Better Living Through Paranoia - Part II

It's no secret that I have a wildly unhealthy fascination of fast-food. I have no qualms about it, not ashamed. I embrace it. However, if there was a Dateline NBC special about fast-food offenders, I would be caught on hidden camera with a half-eaten Giant Roast Beef in my hand and a mouthful of fries.

Chris Hansen:
"Hi, I'm Chris Hansen, host of Dateline NBC - To Catch a Fast-Food Predator. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Me (trying to chew and swallow):
"Mrphmfh. Fmherm. Bfmhe."

Chris Hansen:
"Sir, Please don't talk with your mouth full. We recorded your entire drive-thru conversation. We heard every disgusting menu item you ordered from that poor 17-year-old attendant."

Me:
"Hey man, she told me she could get me a deal on Combo Meal 5. I didn't really plan on eating it or anything."

Chris Hansen (with a fistfull of individually wrapped packets):
"Then how do you explain these condiments we found in your car?"

At this point, I make a break for it - throwing my milkshake to the ground and running out of parking lot before being tackled and tased by Mayor McCheese and Morgan Spurlock.

The fat kid never fits in...whether at school; among his peers; in reasonably sized clothing. He goes through life as an outcast. A shunned, scorned and perpetually hungry outcast.And so it is in the workplace.

I work with a gang of self-proclaimed vegans. You know, the folks that eat nothing but bok choy and tofurkey for lunch? So when I bring in my sack of two-for-three-bucks Fillet O' Fish sandwiches (for a limited time; only at participating restaurants), I'm ostracized for contributing to the global influence of the corporate fast-food conglomerates. Because they abuse animals, they say. And feed them waste-products, steroids and hormones to artificially stimulate growth, they say. And put the hardworking ma and pop restaurant owners out of work, they say.

It finally reached a breaking point when a co-worker circulated a forwarded email about animal cruelty, exploitation of workers, unethical marketing, pollution-contributing packaging, blah, blah, blah. They tell me that me eating a delicious Biggie Double Baconator is enabling the ruthless slaughter of innocent calves and helping to spread e. coli, Mad Cow and salmonella. I'm contributing to the suffering and misery of any number of innocent animals. My sandwich is the symbol of bovine genocide, they say.

But I say, put a manatee between two pieces of bread and I'll at least try a bite...and likely enjoy it if there's mayo and pickles involved.So here's my message to you burger bashers and Hardee's haters:

Stay out of my business and away from my Thickburger.

Better Living Through Paranoia - Part I

It’s not easy being not green.
The cool kids will all tell you that the environment is where it’s at. Anybody who’s anybody is crusading against pollution and global warming, all while saving the endangered Fijian mountain frog from extinction and protecting the rainforest.
Yawn.
I work with a bunch of these hand-wringers. One dude is constantly harping about the melting polar ice caps, postulating that in the very near future the entire eastern seaboard will be Deep Six’d. However, in the same breath, he also speculates that the shutdown of the thermohaline circulation of the ocean’s warm current will lead to a new ice age and force us all to migrate to the Southern Hemisphere.
Hogwash.
Then a couple weeks ago when I was still sick, I caught another girl digging through the wastebasket in my office because she knows I drink plastic water bottles and she wanted to recycle them. This trash can was overflowing with all my snotty Kleenexes and germy germs. When I pointed this out to her, she merely shrugged and said it was worth it for the environment.
So I sneezed on her in indignation.
This eco-talk dominates the conversation here in our break room. Forest fires, mudslides, hurricanes, tsunamis, erosion, greenhouse effect, the ozone, the writer’s strike. All these are blamed on me not reducing my environmental footprint. Because I don’t have solar panels or windmills at my house, I’m single-handedly sending the biosphere to its doom.
However, because they’re choosing paper over plastic, plugging in their cars and hugging panda bears, they are modern day messiahs - bringing hope and clean air to the masses. It’s all pretension, ostentation and haughty affectation.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for doing my part. When bio-fuel becomes a practicable option, I’ll choose it at the pump. I drive an SUV because it’s the best thing for my family. Not my first choice, but you can’t haul a week’s worth of groceries, two dogs or a sheet of drywall in a Smart Car. I separate the recycling when I remember to. Most times I turn the lights off when I leave a room. I only litter out of necessity.
But don’t lord it over me that you sip your latte out of cup made from recycled toilet paper while you carpool. I don’t want to hear about your biodegradable underwear or your Arbor Day celebration plans.
This whole ‘green revolution’ is a trend. It makes you feel better about yourself. That’s why it’s popular. And that’s fine. I can think of worse fads. But in reality, so few people actually practice conservation that the aggregate effect of those who do won’t make a difference. For every American driving a hybrid, there are ten thousand tribesmen in Africa poaching elephants.
For thousands of years this planet has sustained itself without us playing patty-cake with it. Smog, pollution, overuse of nonrenewable resources – these are all bad things. But if you believe the same scientist that are forecasting extinction level events, they also say that the earth has experienced dozens of warming and cooling trends throughout its history. I think maybe we’re underestimating the survival ability of a planet that’s proven itself pretty hardy over the years.
But more than likely we’re just overestimating ourselves.

You Got Served

Everyone knows that the firstborn sibling is the most loved.
Generally they are smarter, cooler, better looking, more well-rounded, healthier, savvier, better adjusted. The list goes on. In fact, I’m not sure why parents don’t just stop at one. After all, what more could you want? Why bother? The good traits have already all been distributed; it’s scientific fact that the second child only ends up being a watered-down version of the first. Too many dips into the gene pool and you’re just asking for trouble. Look it up.
My little sister is 23. Being five years older/superior than her, I try to pass down as much wisdom as I can. I do this with compassion and grace - never, ever, stooping to an I-told-you-so admonition. Except, of course, when she deserves it (sometimes the tortoise is already so far behind in the race, the hare can’t help but slow down every once in a while to point and laugh in good natured fun).
However, it is also well known that the older sibling must keep up appearances. So when a younger sibling issues a challenge, the elder must put the potential usurper in their place by rising to meet that challenge. In no way can the older brother decline a contest, a dare, a taunt or an ultimatum.
And so it was this past weekend.
Whether it was by arrogance, ignorance, or self-importance, she and her friends chanced a misplaced contrivance of great disturbance. With no deliberate avoidance or nonchalance, I gave them my assurance, much to their annoyance, that their prepense of my hesitance would lead to their comeuppance:
They dared me to dance.
They challenged me to go out with them on Saturday night. Throwing insults my way like: ‘past my prime’ and ‘long in the tooth’, they bet me I couldn’t shut down the clubs like they could. They made much of their previous conquests – staying out late and partying to the wee hours of early morning. They traded stories of their seemingly limitless stamina as they hopped from dance floor to dance floor.
Not to be outdone, I told them I would meet their challenge. And not only that, but I would last longer than they.
Saturday night came. I was wide-eyed and ready. My dancing shoes were strapped firmly to my happy feet. Loose and limber, I had eaten right all day. Plenty of water and carbs. I had napped.
It was Go Time.

9:00: We all met up at the bar that my sister tends. Ironic. She and all her friends are teetotalers. I handicap them by knocking one back. I don’t need to drink to have fun - just a jukejoint and comfortable pair of kicks. But it just wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t give them a head start.
10:30 pm: Sister gets off work. Her friends mention that they’re getting their second wind. Fools. I’m still on my first wind. Whatever that means.
11:00 pm: Arrive at martini and cigar bar. Their choice. They want to mellow out before hitting the club. Suckers. Smokiness and talkiness only leads to sleepiness. I’ve got them right where I want them.
12:00 am: Stand in line to get into dance club.
12:45 am: Finally get into dance club.
12:50 am: Fight the crowd to get to bathroom. Whew – made it.
1:00 am: Approach dance floor.
1:05 am: Now I’m in my element. The only white boy in a crowd of hip-hoppers. The muscle memory returns. Can’t fight the feeling. My feet have a mind of their own. But Sister & Co. are being wallflowers.
1:20 am: Humpty Dance. Atomic Dog. C&C Music Factory. It’s as if the DJ can read my mind. Arms akimbo, I have no control of my gyrating, rotund body. Sister is still in the corner, nodding her head and nursing an ice water with her girlfriends. Lame-O.
1:25 am: I’m bringing sexyback - if sexy is hand claps and finger snapping.
1:30 am: Just broke out the Robot, the Lawnmower and the John Travolta Jack Rabbit Slim’s dance from Pulp Fiction. I’m on fire.
1:32 am: Consider doing the Sprinkler, wisely abstain. Ditto for the Shopping Cart.
1:45 am: Sister & Co. are now sitting on the dance floor in the corner. I suggest they give up and leave.
1:46 am: They give up and leave.
2:00 am: I lead the way back to the parking garage. They groggily complain that their feet hurt. I remind them that you can’t break in your dancing shoes if you don’t ever dance.
2:15 am: Realize that the parking garage is closed and we’re stuck. Have to call security. Story for another day.
3:00 am: They drop me off at my car after I’ve been laughing all the way home.

The moral of the story is this: Kids, respect your elders. And the next time you’re looking to show me up – bring your A-Game. Because I just don’t have time to mess around with the B-Team.

Winded

The grizzly has awoken. The sleeping bear has emerged from his den/basement - fat and happy from his winter hibernation. With an engorged belly full of Taco Bell and girl scout cookies, he has shed his bathrobe, ready to face the sunlight and rejoin society. Spring, he thinks, is upon him.
After a two-month hiatus, I decided to resume my regular workout routine. What follows is a graphic description of last night's attempt at a return to physical fitness. It is not for the squeamish, nor for the faint of heart. However, if my tortuous struggle with explicit laziness intrigues you, by all means, read on...

I had fully expected that I would ease effortlessly back into my running routine. It would kind of be like riding a bike. And it was. Like riding a bike uphill. In quicksand. With ankle weights and a 300-pound man sitting on my chest.
As cold as it was, I had to bundle up for my long winter's jog. I figured that those exercise clothes would be like greeting an old friend after a long absence. It was not like that at all.
My track pants protested against my distended waistline. My fleece pullover strained against my bloated torso. Even my sneakers bulged from my fat feet.
After the rolls had been tucked in and the fabric stretched to the last thread of resistence, I put on my headphones and set my Swatch to countdown mode.
The sweat beaded on my chubby face. My hamstrings ached and twinged with each excruciating step, calves cramping, craving lactic acid. My joints popped and throbbed.
And then I left the driveway.
Not so long ago, I was in fairly decent shape. During a run my heart rate would be elevated but steady. Oxygenated blood flowed to and from my heart through unconstricted arteries with ease. Now getting blood to my heart is like sipping a milkshake through a coffee straw. A Funyon-flavored milkshake. With sprinkles and chunks of candy bar.
My wheezing and labored breaths would make an asthmatic emphysema patient shake his head with pity. There was so much friction generated from my inner thighs rubbing together that my junk very nearly caught on fire.
This went on for three miles. Twenty-seven minutes and thirteen seconds of cardiovascular aerobic exercise. I finally stumbled home - extremities freezing, lungs burning, skin chafing, neighbors pointing and laughing...

I actually lied a littled. My life hasn't been completely devoid of all activity. I have been playing two hours of pick-up basketball every Sunday afternoon, but those embarrassing turnover-fests are best left for another day (Okay, you know how Charles Barkley used to be called the Round Mound of Rebound? Well, I'm more like the Round Mound of Missed Layups and Getting My Shot Blocked).
However, I'm glad that I left the couch and ventured into the winter cold. I hope I've turned over a new leaf. I'm registered for a 5-mile trail run in 18 days. And considering how last year the sadistic race organizers defied the physical characteristics of nature itself to plot the course uphill both ways, I've got my work cut out for me.
And fortunately for you, that should be hi-larious.

All About the Tagalongs - A Poem

I was sitting watching Wheel in my slippers and my robe;
With a bowl of Ramen noodles and a pint of Michelob.
With nary an intention of moving from the couch;
I had settled for the evening in a comfortable slouch.

The doorbell rang, I rolled my eyes, "Whoever could it be?"
I almost didn't answer but I thought that I should see.
I opened it a crack and I peered onto the stoop;
where a bunch of school-age girls were huddled in a group.

Strangly dressed in uniforms with badges on their shirts;
They made their pitch and sold me with the promise of desserts.
How could I resist all of their pleading and their pouts?
I ordered fourteen boxes from those scheming little Scouts.

"Your cookies should arrive in maybe five to seven weeks";
I could almost see the dollar signs in their rosy cheeks.
The day could not come soon enough. I fasted and I waited.
Finally the shipment came and, boy, was I elated.

I ripped apart the package, promptly counting all the spoils.
Lemonades and All Abouts, Samoas and Trefoils.
Of course I put the Thin Mints quickly in the freezer;
But left a few out for my wife; if only to appease her.

Chomping through the Do-si-dos, I moved to Tagalongs;
Better than Twinkies, Zebra Cakes - perhaps even Ding-Dongs!
I only stopped to take a breath, I knew I could not rest.
I didn't stop to think that I should slow down to digest.

But heartburn never killed anyone, or at least I like to think;
And it always goes away with a bit of milk to drink.
The only evidence remaining on that February Eve;
Were crumbs of cookie dust in an empty plastic sleeve.

Happy Girl Scout Cookie Day everybody!

V-Day

We celebrated Valentine's Day at Target this year.
Fighting off a strangely lingering supervirus, we slogged out in the ice and snow to run some errands at everyone's favorite superstore. Realizing that it was February 13 and we hadn't bought each other candy, flowers or gifts, we found ourselves looking through the card aisle for notes for other family members.
And we had an idea. Instead of spending 3.99 on a Hallmark for each other that would sit on the fireplace mantle for two weeks and then be tossed, we picked out cards right then and there and exchanged them in-store between the office supplies and home electronics.
It was a sweetly romantic gesture shared in spite of hacking coughs and messy sneezes.
There will be no chocolates or teddy bears this year. No roses or candles. Just lozenges and facial tissues. Our dinner will consist not of wine and rich desserts, but of chamomille and Ni-Quil. We will be going to bed early tonight. But for none of the fun reasons. Flannel pjs and electric blankets will have to do.
But that's just fine with me. Love isn't always about fancy meals and lavish sweets. It's not about bouquets and teddy bears.
Sometimes it's simply about not minding the growing pile of gross wadded Kleenexes on the coffee table. It's about comforting each other through the runny noses, feverish shivers and sore throats.
That being said, I love my wife more and more every year. Whether we're in good health or laid up on the couch with the snotty sniffles, I enjoy every minute I spend with her.
I don't need a holiday to let my wife know that. I hope she already does Ideally, I would take her out, spend money on her and make a big to-do. I wish I could.
But this year, a run to the drug store will have to suffice.
And that's okay with me.
Happy Valentine's Day.

How the Fry Guys Ruined the Economy - An Essay on Mconomics

Someone told me that there are over 400 strains of the cold virus. I think I've caught them all this past week.

I've successfully infected my wife and even my dogs are sniffling. This partially explains the lack of posts, but I also haven't had much to write about.

Until today.

Most of my recent trips to CVS for Ni-Quil and Kleenexes have been relatively uneventful (BTW , the new ones with Vick's Vapo in them are reason enough to go outside without a coat). But on today's trip, I noticed something so troubling and disturbing that I knew I must (MUST!) blog right away.

This whole issue might not mean much to most of you, but any of you who have kept up so far know that I am a fast food afficianado. I love it. It loves me. I know it's horrible and I'll die of clogged arteries at 29. But I don't care. I was born with a Beef 'n Cheddar in my hand. I don't care that I share a body type with this guy:

So Supersize these, Morgan Spurlock.

Anyhow, on with the story - I'm pulling out of the parking lot and I'm looking both ways, when I see a yard card advertisement at the McDonald's across the street. It read: 25 cent McNugget Wednesdays!

WHAT?!?!?! That's per nuggie? Like chicken wing night at Stu's B&G?

Like I said, I know this means nothing to most of you, but let me explain why this shook me to the very core.

Math lesson: a 5-piece McNugget is on the everyday Dollar menu. Therefore you get five (5) McNuggets for one U.S. dollar. One hundred pennies. My Two-Hundred Thousand dollar education tells me that this works out to 20 cents per nugget.

Still with me?

So their advertised sale of 25 cents is a 125% increase in the price of a nugget. That's not a sale. That's a burglery. And it's a good bet who's to blame:

I know that there's a good portion of this fair city who's driving down the street, with a hankerin' for the Arches, seeing that sign and smacking their fat foreheads saying "25 cent Nuggs? What a deal! They're practically givin' 'em away!"

Which leads me to the point of this digression.

Everyone can pretty much agree that the reason for this economic downturn we're in is the real estate crisis. You have a good portion of many a fair city driving down the street, with a hankerin' for the American Dream, seeing the ReMax sign in your yard and smacking their fat foreheads saying "More square footage for less money? What a deal! They're practically givin' 'em away."

The same people who think that paying an extra five cents for a delicious premium all-white-meat chicken tender is a solid bargain are the same folks who are buying into these zero-percent-down mortgages thinking that their starter home should be a 3,500 sq. ft. two-story with a three-car garage. The consequences of being upside-down in their mortgage are masked by shiny-white vinyl siding that'll shear off in the next Midwestern storm.

I'm no elitist, or math expert, but I do know how to compare my current income to 360 monthly payments plus taxes, mortgage insurance, and unforeseen repairs while keeping a reasonable budget in mind. But then again, my house isn't in foreclosure.

But my fellow GenXers - my peers with their wallet-busting student loan payments, 60-month mini-van finance agreements, and 2.1 kids - are throwing away their financial future (and good credit, and marriages, and self-respect) for an impatient, live-in-the-moment, he-who-dies-with-the-most-toys-wins lifestyle.

So enjoy your gigantic tract home with its barely-there lot, shoddy materials and virtually zero resale value.

There's a reason they call them McMansions.

Yo Quiero Fourthmeal

I can never remember if it's 'feed a fever, starve a cold' or 'feed a cold, starve a fever'. Well, last night I had both, so I erred on the side of gluttony.

My sick self made a run for the border to the tune of a Chili Cheese Burrito, a Baja Chalupa and a Gordita Supreme. (BTW - can we all agree that the removal of the 7-layer Nacho Cheesy Crunchwrap from the menu is one of the all-time fast-food tragedies?)

Don't worry though - I balanced that out three hours later with a Lean Cuisine microwave meal and 2 lo-fat Puddin' Paks (only 90 calories each; and they're criminally delicious!!).

The food didn't cure my illness. In fact, it made it worse. Now to go along with the flu-like symptoms, I have dissentary-like symptoms.

The problem is that I'm not quite sick enough to justify staying home from work. But just sick enough to be miserable. So between Ni-quil, Day-quil, ZiCam, Sudafed and Vic's cough drops, I feel like a fat Heath Ledger.

Ouch, too soon?

Okay. Anna Nicole Smith then. I think we can all feel comfortable with that.

So if I'm not posting updates for the next few days, please excuse the absence. In the meantime, I'll be thinking Outside the Bun.

Chin up, Coach. I still love you.

Hey Coach B, I hear you’re feeling a little blue this morning. As in, “We just blue our chance at a perfect season.”
Well, don’t listen to all that nonsense. You’re still Number One in my book.
You probably woke up this morning, gave a stretch, pulled on your cut-off hoodie and stumbled into the kitchen for some Rice Krispies. And if you spilled some milk while pouring it over your cereal, well, that’s okay. No use crying over it.
I can understand if you’re a bit ‘down in the dumps’, so to speak. I mean, you kinda did get humiliated on national TV by getting shown up by an inferior team who was obviously much more prepared than you were. And on the world’s biggest sports stage at that. Oh, and you did kinda, maybe, sorta look like the haughty fool you are by walking off the field with time still left on the clock. And many are saying that you received your just desserts for running up the score on weaker teams game after game.
That’s why I feel it’s necessary to have this little ‘Beli-chat’.
You’re likely reflecting on a season that you’ve viewed as sub-par. Probably thinking that it was a missed opportunity to fulfill destiny and a wasted chance to live up to your team’s potential. A classic choke-job for the ages - one of the biggest collapses in sports history.
And you’d be right about those things. But why focus on the negative?
People like to assign you 'labels'. Petty. Vindictive. Callous. Cold. Insincere. Miserable. Unethical. Dishonest. And those are the kind ones.
But that’s not the Bill Belichick I know. I see through the gruff exterior to the insecure puppy dog that’s just longing to have his ears rubbed. I know you snubbed Tony Dungy after your Week 8 victory because you didn’t want a handshake – you wanted a hug. Those great big Dungy bear hugs are rare commodities and I know you just wanted some of that action.
You pretty much had everyone rooting against you last night. That’s a lot of pressure. At least you came across as humble and polite in your post-game interviews. Oh, you didn’t? Oops.
Then there’s this whole videotaping scandal.
The media pundits, and fans like to throw out terms like ‘Spygate’ and ‘Beli-cheat’. That, I say, is ludicrous. You’ve brought drama and intrigue to the game. And a potential investigation by a special Senate Committee.
But ratings are up because everyone wants to see you fail. Your team has become the most popular in the league. For dubious reasons, but they should be handing you a medal; not a $500,000 fine and a label of being classless. If ya ain’t cheatin’, ya ain’t tryin’, right?
Well Coach, turns out that the tall glass of deceit is half-full. You proved ‘em wrong. Cheaters actually do win.
At least 18 out of 19 times.
So cheer up. It’s not as if the entire sports world outside of Boston wouldn’t just love to see you fall down a well or spontaneously combust or something. No one wants to see you suffer through, oh say, a lifelong ban from the league for cheating. Or be stripped of every award, trophy and accolade you’ve been awarded.
And those who do are just haters, huh? It’s all jealousy. Envy talks a big game.
By the way, I know that the written word doesn’t really lend itself to sarcasm, but Coach, I hope you catch my drift.

Sincerely,

Your biggest fan.

Sandwiched!

Happy February 1st! Only one shopping day left before Groundhog Day.
February starts with F.
And F stands for Feast.
As in the new Subway Feast available at participating Subway restaurants. The Feast is stacked, packed and racked with spicy Pepperoni, Genoa Salami, Black Forest Ham, tender Roast Beef, Turkey and American Cheese, topped by your favorite veggies and sauces, piled high on freshly baked bread.
Double Stack that, add a 32oz. soda and a bag of chips and you've almost got yourself a meal there, pal.
But this is not a blog about sandwiches. Although I could dedicate an entire blog to sandwiches. Not just one entry. Scores and scores of blog entries about sandwiches and only sandwiches. There is nothing I don't like about sandwiches. Mmmmm....sandwiches.
However, recent events have transpired that have put a bad taste in my mouth. So to speak.
As I have indicated in the past, I work in a building with well over 500 people in it. As you can imagine, there are plenty of off-the-wall folks to keep me entertained.
Take this one woman for example: For the longest time, I thought she was a homeless woman living in our cafeteria. Every time I went down to buy a coke, she would be there in the same spot, by herself, eating a sandwich. Every time - morning, noon, and, well, afternoon. So naturally, I nicknamed her Sandwich.
Sandwich wore the same thing everyday, ate the same sandwich everyday, and generally had a hardscrabble look about her.
So one day, a co-worker and I decided to investigate the origins of Sandwich. We followed her to the elevators where we discovered that she did, in fact, work here and was not merely a hungry streetperson.
We even went as far as following her to her cubicle, where, according to her name placard, we discovered that her name was not Sandwich. Her name was much more normal and boring, so we continued to refer to her as Sandwich. This, we think, is hilarious.
Now I handle a lot of legal H.R. issues here and employee complaints trickle into my office on a semi-regular basis. However, (irony of all ironies) what should I find upon returning from my investigation?
You guessed it - A complaint regarding Sandwich.
Now I've had some pretty 'out-there' complaints in the past, but this one took the cake. She had been cited for among many other things (wait for it):


SANDWICHING a co-worker between two rolling file cabinets.


It said this right there in the complaint. Make this up, I cannot.
The unbelievable irony continued, however, when days later, I (anonymously) shared an elevator with Sandwich and one of her fellow employees. As they were commiserating about the stresses of the job, the following conversation took place:

Sandwich

"As if this ain't bad enough, I gots to go to work right after this."

Friend of Sandwich

"Where do you work."

Sandwich

"Subway."

Me

{stiffles fits of giggling}

Jared Fogle (not actually in elevator, but somewhere is saying)

"Eat Fresh".