Wednesday, November 15, 2006

I was digging through My Favorites on my Internet browser of choice and came across an entry titled “I’m Awesome”. I clicked it and arrived here. Then I browsed my documents in the My Documents folder in My Computer on my computer and found two documents that contained words. Suddenly, I realized that I could somehow formulate a chemical equation that, when balanced, would result in placing those documents here. With complex computer coding, I could even place one of the documents after the other document. The documents were titled “Mediocre” and “6/10”, and I now present them to you.

For the sake of a trilogy, I’ll briefly include the third trip to the doctor I made recently. I got a flu shot and sadly the nurse was courteous and professional. This does not make for an interesting story, so I’ll keep it short. Hopefully next year the nurse will be obese and confuse my records with someone else’s while eating a lobster. I’ll now continue with the two other parts of the trio.

Last week I went to the dermatologist. Something strange happened. I should have noticed the clues: My pre-appointment trip to the bathroom went uninterrupted and nothing was spilled or splashed onto my trousers. The usually bustling waiting room was empty and silent. I was led into the white, fluorescent room with the metal bench ten minutes early instead of the usual 30 late. These signs could only have meant one of two things: Either the zombie invasion had finally happened and the dermatologist’s office was the last safe place on earth, or the doc was up to something. Sadly, as I would later find out with a sickeningly sweet request and a piercing pain through my cheek, no zombies were running through the streets thirstily searching for human flesh.

After a brief wait, a short Indian nurse called my attention and directed me to the appointment room. I leapt upon the metal bench and felt like I was wearing a diaper as I shifted myself around on the pointless paper covering, trying to not appear as an infant. The nurse ran through the standard questions with an accent that made me assume she had spent more time at a NetGear technical support center than medical school: What medication are you on? Any problems since the last time you were here? How long are you? I’m sorry, would you mind defining ‘choder’? She wrote things down and eventually left the room again. One more short wait later, and the commanding officer finally showed up. A tall, blonde woman of 45 or so, she didn’t look like one to enjoy tricking innocent children into allowing her to cause them short bouts of metallic pain. But as Kareem Campbell attests, looks can be deceiving.

She, too, went through the usual questions, most of them the same ones that her Hindu lackey likely didn’t write down. Once that was through she got down to business, inspecting me from all directions like a plantation owner. Something on my right cheek tickled her festering fancy for skin and she asked me for permission to do something that I had previously only imagined 3rd-world sex workers doing. “Now, you have a pus-filled spot over here,” she stated, perhaps thinking that the common term ‘pimple’ would make me cry. “Would you like me to pop it?”

I fell into a state of startled shock for a moment but leveled my head once I realized that this is probably what gets her off, and I’m not one to judge, so I replied with an unenthusiastic “Uhh…sure.” From there, I was expecting her to go with the standard two-finger approach and she would be aroused and done. But she was in the mood for something a little more special, and decided to take it all the way. She laid me back on the table with a crackly crinkle and snapped on a pair of pink latex gloves. If I was going into surgery there likely would have been a mask shooting gas into my nose then, and if I was in a pornographic film there likely wouldn’t have been pants on me, but I was stuck in a strange purgatory between the two.

The lady suddenly swiped a pair of dentist-caliber utensils from a small tray and without further questions helped herself. I think she stole one of the tools, a small metal hook, from the orthodontist located down the hall, and she stole her long, pointy metal rod from that lizard guy on Ripley’s Believe It or Not who shoves it through his testicles. At least it smelled like that one. Anyway, here’s how she used her instruments of pain to conduct a symphony of soreness across my face. First, without any sort of announcement or warning, she plunged the rod straight into ground zero and wiggled it and its razor point around with an odd interest and the precision of the mall employee who pierces 1st grade girls’ ears for $5/hour. She removed the spear and then brought in the cavalry: the dentist’s hook, which I suppose was used to scrape the pounds of skin she had unearthed off into some sort of radioactive medical waste receptacle. By the time the ordeal was over I estimated that I had lost 1.5 gallons of blood, which will likely be shared between the doctor and her nurse during tomorrow’s lunch.

But once was not enough for this lady, no. She set her sights on uncharted territory and again invited herself to blast off two more nukes. As she ransacked my face like a Nazi in Kristallnacht, she routinely muttered salaciously sweet nothings along the lines of, “I’m sorry; I know it hurts,” “Almost done,” and, “I vant to suck your blood.” The latter may be inaccurate, considering my hazy memory due to the blood loss, but I can say for certain that whatever she said was uttered in a thick Transylvanian accent. When she had finally drawn enough blood for her picnic, she told me that she was all done and removed her pink gloves. As if it would make it all better, she gave me a wad of gauze to prevent the three wounds she had inflicted from bleeding out, but that became soaked, bullet-wound style, in a matter of minutes.

I lied to her when I said, “Thanks,” and I filed out of the room. As I exited, though, my stern British upbringing reared its head in my subconscious and I wondered, Was I supposed to tip her? Does the insurance cover pimple popping? What is the standard gratuity rate applied for that kind of act? A waiter gets 15%, a caddy gets 50%, and a seasoned teabagist can fetch upwards of 60%. But it seemed to be strictly her disgusting pleasure, so I figured my being there was tip enough. I boarded my five-wheeled automobile and left the office in my rear-view mirror, hoping to never have a bad experience with a doctor again. But as you should be able to tell by the length of this writing, I was in for a disappointment.

Later that week, but before today, I set some sort of world record by going to three different places in one day: School, Best Buy, and the eye doctor. I say “the eye doctor” because there is only one in the United States. Allow me to elaborate on the latter two, as I assume the majority of the three of you reading this attends school occasionally. Best Buy was on my to-do list so I could purchase the Monster House DVD. It was a half-day of school, so I strolled into the store around 1p.m. and was met with numerous “Shouldn’t you be in school?”, “Where are your parents?” and “DVDs have movies on them?” glares from the blue-shirted employees. I did my best to dodge their glances and quickly picked up my copy of the children’s movie. The embarrassment of purchasing an animated film aimed at 9-year olds suddenly settled in on me, and the fact that I was going to use a $5 coupon on the transaction made me feel like an even bigger idiot. But I held my head up high and thrust the goods over the counter into the waiting hands of the jovial black cashier who I think didn’t know exactly what I was purchasing, thanks to my clever plan of placing the merchandise upside-down. Of course, the title was printed on the back of the box as well, but I’ll also assume she was illiterate, for the sake of consistency. I handed her my paper money and she handed me a paper receipt. I then covertly exited the store and boarded my horse, which I gave a firm kick to and pointed in the direction of the local optometrist, where I was expecting, but did not receive, an easygoing dive into the world of contact lenses.

It was 2:30 in the afternoon and the waiting room of the Thomas Eye Group was packed like a Sicilian pizza shop (Note: that means ‘a pizza shop in the city of Sicily,’ and not ‘a generic pizza shop that specializes in Sicilian-style pizza.’ The pizza shop in Sicily would be crowded, obviously, because Italians love pizza so much that they will ignore the sweaty stench of their neighbors for as long as it takes to get their thick hands on one cheesy slice). I arrived at least 20 minutes before my scheduled appointment, but the Eye Doctor Calendar is a strange and mysterious device that operates in lenses and retinas instead of hours and days, and as such I had the equivalent of two weeks to spend in the waiting room. Before taking one of the few remaining empty seats, I approached the desk with the intent of filling out some papers and potentially executing a robbery. But my plans were foiled mere feet from the counter as a stuttered stumble resulted in my binder full of World History notes and secrets spilling all about the floor in front of at least 400 pairs of watchful eyes. My foot must have caught on a pair of glasses or carcass of someone who expired before his appointment time came, and the next thing I knew was my arms loosened their grip on my binder, which held an article on Charlemagne that I was going to read, and it toppled, upside-down, until it reached the floor and exploded in a pulpy mess. My knees hit the floor at roughly the same time, and I kept my head low as I pretended that no one in the busy room had seen a teenage boy and his schoolwork fall straight onto the ground for no apparent reason. I quickly worked to shuffle the papers back into their respective pockets and scurried right to my seat. (Note: Avoid Office Max’s 2-pack plain white binders. They’ve caused me problems in the past and generally are terrible products that don’t justify their $3 price tag or the 3 minutes of Malaysian labor that went into making them. But this is a topic for another time).

I was in my chair for long enough to listen to a 52-minute album on my electronically rectangular musical playing device while reading a six-page article about that fat Charlemagne and selected pages from a paperbound novel. My estimation is that the elapsed time was roughly 52 minutes, but my calculator isn’t equipped to execute advanced trigonomic functions, so don’t quote me on that number. After the seasons had changed, a nurse emerged from a corridor at the end of the long room and shouted my name. I heard her and picked up myself and my belongings and followed her down a winding series of doorways and into one of the uniform, dark rooms. I took a seat in the brown chair that had a large, swinging set of eyeglasses for tarantulas in front of it. I started fidgeting with the hundreds of lenses and played out a scene in my mind where I broke the device just as the doctor walked in. The thought was accompanied with a laugh track, but was quickly dismissed when I realized, sadly, that my life wasn’t an episode of Smart Guy, and breaking that kind of thing would probably result in spending hundreds of thousands of dollars instead of having Moe sneak in to the office and replace the machine with a dummy unit the next night to no one’s suspicion. My life was a lot easier when it was an episode of Smart Guy. The nurse quizzed me on the standard questions to which I gave some standard answers. When she was through wondering about my vision, she changed the subject to complaining about her employer. For what seemed like 15 minutes she ranted on and on about how poor the office’s system of patient management was. Apparently they schedule several patients into the same time in order to increase productivity, confusion, and anger. This was, she said, the reason for the circus of people in the waiting room. I nodded my head in agreement with her as I thought, “This is incredibly unprofessional.” Eventually she got her bearings and decided to shoot a mysterious orange liquid into both of my eyes. I got to mop up her sloppy leftovers myself with a tissue and got a glimpse of a cabinet full of Tang and spoons out of the corner of my eye. I have a feeling that orange liquid wasn’t the one she was supposed to use. She flipped through the lenses as I looked into them and told her which were clear. Once that was over, I was forced to stare deep into a dark box at a red laser beam. I was sweating as I braced myself for the usual puff of air directly into my eyeballs that is so unexpected and awful that it can only be compared to a rapist’s fart. But that fart never passed. I sat there expecting the terrible blast of gas for at least a minute, but it turns out that the nurse only wanted to pretend she was playing Goldeneye and act like she was using the laser and tried to line up a headshot. After she made the laser-shooting noise with her mouth, she told me to sit down in the secondary chair as my accomplice boarded the captain’s seat. “That’s not the puff of air machine?” I asked, not knowing that the machine is called a tonometer.

She abruptly said no and that was the end of that. She wrote some things down on sheets of paper, interviewed and tested my accomplice, and led me to another room. This one was brighter than the other, but it was still full of posters featuring many pictures of the same smiling children, where each blurry picture features a different disabling eye disease that their grandparents have. Again I waited in the brown chair for several minutes until the doctor finally showed up. He was bald and wore glasses. Considering my mission was to insert contact lenses into my eyes, his wearing glasses wasn’t very reassuring. He went through many of the same questions that the other nurse did; either they keep two sets of everyone’s records for fun or he couldn’t read. He also scribbled down my answers and tried to strike up a conversation with me. He asked me what book I was reading, even though the title was clearly exposed on the counter, but he couldn’t read so I suppose that makes sense. I told him and he furthered questioned about the book’s contents. Again I told him the answer while thinking that I was there to have my eyeballs checked out, not to discuss literature with a bald illiterate optometrist. He picked up the book, flipped to a random page, and began reading the text aloud. I would have told him that I know how to read, but apparently he doesn’t get enough books in his diet and read two entire pages. Eventually he caught on that I wasn’t as into the conversation as he was and finally looked at my eyes. The eye exam took him about 40 seconds, roughly 1/10 the amount of time it took him to browse my book. The scientific conclusions he drew from the tests were that my vision was okay, which I could have told him several weeks before the exam. He also recommended that I purchase something called Ocusoft Lid Scrub. It’s some type of soap that I’m supposed to rub all over my eyes while in the shower, because apparently my eye lids are home to a swarming cesspool of bacteria that is going to ruin my vision in the near future. I have two problems with this: 1. I don’t know where this supposed bacteria is coming from, because I stopped swimming with my eyes open in my neighbor’s above-ground septic tank years ago. And 2. Ever since I was an infant, I have been trained by my masters to not put soap in my eyes. The lone exception to this rule was Johnson & Johnson’s gentle shampoo, which can be lovingly squirted into eyes to the squirter’s content, but that was introduced several decades after I graduated to more adult, harsh shampoos made from the sweat and blood of buffalo. So when the doc suggested that I lather this strange potion all over my eyeballs, I laughed in his face and shouted, “Are you joking? Maybe you should lather some Rogaine on that que-ball of yours, Ace!” Actually, what I did was nod my head and told him that I would look for the product and purchase it. What he didn’t know was that I was lying. He then started to read my accomplice’s newspaper that was on the counter aloud. I don’t know what his problem was or why he couldn’t purchase his own subscription to the newspaper, but he had a voice that sounded like his mouth was full of mucus and his large nose was full of boogers and the teachings of Abraham. He read an article about Michael J. Fox’s Parkinson’s and received no response. He shook my hand and surprisingly didn’t try to read the words on my sweatshirt out loud and shipped me off to yet another room.

Once again I waited, this time for the third doctor from their mysterious band of carnies to arrive. The room I was in this time, though, was a wonderland full from floor to ceiling with contact lenses. All shapes and sizes of contacts: from circles to ovals and very small to pretty small. They were on all four walls, little packets containing one lens each, all held on white racks lined up one after another. If I had a fetish for contacts, my pants would have been tight, but because I only have a mild desire to eat soft contact lenses, my mouth was just beginning to salivate when the final doctor walked in the door. He was an older man who also ironically wore glasses. He discussed his recent back surgery and asked me a short series of questions that basically amounted to, “I plan to try contact lenses today.” Then he led me out of the office and sat me on a rotating chair at a small counter with a rotating mirror on it. He probably walked back into the contact dungeon to admire his legion of lenses and rally them for their upcoming battle.

I sat by my lonesome at the counter with my accomplice at my left side for a moment or two until a cheery Mexican woman dressed as an employee of the office took the seat opposite mine. “Estas aqui para intentar los lentes de contacto?” she asked, but she really said it in thickly accented English. I told her that I obviously was, seeing as I was seated in the Contact Fitting Station. She looked delighted as she pulled out two small packets of lenses and started to inform me of the ancient secrets of the contact lens. Just like a pair of pants, the lenses aren’t supposed to be inserted into my eyes inside-out. She showed me several different styles of prying open my eyes, from the over-the-head “Slam Dunk” to the around-the-side “Reach Around.” After training myself to perform those tricks, it was finally time to touch my eyeballs with my dirty fingers.

Let me share some history with you: The original pair of contact lenses was the result of a chemical reaction occurring at the bottom of a garbage bag full of Satan’s diarrhea and Hitler’s semen. They’re the most awful, devilish creation to ever appear on the earth, and they more fitfully belong at the bottom of a sewer than in a human being’s eyeballs. While testing lipstick and make-up on animals like chimpanzees is hilarious, testing contact lenses on those poor, defenseless beasts is inhumane and cruel. I struggled with those weapons of terror for almost 40 minutes before having the Senora force one of them into my right eye. Tears streamed across my cheeks like a girl and the skin around my eyes was as red and chafed as my ballsack. The problem may have been my hand’s poor grip on my upper eyelids (perhaps due to the pools of slick bacteria soaking them), or my eyes themselves. My eyes are as wide as those of a Chinaman who’s trying to read a distant sign. Nothing has any business going into them, ever. The only con to this deformity is that I can’t stuff contacts into them, but the only pro is that old perverts can’t stuff their genitalia into them. I suppose I should at least be thankful for that much.

So after roughly 40 minutes I had succeeded in inserting one lens into my right eye. When I had both eyes open I felt like I had a split personality; my left side was horrifically near-sighted and my right side was being held in front of a blasting fire hose. My right eye felt like it was underwater, likely because there was a pool of water stuck to it under a concave piece of corrective eyewear. When I closed my left eye it felt like my glasses were both on, because of the clear vision, and off, because they weren’t on, at the same time. This confused me and made me think I was partially insane for a brief time. Several more attempts at the left eye were then made, mostly resulting in tragic failure. The Mexican woman was very adamant about getting the other one in, despite my enthusiastic retreads of “I think I’m going to stop now,” and, “I really don’t care.” She wouldn’t have any of that attitude and persisted with the zesty zeal of a mariachi band at the finest taco shop in all of Mexico City.

“C’mon, let’s go,” she urged with a large smile and spicy voice. She tried to set up a date for after school the next day to continue my efforts, because she had to leave promptly at 5p.m. to arrive at her second job, which surprisingly was at Federal Express and not one of my neighbors’ houses. I made up an excuse why I couldn’t attend because she really didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t care for those little transparent devils. Eventually I popped the second one into my other eye myself. Maricela (I assume her name was) was excited and cheered accordingly, but I was only thinking about how strange the feeling of opening my eyes underwater while sitting in a doctor’s office was, and couldn’t wait to suction them out. Fear settled in as I realized I would have to touch my eyes no less than four more times in order to remove them, lest I be cursed with contacted eyeballs for the rest of my days. It took several minutes until I fondled my cornea on the right side and pulled the contact off of it. The left proved more of a challenge and eventually fell out in the “Pink Eye-Paulie” method by rubbing my eye until it accidentally fell out.

I declared the mission accomplished and my accomplice purchased the pair of lenses for me to have at home in case I want to try them again. They have been sitting on the kitchen counter untouched ever since that day. The receptionist gave me a pair of paper sunglasses, or “Canadian Shades”, to protect my precious retinas from the sun’s harsh rays after being poisoned by that toxic dilating orange liquid. I walked through the packed waiting room again, though this time in the opposite direction than I had before. The sun’s rays were not nearly strong enough to damage my elephantastic eyes, and I had no use for the flimsy black sunglasses. I put them in the cupholder as I drove away, hoping to never have another bad experience at a doctor’s office again.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

In case this is your first time taking a ride on the Information Superhighway, allow me to tell you which websites you should try your best to avoid: Crazy Jim’s Balloon Extravaganza is unsettling. Aretha’s Animal Attacks is particularly disturbing. Stephen Glober’s Wonderful World of Aborigine Australian Culture is sort of boring. But most of all, the #1 most horrible, hideous place on the web is known as For the unfamiliar, MySpace bills itself as “A place for friends”, when in actuality it’s more of “A place for teenagers to waste time and act like they really want to be molested”.

On it, easily-persuaded teens create their own personal “spaces”, on which they post long surveys about themselves that no one reads, leave terribly-punctuated comments, and post hundreds of pictures. Their main picture is the one most commonly associated with their name on the website, and thus must be a real prize. So most users either head down to the local photorium or stand in front of their bathroom mirrors to capture that one definitive snapshot. Allow me to describe them to you.

There are three, and only three, types of photos used by males:

1. If the male thinks he is particularly good looking, then his photograph will be of himself partially nude. This is likely the one picture out of 400 in which his abs are semi-defined.

2. The “hilarious photo”. This is used when the male feels he looks like a horse’s backside. Don't be fooled by the term "hilarious" in the title, because these poorly edited pictures are anything but funny. The user will attempt to mask his hideousness by pasting his face onto another's body; or another's face onto his limp body. Additionally, "silly" faces can be used to the same unfunny effect. These are usually a good way to determine that the user is a complete idiot and will likely eat a bowl of hair if it means people will look at him.

3. Underage drinking. These don’t really make much sense; seeing as holding a bottle of liquor doesn’t say anything about the person other than “My parents are over 21 and own bottles of alcohol. I have hands and am able to pick them up.” If I were to take a photograph of myself lying in a pile of cocaine under a waterfall spewing vodka while eating a salad made of dollar bills and tobacco leaves, the only conclusion to be drawn would be, “This moron thinks he’s really cool. And he has access to a lot of cocaine.” The picture wouldn’t prove that I snorted the cocaine, drank the vodka, or ate the tobacco. It would only prove that I live in South America and really want people to think I’m cool because I could be potentially engaged in illegal activity. I might as well photograph myself not wearing a seatbelt or tearing the tag off of a mattress.

Females also seem to favor a certain style for their images:

1. A picture that depicts at least two people, only one of which is the page's owner. This is a clever ruse used to confuse potential mates into thinking that one of the other females is the owner of the page, when in fact it is the cow sitting in the dimly-lit back corner doing her best to dodge the camera lens.

2. Being “outrageous”. These pictures feature the user, usually with her friends, being a wild and crazy kid. Some examples are: dressing up in obnoxious clothing, being a jackass in public, or making a face at the camera that tries to say, “I’m funny,” but really says, “I hate myself and often wish attention were available in a liquid form so I could stop the nonsense and just inject it directly into my arm.” A close relative to the male “hilarious” photo, these usually make the page’s visitors want to smack the girl with a ruler, put her in a dress, and tell her how to behave herself in public.

*Note- the male themes, especially the underage drinking motif, are also used by females to the same effect.

In addition to these main photographs, users can, and do, post hundreds of other useless pictures for everyone to see. And after they see these additional shots, the user’s friends are usually compelled to leave comments under the pictures. These comments are as utterly useless as the pictures themselves, seeing as all of them are very transparent, generic “compliments” that are likely copied and pasted onto hundreds of photos at a time in order to obtain maximum commenting efficiency. No matter how ugly a lady is, her friends are always quick to dish out a, “So cute!” hoping that her self esteem is inversely related to her waistline. Most users seem to have misunderstood the phrase “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” as, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, start making things up about people with the hope that they may eventually consider you nice enough to be their friend over the Internet.”

Located near the main picture on someone’s Space is a quote of their choice. More often than not, these are taken from movies that weren’t funny in the first place, and when taken out of context are even less funny and usually don’t make much sense. Maybe they would if users took the time to spell the five words in the sentence correctly, but I guess grammar is for children. And as apparent by their wacky pictures and drinking habits, most users are anything but immature.

MySpace users must not actually go to their own pages, because if they did they would probably notice how awful they look. Whoever the first idiot was to use a tiled picture of a bikini-clad model as their background needs to be smothered to death with repeated pictures of bikini-clad models and flashing text so he knows how my eyes feel. I actually just visited a page that had a non-stop flashing, bright, multi-colored background. Yes, the same sort of thing that got that episode of Pokemon banned in 1998 for causing seizures is being used by someone as the background to their “place for friends.” Because nothing says “friendly” like epilepsy and nausea.

Speaking of which, I also have to conclude that MySpace users don’t visit any other websites; because if they did they would likely see that black font on a dark grey background doesn’t fly elsewhere on the information superhighway. Notice how other web pages go for the standard black-text-on-white look. Not the hot-pink-on-black or your favorite college’s color schemes. Ever wonder why they do this? It’s likely because those websites aren't run by colorblind teenage douche bags.

The music chosen by MySpace users is yet another fault of the system. Here’s a fun fact: If you have a MySpace page, you listen to shitty music. And here’s a fun fact about said shitty music: No one wants to listen to it. And especially not while their eyes are already being molested by your horrid layout. Try not to turn your MySpace page into an audio/visual gang rape.

It seems that videos are appearing on more and more pages by the minute. And just like the crappy music, no one finds whatever stupid video someone showed you on YouTube funny. And they especially don’t want to watch whatever two-year old crappy attempt at humor you post. Here’s a piece of technological information for you: When MySpaces feature music, the music plays automatically (which doesn’t make sense in the first place, because what kind of lunatic looks at MySpace pages with his or her speakers on?). And when you post your imbedded YouTube garbage, this also will play when clicked. So there lies the conundrum. Two different streams of horrid audio are being pumped through your page simultaneously, which will cause the page to slow down. And when looking at something as terribly designed as a MySpace page, the last thing I want is for it to be any slower than it already is thanks to the 400 pictures posted on it. Allow me to simplify my techno-babble: The Internet is a series of interconnected glass tubes filled with molasses. Information is pulsed through the goo by means of electro-magnetic pulses, known as “zeepers.” When a website, such as a MySpace page, farts too many zeepers at once, the molasses becomes full and starts to drip much more slowly that it would have with a lower zeeper count, thus taking longer to reach its final destination: the viewer’s computing device. In short, crappy videos being played over crappy music is like having actual crap rubbed in your eyes and ears at the same time.

Have you ever noticed that little clickable sentence “View all blog entries” in the upper right-hand corner of a MySpace page? Ever noticed that it usually leads to a page that says, “This user has not posted a blog.”? No, you probably haven’t. Because no one cares about MySpace’s blog feature, which is actually a very good thing. Because if you own a MySpace page, chances are you don’t know how to write a complete sentence. And nobody would care about your poorly phrased opinions or “outrageous” stories anyway.

A line all too common on MySpace pages is located in the survey most people choose to fill out and post but nobody reads. The question is: “What are your favorite books?” I don’t know why this question is included in the survey, considering the obvious illiteracy of most MySpace users. Nevertheless, people choose to answer this question with yet another attempt at blistering coolness: “Wutz a book? Lol.” As that response is neither funny nor appealing, I often wonder why users bother answering it at all. The question should be replaced by something to the effect of “Are you a complete idiot who thinks acting like a moron is cool, and that reading and trivial things like grammar and the English language are reserved for toddlers, old ladies, and other stereotypically boring people?” Most users would probably reply with: “Wutz a book? Lol.”

“This profile is set to private. This user must add you as a friend to see his/her profile.” Known as the bear-trap of the Internet, this message is one of the most annoying things a user can stumble into while browsing people’s Spaces. Nothing kills the mood more when MySpace-hopping in the wee hours of the night than having that nonsense pop up to remind me that I should be doing something else. What exactly is the point of running a MySpace page that can only be accessed by “friends”? Can’t you communicate with those friends in other ways like, you know, talking? Do people put up the blocks to prevent potential molestation? Odd, considering half of the female population on MySpace appears to have “Get taken advantage of sexually” at the top of their To-Do lists.

Exactly what is the point of these “friends” anyway? Must MySpace users have a pictured list available to them at all times in order to remind them that yes, in fact, people do exist who might actually like them? Actually, scratch the “do exist” part from that last sentence, because my calculations say that roughly 60% of the people included on most “Friends” lists have never met, and will never meet, the person who they are supposedly close enough to exchange links with. So those calculations led to a hypothesis that was evaluated through use of the scientific method to lead me to a procedure that led to data tables that led to the conclusion that the only reason the “friends” list exist is for users to stretch, measure, and compare their e-penises. It seems a better and more direct approach to this matter would be for users to just post pictures of their actual penises on their pages. And they might as well plop their donguses on a triple-beam-balance and teabag a graduated cylinder so viewers can cut to the chase and just figure out which user is better by the density of his Johnson.

On the subject of fake MySpace friends, another incredibly irritating sight to witness is the conversation of two users held through comments left on each other’s pages. For those who partake in these festivities, here’s something for you to think about: That same “conversation” you had on your MySpace page over the course of three weeks could have been accomplished in 10 minutes on the telephone, or one minute in real life, in which one person would notice how heinously ugly the other is and exit the talk with a cockney excuse such as “Sorry, I’ve got to go. I don’t talk to ugly chicks who edit their picture on MySpace to appear semi-attractive. And you smell really, really terrible.” Also, in case you hadn’t noticed, the “conversation” is publicly posted on the page, but only half of it can be read. I say that because nobody is interested enough in your conversation about how awesome you two are and how badly you need to hang out to actually click on the other person’s picture and see their side of the story.

For more information on the quality of, please visit and start clicking on things. Within 30 seconds you will see and experience the factors discussed here.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Like Wal-Mart, miniature digital cameras, and diaper-wearing cats, the concept of a water park is far better than the executed product. There are plenty of exciting rides to experience, people to anonymously grope, and even a large play area for the children to frolic in and enjoy. Parents who bring their little ones have ample room to sit around and do nothing (which they seem to enjoy), and fun is to be had by everyone. The trip down to the wet fun zone is filled with joy, delight, and anticipation. But as soon as you set foot onto the filthy concrete ground of the park, you stare with squinted eyes as all of the delight you so recently possessed evaporates into thin air, so much like the surrounding chemical-laden fluid.

The water park in question here is none other than Georgia’s own White Water. A real peach she is. Beyond the obvious filth and general stench of this water-wonderland, the vast majority of its problems lie in the people who actually visit it. Admittedly, White Water isn’t exactly located in the “filet mignon” of the state. It lies just on the border of the “paper towels and mustard” region, to keep the culinary metaphor afloat. Most of its patrons aren’t the classiest folk around, and their strange ways of talking and facial expressions show this. The combination of filth and country-fresh hill-folk inspire images of the park only as a dirty bathroom floor covered in white trash.

Speaking of dirty bathroom floors covered in trash, those were certainly provided as well. Except instead of just white trash, the floors were covered with an ample dose of urine. The fact that going bare-foot around the park is suggested doesn’t make the walk over the cold, slick tiles of the bathrooms any more appetizing. Urinals that extend all the way to the floor are lined up all along the wall, which only cater to having even more buckets of penile-fluid splash across the floor. Odors pour from each of the stalls opposite the urinals. Upon further inspection, I can declare that those odors are the result of un-flushed poop nuggets, urine trickled haphazardly on the toilet seat, and an assortment of cigarette butts and other charming litter lying limply on the floor or floating in the bowl. Changing into dry clothes at the close of my day of fun while locked in one of these chambers-of-hillbilly-paraphernalia-and-dung proved to be a balancing act of Barnum and Bailey proportions. I had to balance one foot on a sandal that was floating on top of the thin film of pee resting atop the tiles. While doing this, I had to slide my wet, E coli-soaked bathing suit around my enormous Johnson and legs and then rest it carefully on the dusty toilet paper dispenser. As I stood there nude, I could only think of the possible things one of the people outside the flimsy stall door could do to me at that precise moment. I quickly shook the thought off and continued the trapeze walk to dryness by slipping into my dry trousers and underoos while concentrating on not slipping and falling face first into the yellowed rusty toilet. Eventually I completed my mission safely and left the stall with only six sexually transmitted diseases.

I can only assume that the rides and supports holding them up were constructed by a traveling gang of chimpanzees who were exiled from a mediocre circus. The craftsmanship is equal to a 3rd-grader’s Pinewood Derby racecar, though instead of a 6” car speeding down a plank of wood, these rides hold hundreds of people. Rides sitting several stories high in the air sway from side to side on wet, rotting pieces of wood secured to the McDonald’s-quality plastic tubes only by a dozen or so rusty bolts. Even the staircases that deliver the attendees to the start of the attractions are built of the cheapest scraps of lumber available at the local yard; and they have water splashed, poured, and relieved on them for several hours each day. Whoever designed many of the rides must have had one twisted sense of humor. Take “Runaway River” for example. This ride shoots its passengers through a dark, partially-open, winding tunnel while on a raft built for four. At the start of this ride, when the riders are asked to board the rafts, the vessels are floated in one of two small pools (two rafts are alternately sent down to improve waiting times. I also don’t know why I’m telling you these things) before being launched down the passageway. To be blunt, the two pools that temporarily house the rafts in combination with the tube that functions as the ride form an incredibly phallic image. Here’s a diagram to visualize my point:

During the long waits for the short rides, it seems that many of the children who were enjoying the park along with me couldn’t resist my alluring pheromones. While waiting in a 20-minute line under the sweltering Georgia heat on a rickety, swaying, soggy heap of wood that will probably collapse any day now, I do not want to be assaulted, groped, fondled, or handled. Basically, it would be cool if people would just keep their hands to themselves. In fact, here’s something for the kids standing behind me in line that day to read: Unless I have personally gone out of my way to kidnap you, I do not want your head and/or appendages rubbing against my buttocks at any time. Seriously. One little hillbilly child couldn’t keep his hands off me. He seemed to have a strange obsession with head-butting my pooper. And the fact that he looked like one of the hellions from “The Suite Life of Zack and Cody” made me all the more inclined to hurl his limp, uneducated body straight off the staircase. I kept my cool for the time being, though followed him once he got off the ride and defecated in his lunch.

On the subject of redneck younglings, it seems as if certain portions of the Southeastern United States are just now receiving broadcasts of Home Improvement from 1994, because the mullet that Jonathan Taylor Thomas perfected is apparently back in style. The combination of girlish hair, strange accents, and two-piece bathing suits made differentiating the boys from the gals a real country challenge. A lot of these kids rode the rides in their Sunday best; donning such gear as T-shirts, glasses, and shoes. And by “shoes” I don’t just mean those horrible “pool shoes” worn by creepy old men and lepers, but actual shoes, as in the kind made by cobblers in the good ol’ days. Real sneakers some people were wearing while in large pools of water. I don’t understand the need to wear glasses or sunglasses while submerged underneath several feet of liquid ice either. Luckily the park rules didn’t permit wearing sunglasses on the rides (a choking/stabbing hazard, I suppose), and the fools who chose to wear them were made to look appropriately foolish as they sent their $4 pair of Douchebag brand aviators hurtling down the water before them. Maybe the sun was too much for their eyes so they needed the sunglasses. Perhaps they were near-blind without their glasses and needed them so they didn’t step off of a ride without their swimming trunks. Or maybe they’re just dicks.

What the park attempts to pass off as edible substances called “food” are no more than pricey turds, in the sense that they are expensive and taste like human waste. They sell school cafeteria-quality food at mediocre restaurant prices. The $7 microwave pizzas must be an exquisite feast for the standard park-attending folk when compared to their usual dinners of cat food and Depression-style tomato soup. It would be a big plus to many customers if the park would offer healthier options on their menu, because this would probably aid in slimming down a good portion of the guests who are currently in the “sweaty pig-people who look to be the result of incestuous relations” category. Now don’t get the wrong impression and assume that I believe I am better than these people. But if one of the circus-people attending White Water on any given day and myself were both in a fancy restaurant, my belly would be full of steak and their hands would be full of dishes and dirty water.

The park is a series of extremes. From incredible heat that causes musty sweat to trickle down the greasy, wooly backs of the park-goers to freezing cold water that will make any man’s pouch instantly tighten up like a sun-dried raisin. People range in shape and size from slender gals who looked fresh-picked from Auschwitz to husky men with lumpy, floppity man-breasts just waiting to be pinched. But all of these rare sights culminate into a sticky, stinky stew that is just strange and interesting enough to warrant a taste.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

I saw the movie Over the Hedge today. I was alone. With every passing day I feel that the business of molesting children is lying more and more in my future. The movie was a stinky bucket of turtle urine, and I still felt like a pervert when I exited the theater by myself behind a family of four with two young boys. I’m sure the mother gave the two kids a good talking-to in the car about staying away from people like me if they ever see one hanging around the local pool with their trousers down or waiting in the trunk of their car wearing nothing but an uneasy smile.

But back to the movie. I would rate it two smelly, Wanda Sykes-voiced animated skunk poots out of a possible five. In retrospect, I’m not exactly sure what convinced me to see it in the first place. Consider its plot:

“A scheming raccoon fools a mismatched family of forest creatures into helping him repay a debt of food, by invading the new suburban sprawl that popped up while they were hibernating...and learns a lesson about family himself.”

I don’t know what it was about that story that made me say, “Well that deserves 650 of my pennies and 83 of my minutes.” Maybe I wanted to witness the heartwarming character arc of RJ the raccoon learning a lesson about himself, but that was about as predictable and engrossing as an episode of That’s So Raven. Perhaps it was the shallow social commentary on immigration, but that was almost as boring as VH1. Yes, the entire channel. After sitting for about 20 minutes in the awkward theater, I started to wonder if the movie was even supposed to be a comedy. It seemed like all four members of the “Blue Collar Comedy Circus” had one of their traditional down-South inbreeding sessions and the greasy, smoky, morbidly obese offspring they produced wrote this sad, humorless movie.

Apparently the movie hit right-on with its target audience, as the young girl seated behind me was quick to comment, “That’s a turtle!” when, you guessed it, and turtle appeared on screen. I almost turned around to give her a sarcastic high-five and congratulated her immense knowledge of the animal kingdom before I realized that children under the age of three likely don’t understand the art of sarcasm, let alone the high-five. So I sat there, staring at the screen, waiting for something humorous to happen. It didn’t. Instead, I was repeatedly slapped in the face like the baseball coach's kid who sucks with children’s movie clichés, such as evil humans, a fast-talking character who is obviously under the influence of several illegal narcotics, and the ever popular fart. In fact, many farts. I suppose that because one of the main characters was a skunk, the writer (his name is Larry The Asstard, and the resemblance to his fathers is uncanny) figured he needed to fill some sort of a “Fart-Per-Minute” quota. Considering the movie only ran for a little over an hour (those children have an attention span only slightly higher than the an MTV viewer), Larry did a fantastic job of cramming in enough fart jokes to make the parents of the young audience horrifically beat their kids after the ride home includes 25 minutes of hand-to-mouth farting in imitation of “Stella the skunk”.

When the movie was over, I sat silently in the theater while the credits rolled and all of the happy families filed out around me. One group of at least one child (the turtle fan, as mentioned previously) and one mother stayed around for the credits with me. They were seated directly behind me, and after some consideration I don’t think they were watching the credits, but I think they were watching me. Watching as in, “I’m going to try and silently text message my husband now because there is a strange person sitting in front of me and my child and I think he may have both his hands and mind down someone’s pants and I think he might try to follow me home and steal my child.” When I realized that I was being watched, I felt even more awkward than I had before and quickly made the decision to leave. So I rose from my chair and walked out, but when I got to the door I was greeted by three movie theater employees who had their brooms ready to go sweep slimy baby poop off the seats. I did my best to avoid eye contact with them, and prayed they wouldn’t notice my erection. Swiftly I exited the theater by means of the side door, surely being followed by a gallery of the creeped-out eyes of parents and sweepers alike.

I had nothing better to do after seeing the nasty deer scat quality film, so I set my sights on Mr. Barnes and Mr. Nobel’s Wonderfully Wacky World of Books. Everything was going fine at first; all five of my eyes and legs were working. I browsed here and I browsed there, even finding myself in their DVD department, where a movie will cost you $460 plus a kidney and testicle. After looking at the overpriced goods with no intention of purchasing anything, I left that section of the store and headed for the section that has shelves of paper covered in words printed in black ink and miniature font. Specifically, I went to visually digest (again, with no intention of spending any money) the graphic novel section. No, not comic books. Graphic novels. There’s a huge difference. If you don’t believe me, I’ll go to your house, call you into the street, get a rowdy crowd going, and have a heated discussion with you on the matter. Anyways, I wasn’t alone in my browsing. There were two people standing in front of the tall shelves; one a man, the other a wo-man. They were both black (but not the pitch-black variety, more of a cinnamon flavor), and they were both rather large. Now, I expected someone browsing this section of the store to be rather large, but the other descriptor was a startling surprise. So I silently looked at the things on the shelves, all while these two were having some sort of incredibly awkward (and equally pointless) argument. I’ll try my best to paraphrase the exchange.

“So you’re saying I don’t like music?” Queen Latifah confidently asked.

“No…” Al Roker responded with a sigh as he kept his eyes focused on the spines of the collections held on the shelves.

“Well then, what?” Latifah wasn’t ready to let this go.

“When people think of Best Buy, they think of computers and TVs.” Al replied.

“Who does?” The monarch said, becoming defensive. “Best Buy is a CD store. Where else do you buy CDs? I guess Circuit City, but c’mon. When people think of buying a CD, they go to Best Buy.”

“You think they make their money on CDs?” The jolly weatherman was now taking an active interest in the discussion. I was listening quite closely (and obviously), while trying to remain hidden by staring at the books. “What happens when you’re in there? They try to sell you computers and TVs.”

I was voicing my own opinions on the matter in my head, and I was siding with the portly fellow. Queen persisted, “Yeah, but nobody says, ‘I want a refrigerator, I’ll go to best Buy.’” My right eyebrow automatically squinted in a “What are you talking about?” fashion, and I think the couple may have noticed. Suddenly I was thrust into the center of the storm.

“Excuse me,” Ms. Brown Sugar asked, looking at me, “What do you think of when you hear ‘Best Buy’?”

“Actually I’m on his side,” I said while pointing at the enormous gentleman. When I was looking at him, I realized what I good decision I had made. If I disagreed with him I was likely to be deep fried and eaten or punted across the store like a baby.

The man smiled and laughed, and I felt an odd sensation of bonding with this stranger. “Exactly,” he said.

But the lady wasn’t done yet. “So when someone gives you a gift card to Best Buy, you think, ‘I’ll buy a refrigerator’?”

I was tempted to reply, “Ma’am, if you hadn’t noticed yet, I’m not exactly of ‘refrigerator-purchasing age’. And who the hell would give me an $800 gift card?”, but I didn’t. Her delicious southern sass was beginning to shine, and I was starting to become scared that she was going to hit me in the face with a frying pan.

“Well, then I’d use it on a CD or DVD. I guess it’s both. I mean you can buy the refrigerator or a CD there.” After reading that, I think I’m going to call Best Buy in the morning and demand at least $400 for my spectacular advertisement.

The man wore a large watermelon-like smile and laughed when saying, “Right, right.”

Her majesty also nodded in agreement when saying “Yeah.” She quickly uttered some sort of a thank-you as the two of them left. I felt good knowing that I had both settled their petty argument and prevented the large man from beating his girlfriend that evening.

Comments are welcome.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Recently I witnessed what I believe to be a sure sign of the end of the world. No, I did not watch several men sketch up elaborate plans to set fire to the IHOP headquarters, which would cause International Havoc On Piranhas. No, I did not see a group of masked fiends hold-up a day care center, in search of a baby possessing some sort of a golden ticket. And no, I did not stand by as a sniper rifle-wielding assassin attempted to take down Mayor McCheese, the current Commander-in-Chief of McDonaldland.

What I did see was something far more subtle, something on a much smaller scale. A girl, older than ten, yet younger than thirty-five, was sitting in a school desk. Like many others her age, and many douche bags riding public transportation older, she had two white threads running into her ears—the horribly crappy headphones that are packaged with the iPod, which give off the sound quality of a fart passed through a paper cup-and-string telephone. She was listening to music, as one would assume, and smiling eagerly while nodding her head to whatever was being pumped into her brain. As I usually do, I assumed what she was listening to was garbage and minded my own business. Soon, she turned around to the fellow who was seated behind her and offered something along the lines of, “I know every word to this song.”

To me, knowing the words to a song isn’t much to celebrate. I have heard music since my ears were developed, I assume, and have never considered it a special talent to use those ears. Apparently in this day and age, being able to understand the lyrics to a song deserves not only a trophy, but a song, dance, piñata, parade of marching elephants, monkeys, and zebras, a band consisting of at least six trumpet players, and a magician to entertain the younger children. But back to the story, the gentleman seated behind the listening lass responded to her proud statement with one of pride: “As do I,” he said.

Now I was slightly more interested. Just what were these young-uns listening to that was so popular that not one, but two, people know the lyrics? I was careful to be sneaky, and used my eyes to find out. I peered in their direction and set my sights on the dim screen of the magical music box from which this song was coming from. I couldn’t make out the name of the song, but all I needed was the name of the artist to be shocked into disbelief, and for visions of atomic bombs and ape-people taking over to dance into my head.

“T.I.” it read. Now, I’m not one to judge, but these two folks were of upper-class Caucasian descent. As far as I know, T.I. is not. After doing some exhaustive research, consisting of reading half the lyrics to one of his songs, I have come to the conclusion that T.I. primarily raps about a rough life in the ghetto, guns, gangs, drugs, and about seventy various slang words that I couldn’t decode, not even with the help of context clues. Judging by where they attend school, the two teens who were listening to this T.I. reside somewhere near myself, which would be in an upper-class suburb of Atlanta. Mr. T.I. sounds like he has had some hard times. I think the last challenge I had to face in my upper-class community was wiping the dirt off of my golf clubs.

But then I began to think more about what they were listening to, beyond the lyrics. Just what do these rap songs contain that make them so irresistible to my fellow schoolmates? I have heard my fair share of rap in my time, mainly as something to laugh at and say, “How ridiculous,” then after twenty or so more seconds, “now turn that garbage off. It's disturbing my horse-back ride.” Usually it is nothing more than a few noises thrown together with some sort of a chant running through it. In fact, I think there is some sort of a magic mixture of liquids that are needed to craft a popular rap song.

My research tells me that these things are:


1. Rapped in a deep, scratchy voice.
2. 4th grade caliber rhymes.
3. Chanted in a way that makes everybody, or “errybody”, want to jump around like animals.
4. Derogatory terms for women.
5. Horribly filthy words that wouldn’t be appropriate in the bathroom of a Kentucky Fried Chicken.
6. Featuring a mundane random object, such as an article of clothing, and upwards of two minutes of song about it.


1. The beat must consist of three, and only three, sounds which could be made by a toddler tripping and hitting his head against a piano. These three sounds are to be repeated throughout the song.
2. A drum noise that sounds like someone made it with their mouth, to be repeated throughout the song in symphony with the beat.
3. As many random cheers and hollers as possible are to be thrown into the song wherever possible.
4. Noises such as car alarms, grunts, animal calls, and gunshots are to be tossed into the cacophony as the group wishes, to create that “At home” feeling.

But wait a second. If a rap song is so simple, why don’t I create one, you ask? But I can’t, I’m a ripe young white boy, fresh out of the oven. Oh, you want me to make one, do you? Well, I suppose…

(If the video above doesn't work, click here.)

Wow. I’m sorry. I honestly, truly apologize. I have wasted an hour of my time writing and producing that, and two minutes of your time while you listening to it. I’m ashamed of myself. Perhaps a little embarrassed. I suppose that shows you how a rap song can be made. And it certainly showed me how I’m willing to spend a Saturday night.

Comments are appreciated.

Sunday, January 15, 2006

As I sit here sipping my diet ginger ale and eating my sugar-free Jell-O gelatin snacks I reflect upon my doings today. Aside from the usual Sunday Day Care Center heist, I got to enjoy some excellent cuisine, courtesy of the classy restaraunt "Olive Garden". Please allow me to spin my tale from the beginning.

The time was 9:00 a.m. I was awakened to the sound of gunfire and the screams of my comrades. I peeled out of bed and into the usual shower where I shed my temporary skin and later brushed my teeth. After said washings I clothed myself and headed down the stairs, where I prepared my breakfast consisting of a bowl of Alphabits, followed by course two consisting of Low-Sugar Oatmeal. "Dee-licious", as Queen Latifah would say with a soultry grin.

The morning came to an end as the whole clan boarded into the mobile and headed to the residence of the grandparents of the very hands typing these words. They also boarded said vehicle and the entire possee set course to the classiest Italian restaraunt this side of Sicily, "Olive Garden".

Maybe you've been to an Olive Garden. Maybe you've seen their commercials and have been enticed by promises of "Unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks". Anyways, I'm sure if you've even heard of it you'd know it's about as Italian as Taco Bell. If I were an Italian man and saw these commercials I would say something like, "That is not what Italy is like" and then continue sweeping the hair off the barber shop floor. Upon entering this institution of Italy, I noticed how the walls were dressed to look like a wine shop or other Italian stereotype. Now I've never been to Italy, but I'd imagine most of the walls in town don't have "Women" written on them above an unsanitary door.

I noticed this sign near the front door.

Nothing says "Italian Immigrant-run" like Asian immigrants.

After exchanging English words with a female employee who was more "hill-person" than "Italian master of pizza, pasta, and the mafia", we were sat down at a table purchased in a large warehouse and in chairs one could find at Office Depot. As I looked around I found I was surrounded by fake leaves and bottles of $4 wine. A portrait of an awfully Native-American looking gentleman stood almost five feet tall on a wall. I received my menu and browsed at my leisure, often laughing out loud at the menu items. The headlines for each category of food were written in Italian with the English translation provided in parentheses next to them. Thanks, Olive Garden! I couldn't figure out that the item labeled "Create Your Own Pizza" in the category "Pizze" meant "Pizza"! My head was near exploding with confusion until I spotted the translation.

I selected to eat the "Chicken Castellina", which, according to the authentic Italian website of this eatery, goes well with a red wine. This item is described with these giving words on the menu:
Chicken, mushrooms, artichokes and pancetta sautéed in a smoked cheese and sun-dried tomato sauce, tossed with penne.

After months of pouring through thick leatherbound textbooks and eating more lasagna than a man named Luigi does in a week, I translated those ingredients into what is actually used. I present the translation:
Chicken, mushrooms, artichokes, and bacon mocrowaved in Kraft American Cheese slices and ketchup, tossed with pennies.The last word still confuses me, as my plate was not covered in copper coins. I chose to replace the provided pasta with the optional "Whole wheat linguine" because I have a vagina.

As we waited for the greasy Italian chefs to spend hours microwaving our frozen lunches, salad and breaksticks were offered to the table as if we were gods. The breaksticks looked familiar, where had I seen them before? Oh yes, that's right. These were the same breadsticks available at bowling alleys. Authentic if I've ever seen them. During the wait my ears were delighted with such propaganda as the stereotypical song "Mambo Italiano", as if to remind me that this was in fact, an Italian themed restaraunt. Thanks, the illustrated vineyards on the cover of the menu made me think this was a Mexican restaraunt.

When the eats were served, my meal was crappy as expected. The most humorous portion of the meal was the cheese pizza ordered by my brother. It was served on a miniature pizza paddle made of plastic to help set the mood. I actually began laughing out loud when this was presented. I think the beast of a lesbian who was our waiter (waitress? waitranny?) thought I was laughing at her, which I was, but I kept that to myself. The pizza served was obviously microwaved and looked roughly elementary school calibur. It was given a solid 2 out of 10 points by the boy consuming this gourmet dish.

When the spent plates were carried off by imported Italian children, I began to peel over the dessert menu. I don't think a certain item would sit well with Italians. It is called "Chocolate Lasagna". Here is a photograph of said Italian dessert:

Nothing says "A taste of Italy" like nice American chocolate cake.

I also found an item appropriately named for what you expel from your bowels after an Olive Garden meal.

A "Chocolate coconut steamer".


I should stop typing right here, that was plenty to fill your bellies.

Anyways, the large sized bill was paid and the gang headed for the exit, but first I had to "take a monster whiz", as I put it. I was pointed to the wall with "Men" scribbled on it, and entered the mysterious Italian restroom. Basing this assumption on feature films, I expected at least four men in suits to be drowning a fifth man in a suit in the toilet. This was not the case. I was alone, and mounted a urinal. Quickly I noticed I was standing in a puddle of a sticky substance. I saw where I was standing, and how this substance felt, and put the clues together to solve that I was standing in a puddle of Kool-Aid. After a taste test I found that I was actually standing in urine. I suppose relieving one's self into the toilet was not an authentic Italian custom. After a brief exploration I found that flushing the toilets must not have been either.

We exited the restaraunt with memories of Italy in our heads. As I sleep tonight I'm sure my dreams will be filled with men named Tony making pizzas and other Italian delicacies. So thank you, Olive Garden.