Leftovers, Glass Doors, and the Golden Goat
Upon a circumspect glance at my online transcript, it was bound to end up this way: summer school was inevitable. Although it was only January at the time, the track marks of first semester lumped me into the rejected bin with all the other discarded resumes and cheesy cover letters; diagnosed with a case of “born slacker.” When a “B” is the pinnacle of your report card you start wishing for the days when the worst thing on your card would be an “NI.” With this knowledge and little else it was clear to me that I lacked the appropriate muster to be anywhere near the top 50th percentile of the class ranks. This rating system is of imperative concern for the one reason I enrolled in law school: money.
While there are still two blissful years until I complete this scornful task, it is now only 80 days until recruiting for next summer’s internship positions, where top firms interview and offer students anywhere from $10/hour to $4000 a week to intern at their firm. “Intern” is not really the term as it is more like apprenticing since it is out of this position that one will most likely receive a job offer, and a good one at that. This all largely depends, rather exclusively, on your class ranking, the primary parameter for measuring success for both law students and the law firms that recruit them. And although I don’t know the exact numerical value, I have a pretty good approximation that I fall somewhere between the 51st percentile and absolute dogshit. Most good firms won’t even look at you if you fall out of the 50th, and if you’re dog shit…well, maybe it’s time to bag it up and torch the thing. This reality is what has brought me to the inevitable conclusion and currently places me in a small dorm room in a relatively unquaint suburb of Istanbul.
There are quite a few reasons for choosing such a seemingly arbitrary locale. First is the climate that could rival San Diego in its renowned perfection. After four days it hasn’t rained once and they’ve told us it probably won’t rain at all. It is 80-85 during the day and 65-75 at night. However, this isn’t the paramount reason for my 5,228 mile sojourn in Chicken Town. The chiefmost purpose is to take full advantage of the purported ease of the assigned courses. In Turkey, as it is in most places around the world, law is taught at the undergraduate level. Surely I can excel when I have to compete with a bunch of freshmen? For the time being I liken it to a fight between my present self and my incarnation at eighteen. I could beat up my former self. Couldn’t I? Well, maybe not but at this point that doesn’t matter. All I need to do is outwit the bastard.
Second in my choice was the scant alternatives for remedying my atrocious GPA. To stay at home and take summer school would have meant three hour classes that would end around 11pm, living at home, and either getting a job or hearing a refraining chorus of “Lovefool” from a parent telling me to go get a job. At that rate, I’d be taking tax law and crossing my balls for a good grade and an excruciatingly humid Washington summer. Here, it’s kolay sokak, which my pocket Turkish guide is telling me translates to easy street. I am plagued with a daunting courseload that includes a.) Civil Rights in the Middle East, and b.) Business in the Middle East. Sure there were other abroad programs to less estranged countries: there was a month in the Hague, the party city of the Netherlands that hosts the International Court of Justice.
The most maternally endorsed option was the four week program with students culled exclusively from my own law school that encompassed a week each in London, Brussels, Paris, and Geneva. When it came down to it, I just couldn’t bring myself to travel 4000 miles away from law school and still be making small talk and sharing awkward pauses with the same people I wanted to avoid for the summer. Finally, there was a program in Santiago, Chile that shared some similarities to this one. After looking into it further, I quickly realized that it would be winter. To put the icing on that cake is the notorious stigma Chile has for its incredibly ugly women, title-winner of most heinous in South America for quite some time now.
The situation in Turkey seems to be just the opposite: perfect weather and olive-oil women. Nonetheless, the female prognosis may be quashed for several reasons. First, is the language barrier and like any country I’ve invaded, the inherent xenophobia associated with a pale-faced, 6’1’’ blatant American looking for a little Turkish delight.[1] Couple that off with my surname and nationality and getting laid here will be something of an oddity and I’d probably have to bet the odds-against if Vegas was taking wagers on me landing a quality Turkish rug.
I have been here four days now and although my hands are always in my pockets and my eyes wide, I like the place fine. It seems that half the people are eager to help me and the other half are just trying to con. A cab driver, who upon entering asked how many days I had been here in Istanbul, attempted to extract $17 for a five minute cab ride. As he screamed repeatedly “THIS IS TURKEY! THIS IS TURKEY!” I exited the cab, or should I say my mother and I exited the cab and threw a 5 lira ($3.33) note into his cab. Asshole.
As for the campus, I’m happy to say that I’ve made the right choice. Whereas I’d be living out of a suitcase in the four week, four city European expedition, here I have my own bathroom at a university whose campus is hilly and serene, its buildings all having been constructed within the last ten years. At the student center, there are two swimming pools, one indoor, one outdoor, and several balconies that serve as vistas overlooking Istanbul. On the mountainside adjacent to the dorm and sandwiched between two massive Turkish flags is a Stalin-esque poster depicting Kemal Ataturk, who the tour guide deemed the George Washington of modern Turkey. Passing by the likeness the other day, I pointed at Father Turk:
“Whose that chick?” I asked. It was just loud enough for some students to hear. Upon their reaction, I’ve concluded that maybe there’s an unwritten law that there’s a hundred-year grace period until you can make a joke about someone’s leader.[2] We’ll call it the Lincoln rule.
Another thing that the tour guide also said is that the city is built on seven hills, like Rome or Cincinnati. I heard this anecdote several times from two different tour guides and it must be in the manual under Section “lower-cased j” of developing a common bond between you and your rich and stupid American tourists. Either way, I guess it’s time to check out the real Cin City.
The campus isn’t all rosewater though. Besides my inability to speak and my not-so-paranoid idea that I am a novelty amongst the students, the only tangible complaint is to whoever the fuck decided to design a dorm room with glass doors. To this person I say a healthy and hearty “fuck you, you aesthetic fuckwad” for designing a dorm with absolutely no foresight whatsoever. In addition to glass doors, the school employs energy-saving track lighting that makes walking the halls seem like a bad Japanese horror film. Each time a young girl decides to skip along the hallway at 3 a.m. you can expect the lights to flicker on and illuminate your once-dark bedroom, with your glass door unwontedly turning itself into a seven-foot flashlight every 32 seconds. This door also serves as an excellent reverberator of sound, making even the most trivial whisper completely coherent. So thanks for the dorm room Frank Lloyd Fuck.[3]
There’s also a problem about alcohol on campus. There isn’t any and it’s strictly prohibited because of Islam and stuff. Of course, this didn’t stop me from buying a bottle of Johnny Walker Red yesterday and a six-pack of terrible Turkish beer earlier today, ignoring the request of a Turkish security guard for a search of my belongings.
“English?” I asked knowingly.
She said something further.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
Finally she just waived me off and I kept walking, Scotch in the bag.
Scotch or not it’s already occurring to me that this is something I wasn’t ready for. The other day I was walking down the main drag outside of campus when something made me turn and stop. What looked to be a normal gas station was not just a gas station. There was a fucking goat sitting there. After several double takes I just started laughing. The goat had been painted bright yellow. How’s that for a fucking oddity.
We’re not in Wichita anymore and as for what will happen this month I cannot say. What I do know is what I am capable of, meeting new people, having new awkward pauses and more terrible small talk. This time I’m up for it. If I’m feeling particularly sprightly, I may even ask for seconds. Like on Thanksgiving.
I have a month to study in Turkey and at the rate it’s going there may not be anything left over. That is unless the vultures get to me first. Carve me up real nice. If I do get cooked though let’s I hope I get a chef who knows what he’s doing. I don’t want people to saying that his grilled American “needs improvement.”
[1] The average height for a male in Turkey is just under 5’8’’.
[2] Actually, I’ve just learned after-the-fact of course that it is borderline illegal to make a derogatory comment about Ataturk. In 2005, just a year before winning the Nobel Prize, Turkish novelist Orhan Pamuk was charged with a crime for his remarks concerning the Armenian and Kurdish conflicts and Ataturk. The case was dropped but such remarks are still largely prohibited.
[3] Another fuck you to whoever installed the electrical systems here. I electrocuted myself this morning while unplugging my laptop.
Robbing The Venetian Blind Part I: A Cyst to Please Turn Over Ratio
I’m waiting to place an order. Largely ignored, I put my elbows on the counter to look anxious. I haven’t had much to drink today. There’s a girl at the other end of the counter who looks like she’s been waiting awhile. She’s blonde and she appears to be alone, tight jeans and a black sweater. I try to stare while not looking like a suspect.[1] The guy on the other side of the counter goes over to take her order.
“I’m sorry ma’m, but we don’t seem to have your Yaz in yet. Could you come back tomorrow?” asks the man.
I’m at the pharmacy waiting for my prescription to come through. There’s a hospital bracelet on my wrist where I was discharged about an hour earlier. Just four days ago a similar looking bracelet adorned my wrist and admitted me into a much happier place; a place where girls dangle on tension wires and the cheapest drink is a $9 Bud Light; a place where anything is possible if you have enough cash, cars, and Quaaludes. But now, as I wait in line for my own prescription, all I can think about is how much my ass hurts.
The pharmacist is calling up the distributor for her.
“Yes, I need more Yaz,” I hear him say. The girl sort of recoils as the volume is a tone higher than you would want your pharmacist to use when refilling your birth control prescription.[2] At least we know she’s up for it.
As much as I’d like to pursue this issue further, I quickly remember my own disposition. I recall that if it magically does come down to shirts and skins at least one of us will be wearing disposable underwear. It’s not her…my butt hurts.
Round 1: One Week Earlier
I was wide awake for the first Friday morning in recent memory. Already I’d forked over $200 for the day’s games, checked my bracket, ordered a Denver omelette, and finished my fifth cup of coffee. After placing our bets, we walk through the casino floor en route to the cab stand. A man is gently escorted out of the Heart Bar by several large security guards, his grey Wisconsin Badgers shirt slung over his head like it’s the end of Children of Men. No one looks twice. The grandmas turn back to video poker and the cocktail waitresses continue to serve free drinks. It’s 8 a.m. on a Friday morning in Las Vegas.
It’s hard not to laugh at something like that while also imagining a black car on a single-lane highway, a hungover Wiconsinite in the trunk, lots of duct tape, some vultures, and a cozy hole in the desert. Whatever, it’s March Madness and there are better things to do.
Although many would call it a waste I maintain that there’s nothing wrong with spending an entire day inside a smoke-filled, movie theater getting free drinks while watching other people be active. It’s 6 p.m. and we’ve been sitting in the same lounge chairs since breakfast ended. Sprawled out in front of us are at least 30 HD screens showing four games.
Three others have joined me on this gambling odyssey including JewJo, Jammy, and my cousin Monkey. I excuse myself to the bathroom for the first time in twelve hours. The urinals are equipped with splashguards and cigarette holders for those who don’t want to put out their cigarette and reach for another one just because they have to take a piss, the fact that thousands of other people who haven’t washed their hands all day have used this is small beans compared with having to reach into your pocket for another.
The cab line is at least thirty people deep. JewJo[3] looks pissed. He needs to get back to the poker room.
“Fuck man, this line’s gonna take forever,” he sighs.
“No it won’t,” says Jammy.[4]
“There’s at least 15 cabs in front of us,” JewJo retorts.
“There’s definitely not more than 11,” Jammy responds.
A sudden smirk slaps itself across JewJo’s face. I know what’s coming.
“Wanna bet?”
It’s sidebet time.
Sidebets are the wagers made between friends that can range anywhere from sports betting to more personal agendas. I lost my sidebet to Jammy yesterday, saying that JewJo’s’ first word upon entering our room would be either, a.) Yo., b.) Up, c.) Big,[5] d.) Yao[6]. Jammy took the field. JewJo’s first words were “My amigos” and I lost three bucks.
There are exactly eleven cabs ahead of us and JewJo hands Jammy a five dollar bill in complete disgust.
Returning to the hotel I’m down 300 for the day. I’m one drink and a hundred dollars away from accepting someone’s indecent proposal. With not one to be found I settle for a daiquiri. Actually make that two daiquiris…sorry…three daiquiris in preparation for a Cirque de Soleil show.
Four daiquiris later and I’m in the lobby of another hotel. Monkey, who I believe has matched me daiquiri for daiquiri, is singing Andrea Boccelli in the lobby at a very high decibel level. Once inside the theater, a performer/usher wearing eyeliner and dressed in a cape tells us to keep it down. Apparently someone in the row behind us didn’t like my cousin’s Amistad joke.[7]
“Take me to your emperor!” Monkey demands, “There’s an urgent matter I must discuss with him.”
Miraculously we don’t get thrown out of the theater. None of us have a good memory of the show due to either a daiquiri induced sleep or a daiquiri induced drunken haze. Looking back, the three things I recall are flaming bows and arrows, a man in a turtle costume, and a shitload of backflips.
A man dressed as a ninja pulls another ninja towards him with a rope.
“Get over here!” roars Monkey.
“Finish him!” he continues.
“Fatality, Scorpion wins.”
[1] A skill mastered after years of walking to class and getting caught looking.
[2] From what I’m told apparently Nuva Ring is better though I’m not sure telling her that would put me in her good graces.
[3] This is short for Jewish Jordan. The original Jewish Jordan was named Tamir Goodman. He played high school basketball in Baltimore and was almost recruited by the University of Maryland until they realized that he sucked at basketball and couldn’t play games on Shabbat. JewJo has stolen this nickname as he once tried out for our high school basketball team but never made it. He said it was because “the system was against him.” We say it’s because he’s Jewish and slower than a banana slug.
[4] Jammy got his moniker because he still wears pajamas when it’s time for bed, which for him is around 9:30. He can basically fall asleep at any time and it is my suspicion that he has borderline narcolepsy. There have been many occasions where people have placed certain appendages on his face and he didn’t bat an eye.
[5] As in Big Worm. Long story.
[6] As in, Yao Ming. As in, “you know what I mean.”
[7] Some jokes are better left untold.
Robbing The Venetian Blind Part II: A Cyst to Please Turn Over Ratio
Pursuing an Eiffel Tower
I’m up at 7 a.m. for the third morning in a row. There’s a morning ritual to be maintained and Jammy and I leave the other two in their beds sucking their thumbs. By “their beds” I am really referring to “our beds” as the four of us are sharing two queens. When you’re 24 and jobless sleeping with another man is a risk you have to take. One person sleeps over the sheets and the other sleeps underneath to prevent any awkward breakfasts. This rarely happens. Almost no one goes to breakfast.
The recovery on Saturday morning involves three slices of breakfast pizza, two eggs benedicts, and our daily stop at the sportsbook. Since the games begin at 9, by the time I’m done stuffing my face, it’s time to start a new day of sitting on my ass and doing absolutely nothing. I’ve been doing a lot of sitting lately and I’ve noticed a strange twinge has emerged in my lower back. I shrug it off as the small price of being a lazy bastard and resume watching the Utah v. Arizona game. There’s a group of rowdy Arizona students on spring break sitting next to us.
Arizona’s Chase Budinger throws a successful alley-oop. They’re up by double-digits.
“Yeah!” says one of them.
“Yeah bitch! That’s what I’m talking about! Where you at Utah?! Where you at Utah?!”
“Obviously not in a sportsbook,” I say to Jammy.
Cousin Monkey meets up with us and we resume watching the games. JewJo is in the poker room at the Bellagio. Besides the waitresses scrounging for tips, the sportsbook is a Polish, Italian, and German sausage convention. This isn’t surprising.
March Madness is the ultimate male weekend in Vegas. When I boarded the flight I counted a total of 20 women on a plane of 110 passengers. It’s not that there’s a dearth of women though. In fact there are plenty here in Vegas. Just not in the sportsbook. After realizing that we’ve been sitting in hot dog heaven for ten hours, we amend to a change of venue.
When I was in Copenhagen, they said that walking around the main part of the city for an hour was the equivalent to smoking a pack of cigarettes. Putting that figure in Vegas terms, I’ve probably smoked the equivalent of four packs in the past two days. I’ve had a cough since Thursday afternoon and my fingers keep reaching for something that isn’t there. Monkey, a habitually trained smoker, has had three cigarettes in the past two days and can’t figure out why he still has a full pack.
The three of us take a timeout from the games and head over to the Bellagio.I pick up another daiquiri on the way to our destination. The container is a yard-long, plastic beaker that holds 96 ounces of liquid courage. (other daiquiri containers include the electric guitar and the Eiffel Tower).[1]
Call Me Israel
By the third day of our trip I’m down about 600 bucks, excluding expenses. As with any unfamiliar city you have to get your ass kicked a few times before you figure it out. In Vegas this takes several trips.
For instance, when someone tells you that they’re staying two hotels down it can easily translate into a ten minute walk. This makes cabs a viable alternative, which if you’re from any urban area on the east coast, you’ve been instinctively programmed to avoid. The cab drivers are awesome here, engaging, talkative, informative, and some of them can get you sweet deals on strip clubs and other shit for no additional charge (I assume).
Our cab driver’s name is Israel. I’m not sure he knows that he is currently transporting four people from his namesake.
“If you guys want here is my card, I can get you good deal on a strip club. Free drinks.” JewJo takes the card. “Good deal, good girls,” he insists.
“I’m not really interested in any honey, but you’re saying that there will be milk?” I ask.
The other three Jews in the car crack up. Despite his name, I’m not sure that Israel’s a regular at the Vegas JCC.
We slowly amble out of the cab and into our tenth casino since Thursday, meeting an old school friend who just moved out here as an engineer. We give Monkey a ride to the airport and somehow end up at a nightclub. Standing outside the velvet rope, we see a guy approach a bouncer and point to his gigantic jewel-encrusted wristwatch. He doesn’t even have to say anything. The bouncer parts the red rope and the dude walks in with the rest of his crew.
We’re worried that they won’t let us in. JewJo looks and is dressed exactly like a twelve-year old tennis player. Fearing rejection, I take off my jacket and hand it to him, not caring that he’s got a frame three inches and sixty pounds lighter than my own. He puts it on and looks like fucking David Byrne.
After they admit all the hot people for free, they let the normals inside for just $30. All four of us have to pay $30. We look like the Beastie Boys, only gawkier and more Jewish. How’s that for a fucking crew?!
March Madness is not a valid insanity plea
I’ve done spring break, Oktoberfest, and Mardi Gras but what now transpires is indulgence and excess at an unprecedented level. Two weeks later, I can still barely comprehend the whole thing.
We enter a club that could easily double for a great rap video; girls dancing, strobe lights, songs with Autotune, and faint cues that would lead one to suspect the bathrooms aren’t just for applying eyeliner and taking a shit.
Ten minutes at the bar and I have a $9 Bud Light that’s half-finished by the time I find the rest of the group. They don’t acknowledge me and I can’t blame them when I see what they’re looking at: two girls in skintight dresses dancing up on each other while dangling from tension wires. These are not strippers, these are not dancers, these are regular patrons.
That isn’t even the crazy part about the ordeal. What’s absolutely mind-blowing is how everybody else in the club seems to be taking it; that it’s commonplace and completely normal for gorgeous women, who aren’t even being paid, to dance on poles, girders, and makeshift monkey bars for five blissful hours.
We don’t talk for about five minutes and I think JewJo says “Oh my G-d” about a hundred times. In terms of communication with the opposite sex, we all good-naturedly agree that it’s a futile endeavor. Talking to one of these girls would be as much of an otiose exercise as a unic reading the Kama Sutra.
Finally managing to move past guttural fragments and into coherent sentences, we all agree to move to the west coast (or at least I’m in).
[1] Additional ideas for daiquiri containers to be sold in Vegas:
a. A ball and chain mace. Chain acts as curly straw of vengeance.
b. A skull.
c. A Dirk Diggler trademark with a straw in it. Reasoning includes the incredible number of bachelorette parties in Vegas, bros trying to be ironic, regular people trying to be ironic, homosexuals, and people who just find it hilarious to drink out of a giant cock. Bonus points for people who order the small.
d. A gun that can spray daiquiri. Reasoning includes the ability to deter would be thugs from screwing with you when you’re walking the Strip sloppy and alone at 3 a.m., truly hoping that you’re headed in the right direction.
Robbing The Venetian Blind Part III: A Cyst to Please Turn Over Ratio
Not wanting to leave…
“Unless a girl’s dancing on tension wires, I’m never getting an erection ever again,” says JewJo.
We’re still in a stupor from last night. We’ve seen things that have altered our perceptions about what is possible. We can never go back to the way things used to be. We’ve been to the top of the mountain.[1] After taking in the view, now begins our climb back down.
This is not to say last night was a total bust. What has hopefully come out of all this is a newly instilled sense of false self-confidence that will transcend to our adventures on the east coast with average girls who have similar delusions of grandeur. The four of us stood toe-to-fake-tits with the best that Vegas had to offer. We realized that although we weren’t the best, we could still stand with the best for a $30 entry fee.
We recap last night at an empty Jack-in-the-Box over 99 cent tacos and Mr. Pibb.
“As great as it was, I’m burnt out. Four days in Vegas is enough,” says Jammy.
As much as I want to tell him he’s an idiot and has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, that he’s made $10 bets on games the entire weekend and finished plus $17 and violated the code of go big or go home, I have to agree with him. Today, I am ready to go home. Vegas has kicked my ass once again. I’m down about $800 for the week and it’s getting increasingly harder to sit. I’m ready for my red eye flight home and bad movie that comes with it. Plus, I have International Law about three hours after we land.
Maybe you should sit down for this
There is no greater disparity than the looks on the faces of the new arrivals and departures at McCarran International Airport. The people coming are happy and have the smirk that they’re going to take it down and have the best time ever. Then there are those leaving, who, although they’ve had the best time ever, have the thousand yard stare affixed to their faces, zombies ready to get the fuck out of here and in some cases flee the scene of the crime.
Everyone in our terminal looks guilty, like they’ve done something they shouldn’t have done. Whether it involved someone with an “I” at the end of her first and only name I cannot say for sure. 12% of people have seen something inserted into somebody, 37% of people have inserted something into them. Regardless of which contingent demographic you fall into, I’m tolerant enough to sit next to you on the plane.
The only problem is that I’m standing now. Sitting has become virtually unbearable. The pain is excruciating in my aisle seat and I grimace through the entirety of Quantum of Solace, struggling to fall asleep. Two cross-country flights, 12 hour days watching games, and averaging probably 15 hours a day sitting through law school, television, and other assorted lethargic activities has taken its toll.
A cyst to turn over
Three days later I’m at the hospital. I have a cyst and the doctor says she has to remove an abcess that has formed where my back meets my ass. There’s a large needle involved and it easily clinches the top spot of the three most excruciating experiences I’ve ever had, neatly nestled in between my future first wife and planar fasciitis. Despite all the pain that came from the weekend, I’d still adamantly say it was a good time. Aside from the minor ass surgery, I wouldn’t change a thing.
I hope that I’ve offered a good guide to March Madness in Vegas for future partakers. Although I literally got my ass handed to me, I know that I will be coming back for seconds. Then again, it’s probably best not to listen to someone wearing disposable underwear.
I’ve taken it all sitting down and now it’s time to do something different; to truly change my stance. I’m going to lie down. It’s time to sleep.
Taxi Driver
To conclude, I will now leave you in the hands of our very capable cab driver Mr. Ronald Bennett:
So there’s little Johnny, eight years old, and loves his parents. One day he has a nightmare and as he often does, opens his parents’ door where he finds his father and mother; the old man giving it to her from behind. The kid is aghast, speechless. His father and him lock eyes. Still banging away, his father begins to laugh hysterically.
“Close the door and go to your room. I’ll be in to talk to you in a few.”
The father finishes up and goes down to his son’s room. He knocks on the door. There’s no answer, just a strange, creaking sound.
“Johnny?”
The father opens the door to find little Johnny and own mother; Johnny giving it to his grandmother from behind.
The father doesn’t know what to say. The room smells like White Diamonds and Buick LeSabre. The father’s eyes begin to water as Johnny continues uninterrupted.
“Johnny! What the fuck are you doing!?”
Johnny turns to face the old man.
“Not so fucking funny when it’s your mother, is it?” Johnny replies.
[1] Paying $30 entry fee, not an upward climb of social mobility.
My Analysis, Yer Analysis Part I: A Primary Source Account of Mardi Gras as told through my colon
While I’m not a big believer in “science,” the one thing they got right was craniometry, the inbred cousin of phrenology. Basically this now dead science was used to determine someone’s personality from their facial structures. This brings us to the present day and the Constitutional Law class I am currently attending. The girl sitting next to me has these crazy bug eyes that write “stalker” all over her face. Today though, I’m truly feeling for her, and it’s not because of her crazy eyes that make her look like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. No, it’s because she has the extreme displeasure of sitting next to me.
I’ve launched a full-scale MGM Body War on myself. I am currently typing this with a largely sprained pinky finger; my hands are shaking from some kind of withdrawal; I haven’t shaved since Thursday; I took a shower in a sink right before hopping a flight back home at five in the morning. It wasn’t until after said shower that I realized my deodorant was packed under a bevy of dirty clothes. At that point, the cab was already outside. Fuck it.
One of the many things I have a gripe about is the people here who eat complicated meals in class. The rule should be that if you can eat it during a run (bar or candy of some sort), it’s fair game, otherwise, hold your stomach and forgo the nicoise salad.
Which brings us back to Crazy Eyes McGee. Swimfan’s meal is an anorexic’s ice cream sundae: three scoops of Greek yogurt and a shitload of walnuts. In addition to a tall glass of water there’s a bottle of something called NuStevia which I later find out to be a diet supplement which, according to its website, contains “absolutely no pesticides.” I also have a rash from the two cats I shared a couch/Aerobed with for the past four nights.[1] I also need “to go” in the scatological sense.
The sounds coming from my body sound like a muted bass drum and over the past few days I have eaten like a death row inmate the night before the Electric Slide. Since arriving Thursday in New Orleans my Carbon footprint has gone from Chinese footbinding to human Sasquatch. The following is an almost complete list of things that have been ingested over the past 80 hours:
Start, Thursday February 19, 2009 – 10:15 p.m.
One 12 inch chicken parm sandwich
One sprite, lemonade, and Bankers Rum drink
Four double whiskey and cokes – $2 each[2]
Five miller lites
Three bud lights…
We now interrupt our programming to give you the final 3 seconds of the HBO Award Winning Series, The Sopranos.
[1] Not a euphemism for something more salacious.
[2] Yes, I know. Every single bar in New Orleans is better than every single bar in Washington.
.
My Analysis, Yer Analysis Part II: A Primary Source Account of Mardi Gras as told through my colon
Friday, February 20, 2009 – 10:30 a.m.
Five cups of coffee strong coffee.[1], 2/3 of a carafe of orange juice, One sip of apple pear pomegranate juice
A three egg, chorizo cheese, jalapeno, and creamed spinach mess of crap with homefries and a biscuit.
One spoonful of guacamole
Three bites of cole slaw.[2]
12:30 p.m.
Five beers (four bottled, one canned)
Two red solo cups of carlo rossi jug wine[3]
One half of Spiderman sugar cookie
Eight 30 second intervals of cherry hookah
3:30 p.m.
Six inch duck po’ boy, six inch oyster po’ boy
Side of four fried green tomatoes with baby shrimp remoulade sauce
5:30 p.m.
Other half of Spiderman sugar cookie
Five more beers, one Water
Four double scotch and cokes
Four more beers
At this point, you could tell me as much as I could tell you
Saturday February 21, 2009 – 11:15 a.m.
Possibly three beads used inappropriately judging from what I’m feeling right now.
One ring pop.[4]
One corona
One duck pb
Two liter-sized Aquafinas
Using entrance as an exit for said duck po’boy, one corona, and two liter-sized Aquafinas.
1:00 p.m.
One hand grenade
Tropical Isle’s Hand Grenade is equal to 3-5 drinks depending on your tolerance. No one knows what is in this drink. Many believe it is just a Goombay Punch. Other websites say it includes the following ingredients: 1.5 oz. gin, 1.5 oz. grain alcohol (probably Everclear), 1.5 oz. of Melon Liqueur, 1.5 oz. rum, 1.5 oz. vodka)
One iced coffee
Three beignets
3:30 p.m.
Finish what’s left of duck po boy and water
Continuance and conclusion of same ring pop
I take a one mile walk to find a parade that ended up running about four hours late.
6:00 p.m.
Mass dehydration
15 handscoops[5] of N.O. city water from the sink of a boutique hotel bathroom.[6]
I return from my walk just in time to see a girl, no taller than 5’3’’, yelling at two 350 pound six-foot black guys trying to cut the theme-park sized line to the port-o-johns. After about 30 seconds of this, they turn around and leave.
7:00 p.m.
Still dehydrated, I walk across an ocean of drunkards to the gas station across the street. The line is about 60 people long for the convenience store. We wait about fifteen minutes to get inside. This seems longer because I’ve called my mom for some reason. Time passes really slowly at this point.
After exiting the store, we try to make our way back to where we had left our friends. In a straight line this is no more than 350 feet however the police barricades make the route much more circuitous. As we cross one of the streets, I am struck by a young black woman trying to catch a football. For some reason, I apologize. She says nothing but is fine and unhurt. However, some people have seen this and probably do not look favorably upon the 6’1’’ white dude who got in the way of the Immaculate Mardi Gras Reception.
Five seconds later
Leading the way for my friend’s girlfriend and accompanied by no one else, I am constantly saying “excuse me” and “sorry” as we attempt to get back to where our friends are awaiting the parade. I see a good path to get through and say “excuse me” to a 5’10’’ black guy with a red shirt, baggy jeans, and black winter cap. He’s standing on the curb of the street and I we have to walk by him to get to the relatively clear path behind him.
“Excuse me,” I say.
“Nah.”
I’m under the impression that he thinks that I am trying to stand in front of him to catch beads.
“Oh, we’re just trying to get by, we’re not trying to stay here,” I respond.
He’s stone faced, arms crossed, and looking like the front of a rap album.
“No, you gon’ hafta find anutha way.”
Ooookkkaayyy… I understand where this could be going. I look at the other eight dudes with him, considerably taller, and they look back at me (white, 6’1’’, just bowled over their black friend). I think I can take them though. My friend’s girlfriend is a solid 5’8’’, 120 pound Spanish girl who has a black eye because a dude on a float threw a cup and popped a blood vessel in her eye. This is a fight that we can win! In response to the most threatened look I have ever been given, I do about the biggest eye roll in the history of eye rolls and walk away.
It’s only at five a.m. the next morning that I realize what I could have gotten myself into.[7] What, at the time, I had thought was a wanna-be gangbanger, was an authentic one.
Playing back what an asshole this guy was, for some reason, I remember the red shirt. What was it about that red shirt? His friends were all wearing that fucking red shirt. Why is this sticking out?
Ooooooooooohhhhhh shiiiiittttt!!!
It had taken me ten hours to realize it. I had just had my first of what will hopefully be a burgeoning relationship of close encounters with a division of the world famous Blood gang. [8]
I won this fight.
7:30 p.m.
One liter of water after pissing myself.
One liter orange Gatorade.
One turkey and swiss sandwich
One beer
My friend has been making out with his ex-girlfriend from 3:30 until 9:30. Somehow, he has still caught more beads than me and was later overheard asking her the following question:
“So…we’re having sex tonight right?”
We add an eighth to our clown car of seven and it takes a half an hour to drive three miles home in crazy after-parade traffic.
[1] 2 tsp of milk, no sugar.
[2] Yeah it’s ironic. Shut up douchebag.
[3] Brilliant bouquet.
[4] I bought this along with the Spiderman cookie yesterday. I had wanted to wear this for quite some time but had never found an appropriate setting. In retrospect, it’s a pretty good parameter for an awesome city. The following is a small list of places it is perfectly acceptable for a 23 year old to eat a ring pop: New Orleans, Vegas, Austin, New York after 10 p.m.
[5] Thank G-d for this water as minutes before I had nearly fainted from mass dehydration. I somehow managed to scrounge up the last vestige of willpower law school has left me and fought it off.
[6] This bathroom was like the fucking grail, secluded in an alcove behind two double doors.
[7] I’m up at five a.m. because the cats are driving me insane with allergies and I’m finishing my second Wesley Snipes movie of the night through red eyes and a runny nose.
[8] Aside from the jeans, eyes, and balls, I wasn’t wearing any blue. If there are any Crips out there reading this, I’m in. Those Bloods are assholes.
My Analysis, Yer Analysis Part III: A Primary Source Account of Mardi Gras as told through my colon
Sunday, February 22, 2009 –
12:35 a.m.
One Wendys Baconator,Three chicken nuggets, Fries w/sweet n’ sour sauce
Diet coke.[1]
Food coma
10:30 a.m.
I am awakened to the sight of a friend’s lower appendage. He made out with a girl at the parade for as long as I watched movies that night. He greets me with the following introduction.
“Wake up. Smell my dick.”
He doesn’t even have her number in his phone. (Can I move back here now?)
Two shots of tequila, One beer, One bite of a praline
12:30 p.m.
Okay, this is all in one sitting and marks the apotheosis of the trip:
At this point, I’d like to thank The Court of the Two Sisters $35 buffet, the Owner of a silver Saab, one couple who would have kept me up more than the cats had I decided to sleep in the spare adjacent room next to theirs, the girl who kept up with me at the buffet, and a friend who woke me up by saying “smell my dick.”
Eight waters, One bloody mary
Plate One
Two scoops of chicken curry salad
One scoop of regular chicken salad
Two cocktail shrimp with remoulade sauce
One small slice of cornbread
One scoop of crawfish pasta salad.
*I’d like to note that I got called a pussy right here.
Plate Two
(all on one medium-sized plate)
One gob of creamed spinach
One ice cream scoop of mashed potatoes
Three ladles of jambalaya with sausage
Three scoops of crawfish louise[2]
Duck l’orange
Sweet potato salad
Veal grillades
I order a sequel to my bloody mary. I dip my fingers into the warm lemon water finger bowls they just gave us.
Plate Three
One carrot cake
Three slices of bacon eaten concurrently with bread pudding
Three scoops of bread pudding
Four helpings of bananas foster
Plate Four
Three scoops of chicken curry salad
One chocolate cream cake
One piece of king cake.
These were mashed together on a dare and eaten in one bite. They were further mashed by “smell my dick” and I continued eating.
3:30 p.m.
One liter of melon Gatorade
Seven beers.[3]
I see the Budweiser Clydesdales and dalmation for the fourth time in as many days. A woman knocks on my locked port-o-john door and I open it. She’s hammered with raccoon eyes and a litter of kids. I’d call child services if I knew the number.
Three minutes after the parade, the city police empty an endless number of vans containing Orleans Parrish Prisoners. Apparently, the OPP have been assigned to clean up my mess.[4] Most of them are here because they made a mess themselves. Nine times out of ten, this crime is for pissing in public or some other minor ordinance violation they couldn’t make bail for. I feel bad but at the same time it’s a fitting punishment: Cleaning up beer cans from excessive drinking. Punishment for their own crime of pissing in public that undoubtedly stemmed from their own heavy drinking.
9:00 p.m.
1 cup of miso soup
4 cups of tea, 8 glasses of water
One wasabi laced mussel shooter.[5]
One plate of noodles and chicken
One bite of crab salad
One chicken tempura dipped in some kind of soy-based sauce
15-20 sushi rolls of 9 different varieties
It’s dead on arrival and I pass out on the couch.
Monday, February 23, 2009 – 4:51 a.m.
Three handfuls of New Orleans city water
Twenty-five tortilla chips from the lower-mid to the bottom of the bag
Airport 6:15 a.m.
One 15 oz chocolate milk
One raspberry jam filled, glazed Krispy Kreme donut.
Back home 11:38 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
One surprisingly unbroken scale.
Somehow I only gained seven pounds this weekend. This may be due to the recent amputation of my left foot to combat a random diagnosis of adult onset diabetes. No more spiderman sugar cookies I guess.
End, February 23, 2009 – 11:39 a.m.
One tingling left arm.
My esophagus and once small (Newly Extenze-did) intestine contributed to this report.
[1]Movies watched due to Diet Coke: last 15 minutes of New Jack City, last 30 minutes of Reindeer Games, 4 minutes of Katt Williams standup, 60 seconds of Three’s Company, last 75 minutes of Die Hard, last 10 mins Gangs of New York (this is not a good movie and does not hold up, watch it again, it is really bad), The Fan (DeNiro, Snipes, the worst of the seven).
[2] It’s like stuffing crawfish and mashed potatoes had a ménage a trios and this is their freaky baby.
[3] While having a conversation about the fall of Sandra Bullock, my friend and I are alerted to the mental state of the seven people we have met up with. I overhear the following line. Keep in mind that he is standing no more than two feet from a cop. It is not loud and the floats have not started yet: “These shrooms are awesome.” No repercussions from this. Awesome.
[4] Yeah you know me.
[5] One sinus attack
Night of the Living Law School: (S.)tudents(A.)re(R.)eally(S.)ick
Cargo shorts, sandals, and a t-shirt. That was my wardrobe at this time last year. Every day I would wake up 15 minutes before class and throw on these garments, bolt out the door, and enjoy the windows-down ten minute drive to a palm-tree lined campus filled with scantily clad “students” and home to an air conditioned business school that you were glad to get inside on the warmer days. If and when there was a breeze it was a welcome one and when you talked to your friends up north you’d laugh in their stupid frostbitten ears as they walked to class in the slush, scuffing their boots over dirt-laden snowy curbs.
All this is playing now like a Corona commercial in the front of my head. It’s cold out now and I’m pissed when I think back to what I was wearing at this time last year. The terrible decision to move back north was most assuredly the bonehead play of the year. What’s worse is the feeling I get every morning that leads me to suspect that I’m fucking pregnant, sick of waking up early to go to class.
I get in my car and turn on the heated seats, which after two years of ownership were first used around mid-November. It’s that Punxsutawnically pathetic time of year and the day is fast approaching when Bill Murray realizes that he either has to do a Wes Anderson comedy or a Jim Jarmusch indie for the next six weeks. The windows are up and it’s not long enough of a drive for me to enjoy any of the hot air. Luckily I’m in law school and this is not that big of a deal.
I park on the street and am careful not to slip on the black ice that the city has not had the time to salt.[1] I’m not a big fan of dressing up and my attire usually just consists of shoes, t-shirt, zip-down sweatshirt, and jeans.
Amazingly though, I have yet to become sick this winter. I say amazingly because of the plague infestation that seems to have befallen the majority of my classmates. The classroom is a cacophonous orchestra of coughs; sneezes met with obligatory G-d bless yous; blown noses propelled into discarded Kleenex. It seems like every time I turn my head, somebody coughs in it and the only lump to check for is the streptococcal one in my throat.
Today I was on call for my criminal law class and was prepared to the point where I was only slightly unconfident that I wouldn’t look like a complete fuckup. I think that the important thing in situations such as this is to take the audience down a peg or two. After years of trying I’ve finally come to the realization that the classic everyone-in-their-underwear visualization just doesn’t work and is largely disturbing.
The only real issue that I have with being on-call is how I come off to all the ladies in the house. I think I’ve finally figured it out, although it took me until after I was called upon to fix the problem. Just think to yourself that every girl in here has, at one point or another, sucked at least one dick and further, has probably taken at least one scoop of money shot to the cranium. I’m not sure why, but this is somewhat comforting and may be employed for future classroom discussions.
Nonetheless, I still had one of those tunnel vision blackout type episodes where you get called on at 3:00 and wake-up to find that it’s now 3:30. I felt like Charlie Sheen in Platoon, like people were yelling in my face and I couldn’t hear them and Tom Berenger and Willem Defoe are super-pissed because the “token black guy who dies” just killed Phong’s goat. I’m run back to my foxhole as fast as I can, all the while trying to remember what the hell just happened. The following are excerpts taken from the professor’s comments to several of my answers. “
1. [nodding his head in agreement ] “Yes, sometimes role play is good,”[2]
and upon my final answer…
2. I now release you. You are now free to drive drunk Mr. Cole.
This is just a minor indication of what goes on when I am expected to answer a question.[3]
While all of this is going on I’m supposed to be looking for some kind of summer job. These are not really jobs though and are more like coffee-making gopher internships where you don’t get paid because you haven’t finished your second year yet. There was a career fair this week with a lot of organizations and public law groups like the National Whistleblowers Center[4] looking for their respective cabana clerks. Career fair is a bit of a misnomer to me. There’s no three-legged race, pie-eating contest, corn-on-the-cob eating contest, or any other kind of contest besides who has the glossiest paper for their resumes. If there’s no funnel cake, it’s not a fucking fair.
The teacher is saying something now and I can’t help but wishing that either I or the teacher was stoned. It’s time to get the hell out of here and back out to the heated seats. Off to buy some Vap-O-Rub to spread it on like a fucking force field from the law school zombies attacking on all sides. Luckily there is an escape route. I just booked a ticket to Vegas where I will revert to last year’s sandals and shorts attire for at least one March weekend. I’m out this bitch, I got a doctor’s appointment in the morning and then it’s on with the one-sided fight. I’m turning my head, but I’m not coughing.
[1] Although they do have the time to give me a parking ticket despite the fact that the meter had failed and the same parking attendant who gave me the ticket told me it was okay to park there when I asked her about it an hour ago.
[2] To be fair, this comment was made in response to a joke I had made that somehow elicited laughter from both the professor and the class (real or fake laughter, I’ll take it). No matter. Going to law school for the jokes is like shopping at Nordstrom’s for the piano music.
[3] Speaking of final answers, I’m really loving the demographic makeup of my international law class which is coincidentally multicultural. Ever since I saw Slumdog Millionaire I’ve had this uncanny attraction to Indian girls…and Regis…and millionaires.
[4] Not joking.
Second Semester: Taking a piss on the apocalypse
After a three week break, classes have once again resumed and I enter Monday’s class at 10:58 a.m. At this point in my legal education I shouldn’t really be surprised that everyone is already seated, laptops at the ready for the class to begin, but am nonetheless disgusted and reminded of why law school sucks. I think that some of these people have somehow managed to forget this nugget of truth as there is a vibe in the room that is quickly approaching some kind of zeal. It’s all very disconcerting and I take the seat closest to the door, open my bag, and remove my laptop. The wireless isn’t working and I can’t get to Google to pilfer someone else’s summary of the case we were supposed to read for today. Shit. Having just purchased my books on Saturday, they have not arrived. It’s the first day and I’m behind on the reading. More importantly, I can’t get to ESPN. Fuck me right?
My new professor walks into the room and sets her books close to the podium. She doesn’t move around nearly as much as my first semester professors and seems nervous. When she does walk, she cautiously touches her back heel to the front part of her other foot. She sounds like a cross between Mary Kathryn Gallagher and every character that Kristen Wiig has ever played on SNL. Her voice is cracking and she folds her arms as she tells us how to “wrestle” the assignments. I look around the room at my fellow students and notice a few changes in personnel.
In the past semester, every student was grouped into sections whereby the only people we would share classes with would be those within our designated section. These are pretty much the only people you notice or associate with for the entire first semester of law school and by the end of it you’re fucking sick to death of seeing the same gloomy faces. If it’s any consolation, they all probably feel the same way. Although this is still the case, each student may take an elective class whereby there are no section barriers. This is my elective class and to me it is a welcome sight. Scouting the room, I now realize how deprived I was in terms of my section’s talent pool.
There’s a portrait on the wall of one of the founders’ of the law school that looks exactly like a kid in the third row except thirty years older. But this is not important and I look away from Dorian Gray. Another dude walks in with his shirt tucked into his jeans and he’s now closer to the door than I am. I go over all of this quickly and look to the aforementioned influx of attractive women.
In the front row, where a lot of hot girls always sit, there’s a redhead with a visible star tattooed on her foot and just below her pinky toe. I’m sitting in the second row and have to look back like a creep to check out the rest of the class. In the back of the room there’s a girl with a Grateful Dead sticker affixed to her laptop with no visible signs that she could actually like the Grateful Dead. I feel the girl sitting next to me nudge me with what I presume to be the course syllabus and I lock eyes with her for maybe a quarter second too long.
There’s another one in the front row, blonde with a dull look on her face and permanently pursed lips, typing away at something the teacher’s saying. Apparently the teacher has just said something important as there’s a chatter of typing around the room. She’s wearing a white sweater and pink meet-me-in-the-back-of-the-library shoes. It’s at this moment that I decide that I will remain here on the class seating chart.
Note: In the interests of full disclosure I’ve remained abstinent (not by choice) for the past four months so I’m taking out an indulgence for the previous and subsequent paragraphs.
The girl with the star tattoo clutches her pen. She has this fascinating oral fixation with the thing and twirls it about that facial vicinity whenever she’s about to raise her hand. I’m inclined to inquire further into the matter until the teacher answers her question, prompting her to bite down hard on the blue ballpoint. Nevermind.
The real reason, besides boredom, that I’m looking around at everybody is to see the general disposition of the class after our initial examination period. Personally, I have adopted the unflattering habit of crossing my arms and lightly squeezing my puny biceps. A lot of people in class have other body tics similar to this, such as putting their hands close to their mouths to look as if they have nothing to say, or people who squeeze their hands for reassurance when it only appears that they are cold. This is primarily due to the absence of our first semester grades that we all await with morbid anticipation. Besides that not much has changed.
People keep telling me that law school is a means to an end but at this point it seems that it’s just plain mean. As for an end, I can’t say that there’s one in sight. It has been almost a month since we’ve taken our last exam and I’ve probably checked my grades multiple times a day, every day since December 18th and the start of the winter break. I have even developed a facial tic akin to the one that you get when you’re about to get punched in the face. At the same time, I usually cover my eyes like you do when you don’t want to see “guy butt” on Skin-a-max but still don’t want to miss anything.
Thus far, I have gotten two grades back and can’t say that I’m surprised to find myself in the lower totem pole of the class. The rest of the class looks similarly uncertain and I really want a beer. The girl with the Grateful Dead sticker blinks her eyes hard enough to stay awake and I look back at the clock. 11:07. Fuck me right?
Christmas From The Sidelines
Editors’ Note: In anticipation of becoming a sparsely-read author of an unsuccessful blog, I wrote the majority of this last Christmas Eve.
12/24/07
The other week, while flipping between NBA Basketball, The Squid and the Whale, and a study guide for Corporate Finance, I came across “The Grinch” cartoon and threw the remote to the side. For some reason, I just had to watch. I was eight years old again and I still hated Christmas.
For many people, “The Grinch” is a touching story about the holiday spirit, generosity, and doing the right thing. We’re supposed to root against the green creature and not want to touch him with a 39-and-a-half foot pole. If “The Grinch” were around today, he’d be a sex offender. Honestly though, I couldn’t help but empathize with “The Grinch.” I mean, just who the fuck do the Whos think they are anyway? The only character I really felt bad for was the dog. Who cares if the Whos get their lousy presents, there’s a dog here who’s going to have back problems.[1]
I also want to set the record straight on Dr. Seuss himself, a man who made his bones drawing racist WWII cartoons of German and Japanese soldiers. I mean seriously, the guy was a bigot. “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” is nothing but religious propaganda, a proselytized pamphlet disguised as a hypnotically entertaining children’s cartoon. I’m onto you Seuss. Just what are you a doctor of anyWho?[2] I challenge you to tell me that “The Grinch” isn’t a metaphor for a Jew who resents Christmas and then finally converts.
Well I am a Jew who resents Christmas. My ideal Christmas consists of Chinese food, a trip to the movies, and getting hammered. This year I am particularly looking forward to the Matzah Ball, the Jew event of the year where single Israelites gather on Christmas Eve to get drunk on He-Brew and hook up. There is nothing more painful than watching a Jew dance. A Jew dancing makes Elaine from Seinfeld look like Gregory Hines.
Meanwhile, my Christian friends send me text messages that read “enjoy your Kung Pao Chicken Jewboy!”, “make sure to water your Hannukah bush,” and my all-time holiday favorite, “thanks for killing Jesus, I just got Halo 3.”
This brings me to the debate of the sickening commercialization of Christmas and its inescapability outside of anyone who lives under a poker-faced inhabitant of Easter Island or some other rock.[3] Every year, hi-brow publications like The New Yorker and other magazines that I tell people that I read but really don’t publish articles about either a.) how commercialization is not a new cultural phenomenon, or b.) how corporate marketers have sunk to a new low this holiday season. But these articles can’t solve anything. That these articles and naysayers lampoon the mistletoe and egg noggin hangovers that others romanticize is bullshit and shouldn’t give you, the one who tells kids that Santa Clause doesn’t care about black people, some false sense of non-conformist entitlement; that you’re somehow the lone gunman on holding such a self-actualized conviction. Note to those who wish they were original: just because you’re drinking alone doesn’t mean you’re alone and just because you listen to The Beach Boys during December doesn’t make you some kind of apathetic historian to what unfolds and unwraps and regifts itself year after year.[4] It’s unavoidable and you’re better off acknowledging that you’re in on it. Just be aware that this admission does not make you Columbus or Zhang He or any other fucking scurvy-ridden, lemon-sucking adventurer or small-pox-toting missionary.[5] You’re part of the group whether you like it or not.[6]
To wrap up this prototypical, snow-shoveled dissertation,[7] we’re all perfectly aware of the commercialization of Christmas and these articles and criticisms of the unobvious obvious will never solve anything. The writers know it and we, the perpetual reader of perpetual articles about trudged-over topics, know it. But every year, as reliable as a drunken Salvation Army Santa Claus, the same article is trotted out like a diabetic reindeer and mildly revised to adjust to the mini-trends and gossip gripping the public and denouncing the wave of holiday shopping and faux-holiday cheer that occurs. For me, I am about as sick and tired of the counter-culture complainers of Xmas as I am of those who embrace it. This article isn’t anti-Christmas. If anything, this article is anti-anti-Christmas.[8] So go, spread your Christmas cheer, actually, don’t spread it, just try and be like us Jews. Internalize the fervor in your homes and don’t tell anybody about it unless their name ends in –stein or –man or –berg. So pass the kung-pao chicken and refill the egg nog you green goofy-foot sonuvabitch bastard! Don’t just sit there, use the pole that Mom gave you for Channukah last night.
[1] And possibly pneumonia, a small price to pay for not having to wear an embarrassing dog sweater that would only be embarrassing if dogs indeed had any form of actual self-conscious. (It’s almost like feeling bad for the fire hydrant soaked in dog urine.)
[2] Looking at The Grinch’s feet, my guess is podiatry.
[3] Even those who smoke aforementioned rocks are susceptible to the paradox, e.g. the homeless guy I gave a dollar to the other day who still maintained a politically correct adage on his cardboard sign that wished everyone a neutral “Happy Holidays.”
[4] “God Only Knows” how much I hate that Beach Boys song. Also, if you were introduced to the Beach Boys vis “Love Actually” then I suggest that you watch the “Grinch” on continuous loop until you are cured of tree sap holiday movies.
[5]I thought about mentioning the Treaty of Tordesillas here but that would be overkill.
[5a] Shit.
[6] Ex: Oh my G-d, you watch Arrested Development too! Wow that’s impressive. I thought I was the only one. And how original that you also like other name-drop insert-here seemingly obscure musician/surrealist director/whatever you think you do that nobody else has ever done.
[7] Children’s Tylenol procured rant.
[8] Again, even admitting such doesn’t make this writer some standout rogue. As surely as there isn’t a Santa Clause there is a small lesion of us out there somewhere, not congregating with each other, sitting alone in the apartment adjacent to your ugly sweater party and across the hall from Grandpa’s prescription-revitalized-chestnuts-roasting-on-an-open-wildfire family Christmas.
