All about bumper stickers

I like to read the bumper stickers on the car in front of me when I'm stopped at a red light. They really tell me everyting I need to know about a person. The mere fact that they feel the need to use a generic statement to express themselves on thier primary status symbol tells me ninety percent of what I want to know. I say primary, because if one feels the need to slather the rear end of one's vehicular type mobile with cliches, one probably buys into the idea that the cheapest of all major status symbols is the symbol that defines us. This is what the gas companies want us to think. This is what the upper-class wants us to think. Anyways, I've digressed. (We'll forget the fact that I had bumper stickers on my car 5 years ago.)

If I see a car with a bumper sticker that says, "Mean people suck," and another one that says, "If you don't like my driving, call 1-800-eat-shit." I know that this person has attempted cheap irony, or is extremely confused. In Pasco, I would bet it's the latter. If I see a car with one bumper sticker heralding a donation to some sort of police foundation, and one that reads, "Get off my ass or I'll throw my beer at you," I know that this person extremely confused, and making a poor attempt at avoiding a D.U.I.

I saw a car today; though, that made me...well, scared. It exemplified the state of the human race in this country. One bumper sticker read, "Choose Life." Alright, everyone has a right to unwittingly choose a side on hot button issues, while expressing their opinions with externally pre-meditated, two-word phrases. I don't have a problem with that. The other bumper sticker, though, read, "My student got your honor student pregnant."

Don't raise your children to be procreative miscreants! I realize that you may have conceived your children in a dank alley, behind a bar, after 5 lines of blow, 12 beers, with a semi-erect penis, in just under 60 seconds. You probably had several semi-steady jobs scrubbing toilets at fast food restaurants. You probably felt that it was your duty as an American to bring that life into the world, despite the cicumstances. You probably didn't utter the phrase, "despite the circumstances." You probably dropped out of high-school, stating, "I ain't never gonna use nothin' I learned here, noways." But for the sake of the human race, get you and your son a vasectomy. Senseless procreation isn't necessarily beneficial to society.

Now that I've offended...well, probably everyone, I'm not talking about the parents that have decided to actually raise their children. Just the guys who think that all they have to do is conceive and their job is done. I mean really, do you think it's that great of a deed...It's the one thing that absolutely everyone can do.

Ramblings of an irate customer

I walk up to this table, with two elderly women. I attempt to present my required spiel, however am quite rudely interupted by the woman on my right.

"What's with the asparagus?!" she asks.

Well, I suppose that it could just be paragus that tastes like the exit portal for human excrement. Its green? It's a vegetable. It's long and narrow, and some people like to eat it. Any of these could be appropriate responses, however I opt for the correct, 'server' response.

"What?"

"The asparagus!" she sneers, as she points to asparagus on the menu. "Do you have it?"

"Let me check...yes."

"And it's $1.99?"

I look at the menu, where she is pointing, "Move your finger for a second, yes ma'am, the asparagus is $1.99. However, that is the substitution price. Which means that you can substitute the asparagus for your side dish, for $1.99"

"Alright then," she says. "I think I'll have the shrimp....uh...what does that say? oh, linguini, al...al...alfredo. With that, I will have the asparagus, and a Caesar salad."
To which I respond, "Well, with that dinner, the asparagus will be more than $1.99, because the pasta dishes do not come with any sides."

"Well, since when?!!" she yells, as I start to notice the beginnings of an irate customer. "I came in here just last week, and got a side with a pasta dish. You must be new!"

"No," I say. "Regrettably, I've been with the company for five years, now. And we've never served sides with our pastas."
"Well, how much more is it going to be for the asparagus?!" she says, as the inflexion in her voice, tends towards the angry side.

"Probably, about 2 dollars. That's the price of a normal side dish," I reply.

"Well, that doesn't make any sense. And what's with the probably? You don't know how much its going to be?!!! Do you think you could, perhaps, check?!"

"Sure," I say. I walk to the nearest computer, check the price, and return to the table. At this point, the woman has summonsed another server over to the table. Perhaps in hopes, that I was lying to her, as servers so often tend to do, or possibly for some perspective on her glaring lack of intelligence.

"$3.99," I blurt, in the middle of the conversation, to relieve the other server from the incoherent, babble rant of the irate customer.

"Ah...well...I cannot believe this!" The woman says, exacerbated. She violently picks up her menu, then slams it back onto the table. She then proceeds to read the portion of the menu, describing the side items, aloud, as though I am hearing it for the first time. "Accompaniments: unless noted, all entees come with: Freshly baked Cheddar Bay Bisquits, garden or caesar salad, or cole slaw. With the exception of...er...umm (this is where she should have said pasta dishes) entrees also come with baked potato, homestyle mashed potatoes, french fries, wild rice pilaf, or fresh brocolli"

She then points to the substitutions portion of the menu, which quite boldly displays the word substitutions, then explains, in diluted language, that these items may be substituted for any side dish, for an additional upcharge. It then displays each upcharge, paired with its corresponding item. The asparagus, does in fact, have the price $1.99 next to it.

"I don't understand!" she proclaims. "The menu says $1.99! Why are you telling me that I'm going to have to pay $3.99?!"

At this point, I realize that logic is not on my side.

"Well, I apologize," I say, politely. "Perhaps they should write the menu so that people can understand it."

"That's right they should! You tell the chef that if I'm going to have to pay $3.99 for asparagus, he should put that on the menu (I should note that I work in a corporate chain restaurant. Not only do we not have chefs. The chefs that we do not have, do not write the menu.) I don't understand why he would put $1.99. I want to see the manager!"

"Of course," I say.

I inform the manager that the guest on table 81 is deeply disturbed by our asparagus situation. And that she would like to speak with a manager immediately. The manager, quite perplexed, asks me, "what's the asparagus situation?"

"Well, I wasn't aware that there was an asparagus situation either, but as the kind lady on table 81 has so politely pointed out, the language describing our asparagus pricing is quite convoluted, and she is quite confused."

I stand by the bar as I watch the manager approach the table. I'm quite entertained as I notice the woman's arms flailing frantically through the air. The manager's head bobs, slightly, back and forth. After about five minutes of the pantamime show, the manager returns, and says, "She wants the fried shrimp, instead of the pasta. Charge her for the asparagus, and give her a free side of mashed potatoes."

Of course. Mashed potatoes was the answer all along. I now know that when logic fails me, mashed potatoes is the answer. Whenever a guest is confused, I will blurt the phrase, 'mashed potatoes,' and all will be right with the world.

I'll skip the part where the woman informs me, upon recieving her fried shrimp, that she despises anything that is breaded.

The gym scence: a crazy counter-culture, or a frightening new reality for men?

I'm fairly new to the gym scene, but from what I've gathered, as an average gym patron, two basic concepts should be kept in mind while attempting to improve one's physical health. If you're trying to build muscle mass, push or pull against varying resistance, with different body parts, in different directions. If you're trying burn fat, do something that makes your heart beat faster for sustained amounts of time. While I won't be trying out for Mr. Universe anytime soon, these two concepts have returned at least decent results in both categories.

Now, I have no intention of coming off as pious, and I certainly don't intend to pontificate on the nuances of sculpting a perfect body, as I have neither the experience nor the knowledge to do so. I have, however, noticed some peculiar behaviors upon my visits to the gym, some real head-scratchers. It seems to me that if one were to fork over thirty to forty hard-earned dollars a month to an establisment, especially in these financially recessed times, one would have the intention of recieving some sort of benefit from said establishment. That being said, I'll further explain my confusion with a couple examples.

The treadmills seem to be popular pieces of equipment in the gym; I suppose because they provide most of the benefits of jogging around town, while eliminating the pesky elements of the outdoors, and providing an added bonus of being able to watch The Daily Show, or The Colbert Report (or whatever show the treadmillist desires, so long as it's on expanded basic cable). More accurately, treadmills can provide most of the benefits of jogging around town, so long as the treadmillist properly utilizes the treadmill. I'm no expert, as previously implied, and I'm definitely not in a position to properly explain the biological functions of the human of the human body, but I'm fairly certain that the 300 lb. guy on the treadmill, that I see every time I enter the gym, isn't going to shed those pounds by walking at a leisurely pace, while watching television, with interstitial periods of stagnation. My criticism doesn't come without advice. Buy an Ipod, download some television shows, and walk around the block a few times. It should save money in the long run.

The dumbells are also popular pieces of equipment, and rightfully so. They provide varying resistance, which one can use to push or pull in different directions. The majority of the dumbellists that I've noticed, and also attempted to emulate, utilize a carefully calculated strategy while dumbelling. That is, they incrementally increase both their repetitions and/or amount of resistance upon each visit to the gym. However, I've also noticed the skinny guys (I can empathize, as I am also one of those skinny guys) that return to the gym on a daily basis, choose the ten-pound dumbells, flail around like a palm tree in a hurricane for several minutes, return the ten-pound dumbells to the rack, walk several laps around the gym, then repeat. I must admit, I tried the palm tree method once or twice, but quickly fell out of favor. Again, I can't give a detailed explanation as to why the palm tree method doesn't work, but through simple observation, I've compared the palm tree guys with the carefully calculated strategy guys, and I'm going to have to say that the strategy guys win.

Beyond the single guys that don't seem to be learning from the trials and tribulations of becoming a bona fide gym patron, I always notice a group of gentlemen wandering around aimlessly, during the peak hours. This group is generally led by some guy that looks like he lives in the gym, that could probably bench press me, and followed by four or five guys that look like the only exercise they receive is wandering aimlessly around the gym. I realize that the first step in the logical thought process would be, "well, he's probably a personal trainer, and he's showing them around the gym." However, this particular gym is a small one, and does not provide personal trainers. Also, I've seen the same group of guys wandering around in the eight months since I joined. The lives-in-the-gym guy seems to be more knowledeable about the major muscle groups than a Harvard med-student, and his followers seem to be taking in less knowledge than Bluto from Animal House.

Now that we're on the subject of live-in-the-gym guys, I pose the question: when did it become socially acceptable for men to stand in front of a mirror and observe themselves flex every muscle in their body for extended periods of time? I understand that the official reason for the wall-length mirror in the gym is so that dumbellists and barbellists can watch themselves, to make sure they're using proper form, and I also understand that proper form is important for those, unlike me, who wish explore the nuances of sculpting a perfect body. What I can't understand is, the concept of bulky, muscular men that act like women. The kicker is that, from what I've generalized, the majority of the gym-tweeners (gym-tweeners being the guys that are somewhere between completely out of shape and Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime) aspire to be one these bulky guys that flex their muscles in the mirror. I make this generalization because I see guys that look like me (imagine Screech from saved by the bell), wearing sleeveless shirts, flexing their imaginary muscles in the mirror.

Perhaps I'm overgeneralizing (probably an understatement), but I see evidence of the point that I've been trying to meander towards, which I realize is a bit unclear at this point (the modern day man is more concerned about his looks than the modern day woman), when I visit clubs and bars. The man in a modern day club or bar isn't just concerned about confidence, suaveness or the ability to convince the unwitting woman to consent to a night in bed with him, he's also, and probably a bit more, concerned with how the lighting effects reflect off his biceps. I find this awfully disconcerting.

Men, are we moving towards a society in which we have to do all the work in the mating ritual? I think we are, and we're doing it to ourselves. Women used to be the half of the species that had to be concerned with appearance, right? And appearance takes quite a bit of effort. Now we're in the appearance game, which means, not only are we buying the drinks for the women, and selling ourselves like a Billy Mays (R.I.P.) infomercial, we're also spending our free time primping and prodding, putting product in our hair, sculpting our bodies and looking for the perfect shirt to match our shoes, while the women are reaping the benefits.

I for one, am completely fed up!...

Did you believe me?

I suppose I'll settle for being a hybrid, modern man. I'm going for the perfect proporiton of skinny-guy beer-belly (I've put a lot of time and effort into that little guy), and kinda-sorta muscular dude. At least I can kinda-sorta stick to my quasi-convictions.

Directions from a stoner

I haven't smoked pot, regularly, in about five years. In fact, the last time I smoked at all, was about a year and a half ago. At which point, I was smoking at a rate of about twice every year. I don't want to give the wrong impression. This isn't some self-righteous, anti-drug sermon. I used to partake in rockin' the ganj', smokin' the left-handed cigarettes, sparkin' the doobies, rollin' the blunts, wake 'n' baking, or any other colloquialism that you can relate to. I used to smoke A LOT.
But in my five years of 'clearing the fog,' I've learned a few things. Or perhaps I should say, re-learned a few things. Not one of which is the fact that one needs one's keys the first time that one attempts to get in one's car. I've come to realize that just because you are an ex-stoner, it doesn't mean that you're not going to show up to work, and realize that you've forgotten your shoes (which is a completely different story, for another time).

I've learned that the people at 7-11 will always think that you are a stoner. Seriously, a man can't go into 7-11 at two in the morning, buy a bag of chips, a jar of cheese-dip, a twix bar, a snickers, a pint of ice cream, a box of popcorn, one of those single serving cereals, a half-gallon of milk, and a Gatorade, without the cashiers thinking that he's a stoner? What is this world coming to? I'm just extremely indecisive.

After five years of more-or-less (I don't want to use the word sobriety, because that would imply something that I am not) marijuana abstinence, I think I'm finally starting to realize why people would get so annoyed with me when I was still in a fog. When one is stoned, simple tasks become near-impossible.

I had promised a guy a ride to work. I called him before I left, to get directions.

"Hello, is this John (not his real name)?"

"What's up man?" <---I'll put John in italics

"So...how do I get to your house?"

"huh?"

"You still need a ride, right?"

"Ohhhh...yeah. hehehe."

"Alright, well I need to know how to get to where you are, in order to be where you are, so that I
can get you to where you want to be."

"whoa...that's deep, man"

"Well, I didn't realize I was making such a prophetic statement; however, I still need to know
where you live."

"Oh yeah, man...alright. Do you know where Market street is?"

"No, I do not."

"Wow, that sucks...'cause I do..." (silence)

"Uhhh...O.K. How do I get to Market street?"

"Well, do you know where the Sweet Bay is?"

"Yes, I know where about seven Sweet Bays are."

"Awesome..." (silence)

"Is there one Sweet Bay, in particular, that I should be looking for?"

"Dude, Sweet Bay...Are you going there? Could you pick me up some food?"

"..."

"Are ya still there?"

"You could just hitchhike, ya know?"

"Oh yeah, directions. Do you know where Market Street is?"

"...!"

"Hey....Which way are you coming from?"

"I do not know which way I am coming from, because I do not know where I am going to."

"whoa...that's deep, man."

"...!!"

"Oh yeah, Do you know where Main Street is?"

"Yes I do."

"Well, it's kinda near Market Street. Oh..."

"Alright, how near?"

"Well, ya get on Main Street. Then ya drive a while, and then you'll see Maryland Avenue. But
you don't wanna get on Maryland Avenue. Ya wanna get on Missouri Avenue, which is off of
Maryland Avenue."

"I thought you said that I didn't want to get on Maryland."

"Ya don't, ya want Missouri Avenue."

"Well, how am I supposed to...nevermind. What's after Missouri?"

"Dude, I don't know, you tell me."

"Dammit!"

"No wait...I know...Well, ya go up Missouri Avenue, and I'm right there on the left...on Palm
Street."

"What?!"

"Yeah, Palm Street."

"I thought we were on Missouri."

"No...Why would we be on Missouri? Aren't we in different places?"

"You know what?!! How 'bout I just drive to Main Street? And I'll call you from there. That
sounds like a fantastic idea. Even better, I'll just goto work, and you can call me if figure out how the fuck to get to your house. If you call me before I get to work, then I'll pick you up. If not, well
I suppose you're out of luck."

Men are slowly turning into women

As a man, buying personal hygiene products used to be a simple process. You go into the store, you find the cheapest bottle of shampoo, the cheapest pack of soap bars, look for some sort of buy one get twelve free deal on deodorant sticks, buy a 32-pack of disposable razors, a one-gallon canister of shaving cream, throw in some toothpaste and mouthwash, and you're done. All in under 90 seconds.

But men, are we turning into women? I walk into the store now, and the hygiene section is inundated with a wide variety of fragranced products, marketed towards men. I used to ask two simple questions when buying some sort of cleanser for my body. Will it kill germs? Will it cause me to not smell like a sweaty bastard? And generally, the answer to both was yes, unless I happened to be in the wrong aisle at the time…say, the poultry aisle.

Now, I am forced to ask myself all kinds of questions that I never thought I would have to ask, when buying personal hygiene products. Questions like, Viper? Why would I want to smell like a viper? Don't they slither around in the dirt all day? Phoenix? Do they mean like Phoenix, Arizona? I've never been there. Does it smell nice? Clix? C'mon…that's not even a noun. Scratch that. It's not even a word. And if it were a word, it would not be a person, place, or thing. And if it is not one of these items, how am I supposed to know what it smells like?

What happened to a simple bar of soap? Where did all of these 'masculine' body washes come from? Am I going to need some sort of poofy contraption to use this stuff?

I glance at the women's portion of the body cleansing section, which seems to be smaller than the men's portion these days. They have things like, raspberries and lilac. Now that I can understand. I can visualize a raspberry and imagine what it smells like. Also, while I have no idea what a lilac, specifically, smells like, I know that a lilac is a flower, thanks to the fancy packaging. And flowers smell pleasant. They also have things like, pear-scented body spray, and white chocolate mocha. Fantastic. I know what all of those things smell like.

Anyways, I'm standing in the hygiene section at Walgreen's, confounded by the assortment of choices before me, when a young lady approaches and asks,

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Well, maybe," I say. "What does Phoenix smell like?"

"What?" she says, quite confused.

"Phoenix, what does it smell like?"

"Uhhh…I've never been," she replies.

"Neither have I," I say. "It just seems like, if I'm going to buy a product that's going to make me smell a certain way, I should probably know what that product smells like, don't ya think?"

"Um…I guess," she says.

"What about snake peel?" I inquire. "I wasn't aware that a snake peel had a particular scent."

"Well, I uh…" she says as she raises an eyebrow. "I don't know."

"This re-load sounds kind of cool," I say. "It kinda sounds like you're reloading a gun or something. But I don't think I'm lookin' for something that sounds good. I want something that smells good. This isn't going to make me smell like a gun is it?"

The young lady scratches her head, and laughs. I think she's laughing at me, not with me, though. "Ya know, it might. I don't think so, though."

"Well, good," I say. "I don't want to smell like a smoking barrel when I get out of the shower. I don't think that will attract the ladies."

"Yeah, I don't know," she says.

"Should I invest in a poof?" I ask.

"What?" She asks through broken laughter.

"Ya know, a poof," I say as I slightly bend my fingers, and jut my hands, back and forth, towards each other. "One of those things, on a string…it's a poof."

"Um…you could just use a washcloth."

"Good idea," I say. "That way I'll feel like a man when I'm applying my body wash."

"Uh…yep."

"Thank you," I say. "You've been a great help. I can see why you work here."