THE PILLSBURY HO BOY

Lousy Commuting

Yesterday morning, I left the apartment at 7:47 am. About two minutes too late to make my usual bus to Friendship Heights metro station.
No worries, the bus after my usual arrives at 8:01. This wasn’t the first time I snoozed one too many times. You would think waking up earlier gets easier, but according to my records, the difference is marginal.
Another testament of Murphy’s Law for the history books, kids. The next bus didn’t come until 8:16. Double the fun: it was a midget bus. Pardon me, a little person bus. On a day when I would have been comfortable the entire trip, my face was smooshed against the back door window. Nothing to fret over, the ride is only seven minutes long.
I sprinted down the escalator as I do every morning. You can’t trust the screens at the bottom that say you have three minutes until your train arrives, because the system is sporadically slow. It seems that only happens on the days I trust it, but I may be going crazy. Commuting can quickly do that to a person.
I got a seat! I was sucked into my book when I noticed the train stopped. Must have been part of Metro’s legendary “improvement strategy” for the abysmal red line. I got off, smooshed again, smelled an obese man’s back sweat. He had a delicate left earring, a loose fitting navy blue shirt, and the most peculiar chinstrap facial hair I’ve seen since last shopping at the Staten Island Mall. His odor indicated he ate onions, garbage, and Axe body spray for breakfast.
This was the first time I was late for work yet I did everything right. Not a great start to that day.
Nonetheless, this was all in the past! Today was a new day. No need to dwell on one lousy commute. I wasn’t about to forget about it entirely, though. That part right there, the part about me not forgetting: that brings me to right about five minutes ago. As always, an old person who still doesn’t understand how to dismount an escalator blocked my path when I needed to transfer to the red line towards home. Looking over my shoulder on the escalator at Metro Center, I saw the train to Shady Grove just open its doors.
I actually muttered “Fuck This” as I jumped over the escalator handrail in my desperate attempt for a speedy transfer. Then again, my headphones were blaring at an impressive volume so it could have been more than a mutter. It was by no means a straight shot between the escalator and the train: it was a goddamn mine field. I dodged, I weaved, I juked, but I never took my eyes off the open doors. I honestly don’t know how I didn’t trample someone, but I made it through my dash without taking down any bystanders. About 15 feet away, I heard that ding-dong-ding-dong just before that soul-less bitch says “Step back, Doors Closing.” About 11 feet back I saw the doors start to close and with 10 feet between myself and the train, remembering the bitch of a commute from the day before and the dinner my girlfriend had waiting for me, I decided to go for it. I narrowed my body, put my arms forward, and leapt with all my might. I felt the doors slightly clamp my arms, but the momentum I accumulated managed to push the rest of my body through. I made it! That was my thought for about half a second before I felt myself get yanked back the way you abruptly tug a dog’s leash when he has bad intentions. I’m pretty sure I made that same helpless wail a pup often does in that situation. In lesser words: it was quite a jolt.
Immediately I knew what happened. The doors closed at the perfect moment to prevent my backpack’s entry. My body made the leap relatively unscathed, but all of my belongings were on the other side.
Every person with a clear view of me stared wide-eyed. Some laughed and I joined in. What else was I supposed to do? I was calm; I knew the operator would be able to tell there was a remaining set of doors ajar. I expected to hear a repeat of “Step Back. Doors Closing.” I was just glad to make the train. No 18 minute off-peak bullshit wait for me, thank you.
Then, I stopped laughing. Something wasn’t right. The train was moving! No doubt about it, it was in motion. All at once my mind asked a series of horrifying questions: What’s going to happen to my stuff? I’ve got some important things in there. Am I going to screw up this ride for everyone else on the train? Can my bag fit between the train and the tunnel? Holy shit, what’s going to happen to ME?
I snapped out of it when I saw two men jump to their feet in order to assist me. Finally realizing the urgency of the situation, I jammed my right foot between the two doors, and I turned it to give my body the necessary slack. Once I was able to rotate my torso just enough to get my hands on the doors, I shoved them open and flung myself forward. After a few tugs, my bag came through and I nearly fell into the opposite set of doors. Some passengers sighed in relief, some laughed, and others had a stern disapproval in their eyes.
I quickly sat down next to a woman who had her mouth agape in shock. A few seconds of catching my breath rolled by when I realized everyone else was still staring at me too. I had only spoken prior to that moment to thank the men who tried to help me so I felt compelled to say something while still the center of attention. Between deep inhales I managed to squeak out “I really wanted to catch this train.” Apparently that’s what everyone was waiting for because the car filled with a hearty laughter. I smiled and finally caught my breath. The woman next to me then leaned forward and muttered, “You shouldn’t do that. You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
“Sorry, lady.” I responded. “But I’d do it again to avoid another lousy commute.”

REVENGE PREGNANCY!

This is one of those images that sits in your mind and is better off sailing around the ocean that is your imagination. It's so absurd, so outrageous, that it benefits you to not pick up the trashy tabloid and educate yourself on exactly why Angelina decided to fill her uterus with a "let's get even baby." Those little infants are always the cutest. There's something about vengeance that really gives a newborn child the best qualities.
What would even make a magazine get the idea that Angelina Jolie is having a child strictly for the purpose of revenge? How do the investigator and writer of this story sleep at night? I can only imagine the twisted circumstances if this headline was actually accurate. Did Brad leave the milk out one too many times? Maybe he told her she's getting fat.
I like to hope that no one would have a baby strictly for the purpose of settling the score with someone, but I guess people have done more fucked up things than that. In the end if someone gets a life out of it, maybe it's not such a bad thing that some people who get screwed over start popping out retribution babies. There's no way they can possibly be more cynical than Generation Y.
Aren't all our parents victims of revenge pregnancy? They hate life, their parents, their jobs...so they want to get back at all those things by bringing someone into a newfound miserable existence maybe to distract themselves for a while. ......Hahahahaha that was terribly morbid and I don't actually believe it. However, if I had a few strands of super long pink emo hair, I'd totally toss it back at this moment. Maybe chain smoke a cigarette or two.
If you're considering how to deliver payback unto someone who has wronged you, please do something traditional and practical like cutting their brake lines or slipping the person a roofie. Even a stabbing is more reasonable.

Apparently, it's too late for me to reach Mrs. Jolie (-Pitt?)...well, I hope that Angelina decided to deliver this child in a meat locker, because a Revenge Baby is a dish best served cold.

Gay Cat Pride?

So I was walking on Wisconsin Ave NW the other day, and something truly absurd caught my eye. Sure, I was in a rush, it was 100 degrees outside, and I was already sweaty on the way to a job interview, but something this uniquely bizarre only comes around every so often.
Before I tell you what it was (and pretend you didn't already see it), try for a second to understand gay pride. Is it justified? Absolutely. Homosexuals have gone through a lot of adversity and I think they deserve as many parades as they want. Their unanimous pride is a strong bond. Is it genuine? I think so. Just as any group that has faced hard times, this demographic is proud to have made it so far and acknowledge that a strong union is essential to making further progress. Is it really weird and confusing? Sometimes. And I'm not talking about Katy Perry's experiments with chapstick or Lady Gaga doing...the thing where she...sorry for the struggle, but I don't think there's been a word developed to accurately describe Lady Gaga. Check back in a few years. Anyway, back to the "weird and confusing" kind...
On this typical scorching and humid summer day in the nation's capital, I saw a cat-shaped gay pride bumper sticker. It was the well known gay pride rainbow...in bumper sticker form...in the shape of a common household feline. Under this wonderful symbol read the typical kitty one liner "meow." .................Awesome.
Luckily I captured this moment on my awful flip camera phone to share with you all. After viewing the CAT-astrophe (roll your eyes at that all you want, but I had to), I thought of all the possibilities.
1. The car owner loves cats and happens to be gay.
2. The car owner owns a gay cat.
3. The car owner IS a gay cat.
4. The car owner was a gay cat in a past lifetime and wants to remind every driver on the road that tracing reincarnation can be so accurate at times that the sexual orientation of our prior existences can be deciphered and that we should be damn proud of it.
5. The car is a "Safe Space" for gay cats everywhere.
6. The car owner owns a rare species of refracted-light cat.
7. The car owner simply loves cats a whole lot and loves rainbows a nearly equivalent amount and had no idea that a rainbow sticker in cat form would confound drivers everywhere and perhaps even attract a few cat-crazed homosexuals or homosexual cats. Depending on how smart that gay cat is. Then again, a gay cat smart enough to crack the code of the feline shaped gay pride sticker most likely has enough intelligence to avoid the crazy owner of such a bumper decal.

Of course after thinking about these scenarios I pondered the process of manufacturing gay cat stickers, selling them, branding them, pitching them, etc...but I'll spare you those hypotheses.
Above you will find the photographic evidence. Why do you think this strange image was affixed to an SUV? Better yet, was it YOUR car?

How I Got My Tattoo

After being picked up from the party, we headed for the tattoo parlor. Approaching every traffic light, I secretly hoped it would turn red to give me time to think. I held the piece of paper to the window in an attempt to catch light from the street lamps. The objects of my attention were six small pictures. Six options. Six permanent brandings to choose from.
While each represented something meaningful, none of them jumped out at me as I hoped one would. The longer I stared the greater I doubted my decision to get a tattoo.
There were three different Batman symbols on the page. The first was the long traditional Batman symbol in the yellow oval. I had also chosen a rare take on the symbol that I really liked from the Dark Knight graphic novel series. Lastly was the newer Batman symbol from the latest movies. I grew up loving everything about Batman and spent many hours in many makeshift Batcaves pretending to be the caped crusader. Not only did this choice represent my most cherished childhood memories and one of my last relevant links to childhood, but it would serve as a reminder of the bonding my father and I shared for the world of comics.
The fourth image was a piece from the game of RISK. Just before my grandfather died, he bought the board game to play with my cousin and me. We only played once before we buried him with a horse piece in his casket. We chose the horse because he loved stallions so much. Obvious emotional ties there. Plus, in my opinion, that tattoo would be a less chiche tribute to a dead relative than a cross.
The fifth was an Irish clover with the Italian flag pattern within. I’m Irish, I’m Italian. Simple enough.
The sixth was the graffiti tag “El Barto” from The Simpsons. Aside from being my favorite series ever, the show inspired me to go into comedy.
All good and bad choices at the same time. After a party, it was hard enough to focus.
As we pulled up, I turned to my girlfriend at the time and told her I changed my mind. I simply wasn’t ready to get a tattoo. We were supposed to get them together, so she asked if I wouldn’t mind waiting as she got hers.
We strolled in below the neon sign of Island Tattoo, and I felt relieved that I wasn’t about to make a huge mistake.
I sat in the waiting room as my girlfriend discussed her ink-inspirations and I glanced around the room at all the strange tattoos around me. I remember one guy had a sheep pointing a gun at a man holding a pair of shears. I didn’t realize I was sitting with my tattoo sheet unfolded and a man spied my choices.
“Sick tats, man. You gonna get all of them?”
“Huh? Oh…no. I don’t think I’ll be getting a tattoo tonight. These were my what I narrowed my options to, though.”
My sheet in his hands, he continued the conversation without looking away from it. “What’s the matter? Can’t decide on just one?”
“No, actually…” I trailed off. What a terrible time for my machismo to kick in. Afraid to admit I chickened out, I spit out the sentence that would serve as the inciting incident for my first tattoo. “I came here all stoked to get one of these, but the place is closing soon. I’ll just have to come back another time.”
“Yo, dude. I’m an artist here. Let me clock back in, start up my station, and we’ll get you ink’d up!”
“Oh, no. Please, I really don’t mind coming back.”
“Nonsense. I love my job, bro! It’s time to take that V-card!”
As I heard the stamping of what sounded like a shift clock, I searched my mind in desperation for a good excuse.
“Yeah, but I really can’t choose one!”
Alright, well let’s talk about this. You want my honest opinion? I think this Batman tat would be SICK. Best superhero ever.”
I felt my guard drop a notch. “Really? You think it would be cool?”
“Hell yeah, man. Everybody loves the Dark Knight. So where do you wanna get it?” he asked as he took the paper into the back room.
As if I were possessed, I felt myself say “right shoulder, on the back.”
“Sweet. Great spot. I’ll be right back. Why don’t you sit up on that chair right there?”
Shirtless on the leather seat, I felt a wave of fear overtaking me. Was I really about to do this?
The artist was back sooner than expected. “Hey the machine is almost done rendering the picture. Excited?”
“Actually, I’m not so sure about this.”
His expression went from thrilled to despondent. “Dude, really? I’m clocked in, the machine’s going, my station’s set up. I’m all excited to give you this badass ink! You really gonna back out now?”
This guy was the most manipulative tattoo artist I’ve ever met. Then again, I hadn’t met many. “Alright, let’s do it.”
“That’s the spirit! Let me go wash up.” I took a few deep breaths and looked up to see a very large figure in the doorway. Captain Guilt Trip was looking over his shoulder. “Hey my man, it turns out I actually gotta run. But my buddy Pete here is gonna take real good care of you. He owns the place. Good luck! I’ll do your next tattoo for sure.”
The man who singlehandedly peer pressured me into getting a tattoo wasn’t even going to stick around and finish the deed. Pete was a big man with a silvery ponytail. He had tattoo artist written all over him. Right down to the red and white bandana. The only thing that didn’t fit was his soft, friendly voice. “Hey dude, I’m Pete. You sure you don’t want me to make this thing bigger?”
“No! That’ll be fine, Pete.” A little late to prove myself impervious to peer pressure.
As the machine started up, I accepted that my fate was sealed. I had actually been guilted into getting a tattoo.
“Babe, what are you doing?” Maybe not all was lost! I had actually forgotten my girlfriend was there and now she arrived to save the day. “So you decided to get a tattoo after all?”
“Sort of…” I tried my hardest to send an S.O.S. with my eyes. My heart sank as I watched her confusion turn into delight.
“Great! Which one are you getting?” Pete showed her as he dipped his needle into black ink. “I love that one! It’s gonna look so hot. I’ll be in the next room getting ready for mine. I want the heart with musical note through it!”
The moment Pete touched the needle to my shoulder blade, every bone in my body rumbled in what felt like rebellion. Somehow the pain was more and less intense than I had anticipated.
A few minutes of daydreaming passed by when it was interrupted by Pete telling a customer about a growth that had developed near his groin.
“It’s terribly painful. Roughly the size of a grapefruit. I have to go get the sucker drained tomorrow.”
That lovely thought paired with the sight of a paper towel soaked in my blood tossed into a biohazard container made me a bit queasy. Needless to say I was eager to leave.
When he finished up, I handed over the $50 and offered a twenty buck tip.
“Hey, what are you? In college? Thanks, but you need that. Take care, kid. Come back any time for a free touch up.”
I thought to myself “Thanks, do you do free removals?” While I sincerely appreciated his generosity, I would have preferred the no pressure approach about an hour earlier. I found my girlfriend smiling in the waiting room.
“Hey! How do you feel?”
I shrugged.
“Well I’ve got mine all figured out but I can’t get it done until tomorrow.”
A feeling of dread came over me. I got what she came to get. Maybe I should have gone in with my heart set on getting a tattoo…
She grabbed my hand as we headed for the door. I held the door and passed under that neon sign 50 dollars poorer and forever branded a comic book geek.
Somehow, I don’t think Bruce Wayne’s decision to become Batman was the result of peer pressure.

My Drive Thru Bride

It’s ten minutes until my shift is over and I need to get this hat off. Beats me what these doofy hats are made of but it constantly feels like there are ants frantically crawling all over my head. As you can imagine, that sensation for a consecutive six hours is enough to drive any man insane.
The hat is my least favorite part of the job, but working the drive thru is a close second place. Everything about the drive thru sucks: the yelling in your ear, every driver’s inability to pull up close enough to the drive thru window, the impatience of snooty customer who is too lazy to get out of the car, listening to the one sided cell phone conversations, the irate customers stomping back after a mistake in the order.
The awkward distance between the window and the incompetent drivers was becoming a serious problem for me. I took it upon myself to rig up a device to give the fools their precious change back. That was back when I was a server. When the manager of this McDonald’s caught wind of my “brilliant invention” (wiffleball bat + ash tray) he promoted me to assistant server co-manager. For some reason my flashy new title wasn’t enough to impress my girlfriend so I’ll be flying solo for a bit. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll meet my new wife as she weasels her way out of cooking dinner. It is this thought that makes drive thru duty barely a notch above the hat-wear discomfort. Then again, you don’t find many Buffy the Vampire Slayer types with an appreciation for art shuffling through a McDonald’s drive thru.
Eight minutes left until my shift is over. I am currently staring at one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. 90 seconds ago (I know this because the registers keep track of how rapidly we feed you your greasy McCardiac arrest burgers and French Dies) a man walked in sobbing loudly. His shirt has a picture of Yoda on it and he’s wearing an American Idol hat. Bizzare. Anyway, without even trying to compose himself, he ordered five McFish Killets. Oh yeah, and a Diet Coke. He is currently sitting in a booth, sobbing, cramming “food” into his mouth, while listening to Goo-Goo Dolls on a tiny set of speakers. I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to talk to this strange customer.
When I neared his table, he instinctively protected his remaining 3.5 McFish Killets before asking me: “Can I help you?”
“Hello, sir. I noticed you seem sad. Has your food been prepared to your liking?”
“Oh…yes, the food is fine.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
“I just watched the LOST season finale. It was terrible. I practically worship JJ Abrams, I bought every season on DVD, and I consider Hurley to be my personal hero. And after the finale, I wish I never started watching it.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”
“I just wanted some answers!” he yelled as a piece of fishy “goodness” escaped mouth. “Don’t I deserve some answers?? Something…anything!”
“Sometimes you don’t get what you want. Not everything is as simple as asking questions and getting answers. You have to appreciate the journey.”
I don’t know where that came from but I think it made sense. It was enough to make my new hefty friend pause his sob session. Wait, he just started again.
“I’ve wasted six years of my life!” he cried as he buried his face in his greasy hands.
“That’s not true. Considering how many episodes there have been, you only wasted five DAYS of your life.”
“I’ve seen every episode three times, plus commentary.”
“Ok, so it’s more like twenty days. But if you decide not to eat those last two sandwiches I guarantee you’ll get them right back! Besides, at least you still have American Idol.”
“But Paula’s gone and it won’t be the same without Simon!”
As he collapses and resumes wailing, my boss calls me over.
“You know I hate to ask, but Stella just had to bail from her shift due to a family emergency. Can you stay here for an extra three hours? I’ll pay you double.”
Although I was anxiously counting down the final minutes of my shift, I could use the money. Also, this has already shaped up to be an interesting evening. The night shift is usually pretty tame, and maybe this will be the night my future wife stops by for one of our new Frappes. Realizing I’ve been thinking this over for a good twenty seconds now, I give my answer.
“Ok. But only if I can take off the hat.”

The Floating Ones

Once I was taken out of the box at Party City, the elders imparted their knowledge, divulging our purpose. We are known as “the floating ones.” Humans call us “balloons.” To these creatures bound forever to the earth, we easily catch their attention as we hover. Being so unique, our purpose is to send important messages to those who receive us.
My best friend "Get Well Soon!" told me a chilling tale of a "Happy Birthday!" bursting at the hands of carelessness. One of the air makers left "Happy Birthday!" to take in too much helium from the tank as he flirted with a large chested woman at the counter. Being denied the typical ceremonial rights, "Happy Birthday!" was thoughtlessly tossed away like an ordinary piece of ribbon. The elders confirmed this story when I asked them about it but they swore me to secrecy at the risk of scaring others.
You can be sure I was frightened when I was finally chosen to carry out my destiny. Luckily, there was no large chested woman to distract my air maker, but my luck was short lived. The air maker tied a string at my bottom to keep the air in, and I was afloat at last. The feeling was exhilarating. Floating felt even better than the legends hade made it seem to be.
My new owner muttered something about a graduation party, and we exited the Party City. It was my first time seeing the outside world. The excitement of my surroundings paired with with the heavenly sensation of being airborne distracted me from the thought that I never had a chance to say goodbye. I hardly considered the fact that I’d never see "Get Well Soon!" again. The wind at my back blew all my worries away shortly thereafter.
However, my ecstasy distracted me from realizing I was no longer in a parking lot. A few seconds earlier I heard my owner grunt an expression I had only heard once before when a hefty fellow was outraged to discover Party City didn’t carry a balloon with the message “Nice Rack.” I still don’t get it.
If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it has been a minute now since my owner dropped her keys and inadvertently released me. Since then I’ve ascended rapidly and seen amazing things. I’ve seen animals that appear to live in the sky. Even the elders are unaware of any beings capable of soaring above the earth.
While these were truly a miraculous sight, I’m currently staring at a larger, much louder flying object. In fact, I can see several of them. I can’t tell if they are alive or not. They’re fast, and they’re definitely floating. Then again…both of these flying objects are different than I. They aren’t quite floating, they possess movement along every plain. While we floating ones can only soar upward, they can make direct paths for themselves. I must admit that I’m quite envious of such liberty. If the elders and other floating ones could see what I’m witnessing now.
I’m rising more quickly now. I don’t feel quite right. As if they very air inside me is increasing. I fear that my end is near and I never even got to fulfill my destiny. Someone out there is waiting for me to say Congratulations! That isn’t so important now. Seeing everything I’ve seen, I have to share my experiences with the elders. I have to get out there and tell them—POP.