Magick Monday's Little Blog Blocker

Sometimes she won't let me reach the keyboard.

Another feckless feline:
Citizen Cat

Narcissism: the Gift that Keeps on Giving!

How sad is it that I want one of these? I signed up on an email list to be notified of the product launch and have just been informed that I can be one of the first 1,000 solipsistic losers to own this bad boy.

Here's the lowdown:

Shoot. Star. Share. Yoostar™ makes YOO the star of famous movie and TV scenes and lets you share your performances with the world. The Yoostar system ($169.95 MSRP) includes a studio-grade web cam, portable green screen and stand, remote control, 12 movie scenes and 2 bonus scenes. Purchase and download a wide variety of additional scenes at Yoostar.com.

I looked up the movies Yoostar has to choose from so far: not too many, and the sample performances by civilians are pretty lame. But I figure I could spice things up by playing George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life wearing a Hitler mustache or Brando's Godfather in drag.

Then it's not awkward, pasty-faced me, but a character playing a character, see? That would add a layer of irony, a condom for my self-consciousness. I know, it's a flimsy rationalization...but I really want to be Spartacus, dammit!

Happy Birthday to Me

Birthdays are kind of a "big deal" here at Magick Sandwich.
Just look at the card the Sandwich sent me for my 44th birthday.

The Sandwich knows me so well. What a wonderful sentiment. I wonder when Bubbles' birthday is. He'd appreciate this: even though his life expectancy is only 60 years, he's definitely half as creepy, even when flinging poo.

My birthday falls on a Sunday this year. We're going out for dinner Saturday night at the Trustees Dining Room at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. (Regular members are allowed to use it in the summertime.) The chef is doing a "New England Clam Bake." It's funny to go to a museum filled with Picassos and Renoirs to get a tasty down-home reminder of my childhood. It's a bit surreal, just like I like it.

I hope the dinner goes well and that my spousal unit doesn't decide to take the opportunity to say something like this:


We've been together twenty-one years. One of my husband's annoying tics is that he continues to point out mine when he should know by now I'm not going to change, just as I know he will continue to build sock gardens instead of using the hamper. (That's all I can think of at the moment. He's pretty perfect. Does it sound like I'm sucking up for a gift?)

One tic that he doesn't know about is this: every year I buy the September issues of Vogue, Elle, InStyle etc. Every magazine has its fall fashion issue and each competes for the highest number of pages. Vogue always wins--this year it has 584--it's a real mailbox buster. I feel sorry for mailmen this time of year, straining their backs under the load of all this glossy nonsense.

But the real reason I buy them is because they all highlight my astrological sign. Though I am an atheist and disdain this silly crap, I have done this so long it's become a ritual. I wonder what my "forecast" will say this year:

I'm a conscientious person who needs to let loose....If I'm in a relationship, I need to pay more attention; if single, I need to get out there because a guy is waiting in the wings....My best days for romance are the 7th, 14th and 21st....Avoid taking financial gambles on the 9th.

I just flipped through Vogue looking for the "real" one but I can't find it. Maybe the editors smartened up and removed the horoscopes completely? Now I'll just have to page through hundreds of photo spreads of heinous-looking, ridiculously-priced outfits to find out. I'll let you know, dear reader. For my birthday, I have one wish: please don't judge me because of this foible. Love me for admitting it. That's what a Virgo would do.

4 More Signs I'm Getting Old

The magick sandwich may be ageless, but I am not. The following is more evidence that I am calcifying at an alarming rate of speed.

1. I woke up this morning with a hellacious crick in my neck. Not "crick" as in creek or the Nobel Prize winner, but as in painful muscle spasm. As I write, I'm hunched over like Igor, Dr. Frankenstein's hunchbacked lab assistant. (Igor didn't exist in the book or the movie, but you get the idea.)

2. I got distracted by a Google search about Dr. Frankenstein's lab assistant.

3. I read an article online titled Is Glenn Beck Finished? and then spent half an hour writing an email to AlterNet.org detailing the post's numerous spelling and grammatical errors and urging the editors to actually, um, edit it so I wouldn't be embarrassed to share the story with my friends. (P.S. Would that it could happen but I fear that Glenn Back isn't going anywhere.)

4. My husband and I have tickets to see Heaven and Hell tonight at the WaMu Theater, a smaller venue within Madison Square Garden. The band is made up of Tony Iommi, Ronnie James Dio, Geezer Butler and Vinny Appice, a.k.a Black Sabbath minus Ozzy Osbourne.

After the last concert we saw at the Garden, which happened to be Ozzy himself, we decided we were "getting too old for this shit." Actually, we mouthed it to each other since we were deafened by the ringing in our ears indicating permanent hearing loss. Stadium rock with its earsplitting volume and arrhythmia-inducing bass was no longer an option for us.

The smaller arena is a more civilized alternative...or it would be, if we were going. We're blowing it off. Although Hubby plays guitar and likes Dio's chops, he complained he won't know most of the tunes. I don't want to sit through an evening of unfamiliar hair metal just to hear "Holy Diver."

So, we'll stay at home and reassure ourselves that we're still cool because we've got tickets to see ZZ Top next month at the Beacon Theater, a nice small space with excellent acoustics. ZZ was forced to cancel its concert with Aerosmith at Madison Square Garden after Steven Tyler fell off a stage and broke his shoulder. Hey, at least it wasn't his hip. It seems we're all getting old.

Another ageist post:
7 Signs I'm Getting Old

Fun With Death Panels

Since Sarah Palin and friends seem to be having so much fun inventing Death Panels as part of Obama's healthcare plan, I thought I'd join in and come up with a few ideas of my own.




In case you're interested, you can order the skull cupcake pans from PushinDaisies.com, which bills itself as "a mortuary novelty shop." Now there's the place to go for all your end-of-life needs.

Vote for Your Favorite Pole Dancer

The following is a Magick Sandwich Public Service Announcement:

Are you freaking kidding me? With all due respect to the young lady pictured and her strategic use of fishnet, I question the wisdom of nymag.com emailing this to me. Yeah, that's right--New York Magazine!

Forget about the misspelling. I would be disappointed if there weren't at least one. This competition is "In celebration of S.P.I.N. Single Parents in Need." What does that mean, exactly, other than that the sponsors are not donating the box office returns to the group? Apparently, it's not a charity but is a good cause for celebration, since without single parents in need, there would be no pole dancers, right? Or fewer: there would still be girls working their way through college and/or feeding their dope habits. And the legitimate dancers waiting for their big break.

As for the hostess, Jenna Morasca, I'm not surprised to see the Survivor alumna as mistress of ceremonies. Judging the competition are Cris Judd, choreographer and ex-Mr. Jennifer Lopez; Diana Passage, slumming philanthropist and patron of the arts; and...Jason Patric? Dude, why? You can act. You have a career. You don't need to pay to see p***y on a pole. Did you lose a bet?

By the way, I have a suggestion for a sponsor, tailor-made for this event. "This skankfest is brought to you by PURELL®." Whaddya think?

More perverse posts:
Air Sex World Championship Tonight
Magick Monday Manscaping

...and the children prayed for death

Jon Gosselin visits other people's kids to improve his image as a father. According to Usmagazine.com:

"On Tuesday, he paid a three-hour visit to cancer-stricken children at Morgan Stantley (sic) Children's Hospital in NYC."

This must be part of the Make-A-Wish Foundation's "Meet a Douchebag Before You Die" program.

Stupid Baby Names, Part Duh

At Magick Sandwich, we've been amassing new baby names since our stupid baby name generator featuring Zuma Nesta Rock Rossdale posted a year ago.

First up is Bronx Mowgli Wentz, son of soon-to-be split Fall Out Boy Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson-Wentz. (How do I know they'll divorce? I'm psychic.)

As Us Weekly reported at the time,

Don't look for any deep reason the Texas-born Simpson-Wentz and her Illinois-bred husband opted to give son Bronx the same name as an NYC borough. "I think they just thought it was a strong name," a source tells Us. "I doubt they've been to the Bronx."

Their choice of Mowgli for the baby's middle name? It shows "they're huge Disney fans."

So here's the formula:

#1. Pick a borough of New York City. No cheating from the bridge and tunnel crowd--you know who you are.

#2. Pick your favorite children's story character. To make it a little more interesting, it can also be a character from an animated film, a Broadway play, or the name of a company that feasts on parents' wallets by marketing action figures and toy tie-ins. (But please, no Ewoks or Happy Meals. You need to give your child a fighting chance to live to adulthood.)

Here are a few of mine:
Staten Island Pixar
Brooklyn Paddington Bear
Manhattan Shrek

I actually like those. It almost makes me want to have children. Almost.

Speaking of which, there are already many tots in the world struggling under retarded monikers. Since we have a lot of catching up to do and many of these incredibly stupid baby names conform to no formula, I will have to list them and let them inspire you to come up with your own free style concoctions.

In the "I'm with the band" category:

Bandit Lee Way, son of Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance. I'm guessing Dad is a Burt Reynolds fan.

Ikhyd Bronfman, son of Mathangi Maya Arulpragasam and Benjamin Bronfman. No wonder Mathangi prefers to go by her rap name, M.I.A.

Mars joins brother Seven and sister Puma in Erykah Badu's clan. Mars is kind of cool, but the baby is a girl. Since her daddy is Jay Electronica, is she Mars Electronica or Mars Badu or Mars Badu-Electronica? That must make for an interesting birth certificate.

Now for celebrities trying to prove they're imaginative by saddling their children with silly names:

Java Kumala, daughter of Josh Holloway of Lost. It's kind of cute. I can't wait for Starbucks to name a coffee in her honor.

Huckleberry, son of Bear Grylls of Man vs.Wild. With a dad named Bear, what did you expect? At least they used a boy's name. Maybe Bear is a fan of Mark Twain. I'm glad he didn't pick something from Dr. Seuss. Grinch Grylls would have been a little much.

Banjo Patrick, 5, might be a little jealous of his new little sister. His parents, Rachel Griffiths and Andrew Taylor, named her Clementine Grace. Lucky girl!

Nakoa-Wolf Manakauapo Namakaeha, daughter of Lilakoi Moon, a.k.a Lisa Bonet. Perhaps Mommy is using an incantation in which the more letters she uses, the better her chances of conjuring up a career.

I've saved the best for last. As we all know, Matthew McConaughey is a celebrity, blessed with more looks than brains. One thing is certain: he's lucky his mother wasn't on peyote when she named him as she might well have been when she named his brother Rooster. Now Rooster has continued the family tradition by naming his son Miller Lyte. You just can't make this shit up.

Start the therapy fund now, folks.

P.S. Wow! I can't believe I almost forgot to include Adolf Hitler Campbell, 3, son of New Jersey native and Holocaust denier Heath Campbell. Adolf's younger siblings are JoyceLynn Aryan Nation, 2, and Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie, 1, named for Heinrich Himmler.

His parents complain that the local Shop Rite refused to make a birthday cake with "Adolf Hitler" on it. According to a local news article,

The grocer offered to make a cake with enough room for the Campbells to write their own inscription. But the Campbells refused, saying they would have a cake made at the Wal-Mart in Lower Nazareth Township. The Campbells say Wal-Mart made cakes for Adolf's first two birthdays....

Wal-Mart may have saved the little tyke's birthday but methinks I spy trouble ahead. Of course, they could always home school the kids. Yeah, that would solve the problem.

Related post:
The Stupid Baby Name Generator, or Zuma Nesta Rock Paper Scissors: Home Edition

Robert Novak is Dead

Robert Novak, the right-wing "journalist" who outed Valerie Plame (with Karl Rove's assistance) has died of brain cancer.

I hope they cut out his tumor and throw it a parade.

Magick Monday Manscaping

Here at Magick Sandwich, we are committed to the social construct known as pube grooming.

We are proud to see that Gillette supports this cause with its online instructional videos for men. It tells men how to shave their faces, backs and chests. But How to Shave Your Groin is our hands-down favorite.



"When there's no underbrush, the tree looks taller." Wow. That's subtle. Click here to see the full ad on YouTube.

Oddly enough, for sheer balls, you'll have to watch the ad that Schick Quattro for Women is running on televisions across our great nation. Stop over at Bee's Musings to see the incredible shrinking bushes. I have to say I understand the one cropped to a landing strip and the inverted triangle, but the round and square ones? Kinky. Also, where was the topiary that gets pruned to nothing a la the Sphinx? (That's completely bare for you laymen out there.)

Schick's website's tagline is "Because you never know what might happen between shaves." Yeah, don't let that spontaneous standup assignation with a busboy in the restroom at Red Lobster catch you unaware. Pubic stubble? Now that would be embarrassing.

More personal care items:
Flat-D: Product of the Week
Scrotal Deodorant Wash: Product of the Week

Reinventing the Wheel

I'm back and my computer is good as new, awaiting the dribs and drabs of old data I must add to complete its rebirth as the repository of my diseased thoughts. In fact, it performs much more nicely since its recovery from trauma--kind of like Regarding Henry. Don't remember that stinker? Someone in Hollywood will remake it; it's just a matter of time.

This brings me to my subject for the day: reinventing the wheel. I've been told that I have a tendency to do that. I've always possessed a natural stubbornness that resists the advice of the experienced, which I see as bullying. This urge to blaze my own path can be a boon to my writing but plays hell with my cooking.

The screeching of tires should accompany this tortured segue for reasons that I hope will become clear. Tomorrow marks the second day of Mayor Michael Bloomberg's Summer Streets program. It will "temporarily close Park Avenue and connecting streets from the Brooklyn Bridge to Central Park to motor vehicles and open it up to people...."

Apparently, motorists are no longer considered people. The program is for bicycling people, people who want to do yoga on Park Avenue, people who feel entitled to interrupt the flow of New York City's traffic with their big fat behinds.


Are you working in a delivery truck? Are you moving into a new place along the route? Too bad. You have been supplanted by spandex-clad cyclists, stroller Nazis and parents using their offspring to subvert the purpose of a busy New York street instead of toting them a few blocks to Central Park.

One bright spot? The city is sponsoring an event, The New York Knicks Groove Truck on 12th Street. It's billed as an opportunity for children to win prizes for 3-point shooting and free throws. It would be a thrill if the Knicks players showed up for an impromptu game with the kids. They might stand a chance of winning.

This program is meant to encourage a greener, healthier New York, with less traffic and more room for pedestrians and cyclists. Don't worry. The Summer Streets website also provides you with directions to get to the closed off streets...by bus, subway and taxi. Make sure you leave your sense of irony at home.

But wait, there's more! Janet Sadik-Khan, Bloomberg's Transportation Commissioner, seems to think her mandate is not to make traffic flow more efficiently but to bring it to a grinding halt. To this end, she has closed off a swath of Broadway. She's done it cheaply, painting the asphalt and putting up very little seating to avoid having to go through normal political channels for a permit. The hope is that the "experiment" will prove so popular that by the time she is forced to submit it as a proposal, it will be a fait accompli.

This section of Broadway used to be New York City's thoroughfare, an electric canyon down which to drive visitors at night so they could take in the whole spectacle. It also functioned as an important traffic artery for business. Even if you think Robert Moses was a dick to turn New York into a city of highways, you have to question the sense of this. Some say it is elitist, pandering to those who expect the congestion, noise and pollution of a busy city to part around them like the Red Sea.

I've gotten over Times Square being changed into Disney World's Main Street. I don't long for the junkies, pimps and dealers, the movie theaters filled with crack smoke and ejaculate. I wish they hadn't been replaced by portly families trundling from McDonald's to Madame Tussaud's and natives hawking bus tours. But who am I to judge?

When I visited last week, the change was startling. The street was dotted with beached--sorry, benched--tourists. It was brutally sunny, not an optimal condition in which to view Times Square. The heat intensified the scent of midday party puke on a nearby corner. Observing from the far side of the barrier I got the impression of a shuffling human zoo, confusedly occupying an improvised habitat not its own.


Another key ingredient in Mayor Bloomberg's plan to green the city is the demarcation of bike paths throughout the city. Here in Queens, where there is no room for them, they've been superimposed on the actual car lanes, like magical thinking in white paint. There are also signs put up especially for cyclists, stating things like "Best Route North" and "To Waterfront." They might be more helpful if they said things like "Pedal Fast Through the Projects" and "This Way to the Sanitation Truck Depot." To heck with it; just paint "This way there be dragons" on the asphalt and let them fend for themselves.

A friend told me yesterday about someone she knows who got hit by a car while biking to work. He's now in a coma. Which begs the question: How big a carbon footprint does life support leave? Does being a vegetable count as an offset? In my world, it does.

Related post:
Bloomberg Declares Burberry Day: WTF?

Overheard at the Zoo

I just submitted this to Overheard in New York. My husband and I overheard this while we were waiting for a show to start in the Central Park Zoo.

Mother to daughter:

"I'm not interested in your hunger pangs right now. Now turn around and look at the sea lions."

I ♥ New York!

Happy Birthday, Bill Clinton!

The rehabilitation of the Magick Sandwich laptop continues apace.

It is still in an induced coma while its operating systems and drivers are reinstalled, kind of like HAL9000 in reverse. If it starts singing "Daisy," I'm out of here.

While I wait for the revival sequence to complete, here's something we can all do to keep busy. As you may have heard, Bill Clinton secured the release of two detainees in North Korea. Depending on which news network you watch, this was either a great feat of statesmanship or a horrible con game which makes us beholden to Kim Jong-Il.

I think the old horn dog did good. So when I received an invitation from AlterNet to send a birthday card to Bill Clinton, I thought, "Why not?" I've always maintained that he was a good president and that his affair with Monica Lewinsky had no effect on that.

As I wrote, I realized I had some unfinished business to discuss with President Clinton. Here's my card.


I know, I know. This was an inappropriate sentiment for a birthday card but it had to be said. (And yes, Beavis and Butthead fans, I said "hard.") His image is tarnished and in need of rehab. How many superhuman feats it will take to get that bad taste out of our figurative mouths, I don't know. It may not seem like it, but I really love the guy and I can prove it. Just look at this photo booth shot from a long ago vacation in Las Vegas.


See? I told you. Keep on truckin', Bill. Save the world and maybe, just maybe, we'll finally let that blowjob slide.

Armageddon Time

Magick Sandwich is experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by.

I guess it was inevitable that something on my computer would become corrupted. Look who it's been associating with all these years.

While we are metaphorically stuck between floors listening to The Girl from
Ipanema, I suggest you check out the Manhattan Airport Foundation, an organization devoted to converting Central Park into an airport. Complete with architectural designs, proposals for incorporating some of Olmsted's original works into the concourse and support from environmental groups, it is well-done and a hoot to peruse.

It presents itself in every way as a legitimate site, save for the fact that its offices are located on the 58th floor of a 57 story building. No doubt, many of the more than 85,000 people who signed the site's petition aren't in on the joke. You can also hop on the shuttle to its Facebook page and check out the many seemingly earnest supporters of converting Central Park into an airport.

I always thought it would make a great water slide. Six Flags, are you listening?

Prelude to a Love Story

Tomorrow marks the twenty-first anniversary of my first date with my future husband and the fourteenth anniversary of our wedding. We got married on the seventh anniversary of our first date. Marrieds, altogether now: awwww. Singletons, puke at will.

But today holds a special significance for me as well. Twenty one years ago tonight, I was hanging out with my friend Christine near South Street Seaport, chatting excitedly about my upcoming date. We were in a little seating area in front of a bank on Fulton Street and there were many other people enjoying the night air around us. Those seats are long gone. The topography of that street has changed many times over.

As was usual in the late 1980s, there were scads of yuppies getting drunk in the open air of the Fulton Fish Market. Two of them stumbled up the street and decided they would pick us up. I suppose we should have felt lucky that they chose us. One of the masters of the universe was red-faced and wavering as if the sidewalk were his own personal balance beam. The other, slightly less soused, did the talking.

Christine and I were not in the mood for this interruption. I'm not sure how the conversation devolved to the point where I invited him to "whip it out," but it did and he generously acquiesced. Unfortunately for him, whiskey dick cuts across all social strata. His penis drooped between thumb and forefinger like a sad little mushroom cap.

This was too amusing not to share so I turned to the others sitting there and said, "Look at this! This guy's showing us his dick!"

I should mention now that Christine had the kind of throaty, bawdy laugh that made all heads turn. It ground activity to a halt in restaurants, blotted out the dialogue in movie theaters and made people fervently hope they were not the target of her mirth.

So at this particular moment, she let loose with a boomer that echoed off the surrounding buildings. This caused everyone around us to crack up as well. The poor guy had at least a dozen people laughing at his diminutive manhood. Wisely, he put it away.

At this point, I advised him that it wasn't so bad because I was sure he wouldn't remember any of this the next day at his cushy Wall Street job. He replied, "I'll make a thousand dollars tomorrow."

And then I uttered one of the best lines I have ever said: "Oh, yeah? A thousand dollars a day won't make your penis bigger."

Needless to say, the gentleman was none too pleased with my statement. He looked for a moment like he would lunge at me. I was trying to gauge his drunkenness. I knew I could take his friend down easily, who continued to sway, smiling dumbly, apparently thinking things were going well.

Instead the guy called me a f**king c**t. I find it thrilling to be called that. When a man(or woman)unleashes that word, I know I have hit my mark. My grin must have caught him off guard. After a little more salty language, he lurched away, pulling his friend by the arm. Neither one spilled a drop of the beer in their plastic to-go cups. A few minutes later, a cop walked by, too late to witness the tableau, too late for me to press charges. While carrying an open container of alcohol and flashing is illegal, being a bitch is not. I love this country.

Years later, I related this all to my mother-in-law, finishing with "...and that's the last penis I saw before your son's." She laughed. True story.

A Peeve

Facial tissue that smells bad: why?

The manufacturer has to have some idea that you're going to be using it under your nose.

Why not make sure it smells okay? How hard can that be?

Magick Monday Rerun: 5 Lessons from Customer Service

It's August, everybody! Magick Sandwich proudly presents this rerun from last year, which chronicles the wisdom gleaned from various jobs working with the beloved public.

5 Lessons from Customer Service

To give you a little background on my expertise, I can tell you that I have worked as a sandwich maker, toilet cleaner, health food store personnel manager and plastic surgery practice manager.

Amazingly enough, the plastic surgery patient has much in common with the health food store customer-- one wants to stay young forever from the inside out, the other from the outside in. Both are pretty crabby as a result.

As for the lesson to take from being a sandwich maker and toilet cleaner? Since it was the same job, I can tell you this: disgruntled minimum-wage earners rarely wash their hands.

That said, let's dive in to today's lessons, shall we?

1. Keep a straight face.

I learned this my first day of training in customer service at Kinney Drugs when I was 16 years old. An impossibly wizened old man appeared, slapped a pack of condoms on the counter and gave me a sly grin that still held a mossy tooth or two.

The woman training me actually dropped to her knees under the counter, shaking with laughter. I rang him up and got him "a pack of them Pell Mells," as he put it. I never cracked a smile, but I did correct his pronunciation. I don't think he cared.

2. Anticipate stupid questions.

Patient before plastic surgery: "Will I sleep until I wake up?"
Answer: "Yes, what will happen is you're sleeping, you're sleeping, then, boom, you're awake."

Customer at health food store: "Do you sell organic chicken?"
Answer: "Actually, all chicken is organic. We don't sell cyborg chickens here."
(Hah! That one was a trap. Were you paying attention? The correct answer is "yes.")

3. Be prepared with helpful advice.

At the health food store's vitamin counter, customers came to me with questions regarding their digestive health. Apparently, this had become an issue requiring attention although colons had been chugging along with no need for heroic measures for quite a long time.

One of these concerns had to do with toxins accumulating if a person's bowels were not evacuating at a healthy rate. I mulled this over and found the perfect answer for those wanting to observe their own 'intestinal transit time': "Eat some corn."

This always stopped customers in their tracks, perhaps because it reminded them of exactly what they were seriously discussing with a relative stranger, or perhaps because it was an ingenious idea. Either way, I think I helped a lot of people.

4. Remain professional at all times.

At the store, I interviewed an applicant for a promising career in the produce section. At first, I was put off by his t-shirt depicting a naked woman bound and stretched over a large wheel. Perhaps he hadn't planned his wardrobe and had just spontaneously walked in to apply. Then I saw the button pinned to the shirt: "I wouldn't fuck her with your dick."

It seemed imprudent of this young man not to survey himself prior to entering the store and realize that it might be a good idea to take the button off and put it in his pocket for the duration of his interview. I'm all for freedom of expression, so I finished speaking with him and ushered him out the door telling him we would call if he got the job.

A few days later, he showed up yelling that he couldn't understand why we still had an ad in the paper. As customers gathered, I tried to explain that "this is how interviews work. Some people get the job and some people don't. It's not automatic." Our security guard helped him exit as he called me some names.

I consider this a failure on my part. I was unable to educate him about the process. The story does have a happy ending; a few weeks later, I saw him handing out flyers. I was gratified that he'd found a job and I quickly crossed the street.

5. Know when it's time to leave.

At some point, it will dawn on you that now might be the time to look for another line of work.

At the plastic surgeon's office, it came when I collected payment from a man scheduled to have liposuction. As he left, he said, "I feel lighter already!" to which I responded, "That's just your wallet!"

At the health food store, it came when I toyed with the idea of making a t-shirt that summed up my feelings quite nicely: Get laid and eat a cheeseburger, you pasty-faced maggots! It has a certain ring to it, don't you think?

Class dismissed.

**As usual, I'm including the original comments section, which adds another story to the mix.**

4 COMMENTS

☮~alapoet~☠ said...

Thank you for making me laugh -- multiple times!

For those who say nothing is truly infinite, I offer up dual refutations: human cluelessness and human cussedness.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get laid and have a cheeseburger. Not necessarily in that order...


Susan said...

A few days later, he showed up yelling that he couldn't understand why we still had an ad in the paper.

About all any business would need is an employee sporting a button such as the one the young man wore to his interview. Can't you just hear the customers now, heading directly for the store manager after seeing that "freedom of expression" in the produce section?

Another perfect example of some folks' feelings of entitlement.


JCE said...

My parents owned a swimming pool supply and service store when I was growing up so naturally we all had to work there. One day a woman came in and asked for some hose for her filter. My mother asked her how long she needed it and the woman said "Well, all summer long I guess!" Gracious woman that my mother is she refrained from laughing out loud and then asked what length the woman needed. I was concerned about this woman's ability to refrain from drowning in her own pool.


kathcom said...

"Well, all summer long I guess!" I can totally picture that-thanks, JCE!
August 4, 2008 6:08 PM


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