Sold my soul for $5 worth of chicken.

There are moments in life of which you're not proud. For me, tonight was one of those nights.




KFC and Oprah (that's right, Oprah) were offering a free 2 piece chicken with sides coupon in order to promote KFC's new grilled chicken. And so today for lunch, I headed over to my not so local KFC, coupon in hand, to get in on this deal.

When I got there, as expected, there was a line up to the door. And so I got in line behind a guy my age and an old lady who was in front of him.

The old lady excitedly asked the guy in front of me, "Are you here because of Oprah too?"

He knew nothing of the Oprah connection, only that there was free chicken.

She then turned to me and asked, "What about you?"

I said, "I wouldn't be standing in such a long line if free chicken weren't involved."

Satisfied, she turned back to face the front of the line. Turning back occasionally to try to make small talk with the guy in front of me, while I turned my attention to the Super Puzzle Bobble game on my phone.

About 30 minutes later, it was the old lady's turn to order.

Old Lady: "Oprah said to come down to KFC for a free meal."
Cashier: "Do you have your coupon?"
Old Lady: "I don't have a coupon, Oprah said just to ask for the free meal."
Cashier: "I'm sorry ma'am, but you need the coupon from the internet."
Old Lady: "But I don't have a computer! And I waited in this line this whole time!"

The old lady then pulled out a different coupon for a free drumstick.

Casher: "I'm sorry, but this is a coupon for a free drumstick with purchase."

Defeated, the old lady took her coupon and headed towards the door.

---

Now at this moment, what I should have done was offer the old lady my coupon. Afterall, she is old and probably has no idea what the internet is and I'm sure Oprah wasn't very succinct with her instructions. Also, it was only about five dollars worth of chicken. It's not like I was standing in a bread line to feed my starving family.

But I didn't do this. In fact, it didn't even occur to me to do this until five minutes after she had left.

Instead I just waited for her to walk away before I turned to the people behind me and mockingly shook my fist in the air and said:

"Damn you, Oprah!"

Which was good for about half a chuckle.


Now just how messed up in the head am I that I don't even think to help someone out until five minutes after they leave? Have I gotten so mistrustful of strangers that I can't even identify moments where I could easily help out an old person? Not only that, I went out of my to make a joke at her expense.

Although to be fair, there was a line of at least fifteen people, and not a single one of them surrendered their coupons either. Not that this makes me feel any better, in fact I think this says a lot about the people in Bergen County.

Also they ended up making a mistake on my order and I ended up getting three sides instead of two. So I was actually rewarded for being a dirtbag. *sigh*

But then, on my way to my car, I spotted the same old lady in the parking lot so I gave her my bag and told her to enjoy it... courtesy of Oprah.

Stupid Oprah.

Tres Vidas

I've met several people who's favorite book is 100 Years of Solitude. Tried four times to read it but couldn't. Not my cup of tea. But the author once said something that I think of often: Uno tiene tres vidas: la vida pública, la vida privada y la vida secreta.

That's the first thing I thought of when I heard about three lives this past April: Philip Markoff, Susan Boyle, and Russell Dunham. Philip's this fairly attractive guy with an immense hidden evil. Susan's this fairly unattractive woman with an immense hidden talent. Russell was a fairly average looking guy with an immense hidden strength.

People are really good at hiding their pretty and their dirty. All of those little bits of this 'n that, aggregated over time like piles of crumbs, cemented together by secrets.

It's only when situations shift that our real selves cut through the chatter - whether that be by choice like Susan and Philip, or by chance like Russell. Our real selves are always there, just waiting.

After the London bombings, some dude quipped something like, "Always wondered how I'd act in a crisis. Turns out I'm rubbish in a crisis."

It's totally true. Everyone has three lives: a public life, a private life, and a secret life.

The Final Debate

Looking at the polls, what pundits saw and the public heard are obviously two different things. Thank goodness. George Will's Ali rope-a-dope analogy was spot on...I think McCain wasted a lot of time throwing punches, but landing only a scant amount (his "I'm not Bush" retort was admittedly a strong one, but he needed more than a strong jab tonight), while Obama leaned back waiting for McCain to lose steam from all the huffing and puffing of being so angry. Did anyone else notice he mentioned "angry" quite a few times early on then went onto embody that anger himself? I thought he was going to pop a vein at certain points in the debate from frustration and anger.

Bob Schieffer was the best moderator of the bunch, keeping the questions and retorts within reasonable (and manageable) lengths between the two. I wish he had been given a long stick to slap the candidates hands the second they went over their allotted time.

The Ayers discussion diffused as quickly as McCain tried to force the issue.

I'm admittedly biased, but I appreciated Obama's abortion explanation. Especially considering Sarah Palin's daughter's situation and the whole morality police of the right wing-religious agenda.

Pundits were enjoying the Joe Plumber angle, but I genuinely don't think people necessarily care about the small businessman (for better or for worse); they wanted to hear about people like the majority of the population who work for someone else...not someone in the position to expand. That's just the truth of the matter, since in dire times, we're apt to look out for ourselves. And in this sense, this worked in Obama's favor in the same way an attack on America would most likely benefit McCain.

I found it puzzling McCain called for increasing taxes for no one, but went off about several large scale plans of reform that would obviously require additional funds (yes, it will take more money to research autism, even though Sarah Palin's child has Down's Syndrome, Senator).

The whole evening I wondered why McCain had not spent the minimal amount of effort to whiten his teeth just a couple shades back from toilet bowl stain yellow. Because if you're going to force a smile that often on camera, at least make it a radiant, tan-inducing affair like Romney's pearly whites. The camera was a bit cruel to McCain with the side by side format; he looked like a dried out marshmallow to Obama's smooth milk chocolatey goodness. The future and the past never looked so obvious.

--

I'm pretty bummed I missed the vapor trail tonight from the Minotaur rocket that took off from Vandenberg Air Force Base. In a town devoid of natural wonders like LA (with a few exceptions, such as Jessica Alba), that's our ghetto Aurora Borealis.

Another visual spectacle I missed was when France got attacked by a giant girl from outer space - maybe she was looking for her pink rabbit. She was accompanied by an enormous creature that appeared to be half-elephant, half-Indian restaurant. After strolling about town and devouring a few villagers, they declared themselves the new rulers of France and handed out free samosas that were cooked inside the elephant.

Monkeys & Robots Should Never Work Together

A classmate mentioned during lunch that a police department in Arizona was trying to train a monkey for its SWAT team. Now I'm a big fan of those cute little primates - even the executive creative director always accuses me of trying to put a monkey in everything - but a SWAT monkey? How'd they even come up with this insane idea?


SWAT COMMANDER: Damn it, the terrorists have killed another hostage. Where's our sniper?

SWAT MEMBER: He's dead, sir. And the first team, they're all dead too. We've lost contact with the second team. Sir, we're running out of time!

SWAT COMMANDER: Damn! If we only had a monkey!


But it turned out the story's true. Then, while reading the article, I came across this sentence: "...the small monkey would be able to get into places no officer or robot could go."

What on earth? Robots are already on SWAT teams? Did I just wake up in a low-budget sci-fi movie starring Peter Weller? It was then I remembered this guy:





Not quite Robocop, but this robot fires grenades from four menacing cannons; and its prototype was developed by a company called Metal Storm. Metal Storm? It's exactly what a screenwriter would name a company in a low-budget sci-fi movie starring Peter Weller. Anyway this robot's built for war, not police work, so it wouldn't be working with the SWAT monkey. That is, until they come up with Delta Force monkey.

And that's the last thing mankind wants: Robots and monkeys working together. Because each of them is already our biggest threat to dethroning us as the earth's most dominant beings. The dumbest thing we can do is team them up.

Sure, in the beginning, they might not get along. It's only natural that the uptight, rules-abiding robot will be annoyed with the monkey's care-free, partying ways. But eventually they'll learn to like and respect each other, and become allies. Naturally, you all know what comes next ...

Existential Condiments

Stopping off at Taco Bell (Pico & Bundy) on the way home from Literati, I came across this little packet of hot sauce.



At first I thought, "Well, that's pretty dumb." But as I was munching my Gordita (which, incidentally, translates to "Little Fat Girl") I kept staring at the hot sauce packet.

And it sorta made me sad.

It's one thing to lend absurd personification to something as personality-free as a packet of hot sauce. But wherefore the morose wailings of the poor little thing? Whence springs this doleful refrain? What childhood trauma could have possibly happened to a Taco Bell hot sauce packet to warrant such a hopeless jeremiad as this?

And what meaning should we, the reader, the consumer of hot sauces, take? It seems to impose upon us a very real, but very stupid and trivial calling for a god complex. The fate of this lonely condiment packet is in our hands. It's squeak of fear and hopeless doom has reached us, but ultimately we may choose or choose not to open the plastic pouch and spill its precious lifeblood.

The more I thought about this (while munching my little fat girl), the more I felt pretty much bullied into not opening the hot sauce packet. A backhoe of guilt ladeled upon me with this plaintive plea. Just what kind of establishment is this Taco Bell?

I had no qualms nor hesitations about opening another hot sauce packet which said simply, "Hello."

"And hello to you little hot sauce packet. I will squirt you on my Gordita now." A very straightforward relationship between us, and rather chummy, with little formality nor fanfare.

Another packet had some not-at-all-clever one-liner about hot sauces, and, once again, I tarried not a jiffy in ripping it open, feeling that such a badly composed line deserved to be spread on a pita-thing and devoured.

And then this lugubrious soliloquy. This shout into the void. This abysmal howl.

I nigh well shed a tear.

(Yes, I'm empathizing with a condiment.)

---

Amendment:

I still can't wrap my mind around this. I keep breaking down the sorry tale and reading the sauce packet's deepest secrets:

"Of all those sauce packets…" — he recognizes his bretheren, and by doing so, a society of sauce packets is created. The use of "those" (as opposed to "these") shows us that he further recognizes he has been removed from his community. Perhaps he was an outsider. He doesn't seem to speak well of his species. His story says, "Let it happen to another sauce packet! Not me!" A selfish, narrow sentiment. Perhaps he deserves whatever fate shall befall him.

"Why me…" — the bitter and downtrodden often bemoan these two somber words to a god whom they perceive has averted his gaze. The sauce packet is effectively, and in two tiny words, acknowledging the omnipotency of us, the Consumers of Gorditas as godheads, and flirting dangerously with causing us displeasure by doubting our omnipotency. It's starting to piss me off, in fact!

"Why now?" — the sauce packet gains a more complex consciousness! He has a past and (he hopes) a future. But what was he doing at the moment of being chosen for the Gordita that was so important that this moment is worse than another moment may be for consumption? No doubt I disturbed him writing his memoirs or fluffing the scansion of his latest bad goth poetry…


The Next Trimspa Spokesmodel

I guess black really does make you look slimmer.

You know, even at the peak of her appeal, I was never that into Britney. Her manly neck bothered me. That's not to say I didn't find her attractive - but I wasn't like some of my male friends who'd instantly salivate at the mere mention of the lyrics to "I'm Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman." Of course it's because they're all pedophiles.

Why Men Can't Pee Properly

I once met a woman who told me that she made her fiancé promise her only one thing: that he’d always pee sitting down.

Not too long ago, I saw the film "About Schmidt" where Jack Nicholson's wife forces his character to relieve himself in the same manner. Apparently about a little over ten percent of all guys tinkle in this lady-like manner.

From the moment man evolved to the point where he could stand, women have always complained about the way males urinate. For the sake of time, I'm not going to discuss the tired "Leaving the seat up" debate. Rather, I'm going to write about something my friend said to me the other day as she came out of the bathroom at a local cafe:

"What is wrong with you men? Can't you aim?"

It's as if you think we purposely leave our urine lying around for you to step on. Do you really think we're capable of such evil? Errrr ... other than the fact that our gender invented the AK-47 and germ warfare?

What you ladies have to realize is there are at least three things that can go wrong during PeePee Time that can result in unpleasant bathroom floor surprises:


Splashage
Most peeings are fairly uneventful, quiet events. But depending on how much you drank and the last time you drained the main vein, sometimes a man can end up pissing racehorse-style. I'm talking a powerful yellow laser beam just shooting right out as if your penis was the Death Star and the toilet's the peaceful world of Alderaan.

So violent is the impact that no matter how true your aim, there will be splashage. If you hit the sides of the bowl above the water, that is guaranteed flying shrapnel. You can try to minimize the damage by aiming straight for the deepest part of the water; but even then there are no guarantees that your woman won't soil the bottoms of her feet with your secondhand beer.


Drippage
Even if you were to successfully micturate without splashage, there's still drippage to worry about. You see, from the bladder to the end of your urethra, a man's urine undertakes a very windy journey through the prostate, under the pubic bone, and over the testicles - to grandmother's house we go! And during this journey, there are stragglers who then show up late to the party.

Men invented the kidney shake for this very reason - to make sure you completely squeeze out every last drop. But no matter how hard you shake the peg, a drop may still end up falling down your leg. My guess is, of the three, drippage is the leading cause of pee puddles.


Splittage
This is pretty rare - most women probably don't even know about the existence of this vile phenomenon - but it's easily the most catastrophic thing that can happen when a guy relieves himself. I'm not exactly sure why this happens, but splittage is when instead of just one stream of pee coming out of your pecker, surprise! there are TWO streams springing forth like a fountain show.

But unlike Bellagio's fountain show, there is no Andrea Bocelli singing Con Te Partirò - only sheer panic on your face as you see the stray stream creating a small lake on the right side of your toilet. Sometimes your penis corrects itself, and the two streams quickly become one again, and all is well in PeePee Town. But if you aren't so lucky and the two-headed monster is still alive, the man has two options:

1. Emergency Shutdown. One of the most difficult things any man can do is watch a loved one die; and the other is to stop peeing mid-stream. It's like trying to stop a bullet train flying at peak velocity - with your penis muscles. The piss momentum is infinitely more powerful than gravity. For this reason, most men choose not to abort the mission and go for the second option ...

2. Keeping angling and tilting your groin, and pray that you can somehow get both streams to hit the inside of the bowl before your bathroom turns into the Yellow Sea.

--

Hopefully this entry was helpful to you ladies in explaining the hazards your boyfriend/husband faces several times each day when he drains the dragon.

Actually, why am I apologizing? Women have aiming issues of their own. Lord knows how many times I've heard females complaining about the splattered toilet seats at public restrooms. And you really have no excuse, for shame! You're sitting down: Don't tell me your pee sometimes shoots out sideways. Because if it does, then you should seek immediate help.

Women Have It Easy

Having it my way

My Horoscope by Linda Black:
By the time you explain to someone how you really want things done, you may have changed your mind about what that is. Don't get angry.

---

Horoscope in Hindsight:
I went to Burger King for lunch. Order a Whopper Combo Meal with fries and a coke. When my order came out, they mistakenly substituted onion rings instead of fries. I thought to myself, hmmm, onion rings are good, too. Lesson learned. Thank you Linda Black, you suck.

Hung out with some close friends on Monday night after flying in from NY, including my cousin and her husband, who'd flown down from Seattle. They'd recently visited Egypt, and my cousin bought me a souvenir there.

"Can't wait til you see it!" she said with a grin of terrifying evil.

Right away I knew it was something dirty. My fricking pervert of a cousin. Out of a bag, she pulled out this clay statue of a bald man with one arm, one leg and one enormous schlong.

According to her, the story behind this guy is that while all the men in his village went off to fight some battle, he stayed behind and impregnated all the women. Apparently the Egyptian gods were player haters, because they punished him by taking away his right arm and left leg - though I'm sure he was able to use his penis as an extra limb.

I'm not even sure that's the real story behind this mysterious groin unicorn. But what was I going to do with this disgusting thing? As it turns out, the one-legged Egyptian penis statue has many uses:




Key Holder.



Olive Pit Remover.



Back Massager.



Viking Weapon.

Hmm...

Interesting...

Service Records:

Democrats
* Richard Gephardt: Air National Guard, 1965-71.
* David Bonior: Staff Sgt., Air Force 1968-72.
* Tom Daschle: 1st Lt., Air Force SAC 1969-72.
* Al Gore: enlisted Aug. 1969; sent to Vietnam Jan. 1971 as an army journalist in 20th Engineer Brigade.
* Bob Kerrey: Lt. j.g. Navy 1966-69; Medal of Honor, Vietnam.
* Daniel Inouye: Army 1943-47; Medal of Honor, WWII.
* John Kerry: Lt., Navy 1966-70; Silver Star, Bronze Star with Combat V, Purple Hearts.
* Charles Rangel: Staff Sgt., Army 1948-52; Bronze Star, Korea.
* Max Cleland: Captain, Army 1965-68; Silver Star & Bronze Star, Vietnam.
* Ted Kennedy: Army, 1951-53.
* Tom Harkin: Lt., Navy, 1962-67; Naval Reserve, 1968-74.
* Jack Reed: Army Ranger, 1971-1979; Captain, Army Reserve 1979-91.
* Fritz Hollings: Army officer in WWII; Bronze Star and seven campaign ribbons.
* Leonard Boswell: Lt. Col., Army 1956-76; Vietnam, DFCs, Bronze Stars, and Soldier's Medal.
* Pete Peterson: Air Force Captain, POW. Purple Heart, Silver Star and Legion of Merit.
* Mike Thompson: Staff sergeant, 173rd Airborne, Purple Heart.
* Bill McBride: Candidate for Fla. Governor. Marine in Vietnam; Bronze Star with Combat V.
* Gray Davis: Army Captain in Vietnam, Bronze Star.
* Pete Stark: Air Force 1955-57
* Chuck Robb: Vietnam
* Howell Heflin: Silver Star
* George McGovern: Silver Star & DFC during WWII.
* Bill Clinton: Did not serve. Student deferments. Entered draft but received #311.
* Jimmy Carter: Seven years in the Navy.
* Walter Mondale: Army 1951-1953
* John Glenn: WWII and Korea; six DFCs and Air Medal with 18 Clusters.
* Tom Lantos: Served in Hungarian underground in WWII. Saved by Raoul Wallenberg.

Republicans
* Dick Cheney: did not serve. Several deferments, the last by marriage.
* Dennis Hastert: did not serve.
* Tom Delay: did not serve.
* Roy Blunt: did not serve.
* Bill Frist: did not serve.
* Mitch McConnell: did not serve.
* Rick Santorum: did not serve.
* Trent Lott: did not serve.
* John Ashcroft: did not serve. Seven deferments to teach business.
* Jeb Bush: did not serve.
* Karl Rove: did not serve.
* Saxby Chambliss: did not serve. "Bad knee." - The man who attacked Max Cleland's patriotism.
* Paul Wolfowitz: did not serve.
* Vin Weber: did not serve.
* Richard Perle: did not serve.
* Douglas Feith: did not serve.
* Eliot Abrams: did not serve
* Richard Shelby: did not serve.
* Jon! Kyl: did not serve.
* Tim Hutchison: did not serve.
* Christopher Cox: did not serve.
* Newt Gingrich: did not serve.
* Don Rumsfeld: served in Navy (1954-57) as flight instructor.
* George W. Bush: failed to complete his six-year National Guard; got assigned to Alabama so he could campaign for family friend running for U.S. Senate; failed to show up for required medical exam, disappeared from duty.
* Ronald Reagan: due to poor eyesight, served in a non-combat role making movies.
* B-1 Bob Dornan: Consciously enlisted after fighting was over in Korea.
* Phil Gramm: did not serve.
* John McCain: Silver Star, Bronze Star, Legion of Merit, Purple Heart and Distinguished Flying Cross.
* Dana Rohrabacher: did not serve.
* John M. McHugh: did not serve.
* JC Watts: did not serve.
* Jack Kemp: did not serve. "Knee problem," although continued in NFL for 8 years.
* Dan Quayle: Journalism unit of the Indiana National Guard.
* Rudy Giuliani: did not serve.
* George Pataki: did not serve.
* Spencer Abraham: did not serve.
* John Engler: did not serve.
* Lindsey Graham: National Guard lawyer.
* Arnold Schwarzenegger: AWOL from Austrian army base.

Pundits & Preachers
* Sean Hannity: did not serve.
* Rush Limbaugh: did not serve
* Bill O'Reilly: did not serve.
* Michael Savage: did not serve.
* George Will: did not serve.
* Chris Matthews: did not serve.
* Paul Gigot: did not serve.
* Bill Bennett: did not serve.
* Pat Buchanan: did not serve.
* John Wayne: did not serve.
* Bill Kristol: did not serve.
* Kenneth Starr: did not serve.
* Antonin Scalia: did not serve.
* Clarence Thomas: did not serve.
* Ralph Reed: did not serve.
* Michael Medved: did not serve.
* Charlie Daniels: did not serve.
* Ted Nugent: did not serve.

Ode to Poop

You know it's going to be an interesting day when the bus smells like poo.

Really, it's not a great way to start the morning. I got onto the bus and something smelled a bit worse than usual. And there was the offending object in the corner. From what I could tell, it seemed that somebody had taken a dump in their hat. And it was enough poo that the hat actually overflowed. Either the person had some serious intestinal problems or it was a group effort.

There was already somebody sitting there and she gave me a knowing look. Nothing freaky. It was more 'I smell it too' than 'proud parent' look. She was quite the gutsy lady. Not only did she not retreat to the front of the bus, she didn't sit too far away from the poo. Only about 5 rows. If she could stand it, I could too. So I proceeded all the way to the back and opened up all the windows along the way.

A couple more people came on board the bus and a few of them just turned around and went back out. One lady didn't notice it at first but then got up from her seat to investigate the source of the smell. She got pretty close to the poo and if I was closer, I would have been tempted to give her a playful shove. One of those good natured rub her face in poo bad dog bad dog type of shoves.

Now, since this was probably the first bus of the morning, the poo must have been sitting since the following night, when the line stopped at 8pm. So for over 12 hours, this pile of turd has been sitting in that hat. It's really quite impressive that in this day and age, somebody can crap on a bus and it can sit there for such a long period of time. I would even dare to suggest that it's a new world record and the poo and bus should be put into a museum.

Even after they clean it out, it'll never really be clean. In my mind, all those buses are tainted by poo.