What the shit?
Holy Jesus what am I looking at? What is this supposed to be? Are you kidding me? I don’t remember ordering this. I think I ordered French onion soup, didn’t I?
Wait a minute, wait a minute, are you telling me this is what you pass off as French onion soup? That’s crazy! Have you ever seen French onion soup? Look kid, I know you’re not back there making it yourself, but seriously, you know what French onion soup looks like. Does this strike you as a delicious mix of onions and cheese and that brown broth and those crouton-like bread pieces? It does?! What the hell alternate universe did I just wander into? Continue reading
Filed under Dining, humor
"For the last time, my name is not fucking Moonman"
It’s a dingy nameless underground bar on the outskirts of Bangalore, and palpable misery hangs in the air. A Kingfisher sits on most of the knife-scarred tables, as patrons stare suspiciously at one another with rheumy eyes out from underneath heavy, weathered lids. The sun has never touched the dank dirt floor, and a mop isn’t a regular tourist in the john. The bartender keeps a cricket bat wrapped in barbed wire within arm’s reach at all times. He has a tattoo on his forearm that just says “Screw face,” but in Kannada it’s much prettier. The lights, already low enough to develop pictures by, sink even further toward the pitch. A busted upright piano which looks to have been around since well before British occupation is wheeled out with squeaks and groans, and a shadowy figure takes his seat behind it.
“Hello there, Bangalore!” he shouts. There is no response. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he adds, voice gargling sarcasm, “Bengaluru. I’m sorry, I was here before it was fucking Bengaluru, so I call it Bangalore. If you’ve got a problem with ‘Bangalore’, don’t let your ass get struck by the door! On your way out, I mean, it just doesn’t fit with the rhyme.”
Then he launches into one of his notable songs, a jingle that sold millions of all beef patties with special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, and onions on sesame seed buns.
- “When the clock strikes half past 6, babe
- Time to head for golden lights
- It’s a good time for the great taste — dinner!
- At McDonald’s, it’s Mac Tonight
- Come on, make it Mac Tonight!” Continue reading
Filed under Dining, humor, Media
“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
Okay, I get the point. Take what you’re given and make the best of it. Or, take something that could be perceived as a negative and turn it into something positive. Right? That’s it, right?
But step back a second, and let’s look at this situation objectively. Life gives you lemons. Lemons aren’t dropping out of the sky, so the more realistic statement would be Someone gives you lemons. That’s neater, no? Now, did you ask for lemons? In that case, win-win. You wanted lemons and guess what? Lemons in hand. But we don’t know that. No back story. This is just one possibility, and honestly, it’s as probable as the idea that you didn’t want lemons. Right?
Someone gives you lemons. You wanted limes. Okay, this seems bad, but really, how hard is it to just say, “No, sir, wrong hand fruit here, let’s have the green ones this time, and maybe it’s time to get them eyes checked, Magoo.” No? We don’t live in a society where we can do that? We have to be so ultra-polite that we can’t just exchange the lemons? Or hell, if you don’t want to do that, why don’t you pick out your own goddamn fruit next time. This, again, is just a possibility, and seems entirely likely as well. Continue reading
Filed under Dining, humor, Life
Inspired by The Authoring Auctioneer’s recent article found here.
Given the opportunity, people getting paid to do something for you will invariably let you down in some way. Whether it’s a movie theater usher or a barista (which is destined for inclusion on a list of words I hate) or your run-of-the-mill waiter or waitress, if you are forking over bucks for virtually anything, you are thusly entitled to find fault with their performance. It’s part of the transaction, really. You get a cup of coffee or 3D glasses or a foot massage, and you get the right to bitch and complain about this servant of yours. And they should suck it up and enjoy it, that’s there role in things, right?
My tale comes straight out of the bowels of history, stretching back to that distant memory that is Saturday, in the month known as This in the week remembered fondly by those who lived it as Last. I was with the girlfriend and the Munchagogo at a bar/pizza place watching the Olympics in a hurried rush before trying to catch the midnight showing of the 1984 classic Ghostbusters, which we wouldn’t end up making it to before the Sold Out sign was hung in our faces by the management. Continue reading