Ivica.

Sorry for the lack of posts (I'm sure no one is losing sleep over it) but my main man Ivica is in NYC and we're busy doing it real big.

Little Bitches.

A lot has happened in the past few weeks since A Rat Tale. We stuffed steel wool in the holes we could find and strategically positioned our glue traps. For a few days there was silence. We didn't wake up to any strange noises in the middle of the night and didn't have to clean up any spilled garbage. Life was good. Well, that part of our lives was good, the rest was/is pure misery. But of course that came to an abrupt end one evening when we could hear one of the glue traps walking around in the kitchen at 4am. Josh and I shared text messages and phone calls trying to figure out what to do. Why phone calls? Because we have these things called Vaginas which inhibits us from coming face to face with rodents who are nowhere near as big as us and probably can't really do any harm. (If you're still confused by this strange syndrome we suffer from See: Pussy.) So after we decided that Josh would poke his head out of his room to make sure whatever was stuck in the glue trap wasn't right outside my door, we came out to find this...

This mouse was unbelievable. He was completely stuck in the glue trap but somehow managed to rock his way all the way under the dishwasher. Maybe he just pretended he was a huge Luge fan. LOOK! It has a tail! So we know it's a brand new piece of shit.

Mice (and white people) cannot get enough of that Old El Paso Taco Mix.

Actually, that little bitch just wanted some Wonder Bread. I didn't even open that loaf yet!

So after he managed to get all the way under the dishwasher Josh and I Vagina'd it up a bit more and discussed our options. We decided on filling up a bucket of water, sliding the glue trap out from under the dishwasher and dropping the entire thing in the bucket. Put the little fella out of his misery. He was screaming his fucking lungs out and I thought it would be a nice peaceful death. Actually why do people say drowning is a peaceful way to die? How do they know? Burn them people.

So that's exactly what we did. I covered the bucket with a box to make sure there was no chance the little son of a bitch would escape. We heard him moving around in the bucket for a few minutes and then it went silent. We probably should have taken a picture of this but decided we didn't want to be sick and twisted idiots and thought it would be best to just dispose of the thing and get back to sleep. But of course when we moved the box from the lid of the bucket...the mouse was standing on top of the glue trap, using it as a FUCKING RAFT! Sonofabitch.

So what we ended up doing was sliding the whole bucket out the front door. I kicked it over and the mouse was free. I saved it's life. Could you imagine what was going through that head of his? One moment he was kicking it making Old El Paso tacos with Wonder Bread. The next moment his whole body is trapped in glue and he's trying desperately to stay alive. The next moment he thinks he's going to drown. And after that he's straight lounging on the glue trap as if it were a raft and it was a goddamn Mickey Mouse resort. I'm sure that little bitch is telling all of his little buddies, "Live everyday like it's your last." Or some other bullshit cliche that I'm sure are even annoying to mice. We gave that asshole Street Cred.

Oh yea. You better believe I still had some toast. I love toast.

It was quiet again for a few nights. That ended quickly when I woke to what sounded like a homeless person going through our garbage. I strapped on my shoes and got my water bottle (the one that I use as a bat) and opened the door to find this...

A bagel I had thrown out that day. This motherfucker likes cream cheese I'll tell ya that.

OK. Take a close look at where our garbage can is (upper right corner, stacked on a smaller garbage can). I'm pretty sure it wasn't our little surfer friend from the other night because he wasn't very big and honesly, I don't think his little bitch ass could carry half of a bagel out of the garbage can all the way to the dishwasher. Not only that, this new motherfucker (I bet it was the Tail-less shithead) used our glue trap as a goddamn plate! What a slap in the face. I know Josh and I are pretty pathetic. (Don't believe me? Ask us about our female encounters. It will only take a second. Really.) But even we don't deserve to be humiliated by a goddamn rodent.

But you know what. We got a little bit of revenge...

The next night we gave that little bitch a haircut.

I think I just threw up a little bit. Ugh.

By the way. "See: Pussy." Great name for an art exhibition. Or a band. But not a G-rod bar. "VitaMens" = good name for a G-rod bar.

March 28, 2011

Dan Haines is back for my favorite part of the week. The New Yorker caption contest! Let's see what he's got for us this week. By the way, this picture is amazing.

1. We really have to invest in a shredder!

2. "This is the last of the files." - ENRON CORPORATION.

3. They need to give you a new wardrobe! It's 2011; not 1387!

4. After you're done shredding this; I want you to light the building on fire!

5. NFL LABOR TALK NEGOTIATIONS!

In Response to the "Male Gaze" post. By Tess

Marty’s reflection on his own Male Gaze tendencies (“It’s a SCIENTIFIC FACT!” -Marty C.) got me thinking about Female Gaze / what straight females are looking at when they check out male hotties. Living in a city that is swarming with hotties (and notties) has made this research pretty easy to carry out. I sometimes wish the points of interest on male forms were more easily spotted, as they tend to be on ladies. Unfortunately, my wandering eyes (loins) seek attributes that aren’t always visible in my periphery or a distance longer than 20 feet. However, I feel fortunate that my interests allow me to gaze more discreetly than the poor dudes who swerve their heads so hard at the sight of a big round brown, they might as well have flashing neon boners to go with it.

This female’s gaze starts at the face. I know that sounds sort of sweet but don’t worry, this gets shallower as it progresses. Probably stemming from my desire to not have stupid ugly-faced children, the gaze is held on his face to make sure it isn’t obstructed by a lame haircut/hairstyle. The definition of such hairstyles can be found:

Here.

And here.

Hair is a good indicator of intelligence, creativity, and also trying too hard. Facial hair counts. (Beard = sure. Mustache = chill out for a second. Soul patch = not on your life. Patch of any sort = probably not a good sign.)

If all is good up top, ms. gaze skips right down to the shoes. Many men have wasted their futures (their existence) on a poorly selected shoe. If tampered with, a sensible walking shoe has the power to destroy all of his genetic gifts and nurtured talents. George Clooney in a brown hiking/dress shoe is not George Clooney anymore. He’s something else that isn’t interesting to me and the spirit of my future offspring.

Since I’m trying to write this post in the key of Marty, I will move on to a Google image search that will somehow help me elaborate on all of this.

I’m sure you’re a good person who genuinely enjoys the outdoors, but I already know we share very different world-views.

It sucks that you still feel weird about junior high.

It’s gonna be so romantic when we tell people how we met on the train and I sat next to you and whispered to you, “never leave my side”. (just kidding!)

Does the square toe make you feel like you’re more in shape? And that whisker wash on your jeans… are you pretending your giant quadriceps imprinted that? You’re not fat. Shut up with that stuff.

Thinking about the things that you might think about actually gives me night terrors. Also, I’m bleeding.

You’ve got a lot on your mind. Can’t take that on right now.

I’d like to be you and marry you at the same time. Let’s marry ourselves.

Marty's Thoughts:

I really never thought people did the whole double-spacebar-when-beginning-new-sentences-thing anymore. Seriously Tess, did you type this thing up on a typewriter first? I remember my mom telling me to make sure there was two spaces after every period when teaching me how to type a report in grade school and me thinking, "Bitch, you crazy?!" I guess I'm missing out on something. Or maybe women are thinking, "Get as far away from that period as possible! Trust us."

Either way, it's obvious Tess has a foot fetish. I'm not judging, do your thang girl. I'm just more of a fan of Breezies with Double Dime Deezies. (Translation: Girls with big butts.)

My best guess for Tess: "Now I don't even have to untie. Come over here and let Uncle Tess give you a ToeJob."

Thanks for sharing Tess!

Not just any celebrity...

Frances McDormand is a very lovely lady. She even mocked my accent a little bit. You know what it is. "Chi-Nigga and these hoez love my accent."

Fat People and Their Fears.

I'm not talking about salads, going for a run, seeing their penis or pink taco for the first time in years in a well-positioned mirror, or anything else that people who are a healthy weight have to think of. I just really want to know if fat people are more likely to be claustrophobic. Are fat people more likely to fear being closed in, or restricted (not just at the buffet) since they naturally take up more room leaving less free space? I've read that claustrophobic people also fear suffocation so we know that's parallel to fat people's difficulty in breathing. They also already have a hard time getting through most doors so they must always be worried about escape routes. So is it fair for me to assume that fat people not only hate themselves but also hate small spaces? I guess everyone sort of hates small spaces, I've yet to meet a person who complains about their apartment being way too big (but then again I don't many rich people).

Fat person eating in their car (of course they go through the drive-thru, fat people don't get out of the car to burn 10 calories): "I hate myself. Oh my god, my 7th roll is moving. I'm getting fatter. God I fucking hate you. Get away from me. No seriously, get away from me. It's too crowded in here. These chicken nuggets are so good. Mmmmm. Stay away. OH MY GOD! I can't breathe! How will I escape?! I said stay away from me!!! Wait a minute. Why did I only get $1.34 back? She said the total was $46.66. Fucking idiots at McDonald's don't know how to do math. I was never any good at math, probably because the class was right before lunch. This Shamrock Shake is so fucking good. Oh my god, why is it so crowded in here?! What am I going to do?!?!?!"

Eat a vegetable or a fruit. (Apparently my hypothetical claustrophobic person also has ADD.) I guess I'm really just hoping to meet a really fat guy on the train that can't stand the crowds and sighs every time a person stands/sits next to him. "Um excuse me, do you have to stand/sit so close? Sigh. People these days."

Yes. Indeed. People these days.

March 21, 2011

Let's see what Dan Haines has for us this week.

1) What the hell is going on right now?!

2) Are we really doing the whole Goodfellas thing, Don?! Right Now?! - Boss Man/Don

3) You're going to Finish this test. No you cannot go to the bathroom!

4) Hey was it just me or was that waitress checking out my ass?!

5) GET UP AND GET THE LEMONADE!!!!!!!

Dan really hits his stride when he gets to #5. A true gem. What's your favorite?

Dan Haines does The New Yorker.

Dan Haines.

This is almost impossible. Any attempt to explain who Dan Haines is in a concise and meaningful way is going to come up extremely short and will definitely fail to capture his different outlook on life. I met Dan years ago at Ridgemoor Country Club. We've spent many hot summers complaining about rich people and laughing at all of the absurdities that come with waiting for hours on end for something you don't really want to do to begin with. As we've gotten older I've started to really appreciate his fresh creativity and hilarious insight. But for everything I appreciate about Dan, there are some people who simply don't get it. They are puzzled by his odd assumptions and discredit his opinions. Those people are idiots. "Screams from the haters got a nice ring to it. Every superhero needs his theme music." In some ways I think he's a genius because he's one of the few people that I've met that never fails to surprise me. So I thought it would be a really good idea to get Dan to come up with 5 captions every week for The New Yorker's caption contest.

To give you an idea of the way Dan's mind works I'll share with you a small window into his genius. At Ridgemoor one hot summer day Dan leaned over to a group of us who were watching rich people have way better lives than us and asked, "Man. Have you ever noticed how little his shadow is?!" A little shadow? No, I hadn't. And I probably never will. But I am so goddamn glad Dan did.

"She is a sleeping beauty." -D. Haines

Oh, stop it.

In case you didn't know or don't remember.

High School Sweetheart.

People often ask me what I was like in high school and I try to be as honest as possible. After a healthy (or unhealthy) amount of self-degradation, they almost always say, "Well it doesn't sound like you've changed much." They're probably right.

I'm not one of those people that remembers high school in a completely different way than it actually happened. I don't glamorize it as an awesome experience (I'll leave that to the dudes at the Irving Park YMCA) and I don't pretend that I was the coolest kid in school. (And apparently I didn't learn how to spell "glamorize" Thanks Google!). I was pretty bitter (SURPRISE!) but I probably wasn't even the best at that (C. E. O'Shea? It's debatable...). No, I wasn't all that popular but I wasn't unpopular. I didn't hook up with chicks and I wasn't the smartest kid in class. Actually, I didn't even really talk to girls, I just stared at them. Where in the world are you Chanel? And how the hell are you doing? I was an acquired taste in class. Most times I had to sit by myself (V.I.P.) but I was by no means a badass. I went to Hip-Hop concerts by myself and loved it. A few times I caught a group of teachers huddled together giggling at me but trying to make it seem as if they were laughing at something else. I was an OK lacrosse player but probably not anywhere near as good as I thought I was. I was really good at getting away with doing the bare minimum and getting decent grades. I do believe I was the best at talking shit. If you don't believe that, well then, fuck you. But I understood one thing that was important for my sanity. I understood it was High School and nothing more.

Today I was clicking around the internet, trying to find a good website to watch the Bulls game when I came across a Proactiv commercial that startled me. A hot chick from high school! Now at the time I know a bunch of dudes had to punch down their pubescent bonerz when she walked in the room but to be honest I didn't really care. Let me mention that I have never talked to this girl in my life and I probably never will (unless she wants to come hang out with Uncle Marty in NYC), so to be fair I can't say that she kept me up at night. Wait. No high school girls "kept me up at night" in the sense that I had to lay on a declined wedge (don't ask me how I know that exists) to let the blood flow back to my head. But. Plenty of high school girls "kept me up at night" as I punched my pillow with tear-filled eyes, wondering, "How are you so damn stupid?!"

When I saw the ad I noticed myself laughing. Not at Emily's skin issues (I have eczema on my eyelids) but at the mere fact that anyone ever cared about what the girls looked like in high school. Sure some of them are still WOWing dudes all over Chicago but let's be honest, most of them passed their prime at the respectful age of 17. Everywhere across the world guys are writing poems and songs, and in some serious cases, killing themselves over teenage girls (or getting locked up Roman Polanski style (but then again that might not count since he messes with pre-teens)). And for what? Because they said no to you when you sucked it up and asked them to prom? Or because even though you shared your homework or helped them study, they still took the very good looking quarterback to the dance? Was/is it worth it? Was/is it ever worth it? Later in life you find out they are just as human as Jerry Springer's guests and audience. They flunk out of college (if they ever went), they have unprotected sex, then have uneducated kids, they develop a drug habit and start losing their teeth, etc. So when I saw Emily's Proactive advertisement today I found myself wondering...

"What the fuck? Why is she famous and I'm not? Why do the hot girls from high school always win?"

http://www.proactiv.com/emily/

"It completely changed my outlook on life." What was your outlook on life before you had zits? To all the young women out there who have zits, end it. Apparently life isn't worth it. But anyways, look at her and look at me. She wins. I need a new outlook on life because this shit ain't workin'.

But whatever. Look at this skin!

Silky smooth.

Well at least I don't walk like I have a dick in my ass. It's a start.

Hey Chanel. I'm still single.

Nate Dogg part. 2.

This terrible news about Nate Dogg's death has got me twisted. Today I spent all day singing "Area Codes" and "Shake That Ass For Me" to all the old ladies standing in line for the fitting room at work which would have been inappropriate if I wasn't so awesome at singing Nate Dogg songs. Some girl from work heard me singing and said, "Well he's probably in a better place now." I assume she was talking about heaven but I really don't think it matters. Honestly, is there a better place than Nate Dogg's life? In my mind, Nate Dogg's life consists of FaceTiming all of his hoz (in different Area Codes of course), telling girls to Shake That Ass, Regulatin' foolz, and just cranking out the fucking hits. I'm sure there is some weed smoking and keeping it real mixed in there to fill the time but what's better than that? I mean do they even have area codes in heaven? I don't think they do. How will Nate Dogg keeps all his hoz categorized and in check? Heaven is just handing out homework assignments. No, Nate Dogg isn't in a better place. He should be here, making everything sound silky smooth (and kind of perverted.)

Here is one of my favorite Nate Dogg songs:


When I say, "He should be here," I don't mean "here" in my room. That would totally suck for him. You best believe this little insecure weirdo would have more than 21 Questions to ask him.

Nate Doggy Style.

Nate Dogg, I have no idea what I'm going to do without you. I don't have any hoz in any area codes but for that small sliver of life, you made me believe that I did. And I thank you for that.

The Male Gaze.

The other day I wore an adorable bow tie to work and was showered with far too many compliments. I appreciated all the nice words but they didn't really compare to the homeless dudes that lost their shit (they never really had any) on seeing me and my bow tie. The first homeless man, Jimmy, kept repeating, "Move over Red Rover let Jimmy take over." I couldn't figure out what he was talking about until I noticed the couple in front of me. The guy had red hair and his ladyfriend was unbelievable looking. C'mon Red Rover move out of the way and let Jimmy have his shot. (After a hepatitis shot of course.) For some reason when I think of Red Rover obliging I see Jimmy gathering up his 2 shopping carts of treasures and inviting his new (main) bitch to his makeshift home under the bridge. How romantic it would all be. But when the couple failed to acknowledge Jimmy he simply shouted, "No? Alright then." That's when he noticed my bow tie and said, "Maybe if I had a bow tie I'd have a chance. "That is a nice bow tie, Mr. Bow Tie Man." I would have happily given Jimmy the bow tie if him rockin/knockin da boots with Mrs. Red Rover was a sure thing. But there was no way to tell and so I didn't surrender the bow tie. I wonder if at any point in history a true crazy homeless man got laid after yelling at a random woman passing by. I'd like to think so.

After sharing my story with Tess we talked about the fact that guys cannot control themselves when a curvaceous woman (or any semi-attractive woman) is present. Shit, she can be three and a half blocks down on the left and I'll notice what she's working with. "Knockers dude." I've had to leave cafes before because of too many dime pieces. It's not something I'm proud of but seriously, what's the point of trying to get work done when you can't even focus on your laptop screen or the book you're reading? At the same time I always hope the gazing is harmless. There's no need to act on any of those impulses unless the setting is appropriate. And no, a woman crossing the street in front of your car is not an appropriate time to honk and propose.

Since it's Japan week, I thought that this awesome game show would only be appropriate to show my support and gratitude to the wonderful Japanese people. I'm not being sarcastic. This truly is a genius idea for a game show. If you want to know which guy I identified with the most skip to 8:58. That's what I plan on looking like when I'm older. I would have easily blown that guy out of the water. (That expression sounds pretty gay doesn't it? And for some reason I'm reminded of Killer Whales exploding out of the water at Sea World.)

The Male Gaze is a big part of all of our lives. And it would also be a totally badass name for a gay bar.

Screenshots.

I must say, that is one hell of an outfit.

I need to start stuntin' in a robe. The only problem is only weirdos wear robes. Um. Hugh Hefner? Any religious person anywhere? Ku Klux Klan? Wizards? No, not these wizards. Who else? Jesus?

Want to know why I liked "Get Low"? Here:

Now what do I do?

I was going to comment on all of the tragedies that are happening to yellow people. Japan with the earthquakes/tsunamis/nuclear meltdowns and NYC's bus crash that left 15 (mostly Chinese) people killed (not to mention Yao Ming's career is pretty much over).

This is fucking CRAZY! Photo: NYTimes.

We lost a lot of Math students. No but seriously, it is pretty devastating. You won't see me ordering people to "Pray For Japan" through Facebook anytime soon. Praying and Facebook, two of my least favorite things.

Although these things are serious and are a lot to take in, I actually have my own problems to deal with. Today I ran out of clean underwear and socks. Actually, let me start over. 4 days ago I ran out of clean underwear and socks so I decided today would be a perfect day to catch up on my laundry. Wearing underwear with crust stains takes some getting used to but is never fun, trust me. I always go to the same place to do my laundry. It's big, clean, reliable, relatively cheap, and owned by ChingChongs. I usually load my clothes in the washer and come back to my apartment so I can get things done while my clothes are being de-funk-dafied. I then go back after 40 minutes and throw the washed clothes in the dryer and come back home. Alright, I'm sure all of you don't need me to explain to you how to do laundry. I just want to make sure you understand that I leave my laundry unattended to for quite some time.

When I took my clothes out of the dryer and set them in a cart to be moved to a folding table to be folded down and packed away (a couple of years of retail experience has made me a Black Belt in Folding, bitchez) I noticed a foreign object left in my clothes cart.


Normally this wouldn't be a big deal. I would have just taken this tiny sock and thrown it away. But for some reason today a little old Mexican-looking lady was hawkeyeing me. I couldn't tell if she noticed the sock but I began to worry that she thought some sort of foul play was going on. I mean I'm sure she already questioned my sexuality when she came across my unbelievably eclectic collection of multi-colored socks, so I began to believe she thought I was perfectly capable of forgetting to stuff the little sock in the trash bag that I just stuffed little "Juanito" in after I was done doing my weird "Uncle Marty" things to him. I couldn't just assume that she was like everyone else and always throws away those "Missing Children" leaflets before looking at them. I had to assume the worst. So not knowing what to do, I folded the sock in half and placed it right on top of my other socks. I didn't want to throw it away in front of her because I wasn't convinced she would believe that it was just a stray sock. I'm almost sure she would have taken a picture of me and the little sock with her iPhone (4) and sent it to every major newspaper. When I grabbed my last article of clothing from the cart, she pushed it to her dryer and unloaded clothes. She didn't look at me again. I can only imagine she was playing her hypothetical scenario in her head over and over, scared that I might graduate my pervert freakness to little old stumpy brown ladies (with iPhone 4's).

I'm still wondering how that sock got in there. I make it a point to check the washer and dryer before loading my clothes and I definitely didn't see the tiny sock in either one before I used them. Was someone out to frame me as a pedophile? I mean if someone printed a picture of me with the caption "Pervert" under it, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone who would second-guess it. And now what? What happens when I invite a girl back to my pad and she accidentally comes across this little ass sock? Oh wait. Why the hell am I worried about that? Girls? Here? HA! Should I throw it out now? I'll make sure it's in a bag that has old foodstuffs instead of ripped up mail so it won't be traceable back to Marty C. I'll probably just slip it into Josh's room so he can sit around and wonder if he kidnapped any kids when he was blacked out drunk.

Actually now that I think about it, the little old Mexican lady (iPhone 4) probably stared at me because she wanted the cart I was hogging. Alright forget everything I just said.

Joshua Henning.

I Googled "depressed pale guy" and this is the first picture that came up. It doesn't really look anything like Josh but whatever they all look the same.

I sometimes mention my roommate Josh. I've known him for quite some time now. We both moved to NYC together to pursue our "dreams." Can't say that's going all that well but hey, we're here and we're making the most of it. Sometimes when I look at the guy sitting on the beach ball in the title picture of this page I am reminded of Josh. He wasn't the inspiration behind the drawing but there are definitely some similarities. But he doesn't own a beach ball. It'd be really weird if he did.

Recently he started uploading a picture a day to his Tumblr and he's off to a great start. Take a look and steal his pictures. Actually don't do that. But do take a look, it will be well worth your time. Plus there are only like 5 pictures up so it will only take you like a minute unless you're one of those assholes that looks at White paintings for an unhealthy amount of time, trying to figure out what it all "means." Good luck and enjoy.

http://joshhenning.tumblr.com/

Perverts sanging.

By now you should have become very familiar with my love for R. Kelly and all things "pervert." Well not all things. But when you can make, "I blame it on the model broad with the Hollywood smile, stripper booty with the rack like wowwwww," sound beautiful, you've already won me over. So I urge you to take a listen to Frank Ocean's album nostalgia,ULTRA. He's also written songs for that little lesbian looking thing that calls itself Justin.

"What's good?"

I'm going to be almost 30 years-old pretty soon. Well not quite, but closer to 30 than I am to 20. For once in my life I feel like I'm really behind with the lingo. While everyone is describing things as "O.D." and telling people to "Pause" (your guess is as good as mine), I'm roaming the streets calling people "Jabronis" and "Chumps." And Lord knows there are plenty of Jabronskis and Chumpty Dumpty's in this monstrous-ass-chach-filled-city. As Alicia Keys would say, "I keep on Fallin' in and out of [this lingo game.]" I don't know it's something like that. Seriously, how am I supposed to know? I'm almost 30.

Even getting used to something as simple as New York's version of "What's up?" is confusing. I'm constantly asked "What's good?" and find myself wondering how to respond. I mean take one good look at me and you should be able to guess what exactly it is I think is good. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing is good." So I end up saying, "Uh. Yep." That usually turns heads and confuses but in the end it satisfies the audience. And I seriously don't really know how you're supposed to respond.

What's happening? No, I'm not asking the 1990's version of "What's Up?" I really want to know what is happening. What is happening to our slang? I mean most rappers come up with stuff that we can enjoy for a few years and then naturally die. These things are FUN! But I'm starting to worry that since I'm losing track of all of the new ways of saying "Hey, I'm totally fucking cool," I'll be left behind. Wait, you didn't think saying "Bling Bling!" was fun? Really? Well you must have at least liked the further evolved "Bling Blao!"

"What's up" and its many variations need special attention because they are the most commonly used. I mean it's really just saying "Hello" or "Hi." So I looked up "What's Up?" in the scholarly approved Urban Dictionary and it gave me a good start as to what people say in place of "Hello." Take a look.

Look closely. I highlighted a word that really has no place in this selection of expressions and nouns. I guess it depends on who you ask.

I can't even begin to explore all the ways people say "Hello" but I can list a few of the more popular ones.
"What's up?"
"What up?"
"Sup?"
"What's good?"
"What it is?"
"What it do?"
"Wasabi." (Kill yourself.)
"Heyo." (That exists right?)
"What's going on?"
"What's poppin'?"

You get the point.

They're all relatively the same. But yesterday I heard one that I've never heard before. A few dudes with really dark year-round tans came into the break room at work and started talking. Instead of saying anything I was used to, one of them asked, "What it look like?" So of course I was trying to figure out what the "it" was because we know people with year-round tans more often than not are talking about big booties or well...big booties. And I also like to talk about big booties. So instead of getting a really accurate description of what "it" looks like, the response was, "Oh you know. Another day, another dollar." So I listened to their conversation wondering when we were going to get into the big booty talk (BBT) but it never happened. They just had a normal conversation. So from the way the conversation progressed I deduced that "What it look like?" was this gentleman's way of saying "What's up?" or, since we're in New York, "What's good?"

I'll admit I'm confused. "What it look like?" Well what exactly are we talking about? What does my future look like? I don't want to talk about that. I don't even want to think about that. It's depressing. Or did I miss something? How does "What it look like?" compare to "Hello?" You couldn't explain it to me. But in a way I kind of love it because I think the more confusing it gets, the more lost White people will be. I mean seriously, if I'm this confused by it, I can only imagine how flustered and upset an average white person would be. (C'mon give me credit. I do listen to rap music. Don't believe me?) And isn't the goal to confuse the shit out of white people so we can catch them slipping? So that's why if we're going to push this lingo-game to its limits I'm going to start my own "Hello."

"What it taste like?" and maybe in 2012 it will evolve into "What flavor it is?" I'm excited thinking about all of the mixed emotions and confusion it will cause. I mean asking someone "What it taste like?" is kind of a pickup line right? I mean I'm sure it would work on some lonely sorority girl in a college town somewhere. Maybe eventually an acceptable response would be "Orange Koolaid" which of course would mean, "Everything is swell indeed, sir." I'm taking this lingo-game to a whole new level. While all yall bitchez are sitting around talking about your "Swag" and getting taught how to "Dougie" I'm going to be finding out exactly What It Taste Like. Word? Word to your motherland.

(O.D. means "Overdone" or "Overdose." Example: "That bitch O.D. skinny. And she O.D. skanky. And O.D. stanky. She a O.D. skinny, stanky, skanky bitch." On the real. For real.)
("Pause" is said after a faggy remark. It might be subtle but it can be more in your face like, "I love the feeling of testicles slapping against my chin." This is when you would say "Pause.")

Sorry for using the word "Faggy." But seriously, "No Homo."

The Tess Bear Trilogy.

Let me introduce you to a good friend of mine. Tess Bear. You know how she do it? She do it real big. You thought that dude from Entourage was rollin' with Kanye and whoever else is on that show in real life? Nope. He's part of Tess Bear's Entourage. And so are a bunch of other white people. (I see you brown girls. How you feel? Let me at it.)

This is not MY idea of a fun time. Actually it's the definition of a NOT fun time. (Lots of "them" but not that many.)

That's fine because I don't want to talk to you either.

Seriously. What. Is. That?

A Rat Tale.

I'm sure everyone in NYC deals with mice in their apartments. It's no surprise to me. However, it gets to be a bit much when you have to cover your entire kitchen floor with glue traps to protect the food that is stashed away atop makeshift tables and well-thought-out hiding places. For weeks Josh and I have seen mice come and go. So far we've managed to kill 2 of them but of course that was short-lived when the very next day we saw another one strutting around looking for its next 14 course meal. Many bagels and kaiser rolls have been lost to these little bitches.

But about a week ago things changed drastically. After coming home from a night out, Josh said he was awakened by the sounds of commotion coming from our kitchen. He came out of his room to find a RAT having his way with some fresh garbage. Not wanting any real trouble he back peddled and locked the door. He immediately texted me saying that he saw this vile creature in our kitchen and recommended we spend the next day Spring cleaning. Of course it was the only night I forgot to put my phone on silent so I was wakened by the beep. As I read it, I started to hear the sounds he was talking about. I laid in my bed, under my covers, shivering, wondering what I was going to do. Like any normal human being I strapped on my winter boots and grabbed a half-filled water bottle as my weapon. My plan was to jump on it if it got too close. I'm not exactly sure what the water bottle was for but it was the closest thing I had that resembled a bat so I went with it. I opened the door to find ripped bags but no RAT. I threw the garbage out and went back to bed. I laid there motionless and scared shitless for 4 hours.


After we cleaned we set up some fresh glue traps. I bought six 2-packs of the Jumbo Size traps. The Chinaman at the Dollar Store took notice and said, "Oh you have lots of mice," in a really awesome Ching-Chong accent. I said, "Yea and if this doesn't do the trick I'm going to buy a gun." Let me be the first to say that if a Chinaman is shocked at how many mice he thinks you have, well you have way too many fucking mice.

A few more traps for under the dishwasher.

Josh looking pretty optimistic with our glue barriers. He'll regret that later.

Things were calm for a few nights. Everything stayed clean, we put our food in a different spot, and sort of forgot that we ever shared our apartment with a RAT. I even started to think that this RAT was only really a part of Josh's imagination. Then a few nights ago I went out to buy some rolls and bagels for the upcoming week. Before I went to bed I put them on a table that I thought was unclimbable. I'm an idiot. I woke up hearing plastic bags being ripped open. He was back. I strapped on my boots, grabbed my water bottle, and put on my game face. Of course I made a huge amount of noise before I exited my room knowing the RAT would run back to his bachelor pad.

I found a whole roll gone, half of the other shredded up and a nibbled on raisin bagel. RATs don't seem to enjoy raisin bagels. I cleaned up the mess and threw out the garbage. I went back to bed and laid there motionless and scared shitless, again.

Seriously, how did that bitch climb this? I guess pretty easily.

The next evening I saw that one of the glue traps was pulled halfway under the dish washer. Not thinking anything of it, I attempted to pull it out so I could setup the fortress again. This is when I noticed that a wire from the dishwasher I had never seen before was dangling and caught in the trap. After a little bit of elbow grease I managed to free the trap.

Get ready.

After looking closely I noticed something kind of strange looking. I looked closer. RAT TAIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Look at how long it is. The RAT must have gotten it caught and then chewed it off to survive. That's some 127 Hours type shit right there. If you look closely you can see some of its saliva and blood.

So we're back at it with even more traps.

I even put a bucket with a lock in it (to weigh it down) in front of the cabinet doors because Josh said he heard a door open the night he first came across that little tail-less fuckface.

Now we're both sitting here. Waiting anxiously. How this RAT tale will end we don't know. I just hope that if we do catch this little asshole it doesn't have its tail. Because if it does we have a way bigger problem on our hands.

I'm sure any one of these little guys would have taken care of this rodent problem a long time ago. Especially that little bald Chinese (take my word for it) dude on the left.