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www.quitchabitchin.com. Yes, every now and then the level of complaining I see when I'm listening into a conversation or perusing social networks gets me a little down so that I end up complaining about people complaining. This is not to say I don't complain about other things, but really, if you complain about really silly shit, please take the opportunity at times to acknowledge you are complaining about some really silly shit. Shiiiiiiiiiiiit...

In this instance the complaint in particular that spawned my ire was the bevy of teachers wishing for a snow day. Yes, we all remember being kids and hoping for a snow day. Heck, I actually kind of liked school, just not the getting up early part, and I still was down with snow days. But once that is your job and it is the kind of job where you are supposed to be inspiring children, or at least helping them in some regard, shouldn't you want to be going in? Or maybe we have different ideas about what a snowday is #cocaine. That's a bad pun wrapped in a twitter joke. It's been a while since I've explained a joke on here. Explaining jokes is my favorite.

Anywho, speaking of shit, the other day one of my homies alerted me to this little piece in The Awl about a Chinese restaurant with a restroom theme. That is to say a restaurant in China with decor that ranges from toilet seating to urinals on the walls. The menu is loaded with ill-named dishes.


Here's a look, courtesy of the original article.

The most wonderful quote closes that article, so good in fact that I had to bring it here. The words of a female student:
"I originally went in because I thought it was a toilet but then discovered it was a restaurant and decided to give it a try," she said.

The place is pretty much right up my alley. I am well-known amongst friends for talking extensively about bowel movements, getting a good kick out of a loud or awful-smelling fart, and so on. The throne room is one of my favorite places to check morning email. I'm sorry if that means maybe you don't want to borrow my laptop, but then it's not like I'm using the thing to wipe. Even eating in the bathroom, it's not as if you're eating off of the surfaces there, just within the confines of the space.

With no real clever segue in mind, I advise y'all to check out Alex Ebert (of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros) track Truth from his forthcoming solo album. It's got a very "Good Song" vibe in my estimation, and that's a good thing. I don't always like Blur, but when I do...And since I drop links to youtube in here with some frequency and I know how some of us out there might feel about the ads and whatnot, I'm throwing out this link for those who aren't in the know about quietube. I actually don't use it, but probably should. Instead I just mute my sound and do something else for 15 seconds.

I've been trying to stay on top of the news more in 2011, and it really seems like I'm not missing much in browsing the Google News that goes directly to my Safari toolbar. It did lead me to this Business Week article, however, on the stock implications of Steve Jobs' medical leave. It just seems incredibly sad to me that rather than a concern about Jobs' actual health, the focus is on how his absence will affect Apple shareholders. F#ckers.

Last but not least because I want to end on a high note, here's a choice read about good old Keanu Reeves. Journalistic bias be damned, if you don't like Keanu after that, you might not have a soul. Rock on Johnny Utah, Neo, Ted, and so much more...

Pooparoni

Some people say they would give you the shirt off their back. I like to think I am one of them, one reason being that I have done it before, but also because I am so damned sweaty that a shirt is a waste of time for me. By token of this very same virtue, you may not want the shirt I am offering. This has always been abundantly clear to me and I'm sure I've stated it before, but I never said I wasn't redundant.

In line with redundancy, one might say I made the same calculated error on back-to-back evenings in consuming pepperoni pizza. Rarely in my lifetime have I consumed this Jew-forbidden meat, but I admit to its salted deliciousness. In discovering this, I also discovered its propensity for giving me heartburn, especially the day after. Though I successfully dodged this bullet after Sunday evening consumption, a repeat performance Monday was not to be had. This is not entirely accurate, as I did not suffer heartburn, merely burn in another arena. And no, I did not mean area. Inaccuracy abounds as it may not have been the pepperoni but, in fact, the undercooked cheese, of which there was a great quantity, and the undercooked dough. Mmmmmm...

While I seem to pay quite often for the substances I choose to ingest, the opposite appears true regarding one of my old high school teammates. Probably standing 5'5" and weighing in at something like a buck-twenty-five, this monstrosity manages to consume frightening quantities of booze and gut-rending munchies. When people discuss eating and drinking prowess, it is easy to remain skeptical without proof, but I would say his newly launched blog is reasonable proof. I'd use his name, but I like the mystery of things like eyes blocked out with photoshop paint that is a theme on said blog.

In other news, it wouldn't hurt for it to get a little less hot and humid up in this mother. I must choose my days for wearing khaki shorts very carefully as swamp-ass is a foregone conclusion. Admitting this may seem a bit gross, but when the telltale miniature heart-shape of damp becomes visible on the lower ass of my shorts to anonymous real-life humans, why not share it with anonymous internet ones as well.

Anyway, the face of the girl sitting at around 10 o'clock from me is really starting to piss me off so I've got to shuttle out of here. I can only fight the urge to laugh like a maniac or pour coffee onto her computer/face for so long. I think I watched too much negative stand-up last night! I need to study up on Einstein's Theory of Negativity...Plus I'm really hungry. Happy Wednesday!

Quotent Quotables

Even though this knocks me past four entries for the month, at least one if not all were not up to my exacting standards — aka they were garbage. Extra points for consistency. Speaking of consistency, the consistency of my bowels could use some work. Perhaps it is the preponderance of Mexican and not-quite-Mexican (Taco Bell) I have consumed of late. In homage to the latter, after a long long evening I offered to make, quite literally, a Taco Bell run at just past 4am Sunday morning. Literal in that I am writing about it. It happened to pour rain for only the four-to-five minutes it took me to run the three-quarters of a mile or so to The Bell and yes, I was running. But it made for an excellent scene as I was wearing a dress shirt and loosened tie from an improv performance. I had that Hollywood epic rain-run look, except instead of a wedding or some heart-rending moment, I was...not. I did manage to have awesome interactions with the clientele, as per usual. The only mistake I made was not ordering even more food.

A look back halfway through the month and all the way through my life should suggest I should know better concerning my own bowels, but I doubt that'll stop me. How will I use my griping double-entendre then? Artists must make sacrifices.

Speaking of things I like that don't give me diarrhea (although I am not certain of this yet), old people. Sometimes they are all ornery and I just want to drop eff bombs on them, but sometimes these folks are just so damn sweet it hurts. Take some lady today who asked if I worked in the building, the building I happen to live in. "No," I told her. "Oh, you look familiar," she said. What I should have said was, "Have you seen Heroes, or the new Star Trek movie?" Instead I said, "Well I do live here." She then proceeded to complement me on my haircut and to ask if she were overdressed for the weather — she was, but old people get cold easily. I have no idea what I will be like when I'm an old man, but I know that a) I'd like to be a grandfather and b) I'd like to have a porch. These things seem essential. I'd like to dispense lots of knowledge to my grandchildren, which will prove woefully outdated, but that perhaps they will accept as wisdom on account of me being old and all. I will drink a lot of whiskey and beer. And sarsparilla. Leave off the "sars" for a Spanish-sounding last name. Whether I will kick the Mexican habit remains to be seen.

I just killed a big-ass fly (not to be confused with a big assfly) in my kitchen with a paper towel. I am real proud of myself.

Does anyone else think that "April Showers brings May Flowers" is begging to be made into a porno? I mean, you wouldn't even have to change the title if you didn't want. And that seems like more than enough at the moment.

Back to the Lab Again

Yesterday after returning from a run I had taken off my shoes to stretch in the grass behind my house. This is pretty standard practice for me, and as it was rather steamy out yesterday, I noted some bees traipsing through the grass. I don't have much to back up this observation, but any time I seem to see bees out in the grass, it is also hot as balls. So, shortly after taking note of how much it would suck to be stung by a bee and moving out of the way of one that seemed particularly smitten with me, I found myself in a bit of a distracted daze until I felt a shitty little pinching in my left arch. As luck would have it, there was a bee, still attached no less, and I had to pluck the little bastard off. Luckily I'm not allergic, so some ice did the trick pretty well, but still, fuck you bee.

Still, I would take a couple more bee stings in exchange for the behemoth blisters I managed to get right behind both big toes, between the end of the toe and the beginning of the sesamoids. The bitch of it is, that this is right where the toe bends, so once you have improperly treated your blisters, they don't exactly feel peachy. I think blister etiquette says something along the lines of wait it out or, if you do drain it, to leave the skin intact. For me, my MO has always been to cut the whole damn thing off with a pair of nail clippers maybe slap on a bandaid, and hope for the best. This has actually worked surprisingly well in the past, but these bastards want none of it. Note my use of bastard once again.

Anyway, in non foot-related news I also baked one of the most attractive and delicious blueberry pies this afternoon. I actually took a picture with my camera because I am that much of a loser, but not so much of a loser that I bothered to upload it and post it here.

Seeing as I am on an accidental "b" theme here, I feel I must mention my most recent Sunday morning. After a long evening of booze and food (read also: wedding) I was feeling decidedly money. The food and booze had seemingly offset one another perfectly, leaving me in that wonderful state of sociable, standable (since this isn't a word: capable of standing), and able to remember the nights events. So it is that I blame a spot of eggplant for my Sunday morning woes. Awake by six AM and feeling poorly in the belly region, I lay there, sleeping intermittently, until eight or so. At that point I knew a number two was coming, and perhaps a bit of a boot as well. Sitting there, essentially having completed my deuce session, I knew I was about to hurl but had not the time to flush the toilet so, seeing as it was a hotel room, yacked in the sink. I blame the eggplant I say because that is pretty much all I saw in the sink. I can't describe the fun as I flushed the toilet, commenced booting anew and then transferred chunks from sink to john. Another sure sign of foul vegetables afoot was that I felt absolutely like a million dollars after the yack. Hell I popped out the door to run five or so miles right after.

Catch you on the flipside...