potato salad cafe

Rejected Onion Headlines

2007-11-16T15:40:00.000-05:00

1. Overweight Man Insists He’s Not Trans-Fat.
2. SEC Blocks Co Ed Naked/Big Johnson Merger.
3. OE: This Laser Pointer/Pen is the Most Thoughtful Gift I’ve Ever Received!
4. Frozen Turkey Found in IED Shrapnel.
5. MAG: The Case for Implants.
6. MAG: The Longest Shit Ever Expelled By Someone Famous.
7. Ironic T-Shirt Ironed.
8. 2 for 1 Self Promotion Fails.
9. Fred Durst Waiting for Market to Settle Before Releasing Sex Tape.
10. Rock Hard Erection No Match for Hard Rock.
11. Snake Ingesting Just to Show Off.
12. Armchair Psychologists Battle Lay-Z-Boy Clinical Social Workers in All Out Turf War.
13. Hunt is On for Hidden Green Day Track.
14. Jerk Off Session Interrupted by Jerk Off Roommate.
15. Piece of Action Demanded.
16. Kilometer Continues Steady Gains Against Mile.

A Hooker Lived in Brooklyn

2007-09-01T10:59:00.000-04:00

Last Thursday, the prostitute that worked on Malta Street, behind my office building, got arrested. As I left the building, I witnessed the crime scene. She had her hands cuffed behind her back with about seven or eight plain clothes police officers surrounding her. The cops were all dressed in blue jeans, baseball or football jerseys and sunglasses. They were also all fat and bald.

Best picture of an undercover cop I could find.

Maybe it was just these cops, but I was disappointed by their un-creative narc costumes. If I were working a stakeout or sting operation or something, I would put as much energy as possible into researching and designing my wardrobe. Like Serpico, I'd experiment with all the latest street facial hair styles. And in the summer, I'd put on a ratty loincloth and hit the sidewalk looking like I just crossed a desert.

Anyway with her hands tied behind her back, our hooker was doing, what looked like, the pee-pee dance. Meanwhile, the cops were standing around talking about how much they hate Reno 911, I guess.

I've heard that when you die, my life flashes before your eyes. As I stood on the corner watching the scene, my mind flooded with memories of the Malta Street Hooker. There are two.

The first is the giant, carnival prize, stuffed animal she never came to work without. It was an impractically large -most probably a 'choice' prize at a Six Flags or similar theme park game- green bear with a sewed on crown. I imagine it was difficult to commute with, but it never missed a day. I imagine, one of her best Johns won it for her and she didn't want him to see her without it. Such is a level of customer service that most telecommunications company could take a lesson from.

Another time I was parking my car on Malta Street when our lady jumped in the spot I was about to take. She rubbed her behind at me while cooing. I'm really not a fan of people saving parking spots for each other, I think that the first car to arrive has a right to the space. But I suppose a hustla doesn't always play by the rules. As the saying goes, hate the game not the opposing team.

Fare the well, old hooker friend. You livened up the block behind my office building, perhaps we'll meet again at a bus station or county courthouse.

Google Image search result featuring Jane Fonda with Ted Turner in the lobby of the theater immediately after the conclusion of the telecast of the 62nd Academy Awards. Keyword: Hooker Malta St. 112$#

Choose Your Own Adventures. Third Installment

2007-08-13T20:24:00.000-04:00

We last left off here. And before that, here.
We continue... here.

Good initiative. You and Sydney walk at a steady pace toward the facility; not too fast and not too slow. As you get closer, it becomes apparent that Frozen World, is actually frozen. Thick layers of ice blanket the industrial campus. After a few more steps, you can feel the air coming off the frozen world cool the warm summer evening.

You are reminded of the moving freezer you woke up in.

"I'm reminded of the moving freezer we we're just in," says Sydney.

"I know. Me too," says you.

As you close in on the armed guards, you decide to start a non-suspicious, casual sounding conversation with Sydney.

"You don't often see lions like that, how about it?" You state. "Did you know that the Lion, according to the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources, is considered vulnerable, while the Asiatic subspecies is critically endangered?"

"Ok," says Sydney.

"The total population of wild lions dropped from perhaps 400,000 in 1950 to an estimated size of 16,500–47,000 in 2002-2004."

"Who in the rat's sack are you?" says the guard on the left, interrupting you.

"Don't move, even a ligament!" says the guard on the right.

They point their guns at Sydney and you. "Speak." Says the guard on the right.

Sydney whimpers a little.

"We were just walking in the neighborhood, and we stumbled here." You say. "Are those your Lions?" You ask.

The guards don't move. They have laser pointer beams coming out of their guns and they are trained on your mouths.

"Ok," the guard on the right finally says, "You should come inside and, maybe, buy a soda."

You do not want to go inside, but there is no other choice at this point in the story. They are armed men. You will have other chances to choose from a list of adventures at another point in the story.

Though completely draped in ice, the hinges on the door are greased and they float open. In front of you lies the biggest room that either you or Sydney has ever encountered. An amateurs guess would be something around 10 football fields long by six city blocks wide, but you are in the company of no amateur. Sydney works in real estate occasionally and has a good eye for square footage.

"800,000 square feet." Sydney says.

Rows upon rows of shipping containers fill the great room. Some are stacked 12 high; every surface is frozen. The walls are frozen solid, ice stalactites hang from the ceiling. And large men, dressed in white lab coats, white helmets and safety goggles skate around on the ice floor.

Sydney clutches the itchy woolen blanket tighter.

"Could we use the bathroom?" You ask the guard on the left.

"Down there," he points next to the entrance, to a dark set of stairs that lead underground. Above, a sign reads 'Unisex Bathroom.'

The bathroom is dark and cold. The floor, frozen. "Sydney," you say, "light a match, please."

The little bit of light reveals just how filthy the room is. The walls are black, caked with dirt, frozen over long ago. Three toilets, overflowing with solidified who-knows-what, sit in a row at the end of the room, no walls or partitions separating them. There is a long trough with faucets hanging over it at the wall on your right. It holds a giant frozen block of brown ice. Over this is a mirror, you do not initially recognize yourself and when you look into it, it catches you off-guard.

"We are dirty." Says Sydney, looking in the mirror.

"I have an envelope in my pocket," you say, "it says 'Dill' on it."

"I have one too, Lee," says Sydney "mine says, 'Re:'"

Sydney tears the envelope open. "It says, 'Rest on a radiator, Toby Abrazadey.'

Neither of you know what this mean.

"Hey! You're all clean down there! Get up and get a soda!" One of the guards screams down at you.

Back upstairs there is one of the men in white with skates waiting for you. "This way." he says, as he pushes behind you.

You turn around and catch a glimpse of the guards talking to other people who have shown up at the door. They look peculiarly like what you saw in the mirror. You can feel the breath of the man in the white coat.

You slide about 100 yards down the room. Men are working everywhere, loading and unloading containers.

The man stops you in front of an open container. At the end of are a stack of Pepsis.

"Soda is in there." Says the man.

Do you...
A) Go inside the container and have a soda?
B) Make a slide for it?
Cs) Ask for a different soda?
-) Have a flashback?
1) Skip to the end of the story?
r) Choose not to choose?
a.2) Wake up?

Asialog.2

2007-08-06T22:41:00.000-04:00

After a sleepless night at a class lodge in Zhengzhou, I hit the rec center for some lap swimming. After that, I polish off in the sweat room. I don't exercise to stay fit, I exercise to keep away the droll.

Morning chow consists of local eggs with pickled garnishes, some kind of rice tamale, strong coffee, a rich man's cheese plate and a foofie pastry with cacao trimmings. I'm fed well and unsparingly.

A driver then picks me up from the lobby to take me deeper into the province. He speaks no English.

After five minutes into the journey, i receive a remote transmission from our U.S. headquarters. My mark, it seems, has suffered a mild heart attack and will not be at the rendezvous. Themission is now expendable. Nevertheless, I will continue to the facility and either wait for further orders, or bide my time until I can catch a break home.

Asialog.1

2007-08-05T23:59:00.000-04:00

After our aircraft circled over Western Beijing for 45 minutes, the control tower finally cleared us to land. China.

The clearest days in Beijing are as dark as the haziest in cities outside the Orient. Officials are working tirelessly to clean up the capital before the 2008 Olympics. They're planting millions of acres of trees, building newer and taller buildings, and broadcasting media that rally against poor manners like cutting in line, spitting, and littering. But no matter how much vegetation is introduced or how many pleases and thank yous are uttered, the games will be played under the shadow of this overcast. Today, the sky is thicker than Maypo, which caused our delay, and makes it seem like evening at three in the afternoon. Asia.

My assignment is to travel to our facility in the Henan Province via the capital, Zhungzhou. There, I rendezvous with a potential financier, sweet talk him and oversee his tour of the operation. I'm covering close to 15,000 miles over five days for about two hours of work. The Far East.

Currently, I'm waiting in the airport holdover room. The connecting air leg has been delayed to an unspecified time. So far, three hours have lapsed and officials are distributing extra rations to keep untrained civilians from croaking of malnourishment. If Charlie had the aviation problems Paddie has, we may have won the war. People's Republic of China.

Whatevercrackers

2007-07-05T22:22:00.000-04:00

Last night, I stood on a rainy rooftop in Brooklyn and watched Macy's blow firecrackers over the East River. The show was big and bright and it lit up New York Harbor well, but throughout the spectacle, I couldn't help but feel unimpressed. That is because, I had seen this same display on New Year's Eve and before that, last Independence Day. My point is, with all the technological advances in the cellphone, computer, MP3 player and shaving industries, why are we watching the same fireworks presentation that we saw when the Civil War was won?

According to Wikipedia, fireworks were first used by the Chinese in the 12th century to scare away evil spirits and ghosts. Now I don't know what they looked like, but according to the website, ancient Chinese pyrotechnics were lauded for mounting "dazzling displays of light and sound." Fine. I'm sure it was great and I bet it fixed their evil spirit problem right up. But that was 900 hundred years ago; a very long R&D time. Dazzling displays of light and sound pretty much sum up every firework show I've ever seen.

This is a picture of a firework event from England in the year 1749.
It looks awfully familiar to what I saw last night, 2007. On the bottom, there are smaller explosions that stream light continuously; and on the top, the blast spreads out in different directions and then pops again. Last night, these twice-exploding shots were abundant and got plenty of applause.

Here is a picture of some more modern day fireworks. Same idea.

Anyway, I'm just getting started. According to the website, The Chemistry of Fireworks, which promises to 'provide insight' into this fascinating world, in 1560 a British chemist combined a mixture of 75% Salt Peter, 15% Charcoal and 10% Sulfur resulting in an explosive effect. This same combination is used today, 500 years later. Why haven't we tried anything new? Throw some gas on there, that's flammable. How about some match heads or tequila? Take a fuckin risk!

Furthermore, according to Chemistry in Fireworks, it was only in the 19th century that they found a way to make red, green & blue explosions. It took 700 years to blow up a different color. And not even a new color. Apparently, we still can't blow up certain shades of forest green! You can record any number of television shows at once, eat a boneless chicken wing, listen to the radio in the shower, and ride a hovercraft, but you cannot light a firecracker the color of a leaf. Put some fucking food coloring in it.

A few years ago, my friend and I stuffed a doll's head with fireworks and hung it outside my window. When we lit it, the head flew around like a little rocket ship and the eyes blew out. It was awesome. I have never seen any firework company utilize a doll's heads, large or small. But nor have I ever seen a show that really stands apart from others. It seems like each group uses the same hardware but organizes it differently. I have never seen a firework that looks like something other than a firework. How about an explosion in the shape of the United States on July 4th or a veteran on veterans day? The appeal of the lopsided heart has faded with my innocence. And what about a firecracker that explodes out and then sucks itself back in? Or maybe one that blows up and then releases those little parachute men? Go get on that firecracker maker, impress me, stagnation isn't the American way.

On the roof last night, there was a guy who stood right next to us. He was by himself, which was weird enough, but what I found most strange was his unabashed glee for the show. He had a big smile plastered to his face and he kept repeating the words, 'Awesome!' and 'Whoa, totally!' to no one else's benefit but his own. I mean, maybe he was high, but had he really never seen fireworks before? Call me a cynic, but I don't get the fuss;I saw the same shit last year and the 25 subsequent.

Not Just A Man's World

2007-06-30T19:59:00.000-04:00

The other day, I biked to the playground near my woman's house, to ride through the sprinkler tunnel. A sprinkler tunnel is just like the Holland tunnel, except it is much smaller and gets you wet. Before I could peddle through, a very little three-year-or-so-old boy stopped me. He said, "Wait! Where's your boy?" I looked at him, puzzled, and said "Uh... I... I'm my boy..." It wasn't the answer he was looking for and asked again, "No, I mean... Where's your boy?" I thought for a second and replied, "I'm not sure I know what you mean." His mother then came over and inspected me over before smiling. She attempted to put the boy's sandals on when he said, "Don't you have any people like me?" Now I understood and replied with a half smile, "No, not yet, unfortunately." Getting his shoes on threw him off balance, so he stuck his hand down the front of his mom's shirt and grabbed her bra for support. "Not yet! Unfortunately!" the mother assured her son. Suspiciously, he looked at me and asked, "So you're just a man?" Feebly, I responded, "Yep, just a man... right now..." He kept his eyes on me with a look that said I had disappointed him. Then he began sucking on his mothers arm fat. So I asked him if it was okay to go through the sprinkler tunnel; because, that seemed like the right thing to do. And he just kept staring and sucking. Then, I, just a man, rode my bicycle through the sprinkler tunnel and went about my afternoon.

The incident has certainly not made me feel welcome at playgrounds. Just this afternoon, on the way to my softball game, I stopped by the playground to ride through the sprinkler tunnel and escape the heat briefly. Yet, I felt so timid about entering that I peddled all the way around the park, so I could go in through the less crowded side. Then, when riding in the tunnel, I smacked my head on the top in the rush to get through. This unwelcome feeling is a shame since playground design has gotten so exciting in recent times. With the inclusion of such novel amusements as shaky bridges, giant nets meant to be jumped into, midevil style belfries, rock climbing walls and, of course, sprinkler tunnels, the playground has come a long way since the see-saws and sandboxes of my youth.

But my encounter also addresses that pressure which falls upon 27 year old men; to bare children. There is nothing which brings me greater joy than playing with my 19 month old nephew. Similarly, when I visit my non-childless married friends, I spend most of the time messing around with their kids, than talking to them about non-childless married friend things. These behaviors feed my consciousness a steady flow of munitions to fire at my non-baby-having will.

As I am sure you are aware , there are also third party pressures. Recently, at two separate weekday evening dinners, my father discussed the benefits of having children in your twenties. Then, my mother discussed those very same benefits. They are aware that I am not married, but maybe the joy of a newborn grandchild would outweigh the devastation of it being bastard. I am not sure. Similarly, I am reminded of my late grandmother when I hear passive aggressive statements like 'Where's your boy?' Perhaps, if my grandmother channeled the child in the park more intensely, he would have continued with, "Why are you here, Eytan, if you have no young children? What possible business could a 27 year old have in a playground? Tss..."

But like a bigoted country club, the only way I will truly have a place at the playground, is when I bring my own boy. Until then, I am 'just a man.'

Tales From the Orient, Part I

2007-04-20T06:08:00.001-04:00

t has been a while. I've missed you too.

I'm in china right this second, this is what happens when you take a plane here.

One of the things a person who travels to china needs is a piece of luggage.
I own a wide array of oversized nylon duffel bags and plastic suit coverings
from the dry cleaners. These are great for transporting hockey equipment to
summer camp and throwing in the the trash, respectively, but do not sit well
under planes going to the Far East. My other option was to pack all my stuff
into the twelve different backpacks I own (half of which were mooched from the
New York Sports Club, the other half were bought cause they're cool). But this
option seemed somewhat 'over the top'.

So I went to Macy's and bought me a fancy bag with a pop up handle and wheels.

It also has a compass, built in toothbrush, shaving mirror, bidet, GPS
navigation system, and laser disc player.

Isn't China awesome so far?

More on what happened after I got the bag soon.

I'm Serious Right Here.

2007-02-15T13:54:00.000-05:00

My previous roommate's mother had a scathing hoarding problem. It sounds funny when you read this, but it is a very serious, very sad problem that many people face. I am not linking this because it is weird, out-of-the-ordinary, or very humorous in any way. It's about awareness.

Click it here.

So Annoying, When it Happens, This

2007-02-07T13:34:00.000-05:00

I'm not one to give credit where credit is due, but every so often a story comes along that is both so important and so short & easy-to-read, that I must give it a wider audience. While I did not report or write the following story, I poured my heart into the sentence preceding this one and I spent many hours scouring the webternet before stumbling upon it. So with a touch more ado and pomp, I arrange for you... the following(in a slightly larger font):

Woman on the wrong bus lost for 25 years

BANGKOK, Feb. 7 (UPI) -- A woman who boarded the wrong bus on an attempted shopping trip from Thailand to Malaysia has returned home after 25 years.

Jaeyana Beuraheng told her eight children she accidentally boarded a bus bound for Bangkok instead of Malaysia, and once there she boarded a second incorrect bus because she could not read or speak Thai or English, The Times of London reported Wednesday.

Beuraheng, who speaks only the Yawi dialect used by Muslims in southern Thailand, said the noise and traffic of the big city confused and disoriented her, leading her to board the second wrong bus to Chiang Mai, near the border with Burma.

The woman said she spent five years begging on the street in the city and was often mistaken for a member of a hill tribe because of her dark skin tone.

She was arrested in 1987 on suspicion of being an illegal immigrant and was sent to a social services hostel when authorities were unable to determine her origins.

However, last month, three students from her home village arrived at the hostel for training, and they were able to communicate with Beuraheng and help her find her way home.

From The Editor

2007-02-04T15:19:00.000-05:00

You may have noticed the recent lack of new and original postings on this blog over the past few weeks. If so, thanks for paying attention. Early last month, our editorial staff butted heads with management and temporarily crippled operations.

Our editor-at-large, we'll call him Jan (Pronounced Yan), felt that salaried contributors were focusing too much on personal memoir pieces and neglecting fake horoscopes, made up tales, lackadasial written social commentaries, creepy photographs, stories about monkeys and scatagorical editorials. Our staff disagreed and negotiated tirelessly to keep the blog in its current state. They threatened twice to completely abandon the publication and staged one, four-hour hunger strike. But last night, at 3:34am, a deal was reached. The publishers agreed to lift strict office sexual harassment policies, as well as loosen the dress code requirements and provide a pre-tax, APR financed, zero dollars down, good credit/bad credit/no credit, amortized, fixed financed benefit after 9 months of employment. In exchange, our staff of 23 full time writers and reporters, will continue to bring you hard hitting, power journalism; featuring random lists, inaccurate fun facts, detailed analysis of bad sex, entirely made up documents claiming to be primary source material, unscholarly research, pretentious footnotes, imaginary words & grammar, fashion advice and fake bibliographies.

All of this will transpire under our new subheading: Keeping You The Informed. Enjoy!

Really Stalking You, In Real Life

2007-01-13T20:55:00.000-05:00

About a year ago this total friend of mine asked if I would be interested in spying on someone for a relative of his. My initial reaction was: Absolutely! At the time, I was working as an in-house bitch for a film company and I thought detective work would let me branch out and exercise some of my inherent talents aside from brewing instant coffee or collecting dirty dishes from my boss' desks. Furthermore, I thought it would, at the very least, give me some blog fodder... Also, I was bored.

After I accepted, my friend's relative, who we will call Gonerrhealia, briefed me on the case. Essentially, I was asked too locate a young gentleman suspected of engaging in illicit behavior and capture his misanthropy, or some other word for smoking pot, on camera.

Gonnerhealia was prepared to offer me $20 an hour plus a fancy digital camera and all expenses paid for. I insisted on $25 plus a cash retainer. We settled, amicably, on $22 plus a light dinner and the camera.

The next week, I received a package with a photograph and some background information on my subject. Calingular, as we shall call him, was a basement sealer who lived with his great Aunt in Macon, as we shall say. He was going bald and, according to his likeness, wore tuxedos. The picture, mind you, had someone else torn out of it as well. This added a satisfying shroud of mystery to the case, and was somewhat depressing. I was also given the make and model of Calingular's car, we shall say it was a red Honda Porsche.

The following week, I decided to drive to Calingular's Great Aunt's house, wait for him to come out and get high then catch him in the act.

My first nights espionaging didn't proceed exactly as planned. I found Calingular's residence easily. It had two storeys and a few stairs leading up to a doorway; also some windows were slapped on the side. I walked passed it very slowly four or five times, but nothing happened. Then I stared at it, hard, for close to ten minutes. Still, no sign of Calingular or Calingular doing drugs. I then tried to look for his fancy Honda Porsche car but could not find that either. Finally, I remembered that there was a great hero shop in that area, so I got a sandwich, which was delicious, and headed home.

Gonerrhealia was not impressed with my first nights work and scolded me the way a woman with such a name would. She also said that she thought Calingular would be attending a concert featuring a musical act called the Moshav Band the following week and I could probably track him there.

At the concert venue I was surrounded by large groups of Jewish high school students. I kept my eyes peeled for bald men in tuxedos, but only saw short dark haired girls in tight long sleeve shirts and denim skirts, accompanied by skinny boys in baseball hats.

The bar was entirely empty except for a guy in a leather jacket who seemed just as out of place as me. Even though he didn't look similar to Calingular's picture, I filmed him drinking a whiskey. Then the bartender told me to put my camera away and leave.

The following week I decided to take more of an initiative to my stalkings. This consisted of ringing Calingular's doorbell then running behind a tree, and was about as effective as the getting-a-hero-sandwich-before-going-home approach, except not as scrumptious.

After ignoring several of Gonerrhealia's phone calls, I decided it was time to 'throw you a towel.' The only problem was that I really wanted the digital camera to use on my upcoming weekend in The Hamptons. So I waited another week before officially resigning.

New Year's Revolution

2007-01-04T23:03:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year thing everyone.

A quick service announcement: My roommate accidentally threw his ipod machine in a trash can at Grand Central Station in New York's City. If anyone is passing through that area in the next few days, please take a look in some of the garbages around the terminal. It's an expensive piece of merchandise, so please, let's help a friend out.

Here are my New Year resolutions:

-Stop using paper money.
-Learn to charm snakes.
-Learn to charm the pants off snakes.
-Be more brand conscious.
-Drink eight cups of water.
-Refer to Soda as Soder, not pop.
-Make up at least one new word a day.
-Continue to avoid quicksand.
-Get a charm bracelet with snakes on it.
-Win at connect four.
-Learn how to use that re-fridginator thing.
-Stop being so fucking sequential.
-Make some real Myspace friends.
-Stop growing facial hair.
-Think harder about blog posts.
-Treat subordinates more subordinately.
-Get more treats.
-Lose the accent.
-Use all of the letters in the alphabet.
-Challenge those who don't get challenged more often.
-Cop out.
-Sell out.
-Use the phrase 'Up Shit's Creek' more often.
-Sail Shit's Creek.

Wheels of Potato Salad Here at Last!

2006-12-12T20:58:00.000-05:00

Our development team at The PSC has been pulling 14 hour days these past few months in an effort to bring you the much anticipated Wheels of Potato Salad. Finally, you can get updates live, as they break, right in your phone in a futuristic text message format. Be the first to know about topics like: pets I may acquire and/or kill; the contents of homeless peoples' shopping carts in my vicinity; Chasidic reggae sensation, Matisyahu's personal cell phone number; and how I slept last night! And the best part is it's completely free of charge! Send your name and cell phone number to wheelsofpotatosaladcafe@gmail.com or leave it in the comments section for everyone to see!

So Charitable

2006-12-10T22:48:00.000-05:00

I had such a busy day today and now I am so tired. This is because I spent the day giving lots of my own money to charitable causes, for free.

First I wrote out a cool $50 check, with my own pen, to a little organization in need called, The New York City Food Bank. It was so tiring writing out the words 'New York City Food Bank' and then 'fifty dollars' on my own personalized check book, but I suffered through it because I am the kind of person who goes above and beyond the call of duty when it comes to people in need.

I didn't specify exactly how the money should be used, because I'm not one of those controlling types who need to micro-manage every last detail of their donation; they can spend it however they please. Perhaps, they'll use my gift to build a new vault to keep all the precious poor peoples food in. Or maybe they'll use it to hire a consulting firm to determine a more efficient way to get the hungry people so less hungry. Or maybe they will build a school to educate the community on the problems facing the hungry man and woman and what we can all do about it. They can spend my cash on anyone of these endeavors and all I ask in return is a bronzed bust of me installed in the lobby of the bank.

As if this wasn't enough, I also opened my heart and checkbook to the lucky folks at Amnesty International. God, those worker bees are gonna be so happy to see a whole fifty bucks in their mailbox come Monday morning. And again, I don't care how they use it. Maybe they'll spend it on a new gym for their U.S. headquarters, or split it up and hand out some fat year end bonuses, or maybe they'll just have the cash work for them while they take the day off. Anyway you look at it, they got the good stuff coming to 'em, whatever it is they do over there.

You can imagine how stiff my hand is from writing out all these checks and then recording them in my check balancing book. It really hurts. My mouth is also super dry from licking all the envelopes I put the checks into. I'm going to have to drink lots of fluids to stay hydrated tonight.

Obit/Ed

2006-12-03T20:19:00.000-05:00

On Friday, one of our in-house turtles passed away either in its sleep or while it was awake.
My roommate discovered the body, floating in a pool of water at the bottom of its tank. He confirmed the death by poking it with a plastic fork and then dumping food on its carcass. The turtle, whose name we forgot prior to its demise, was decidedly female. It is survived by its tank mate and other fellow turtle, Claude, and by a ceramic frog and plastic novelty crab. The turtle lived a conscious life; burying itself under plastic pebbles, standing very still and being looked at carefully maybe twice a day; for about a month.

Services were held early Saturday morning at the eastern restroom of our apartment. Acting as eulogizer and undertaker, the turtle was improptually named Vannessa, scolded for dying, and flushed down our private toilet.

Witnesses at the funeral claimed to have seen the body move as it got sucked down the shitter. Reports remain unconfirmed.

To a Friend

2006-11-16T20:17:00.000-05:00

After receiving three $65 tickets for what the traffic police refer to as, "An Expired Emissions Inspection Sticker," I brought my car to the mechanic. He said it would cost over $500 in repairs before it could pass and receive the coveted, non-expired emissions inspection sticker. This was a problem because I did not have $500. And so it was on this day, that after 7 years of mostly loyal companionship, I decided to give away my Nissan Sentr.

In 1999 my parents surprised me with a beautiful used car to commute to college. Since I screwed up in high school and couldn't get accepted to a sleepaway university, not only was the car a consolation prize, but it was also a place to make out with my girlfriend. With 27,000 miles, the Nissan Sentra was white with a thin black stripe running along its sides. It sat 5 people uncomfortably and was capable of playing the latest audio cassettes in stereo sound.

Shortly after I began driving it, the last letter in Sentra fell off. And much like God accepted Abraham by adding an 'h' to his name, the loss of the 'a' signified the beginning of my relationship with the Sentr .

The Sentr and I had our disputes over the years. For instance, he never wanted to be locked. No matter how many times or with how much fervor I'd press the 'door lock' button, he always reopened itself. I believe that if the Sentr had a mouth, it would have said "fuck you, Eytan," instead of behaving in such a manner. I tried fixing the issue by fishing the automatic door locking mechanism out from under his dashboard, but the makers of the Sentr used the same device to defrost the rear window and I could not give up one without the other. Soon, I stopped trying to lock the Sentr's doors and with time the problem went away; thus proving my theory... Doctor, Mommy.

There were also times when the Sentr was driving too fast and, after asking him very pointedly to slow down, he collided with a curb, boat hitch on rear-end of S.U.V., newspaper dispenser, above ground pool, and/or leftist radio personality Al Franken.

Together, the Sentr and I were a slick duo when it came to the ladies. Most women that stepped inside were impressed by the power windows and energy conserving lack of air conditioning. Many times, he was referred to as, "a plus."

In its later years, the Sentr lost interest in matters of physical appearance. At a hippie music festival, his front grill fell off. Suspiciously, as if to prove a point, the Sentr decided that it drove just as efficient without giving $70 to the rude junkyard manager for the new part. This was 2002.

The Sentr also started using the, road test failing, 'feel around' method during parallel parking; in which he bumped his way into into parking spots. This fender rubbing left large black spots all over the Sentr's front end. The splotches and lack-of-grill, made him look like he had bushy mustache and a partially shaved beard, or, like the side of a cow with a big black stripe on top flanked by two headlights, or, uncouth.

For some reason, the Sentr's appearance angered pedestrians and on more than one occasion, a street crosser scowled harshly at us then swiftly drew their child-in-tow as close to them as possible.

During his last months, the Sentr began throwing dangerous and expensive temper tantrums. He blew out a tire on the New York State Thruway, refused to close his driver side window, smashed his passenger side window and gave a thief the change in the ashtray, threatened to blow off his own hood while driving at high speeds on interstate highways, insisted on playing only one side of audio cassettes, ate Jim Morrison's 'An American Prayer,' and allowed me to remove the key from the ignition while his engine was running.

On his final voyage he would not let my father rotate the key in the ignition. This last struggle ended swiftly and the Sentr was victorious; swallowing the end of the key while in the off position. And as my father and I were left stranded in the less desirable part of town, a part of me felt happy for the Sentr.

Today, I take a subway to and from work. This affords me ample time to read, not illegally give charity, and watch the Black Hebrews pretend they are in medieval times at the Broadway Junction station. Along the train route lies a large scrap metal processing yard. An operator maneuvers massive claws from three storey piles of old air conditioners, refrigerator engines and busted cars to a conveyor belt, much like those arcade games where you try and grab worthless stuffed animals. But every time I pass that yard, I look up from my book and try to see if the Sentr is out there giving some oversized claw operator one final test of wills.

Fare the well old friend.

Local Pervert

2006-11-15T00:42:00.000-05:00

An Informal Poll

2006-11-05T14:26:00.000-05:00

My car has gotten too annoying to keep around and so I am deciding exactly how to dispose of it. The question is, how much would you pay to do whatever is it your sick mind pleases with an old automobile?

Non-Kosher Purim

2006-11-02T18:22:00.000-05:00

During the drive home from work on Tuesday, I decided to dress as Simon Adebisi for Halloween. The costume would consist of sweatpants, cardigan sweater ($34 @ American Apparel) and a little rolled up hat perched high on my head with a head adhesive ($3 @ vendor guy on street). It was a really comfortable costume and the best part was that I wouldn't have to change before bed (Priceless).

Anyway at the last minute, my old roommate informed me that no one would get the costume and I looked like a shlump. So I decided on the next logical disguise; Perverted Squash Player from the 70s. This outfit included an old flashy Canadian phone company polo shirt ($4 @ Canadian thrift store) tucked inside extremely short yellow shorts ($18 @ American Apparel), a big afro wig ($0 from roommates collection), a real mustache (currently accepting bids), an old squash racket (not for sale), and a regular old boner (market price).

Growing up in a Jewish home, I never really celebrated Halloween. My parents didn't take me candy collecting and we always tried to ignore the doorbell when people came to solicit us. So when I dress up these days, I feel vulnerable and fake, like everyone can see right through my costume into my cold Jew heart. Perverted Squash Player from the 70s, left me very exposed, physically, and it only intensified these treasonous feelings. So I got fairly drunk to make up for it. (I reccomend this method to my Jew friends who skipped out on Synagogue this past Yom Kippur).

I could discuss the fun things that happen when you dress as Perverted Squash Player from 70s but I bet it's different for everyone; so what, really, would be the point? Furthermore, are orgies that interesting?

Perverted Figure Skater

Microwaving Re-Hashed Browns

2006-10-30T18:28:00.000-05:00

Instead of thinking up new ideas for my blog legacy, I'm going to post some shit I wrote in college.

These horoscopes were originally published in the, now most probably defunct, Red Herring. But they still work, I promise. Enjoy the fun pastel fonts!

Gemini (May 21- June 21)
You have insulted the stars by seeking advice from actual humans; we have no prediction for you, asshole.

Scorpio (October 23- November 21)
Your relentless faith in fortune cookies has royally pissed the stars off. Scorpio can go fuck themselves.

Sagittarius (November 22- December 21)
Being the most sensitive of all the constellations, Sagittarius can expect multiple orgasms simply from standing on the Canal Street subway platform.

Capricorn (December 22- January 19)
Be careful Capricorn, this month may cause dependence.

Aquarius (January 20- February 18)
The Age of Aquarius died 30 years ago along with your dog who dies this month.

Pisces (February 19- March 20)
Twelve years ago today a giant meteor shower disrupted the entire Pisces constellation forever. If you want, you can attribute all your problems to this.

Taurus (April 20- may 20)
This month you will continue being a shitty automobile.

Virgo (August 23- September 22)
You have something hanging from your nose.

Scorpio (Oct. 24 – Nov. 21)
Your four-year domination of the east coast will be threatened by Mr. Gemini.

Sagittarius (Nov 22- Dec 21)
You can find your bicycle in the basement of the Alamo.

Virgo (August 23- September 22)
Its time to stop masking your anorexia by claiming to be vegan.

Scorpio (October 24- November 21)
Confucius once said that a wise man will never show true aggression. But this is astrology and not fucking Bible class. Lucky Numbers 34, 545 and -67.

Aquarius (January 20- February 18)
Define terms, get commitments in writing, perceive relationships in true light. You have a natural sense of humor, but to often than not are disappointed by trivialities. Suck my balls!

Most Current Resume

2006-10-29T15:51:00.000-05:00

______________________________________________________________
Experience

Effective rearranger of living room and bedroom furniture after 4-6 months resident consultation period.
Receives monetary sums, non-perishables, and other gifts with efficiency and proffesionalism.
Frequent bather.
Resourceful burrower and finder of quarters in roommates' change jar.
Knowledge of NYC transit system (excluding buses).
Creep capabilties.
Ogling skills.
Tactless negotiations.

_____________________________________________________________
Available for:

Automatic labor positions.
Heavy snoozing.
Being late.
Casual dating.
Lunch.
Not calling you back.
Dozing.
Chance meetings on park benches.
Awkward conversations about "goals."
Nepotistic promotions.
Casual penetration.
Dinner.
Handouts.
Free lap dances.
Day old bread.

_____________________________________________________________
Other Interests & Benefits

The fridge. Watching the clock. Telephone books. Pictures of magazines. Perforated paper. Moving walkways. Forms of credit. Taking credit.
I come fully clothed.
GPA of your choice.

Caption Contest

2006-10-24T17:04:00.000-04:00

Post your caption in the comments section for a chance to win something classic.

"Ford has developed a new engine that will run on the chest hair of armed men."

Test

2006-10-23T15:57:00.000-04:00

One one side of the street, a mad man is threatening to shrink a school bus full of kids to the size of a peanut. On the other, posionous shaving cream is expanding exponetially at a rapid rate and threatening all the occupants at a busy haircutting salon. You can only save one group. Who?

With Love

2006-10-23T00:56:00.000-04:00

Here I go. I'm not offering any backstory or commentary on this post; it speaks for itself. All I will say is that I recieved the following 5 text messages a few nights ago, you be the judge.

U kno2w why u date so many girls?? Its cuz ur a fucken queer and ue too homophobic to admit it to yourself.
11:24pm 10/22/06

But of course u will never admit it to yourself you'll never admit it to anyone its just going to eat at you in your subconcious, cuz u know it crush you
11:42pm 10/22/06

r mom and ur dad and somewhere along the line it going to crush u because you keep is all inside:-D:-D:-D
11:42pm 10/22/06

Plus u know ur not as attractive as you think u are so that eats at you to your to way skinny and your nose is HUGE I hate u as much as you hate yourself
11:48pm 10/22/06

Oh and my only "issue" is that there's so many self centered egotistical asshole pricks like you in the world.
11:53pm 10/22/06

End.