

And then, suddenly, without my planning, to my great surprise, I found my thousand quid. Yesterday, after almost a year of searching I stood outside in Soho, blinking in disbelief. I’d just been offered a job. A good job. A fucking full time job. In advertising. And it’s the kind of job I really want like I want an IV of Black Label in my arm. Or fuck. Make it Blue Label. Cause, fuckers, I’m making a paycheck! 401k! Health insurance! A kick-ass CD! And it was all out of fucking nowhere. It seamed too easy. No, no. This can’t be. A grand don’t come for free. But a quick mental montage through the past year and I remember. This isn’t some freak lottery win. I earned this.

“Was it worth it?” asked my friend on the phone as I walked to the 6 train. “All that shit you went through. Aren’t you glad it all happened?”

I smiled a silent “yes.” into the receiver my phone’s receiver. I guess things, easy or not, usually end up just as they should.

(Yeah, yeah. I’m rolling my eyes too. But fuck. Let me have my little moment. The normal bitter programming will return shortly.)

proof

It’s been a minute since I posted a server story. Mainly because I’m living in denial right now (despite kinda liking my job) and refusing to acknowledge the way I’m temporarily earning my living. I tell myself it’s not my job, no. It’s just some place I go hang out between the hours of 3 and 12. Sure, I bring home a fistful of cash. But it’s not my profession. People just like me. And they donate.

But spending longer time working in restaurants than I ever imagined I would has taught me something. Despite what I used to think as a high and mighty college student, there’s nothing wrong with being a server. Much like real estate, sales or any of the other numerous middle man positions out there, it’s just a job. A way to earn a living. You punch in. You punch out. Then you go find something that makes you happy.

But there are plenty of people who think there is something wrong with it. And what’s wrong with it isn’t the job. It’s the person doing the job. “What’s that? You’re a server? In a restaurant? Oh yee, of little education. Poor thing. You must be stupid.”

So they condescend. They speak sl-o-o-o-o-wly. They treat you with the same annoyed frustration a spoiled rich teenager would treat his retarded cousin when forced to baby-sit him. And there’s nothing you can do but bite your tongue and check your watch. Cause eventually you can high-tail it the fuck outta there and bury your nose deep into a fat glass of cabernet and a couple of brilliant blogs.

But in their perceived social triumph, there’s something they don’t realize. There’s a group whose intelligence plummets far below the average IQ of your every day order taker. A group who was apparently absent on the day in school when they taught the lesson – How Not to Act Like A Total Fucking Asshole. A group composed of you, me and everyone we know. You know who they are? Fucking people.



And this story, would be what I call, proof.

I was annoyed. (surprise!) Standing by the hostess stand on my fifth shift in a row. We were understaffed, overbooked, and my manager had called in sick. And with that phone call he threw us all to the wolves.

Three of them walked in. Two wolves and a baby pup.

If you ask me, children have no place in adult restaurants. There’s a very specific reason that most people avoid eating their food while surrounded by plush cheese eating mice that go by the name of Chucky. And I don’t think anyone deserves a place at the adult dinner table, until they learn to not shit in their pants.

But that’s what kids do. Shit their pants. And then they grow up to be adults. Adults who shit on your day. Adults who missed the lesson in class: You Don’t Change Your Baby’s Diaper at the Fucking Dinner Table in a Fine Dinning Restaurant. But that’s what she did. And that’s what people do. That, or something like it.

And like an unwelcome child, the diaper’s aroma came out to play. To mingle with the normal restaurant smells of garlic and lamb jus. The smell got so bad that one of the bus boys decided to walk to her table and spray Lysol. On her. (Hey, you act like an idiot, you get treated with stupidity.)

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Why he felt she deserved an apology, I don’t know. “But some people have been complaining about the smell.” Personally, I don’t see the use in trying to explain to people like this that there actually are others in the world that their actions affect. But maybe it was some sort of service industry instinct that prompted him to apologize for something that wasn’t his fault.

“Well you can take that then,” the woman said pointing to a napkin on the center of the table. “That’s probably what the smell is.”

The bus boy reached down, doing his normal job of cleaning up other people’s thoughtless shit. But the warm gushy feeling inside the napkin made him recoil his hand in horror.

“What is that?!”

“Oh, that was me.” Said The Moron. “I threw up.”

After changing her child in the middle of a food-consuming environment, where people touch things and then touch their mouths, she went on to publicly vomit in the same spot. Puke, no doubt, subconsciously induced by her gut wrenching behavior. And then she went on to talk down to her server, and all others working around her, just trying to do their job.

“Let me out there.” Said the chef, shuffling back and forth like a boxer preparing for a fight. “Let me go out there and tell her that we don’t want people like that in here.”

Ah, such naïve words for one who deals with food and not humans. People like that? Then you’ll be forced to close down and look for other work. Because at some point in our lives, all people do something like that. Kick her out, and you kick everyone out. These are people you’re talking about.

“Relax,” I said. “She’s just a stupid human. Just learn to laugh at her from back here. You’ll find it’s much more fun.” And fun is what I'm all about these days.

More people were seated. The night continued.

Like the flu in the winter, stupidity relished in its breading ground, mutating like motherfucker. Highly contagious. Infecting everyone in it's path. Too much idiocy to fit in one post. This used to make me mad. Infuriate me to the point of feeling compelled to teach everyone out there a lesson. To give them my class notes, and fill them the fuck in!

But now, after so many years, you can find me in the back. Completely metamorphosed into a bubble of laughter. Hilarity weakening my legs to the point of eventually collapsing Indian style to the floor. Gasping for air. Tears escaping from the corners of my eyes. Guffawing at all these stupid, stupid motherfukers.

Subway Etiquette

You. You there wearin’ the tank top. Yes you. There’re only two other people in here. And I’m certainly not gonna attempt conversation with Mr. Pot Belly Sanchez sittin’ diagonal across. I see you. And I see what you’re about to do. Twisting your underarm skin ‘round so you can see. It’s in your eyes. Bloodthirsty. You’re wild, ravenous. You’ve spotted your prey.

Oh I know it looks all bulbous and juicy. Ripe for the poppin’. You can almost hear the satisfying snap of taught flesh breaking between your fingernails. There’s no goin’ back now. Temptation’s got its dirty little coke-nail hooked on your throat. Pointing out your prize with the other four fingers.

And it’s luscious. Apple-like. Garden of Eden n such.

Well, allow me to play God. Just for a second.

Don’t pop your fucking arm pimple in the subway!

Oh I know, I know. It’s calling out to you. And there’s nothing else to do considering you’re illiterate and all. And perhaps you think I don’t see you. I’m looking away now, right? You’re safe. I’m busy. Buried. Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (good god…does he ever stop whining? Does the book ever end?) But your vision is dancing all over my peripheries. My imagination filling in the sites and sounds. I can see the whole operation from the squeeze to pop and wipe. Examine the evidence on your little finger stubs. Your entertainment oozes all over my senses. You’re the subway ridin’ Garbage Pail Kid. And I’m officially grossed the fuck out.

No! Goddamnit! Don’t start looking on the other arm for another one!!!

Been duped like Oprah reading a memoir

Every morning I wake up, I have to look in the mirror and face something horrible. It’s like a gigantified tumor on my face. But worse. The millionth reminder that, “Goddamnit!” I’m a fucking girl. And there’s nothing I can do about it. (No, that’s not an option.)

This would all be fine and peachy if I was the type of girl who didn't view her existence and fem-habits as an atrocity to society. And could buy tickets to see "The Devil Wears Prada" like it's completely acceptable social behavior. But personally I find 8-balls to be a much more time valuable way to massacre brain cells.

But my brain is not the only part of me that makes decisions. I have this other little bully inside me, who’s pretty fucking strong. (For a girl). A dumb little floozy we call Estrogen. I fucking hate this bitch.

My brain and Estrogen are constantly having battles that make Celebrity Death Match look like the Berlin fucking Love Parade. At sixteen or seventeen, Estrogen used to be the clear winner in these brawls. But as my brain has become more developed (read: smarter) Estrogen is starting to be revealed as the pussy she really is and losing these fights. (Thank fucking god.)

Estrogen: Omigod, you will look so totally hot in [perfectly useless fem-product that even Paris Hilton’s Ferret is smart enough to avoid].
Brain: “Shut up, whore."
Estrogen: “K!”

But sometimes she makes me do very stupid things that are completely out of my control. Like this weekend, when she discovered I was out of face wash. Even though my brain saw the perfectly acceptable bar of Ivory in the soap dish, I was drug by my heels to “check your logic at the door” Sephora . It was here that she successfully tied my brain to an outside poll and let it fry away in the mind melting Manhattan Heat. Thus, allowing me to fall under the temporary delusion that I would hand over my money to this store and try to, as their tagline says, “Believe in Miracles.”

I bought this:

Or as I like to call it, The Four Steps to Stupidity.

Step one: “Purity.”

A bottle of “soap” that really should be enough in one’s cleansing routine. But sadly, mostly for me, it’s only the first step. On the bottle it says, “Cleanliness is the beginning. Then you can begin to be who you really are.” What? A doltish shiny faced bitch who’s now slightly poorer in both intellect and pink coin purse for believing the mind numbing copy scrawled all over your box? I had no idea all that dirt and oil was hiding this. Thanks for exposing the idiot in me.

Step 2: Hope in a jar.

I’ll repeat. Hope in a jar. The actual name of the product makes a mockery of those dumb enough to consume it. (Including myself.) They’re selling fucking Hope. Not “Results.” Not "Shit that Actually Works." They’re selling, “Oooo, I hope it works! I wish, I pray, oh please, oh please!” I’ve also been hoping for an advertising job and, you know, eighteen million dollars. Will they sell me a jar of this too? (And if so, apparently I’ll be first in line to buy it.)

Step 3: Hope in a jar, part 2 for eyes and lips.

Notice the similarities of the bottle on the right to the former bottle of pipe dreams shown on the left. In this step, they have the nerve to sell a smaller jar of the same hope. Ironically creating less hope that I’ll ever regain a sliver of the former smartness that’s currently roasting away outside the entrance to Sephora. (If there ever was any in the first place.)

Step 4: Hope and a prayer.


The directions say to take a small scoop of this powder and mix it with a small dab of "Hope." Like this:



So let’s see. We've already established that I'm separating myself with my money for "hope." And thus, I’m a fucking dolt. So now you're just choosing to ignore this completely and expect me to be a fucking chemist? To take proper measurements and mix shit? You actually believe I’m capable of this? I think you may have won the Biggest Moron contest this time. And unfortunately your prize is my money.

So that makes one, two, three, four steps to what could have been a fifteen second affair with a bar of soap. Washing my face is now going to take about eight minutes every morning and night. Sixteen minutes a day stolen from what could have been time for more intellectually edifying activities like slapping my elbow with a spatula.

But time and brain cells are not the only treasures lost. The grand total of this cerebral abortion? Fifty-two bucks. I bet it’s not even that bad when you compare it to the beauty budget of your average “Devil Wears Prada” fanatic. But then I remember that most of the world lives off a dollar a day. And the girl inside me feels the sting of the bitch slap she deserves.

Luckily, it will take about 6 months to run out of this stuff. So, I’ll only fall victim to the bitch in me twice a year. My only wish is that next time I go, I’ll discover that Adobe has gone into the cosmetic industry, and started bottling Photoshop. Cause that’s a miracle that both Estrogen and I are willing to believe in.

Hey, Nacho. Why you all up in my name n shit?

Dear Mr. Libre,

We’ve got a bone to pick. You see, long ago, before you were just a twinkle in Jared Hess’ eye, I was christened the one and only “Concha Libre.” And it seems, my non-amigo, that you have stolen the title by which I'm known. How could you even dream of robbing the one and only Concha Libre: Famous Blogger with audience of eight? Did you think I wasn’t going to find out, Mr. Jack-my-name Black?

Maybe if you would have asked to borrow my name nicely, we could have been nombre compadres, no? We could live lovingly in happy Libre Land. We could lucha together and be the Libre champions of the world. You’d paralyze our opponent with a camel clutch. And I’d finish him off with some biting sarcasm. And it’s 1…2…3….and Libre victors we’d be!!!!

But no. You stole. And then something went wrong, didn’t it? Your movie sucked. Ass.

But don't take my word. In between the pained writhing, clutching their eyes and begging for mercy, here’s a few things the critics managed to get out:

“Nacho Libre is the kind of awful movie that ruins your whole day."

“After a while this movie just lays there like a wrestler body slammed one too many.”

“Slightly less funny than cancer.”

And cancer isn’t funny at all.

You know what else isn’t funny? Stealing. Oh it isn’t funny. No no no. Cause the Bible tells me so. And since you’re the mastermind behind this grande nomenclature larceny, you’ve got a life sentence to the unfunny jail. But I’m still free to live a life of libre. Do you see my commenters, my faithful loyal readers, mis amigos al fin, saying these things about me? Clearly, in la copa de lucha de nombres, I am the Italy to your France.

I bet you thought you were being sneaky by not stealing my whole name. "I’ll just steal the “Libre” part. She’s too stupid to notice anyway." Maybe you even thought your name is totally different. A concha is a shell, while a nacho is a chip. Let me tell you something, you Canal Street charlatan. A shell tastes a lot like a chip when it is stale. If you find the stalest chip in the whole pile, it would be just like eating a conch from the sea. And that’s all you are. Just a stale chip in the Mexican food of movie going.

But what can I do? You’re the one grossing 73 freakin’ mil. So go ahead. Steal my name. Bite my concha. Bite it hard. I hope you break your teeth.*

Signed,

The one and only: Concha Libre.

¡Viva la Concha!


*note: I realize some of you are familiar with Argentine Spanish slang and probably recognize the pun. It wasn’t really intended, as I have no interest in Mr. Libre getting anywhere near mi concha.

catharsis

(and now concha gets angry)

I don’t know how you grew up. And frankly, I don’t care. But let me tell you about how I grew up. I grew up in a place where shopping for groceries didn’t invoke homicidal feelings. I grew up knowing if the loudspeaker announced “Cleanup on isle 3” Someone went to mutherfuking isle three and started moppin'! I grew up not having to ask myself, “Will there be a prize in my Cracker Jacks, or perhaps a FUCKING DEAD RAT?” Cause I grew up with Publix, where shopping WAS a mutherfuking PLEASURE.

Then I saw this. The fucking entrance to fucking hell, my brethren.

Maybe their lawyers (stupid mutherfukers who think they can actually defend this place) call it Gristedes. But for the rest of you, you better fucking call is what it is. The nasty, fatty, artery-clogging, heart attack causing, excrement of fucking pig lard, lubricant between the sweaty cellulitey thighs of fat chicks: Grease. Fucking Greasy’s!

Here is a picture of the fucking piece of shit Greasy’s by my apartment. See how the sky is all ugly and gray? That’s cause it just realized that it’s the part of the sky hovering over Greasy’s, and it’s about to ball like a fucking constipated baby who’s fortune teller just told him that he’s gonna grow up to be nothing in life but a fat piece of shit mutherfuking Greasy’s employee!



The other night I was in fucking Greasy’ s trying to buy some dinner to end my pathetic day, when the stupid baby who grew up to be a fucking Greasy’s cashier started talking to me.

“You know what?”

No. I don’t know what. And I don’t fucking care.

“I was laying in bed next to this girl last night and I told her, ‘I think I’m in love wit chu.’"

Thank you. Now I have a naked fat man picture in my head. There went my fucking appetite. And by the way…why are you telling me this?

He fucking continued.

“So she rolls over and says, ‘Steve, what you talking about? We just havin’ fun, Steve.’ And I was like, ‘But really, I think I’m in love wit chu. I’m tryin’ to take it to the next level.’ And she was like, ‘Don’t be stupid, Steve.’”

First of all, telling a fucking Greasy’s employee not to be stupid is like telling a fucking emo to cut his bangs. Because one day this idiot woke up and decided, despite all the fucking fungus free grocery stores out there, he wanted to work at FUCKING GREASY’S. OF COURSE HE’S FUCKING STUPID.

FURTHERFUCKINGMORE, If I fucking had anything that resembled sexual relations with a fucking Greasy’s employee, it had better be because I had fucking IVs of GHB in all six thousand of my veins, regaining consciousness only because the fat fuck ripped them all out. And when I came to, and discovered I’d just been (eww, gross, gross, gross!) fondling a Greasy member, I’d say the same thing. And by the same thing I mean, “Put the IVs back in and get the fuck out of my house YOU FAT STUPID GREASY’S EMPLOYYEE!”

This is the fucking stupid door to get into Greasy’s.
(Note: none of these pictures fully capture Greasy’s grease in full glory. Much more acned in person. Much.) Most automatic doors do what they’re supposed to do and open when you step on the mat. But not this fucking door. Step on the mat here and it will say. “Oh, shit. Do I really have to stop eating cheetoes and get off my fat fucking ass to open the door for you. Goddamn fucking customers!” And then you will hear lots of creaking, which is actually the sound of it scratching its fat fucking lazy ass while it opens the door for you.

More grease.

I'm so fucking glad they could get off their fat greasy asses to clean up this germ infested half finished soda can left in the spice rack.


Uh, yeah. That would be dried mud on that beer bottle.



Gee. I was looking all over for the maxi pads. There they are! Silly me, I should've known they would be next to the Jolly Green Giant. Great organization, ass wipes.



This would be the way the genius custodial staff decided to fix the leaky seafood shelves. Really works up your appetite for tuna.

Seriously. With the way this place can ruin appetites, there's no need to buy Lean Cuisine.

AHGHG. I hate fucking Greasy’s!

Believe it or not, once in a while they do make lame attempts to mop up the constant dripping grease of this place. One time I actually saw a fucking Greasy’s employee cleaning the floor. Unfortunately the ramen section was hovering above the part of floor he just mopped. So I had to gingerly step over it. But when I did, the fucking piece of shit grease cleaner shouted out, “You fucking stupid bitch! Fucking walking on my clean floor you fucking stupid bitch!” And this was all in earshot of the manager. But did he threaten to call corporate? Run to me and apologize on behalf of his delinquent employee who would surely be facing some kind of immediate punishment? Offer to comp my Ore-Idas? No. He fucking only grunted and went back to licking the grease out of the corners of his register.

I suppose you may suggest that I do something like stop going to Greasy’s. “They just opened a Trader Joe’s in Union Square, Concha. Why don’t you try that?” To which I’ll answer, “Exactly. It’s in Union fucking Square and I’m not about to ride down the whole green line just cause I ran out of fucking Pot Noodle!” I say we all go to every Greasy’s and dump buckets and buckets of Dawn on them, since it takes “grease out of your way” and all. Only then might we be able to rid the world of this artery clogger, and buy our Pot Noodle in peace.