I noticed that when you get back from a vacation you usually need another vacation. The reason is? Now you actually need some rest and relaxation. Basically when I got back from Puerta Vallarta my liver needed to either hibernate or at least take a hiatus.
I did get sick one night in Mexico. And for once in my life I didn't completely blame it on the food. I knew booze actually did play a part in it, but not a huge part.
Have you ever noticed that people usually don't do acknowledge that alcohol may have been part of the problem? They never act like booze may have helped to get them sick. You can be out, have fifteen beers, a martini, a gin and tonic and four shots of tequila, and then later have two pieces of pizza and end up getting sick. But of course you always say to your friends, "I think that pizza was bad. I don’t think that place uses fresh pepperoni. Something was funky because that slice made me vomit. And I never throw up from pizza. Even from that frozen Mama Celeste shit that you can get ten for ten bucks at the market."
You never say to yourself, "Hey, asshole, it wasn't the pizza! It was all the fucking booze you drank and mixed!"
In Mexico I deserved to get sick. After lots of Coronas and a few Tequila shooters, I actually bought a, as we call them in L.A., a Ghetto Dog off a little cart on the streets. Actually, I bought two of them. Now if you don't know, a Ghetto Dog is a hot dog wrapped in bacon, then topped with tomatoes and onions, with mayo, mustard and some other spicy sauce. They are the ones sold after sporting events. They are usually cooked on a shitty little flat grill that is placed on top of a shopping cart. Oh and there are always a bunch of little mexican kids running around as their mom hawks them.
It is not a good idea to eat them in the United States, and ordering them in another country that doesn't ever have health ratings on restaurants, is pretty fucking stupid. And I found that out later. I woke up with what felt like a block of Ball Park franks wrapped in bacon laying in my stomach. But hell, I must admit they were so good, actually they were amazing. I felt like Anthony Bourdain on an episode of No Reservations, so a little late night agony was worth it.
I did notice a few other things when on vacation in Mexico. One thing is, they have really small napkins, and it drove me crazy. These things were the size of one piece of toilet paper. Shit, you couldn't even wipe half your upper lip with one. It drove me up the fucking wall! I finally asked a waiter one night why they were so tiny. His answer was that they make bigger ones, but they are more expensive so they don't get ordered. That totally cracked me up. When I use a regular sized napkin, I only use one. But with these shitty little things I'd go through eight or nine at a sitting, and then would use a few more just on the principle that they were so fucking small! Oh well, so much for making the customer happy.
I also noticed in the town I stayed in, called Bucerias, which is twenty minutes from Puerto Vallarta, there are a ton of homeless dogs just walking around town. They aren't aggressive, they mind their own business, but it's just a weird site to see. Hell you'd never see a dog walking the streets in Asia, because if he did, he'd be gone in a minute, and end up being part of a Number 9 combo is some eatery. But damn, these dogs would walk around, and their dicks would just be flopping in the wind. Huge dicked dogs everywhere you looked. I mean, shit, these guys made Ron Jeremy look like a third grader. And the dogs would just walk into restaurants and lay down on the floor, and no one gave a shit. In fact, most of the staff would know who these canines were. It wasn't in every restaurant. Some places did have a sign that said, "No Dogs Allowed." Which didn't make sense to me because, dogs can't fucking read!
I also noticed that there was a ton of Canadians in Mexico. How could I tell? Just look at them. They looked fucking Canadian. The guys were chubby with sleeveless shirts, shorts, dark socks and sandals. Oh and when on the beach, their beer guts hung over their tight speedos, a.k.a. grape smugglers and their hairy backs were in full view.
The Canadian women I saw were all over 50. And they were wearing bikinis, which is really disgusting to see on their out of shape wrinkled bodies. And these women had corn rows in their hair. Hello, wake up and smell the Molson. Corn rows, unless of course you are a NBA star or a rapper, went out of style years ago. About the time, gee, I don't know, what year was Bo Derek in the movie 10? And all of these Canucks walked at a real slow pace, like they were window shopping. But the one problem was there weren’t any fucking windows around! It was at the beach. (I know that glass comes from sand, but come on folks.)
Ok, ok, maybe I am being a little harsh on Canadians, but it was just an observation. And to be honest, the ones I did talk to were very nice, and I never even heard one of them say the letter "A" after a comment. (So the hell with that stereotype.)
Mexico, damn what a fun time.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Tijuana
So I' recently went on vacation, trying to get a little R & R, also known as rest and relaxation, but in translation has the meaning of beer, women, and more beer. My destination was Mexico, Puerta Vallarta to be exact. It was the first time I flew to Mexico, but not my first time in Mexico.
When living in San Diego, I used to go to Tijuana a lot. You've heard of the place, it's where little children hawk boxes of Canal gum for two dollars a box but call them Chickley. (That is how Chicklet sounds in Spanish.) However, never let the little ones see any of your dinero, because if they do, they'll follow you around town like the rats following the Pied Piper.
The kids on the street of Tijuana are good at wheeling and dealing, but not as good as me! They try to give you an inflated price, like $3 for a little bracelet, but I know I can get the thing for $2. My friends tell me that the kids have a hard life and I should not barter with them. Fuck that! We are in a recession and every dollar counts. (I can be a jerk, but in fact, I am helping these kids learn business lessons.)
T.J. (the nickname for Tijuana) is also home of as I call him, The Donkey Zebra Man. Oh, and this is not an Urban Legend or Folklore like the Lochness Monster, Jersey Devil or Mexico’s own Chupa Cabra. This guy is the idiot who has painted a donkey with black and white stripes so it looks like a Zebra, and then asks if you want to get a picture, for a price, with this poor animal. Bad thing for me is, after a few cervezas I always end up asking the guy if he knows he got ripped off and thought he actually was buying a Zebra but got a Donkey instead. Then I proceed to tell the guy that his Zebra looks like a "fucking Donkey!" And he always looks at me with a dumbfounded look, and has not understood a word I've said and replies, with a “Huh?”"
Tijuana can be fun, but take my word for one thing, never go to a strip club called, "El Diablo." Oh, and one other thing you should never do; arm wrestle Eric Estrada, criticize Abe Vigoda or punch Carol Channing in the face.
So me and some buddies throw a bachelor party in T.J. One of the guys keeps insisting that we go to a Strip Club, and he is meaning ASAP! He wouldn't shut up about it, and then we saw it. A picture of a girl on this sign. And below her in bold letters, the name "El Diablo." (Which I believe in Spanish means the Devil.) We walk in and the place looked like something out of a David Lynch movie. It had low red painted ceilings, and with the heat they actually looked like they were sweating. A man with slicked back black hair and a sleazy moustache, (if he was in America he'd probably have been a Carny) led us to a booth so we could check out the dancers. There were five of them, just standing on stage. No shaking their asses, just standing in stillness. All of them were in their mid 30's to mid 40's, out of shape, unattractive and wearing not bikinis, but two piece black bathing suits that looked like they were from 1950. (They could have been swimmers at the Steel Pier in Atlantic City years ago.)
Oh, and the worst part? They all had bruises on their legs and arms. But from the looks on their faces, you could tell they loved their job. Ok, that was a joke. After looking at them, whenever I say my job sucks, I want to punch myself in the face. So we're at the booth and one of these troglodytes comes over and asks me to buy her a drink. Why the fuck would I buy her a drink? She's on the job and shouldn't do that when working. I told her, "No. Get your own. You probably get your beers free or discounted." (And they were serving 7 ounced bottles of Tecate, which I have never seen before or since.) So she figures out a drink is not an option, so changes her tune. She asks if I want a hand job for five bucks. Guess it would have been a good deal, but I wasn't interested. And damn, really was less interested after I saw her hands. They were all old looking and wrinkled. I would have felt like I was getting jerked off by Betty White.
As usual I digress. I think Betty White is pretty hot. In fact I used to fantasy I was having a four on one with the golden girls. Their hands would be all over me, all eight hands. It would be like I was getting taking advantage of by an old, grey, wrinkled octopus.
After all that went down, we decided to get the hell out of "El Diablo." The whole time I was there, in the back of my mind, I had a feeling that one of those bloodbath scenes you might see in a Tarantino movie could happen at any minute.
It did end up being a great night. It was cheap in comparison to what it would have cost in the US. Only downside? We never found the Donkey Show.
When living in San Diego, I used to go to Tijuana a lot. You've heard of the place, it's where little children hawk boxes of Canal gum for two dollars a box but call them Chickley. (That is how Chicklet sounds in Spanish.) However, never let the little ones see any of your dinero, because if they do, they'll follow you around town like the rats following the Pied Piper.
The kids on the street of Tijuana are good at wheeling and dealing, but not as good as me! They try to give you an inflated price, like $3 for a little bracelet, but I know I can get the thing for $2. My friends tell me that the kids have a hard life and I should not barter with them. Fuck that! We are in a recession and every dollar counts. (I can be a jerk, but in fact, I am helping these kids learn business lessons.)
T.J. (the nickname for Tijuana) is also home of as I call him, The Donkey Zebra Man. Oh, and this is not an Urban Legend or Folklore like the Lochness Monster, Jersey Devil or Mexico’s own Chupa Cabra. This guy is the idiot who has painted a donkey with black and white stripes so it looks like a Zebra, and then asks if you want to get a picture, for a price, with this poor animal. Bad thing for me is, after a few cervezas I always end up asking the guy if he knows he got ripped off and thought he actually was buying a Zebra but got a Donkey instead. Then I proceed to tell the guy that his Zebra looks like a "fucking Donkey!" And he always looks at me with a dumbfounded look, and has not understood a word I've said and replies, with a “Huh?”"
Tijuana can be fun, but take my word for one thing, never go to a strip club called, "El Diablo." Oh, and one other thing you should never do; arm wrestle Eric Estrada, criticize Abe Vigoda or punch Carol Channing in the face.
So me and some buddies throw a bachelor party in T.J. One of the guys keeps insisting that we go to a Strip Club, and he is meaning ASAP! He wouldn't shut up about it, and then we saw it. A picture of a girl on this sign. And below her in bold letters, the name "El Diablo." (Which I believe in Spanish means the Devil.) We walk in and the place looked like something out of a David Lynch movie. It had low red painted ceilings, and with the heat they actually looked like they were sweating. A man with slicked back black hair and a sleazy moustache, (if he was in America he'd probably have been a Carny) led us to a booth so we could check out the dancers. There were five of them, just standing on stage. No shaking their asses, just standing in stillness. All of them were in their mid 30's to mid 40's, out of shape, unattractive and wearing not bikinis, but two piece black bathing suits that looked like they were from 1950. (They could have been swimmers at the Steel Pier in Atlantic City years ago.)
Oh, and the worst part? They all had bruises on their legs and arms. But from the looks on their faces, you could tell they loved their job. Ok, that was a joke. After looking at them, whenever I say my job sucks, I want to punch myself in the face. So we're at the booth and one of these troglodytes comes over and asks me to buy her a drink. Why the fuck would I buy her a drink? She's on the job and shouldn't do that when working. I told her, "No. Get your own. You probably get your beers free or discounted." (And they were serving 7 ounced bottles of Tecate, which I have never seen before or since.) So she figures out a drink is not an option, so changes her tune. She asks if I want a hand job for five bucks. Guess it would have been a good deal, but I wasn't interested. And damn, really was less interested after I saw her hands. They were all old looking and wrinkled. I would have felt like I was getting jerked off by Betty White.
As usual I digress. I think Betty White is pretty hot. In fact I used to fantasy I was having a four on one with the golden girls. Their hands would be all over me, all eight hands. It would be like I was getting taking advantage of by an old, grey, wrinkled octopus.
After all that went down, we decided to get the hell out of "El Diablo." The whole time I was there, in the back of my mind, I had a feeling that one of those bloodbath scenes you might see in a Tarantino movie could happen at any minute.
It did end up being a great night. It was cheap in comparison to what it would have cost in the US. Only downside? We never found the Donkey Show.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Nobody Walks in L.A. - Part 2
So, now you would get on the road and be driving around 10 mph hoping that your car would not get hit by a snow ball from some little piece of shit who was causing trouble. If they did hit you, you always had to worry about ending up skidding. I must admit, I did throw snowballs at cars occasionally when I was younger. So I guess I was a piece of shit. However, in my defense, I would only throw them at cars of people who underpaid me for shoveling their driveway. I would be out in the freezing cold shoveling away, so much physical work that I almost had a heart attack. (And I was eight. It was hard labor.) I would be working away, harder than a sweat shop employee, for hours on end and some bitch would give me two dollars! Two fucking dollars! Thanks for nothing! Just wait until your AMC Pacer rolls down my street!
By the way, I have a problem about people always saying how sweat shop employees have it so tough. I figure it this way. These kids are 5, 6 or 7 years old. So let’s say they make fifty cents an hour and work a fourteen hour day. That is seven dollars a day, multiply that by thirty days in a month and it comes out to over two hundred a month and over two thousand a month. That is pretty good fucking money for a First Grader. Hell, I didn’t make shit off my paper route, and these kids are making bank. (Oh, and their cost of living is much lower.)
Now when it comes to skidding, I personally don't remember whether you are supposed to go with the skid or against it, but it didn't really matter. What I do remember is this. Your mind went completely blank to those facts and all that crap you learned in Driver’s Education when it would happen.
I always wanted to go to a Driving School when I was older and had my license. I would walk up to the Instructor and I’d be wearing a Hawaiian Shirt and some checked pants and instead of glasses, I would be wearing those Tanning Booth bright plastic eye shades. I would drool when I would speak to him and tell him I had the “need for speed.” Then when we started driving I would light up a cigarette, and when he told me to put my hands in the 9 o’clock and 3 o’ clock position, I would say to him, “I don’t know how to tell time, so you can go fuck yourself!” That would be fun to me, but I have been construed as a little odd at times.
Anyway, when you were losing control of your car, all you thought was, "Holy shit! I am fucking skidding and am going to run into a tree!" But you never did. You may have soiled your pants, but would never crash your car into a Douglass Fir on the side of the road. We pulled through it and still got to work on time.
Hell, think about when there would be a huge snow storm. Most people wouldn’t be working and restaurants and supermarkets would be closed. So you would find your friend who had an SUV and everyone would pile into it and would hit the only bar that was open in town. You would get there and the place would be fucking packed! It seemed like everyone else has the same idea. And the best part of it? You knew that no one would get pulled over for drinking and driving because everyone driving home was swerving. (And could tell the cop it was from the conditions.)
To be continued...
By the way, I have a problem about people always saying how sweat shop employees have it so tough. I figure it this way. These kids are 5, 6 or 7 years old. So let’s say they make fifty cents an hour and work a fourteen hour day. That is seven dollars a day, multiply that by thirty days in a month and it comes out to over two hundred a month and over two thousand a month. That is pretty good fucking money for a First Grader. Hell, I didn’t make shit off my paper route, and these kids are making bank. (Oh, and their cost of living is much lower.)
Now when it comes to skidding, I personally don't remember whether you are supposed to go with the skid or against it, but it didn't really matter. What I do remember is this. Your mind went completely blank to those facts and all that crap you learned in Driver’s Education when it would happen.
I always wanted to go to a Driving School when I was older and had my license. I would walk up to the Instructor and I’d be wearing a Hawaiian Shirt and some checked pants and instead of glasses, I would be wearing those Tanning Booth bright plastic eye shades. I would drool when I would speak to him and tell him I had the “need for speed.” Then when we started driving I would light up a cigarette, and when he told me to put my hands in the 9 o’clock and 3 o’ clock position, I would say to him, “I don’t know how to tell time, so you can go fuck yourself!” That would be fun to me, but I have been construed as a little odd at times.
Anyway, when you were losing control of your car, all you thought was, "Holy shit! I am fucking skidding and am going to run into a tree!" But you never did. You may have soiled your pants, but would never crash your car into a Douglass Fir on the side of the road. We pulled through it and still got to work on time.
Hell, think about when there would be a huge snow storm. Most people wouldn’t be working and restaurants and supermarkets would be closed. So you would find your friend who had an SUV and everyone would pile into it and would hit the only bar that was open in town. You would get there and the place would be fucking packed! It seemed like everyone else has the same idea. And the best part of it? You knew that no one would get pulled over for drinking and driving because everyone driving home was swerving. (And could tell the cop it was from the conditions.)
To be continued...
Monday, September 7, 2009
Nobody Walks in L.A. - Part 1
Remember the song by the 80's group Missing Persons that said, "Nobody walks in L.A.?" Yup, Missing Persons, the group that was formed by Terry Bozzio, who actually played with Frank Zappa for years and was in the Prog Rock band named UK. M.P., which is what we called them back in the day, actually we didn't, I made that up, had his wife Dale Bozzio as the lead singer. Yeah, Dale Bozzio, the one with the platinum long hair with black streaks who wore metallic outfits that made her look like a stripper from some intergalactic pole dancing establishment located at exit 5 off the Milky Way.I heard that song the other day and they excluded to mention one thing...Nobody can fucking drive in L.A.! That's right I said. I grew up back East and people could drive. We dealt with all the conditions and we never had a problem with them.
Snow, now there is something that works well with an automobile. First off, you had to get all the snow off your windshield. So you would get one of those scraper things that you usually got at a gas station or from some insurance salesman that had some kind of advertising pitch on it. Oh, and they always had that fuzzy mitten thing on them. I guess to keep your hands warm. But of course you were already wearing gloves because it was -5 Fahrenheit, with the wind chill factor.
You had to love the wind chill factor. It always made your day worse. The Weather Person would say:
“Get ready for a cold day. Temperatures will be as low as 12. So bundle up!”
And then he would turn into the fucking devil. I swear his voice would go deeper and horns would pop out of his head.
“Yes, 12 degrees. But with an air stream blowing from the Northeast, these heavy gusts will make temperature with the wind chill factor, -10! So bundle up or your nose will freeze and fall off and both your legs will be amputated from the gangrene you will catch!”
But you would wake up and be get ready to brave the cold. Which when I was a kid was a great thing, because that usually meant you were going to miss school. The stupid thing was how they would tell you school was cancelled. It would be five in the morning and you would be up and listening to the radio, because if your number was announced, that meant snow ball fights and sledding all fucking day! Now when I was a kid and played in the cold my mother would put plastic bread bags on my feet before I put my boots on so my feet wouldn’t get wet. Smart move, Mom. Because wet feet lead to extreme coldness for the whole body and that can put a damper on the day. It is sort of like finding out someone you slept with had an STD. It ruins the whole experience.
So we would be up in the early morning darkness, praying that our School Snow Day number would be announced. Now I lived in the tri-state area, so basically, there were a lot of fucking schools. So the News person would start announcing every county and then follow it with a shitload of numbers:
“In Bucks County, the following school districts are closed…128, 129, 130, 131…”
It seemed to be an eternity. Numbers, numbers, counties and more fucking counties!”
Finally Camden County would be announced and I would be waiting for my number 551, to be called. My thoughts now are, they could have made it a lot easier. They could have just said:
“The only school district open today is 551! And that is your school district Steve Cooper. So while kids are making snowmen, you’re pathetic soul will be doing Mathematical tables. Oh and when kids are eating grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, your sorry ass will be eating a shitty hot ham and cheese sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil, served by some fat lady with a hair net! Tough break for you, shit head!”
Anyway, back to that fuzzy ice chipper. It was a pain in the ass trying to put your glove in that fucking thing that resembled a ghetto mink. It was always a real tight fit, because the chippers were made for the hands of a seven year old. Finally you would get it on, and chip away the ice and get ready to hit the road, with snow tires, chains and whatever other things the Pep Boys, you know, Manny, Moe and Jack came up with to line their pockets with cash.
To be continued...
Snow, now there is something that works well with an automobile. First off, you had to get all the snow off your windshield. So you would get one of those scraper things that you usually got at a gas station or from some insurance salesman that had some kind of advertising pitch on it. Oh, and they always had that fuzzy mitten thing on them. I guess to keep your hands warm. But of course you were already wearing gloves because it was -5 Fahrenheit, with the wind chill factor.
You had to love the wind chill factor. It always made your day worse. The Weather Person would say:
“Get ready for a cold day. Temperatures will be as low as 12. So bundle up!”
And then he would turn into the fucking devil. I swear his voice would go deeper and horns would pop out of his head.
“Yes, 12 degrees. But with an air stream blowing from the Northeast, these heavy gusts will make temperature with the wind chill factor, -10! So bundle up or your nose will freeze and fall off and both your legs will be amputated from the gangrene you will catch!”
But you would wake up and be get ready to brave the cold. Which when I was a kid was a great thing, because that usually meant you were going to miss school. The stupid thing was how they would tell you school was cancelled. It would be five in the morning and you would be up and listening to the radio, because if your number was announced, that meant snow ball fights and sledding all fucking day! Now when I was a kid and played in the cold my mother would put plastic bread bags on my feet before I put my boots on so my feet wouldn’t get wet. Smart move, Mom. Because wet feet lead to extreme coldness for the whole body and that can put a damper on the day. It is sort of like finding out someone you slept with had an STD. It ruins the whole experience.
So we would be up in the early morning darkness, praying that our School Snow Day number would be announced. Now I lived in the tri-state area, so basically, there were a lot of fucking schools. So the News person would start announcing every county and then follow it with a shitload of numbers:
“In Bucks County, the following school districts are closed…128, 129, 130, 131…”
It seemed to be an eternity. Numbers, numbers, counties and more fucking counties!”
Finally Camden County would be announced and I would be waiting for my number 551, to be called. My thoughts now are, they could have made it a lot easier. They could have just said:
“The only school district open today is 551! And that is your school district Steve Cooper. So while kids are making snowmen, you’re pathetic soul will be doing Mathematical tables. Oh and when kids are eating grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, your sorry ass will be eating a shitty hot ham and cheese sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil, served by some fat lady with a hair net! Tough break for you, shit head!”
Anyway, back to that fuzzy ice chipper. It was a pain in the ass trying to put your glove in that fucking thing that resembled a ghetto mink. It was always a real tight fit, because the chippers were made for the hands of a seven year old. Finally you would get it on, and chip away the ice and get ready to hit the road, with snow tires, chains and whatever other things the Pep Boys, you know, Manny, Moe and Jack came up with to line their pockets with cash.
To be continued...
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Kids in Restaurants - Conclusion
The other night, I heard a kid say "shut up" to his mom. "Shut up," can you believe that? And Mommy Dearest didn't even acknowledge this misbehavior. Talking back should not be tolerated.
When I was little, my older brother said to my Mom, "If you don't like the heat in the kitchen, get out!" What did she do about it? She grabbed him by the arm, tossed him out onto the front porch, slammed the door, and said, "No, you get out!" Oh and two minutes later she threw him a suitcase. My brother, the poor bastard, was so busy bawling his eyes out, that he didn't even notice the suitcase was empty. May have seemed cruel, but it wasn't. And guess what? The poor bastard learned his lesson. And that lesson was, never, never, ever, ever fuck with Mom! Hell even I learned that lesson and I was an innocent bystander.
Parents should use threats. Oh and not idle threats, and if you Dr. Phil listening types have a problem with this, tough shit! Real threats are needed. Sure it sounds extreme, but I bet it would work. "You sit down and act like a grown up or do you know what? I'll sell you on the internet, that's what! I bet I can get at least 20,000 grand for a cute six year old like you on E-Bay."
I know it's good to be young at heart and acting your age, and that kids will be kids. The only thing restaurants workers are asking for is please be civilized. Where they work isn't a playground, so parents make your tots stop running around all over the place and make them sit the fuck down! They have a job to do, and don't want to have to maneuver through a fucking Romper Room obstacle course.
Don’t you love how I put the word fucking before Romper Room? Well, I do.
So, I am out the other night and I see this server carrying a big tray full of food and drinks, and I think he really didn’t want to be worried about Johnny Snot Nose doing laps around my legs. I mean, I'll be honest, when I was a server I once tried to drop a sizzling Fajita plate on a piss ant's head. But let me tell you, one thing about the youth of today, the fuckers are quick, so I missed!
Oh, the only thing that bothers me more than the pre-school brat who is all hopped up on caffeine and sugar from those nine Mountain Dews he has drank, is that baby. That crying fucking baby! "Wah, wah, wah, wah." Please, shut him up! I know newborns are restless, but after about ten minutes, they're just like a car alarm in the city. You want to take a bat to them.
Imagine the theme from the movie "Jaws." Duh nuh...duh nuh...duh nuh. "Coming to a restaurant soon, " duh nuh, duh nuh, duh nuh, duh nuh, "The crying baby!!!"
People do something, before I find a dingo and make him eat your baby! Take the kid outside, or pop a breast in his mouth, but if you do that, make sure you do it in the bathroom, because people don't need to be distracted by Little Jimmy sucking on a nipple. (You never want to look, but you always do. It ends up being embarrassing if you get caught. Plus in your mind it is like they added a side of areola to your Cobb Salad.) Oh and if you do it in public and have nice ones, it's not good for the restaurant, because most of the male customers will be eating while sporting a chubby. (It is great when this happens. Every guy ends up walking funny to the Men’s Room.)
But if all fails with the crying baby, go get a baby gun. But please remedy the situation before I come to wit's end and lose it. Because if I snap, look out! Remember, there's a soft spot on the back of a baby's head and I may have a soup spoon in hand. And one quick "whack" and Jimmy is going to be riding the short bus to school in the future. He'll be walking around, wearing a helmet and stuttering. He'll be saying, "You, you, yyyyou, should have sssstttopped me crying yyyyyears ago at that rrrrrrestaurant! Ththththanks alot, mmmmom and ddddad!"
When I was little, my older brother said to my Mom, "If you don't like the heat in the kitchen, get out!" What did she do about it? She grabbed him by the arm, tossed him out onto the front porch, slammed the door, and said, "No, you get out!" Oh and two minutes later she threw him a suitcase. My brother, the poor bastard, was so busy bawling his eyes out, that he didn't even notice the suitcase was empty. May have seemed cruel, but it wasn't. And guess what? The poor bastard learned his lesson. And that lesson was, never, never, ever, ever fuck with Mom! Hell even I learned that lesson and I was an innocent bystander.
Parents should use threats. Oh and not idle threats, and if you Dr. Phil listening types have a problem with this, tough shit! Real threats are needed. Sure it sounds extreme, but I bet it would work. "You sit down and act like a grown up or do you know what? I'll sell you on the internet, that's what! I bet I can get at least 20,000 grand for a cute six year old like you on E-Bay."
I know it's good to be young at heart and acting your age, and that kids will be kids. The only thing restaurants workers are asking for is please be civilized. Where they work isn't a playground, so parents make your tots stop running around all over the place and make them sit the fuck down! They have a job to do, and don't want to have to maneuver through a fucking Romper Room obstacle course.
Don’t you love how I put the word fucking before Romper Room? Well, I do.
So, I am out the other night and I see this server carrying a big tray full of food and drinks, and I think he really didn’t want to be worried about Johnny Snot Nose doing laps around my legs. I mean, I'll be honest, when I was a server I once tried to drop a sizzling Fajita plate on a piss ant's head. But let me tell you, one thing about the youth of today, the fuckers are quick, so I missed!
Oh, the only thing that bothers me more than the pre-school brat who is all hopped up on caffeine and sugar from those nine Mountain Dews he has drank, is that baby. That crying fucking baby! "Wah, wah, wah, wah." Please, shut him up! I know newborns are restless, but after about ten minutes, they're just like a car alarm in the city. You want to take a bat to them.
Imagine the theme from the movie "Jaws." Duh nuh...duh nuh...duh nuh. "Coming to a restaurant soon, " duh nuh, duh nuh, duh nuh, duh nuh, "The crying baby!!!"
People do something, before I find a dingo and make him eat your baby! Take the kid outside, or pop a breast in his mouth, but if you do that, make sure you do it in the bathroom, because people don't need to be distracted by Little Jimmy sucking on a nipple. (You never want to look, but you always do. It ends up being embarrassing if you get caught. Plus in your mind it is like they added a side of areola to your Cobb Salad.) Oh and if you do it in public and have nice ones, it's not good for the restaurant, because most of the male customers will be eating while sporting a chubby. (It is great when this happens. Every guy ends up walking funny to the Men’s Room.)
But if all fails with the crying baby, go get a baby gun. But please remedy the situation before I come to wit's end and lose it. Because if I snap, look out! Remember, there's a soft spot on the back of a baby's head and I may have a soup spoon in hand. And one quick "whack" and Jimmy is going to be riding the short bus to school in the future. He'll be walking around, wearing a helmet and stuttering. He'll be saying, "You, you, yyyyou, should have sssstttopped me crying yyyyyears ago at that rrrrrrestaurant! Ththththanks alot, mmmmom and ddddad!"
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Kids in Restaurants - Part 2
I want to set the record straight. My parents never hit me, but I never really got out of control. I didn't act up, because I wanted them to be proud of me, and most of all I had respect for them. Parents, your Elders, you respected them. Now....Screw that! Damn, things have changed.
I'm talking to my Server at my table at a restaurant, and at the table next to me this nine year old mutant of society grabs him by the back of my apron and says: "I need ranch dressing!"
He is talking to me about some mutual friends we have and this little wench interrupts us. Hey, you need more than Ranch dressing, you little inbred lady. You need to say the words "Excuse me" and "Please." Oh, and to make it worse, her mom, a little mousey fuck didn't say a damn thing. This woman was the type that if you were banging her, you'd be worrying about her kid trying to steal your socks. Then the kid would ask, "Are you my daddy?" Which you'd have to respond by saying, "No, you're father is at the state fair, eating a bologna sandwich and running the Tilt-A-Whirl. And, no we aren’t going to play Wii later!"
So this lady doesn't say a word. Not a fucking god damn thing. No attempt to correct this display of bad mannerism. She ignored it all. Hey guess what? Your daughter says she needs Ranch dressing? Guess again! She needs more than Ranch! What she needs is for you to teach her some fucking manners! Oh, and I need to take my server’s peppermill and smack it against her rude, bad genes head. And when I get done with that little rude pain in the ass, I'll need to beat you. Just on principle.
Is it that parents are afraid of their kids, or is it that many parents shouldn't be parents?
I am a Denny’s with a hangover. All I want is some Moons over Miami and a cup of coffee to ease my pain.
I would have gone to IHOP but am not a huge fan of their breakfasts. Things like the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity combo and The Butterscotch Rocks Pancakes are just to damn sweet. I go out to eat to start my day off right, not to have dessert. You finish something at IHOP and you end up having such a major sugar rush. You are flying so high, that you feel like you were just on a bender with Andy Dick. Whatever happened to regular pancakes? I mean do we really need a Triple Fudge, Cookie Dough, Godiva Dark Chocolate, Snickers, Kit Kat, Rocky Road Ice Cream, Caramel Sauce, Pop Rocks, Charleston Chew and Tastycake Peanut Butter Tandycake topped hotcake?
Sitting at the table next to me, are two couples and a bunch of their siblings. Oh, and the little ones were banging away on the table with their silverware. Just banging away like there was no tomorrow. Bang, bang, bang, bang! Shit, I thought I was at a Stomp audition! Better yet, I thought I was listening to Neil Peart doing a fucking drum solo on a live Rush CD. And through this irritating and everlasting percussion impromptu, the parents didn't say a word. They didn't say a fucking thing! Not a "Be Quiet," not a "Calm Down," not even a "Shut Up!" They just ignored it all!
Well, hey thanks for reading Dr. Spock, folks! Oh, and thanks for my fucking headache not going away. But thanks for my relaxation, going away! I really needed this migraine just as I was getting my day started!
You need to break out of your trance and tell your kid to shut the fuck up! You need to put a stop to their craziness, before I take matters into my own hands! And honestly, I don't think you want to see those "Little Darlings" sitting across from you with a salad fork puncturing their retina.
I'm talking to my Server at my table at a restaurant, and at the table next to me this nine year old mutant of society grabs him by the back of my apron and says: "I need ranch dressing!"
He is talking to me about some mutual friends we have and this little wench interrupts us. Hey, you need more than Ranch dressing, you little inbred lady. You need to say the words "Excuse me" and "Please." Oh, and to make it worse, her mom, a little mousey fuck didn't say a damn thing. This woman was the type that if you were banging her, you'd be worrying about her kid trying to steal your socks. Then the kid would ask, "Are you my daddy?" Which you'd have to respond by saying, "No, you're father is at the state fair, eating a bologna sandwich and running the Tilt-A-Whirl. And, no we aren’t going to play Wii later!"
So this lady doesn't say a word. Not a fucking god damn thing. No attempt to correct this display of bad mannerism. She ignored it all. Hey guess what? Your daughter says she needs Ranch dressing? Guess again! She needs more than Ranch! What she needs is for you to teach her some fucking manners! Oh, and I need to take my server’s peppermill and smack it against her rude, bad genes head. And when I get done with that little rude pain in the ass, I'll need to beat you. Just on principle.
Is it that parents are afraid of their kids, or is it that many parents shouldn't be parents?
I am a Denny’s with a hangover. All I want is some Moons over Miami and a cup of coffee to ease my pain.
I would have gone to IHOP but am not a huge fan of their breakfasts. Things like the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity combo and The Butterscotch Rocks Pancakes are just to damn sweet. I go out to eat to start my day off right, not to have dessert. You finish something at IHOP and you end up having such a major sugar rush. You are flying so high, that you feel like you were just on a bender with Andy Dick. Whatever happened to regular pancakes? I mean do we really need a Triple Fudge, Cookie Dough, Godiva Dark Chocolate, Snickers, Kit Kat, Rocky Road Ice Cream, Caramel Sauce, Pop Rocks, Charleston Chew and Tastycake Peanut Butter Tandycake topped hotcake?
Sitting at the table next to me, are two couples and a bunch of their siblings. Oh, and the little ones were banging away on the table with their silverware. Just banging away like there was no tomorrow. Bang, bang, bang, bang! Shit, I thought I was at a Stomp audition! Better yet, I thought I was listening to Neil Peart doing a fucking drum solo on a live Rush CD. And through this irritating and everlasting percussion impromptu, the parents didn't say a word. They didn't say a fucking thing! Not a "Be Quiet," not a "Calm Down," not even a "Shut Up!" They just ignored it all!
Well, hey thanks for reading Dr. Spock, folks! Oh, and thanks for my fucking headache not going away. But thanks for my relaxation, going away! I really needed this migraine just as I was getting my day started!
You need to break out of your trance and tell your kid to shut the fuck up! You need to put a stop to their craziness, before I take matters into my own hands! And honestly, I don't think you want to see those "Little Darlings" sitting across from you with a salad fork puncturing their retina.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Kids in Restaurants - Part 1
I have worked in restaurants on and off throughout my life and frequent them a lot. These days, I've noticed that kids control their parents, and not the other way around, and that makes me sad.
When I was a kid, I sat, ate, and behaved. It was a treat to go out to dinner, and if I acted up and became the brat from hell, guess what? I was going out to the car, being driven home, and would not be making a return to any dining establishment in the near future. Today, however, kids don't give a shit. They say: "Big deal, we're eating out at a nice restaurant. I don’t care. Hey, at least it's better than being at McDonalds!"
Nowadays, kids think fast food is a given, just something they deserve. And people wonder why so many kids are fat, flabby and out of shape. The answer is quite obvious! Fast food has become an alternative to cooking and that makes kids look down upon it. They figure, Mom didn’t want to cook tonight, so we are heading to the drive-thru.
Well, guess what? Fuck you children of the 2000's! I used to look forward to getting an "A" on my report card, so I could get a free cheeseburger at Mickey D's. Back in the late 70's, that was a goal to strive for an achievement, but now it doesn't mean shit! Ronald McDonald has become a lost face in the crowd. He's an outsider and has no relevance anymore. When I was younger, he was a role model, weird to be honest, but he was a type of role model. He rewarded children for doing well and even started the Ronald McDonald house for kids with cancer. In my eyes as a child, this guy should have won a fucking Humanitarian Award! But now, he doesn't mean crap. He is looked at as a red headed, poorly dressed, ugly shoe wearing, and a possibly child molesting, dork ass clown.
But I know he isn't that bad. He isn’t someone like the late Michael Jackson. He is just a misunderstood cat. He made a bad deal with a corporation. (He sold his soul to The Man!) But don't hold it against him. I want Ronald back. I want McDonald's to give a free burger for getting a good grade. (Hell, who knows I might take a class at night school, just to get something for free. Hell, call me cheap, but we are in a fucking recession!) The gratis cheeseburger is a compliment to us kids from the past. I want Ronny to stand for something, for a job well done. Bring him back, and while we're at it, bring along Grimace, the Hamburglar and Mayor McCheese.
Have to make a quick sidebar. I would have loved to seen the Hamburglar on an episode of the old HBO series, Oz. I wonder what gang he would have rolled with and whose bitch he would have been.
Kids go out for supper these days, and just go nuts. They act like characters from the book Lord of the Flies. (In fact, if I saw a kid out to dinner in a loin cloth, it wouldn’t surprise me.) And what sucks is parents these days don't have the balls to say anything about the sub-standard behavior. Society has deemed it inappropriate to be an authoritarian. If you yell at them, or spank them at all, people have a flash back to the 90's, and worry they might pull a Lyle and Eric Menendez on your ass. (Damn, you think for being a rich kid, that one Menendez would have had a much better hairpiece. Sy Sperling from the Hair Club for Men even laughs at him.)
Put it this way, if you have an uppity kid, instead of being thankful for being raised in a good environment, he'll blame you for his short comings. That is because everyone is a victim these days. Why thank you, Gloria Allred. And then he will plan to make up for that fact by shooting you or suing you. And if you try to discipline that child, and be a good parent, you always have that asshole sticking their nose in your business: "You really shouldn't treat your child like that. It's not good for them. It might leave emotional scars."
Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you shut the fuck up, Joyce Brothers, before I give you some scars of your own! Read some text books, ok? There is a difference between discipline and abuse. Discipline..."Don't do that or you'll get spanked." Abuse..."Next time it's not the Whiffle Ball bat, it's the Louisville Slugger!" So folks, don't worry about other people's kids, because as you do, your kid just bought an overcoat and went off to school with an Uzi.
When I was a kid, I sat, ate, and behaved. It was a treat to go out to dinner, and if I acted up and became the brat from hell, guess what? I was going out to the car, being driven home, and would not be making a return to any dining establishment in the near future. Today, however, kids don't give a shit. They say: "Big deal, we're eating out at a nice restaurant. I don’t care. Hey, at least it's better than being at McDonalds!"
Nowadays, kids think fast food is a given, just something they deserve. And people wonder why so many kids are fat, flabby and out of shape. The answer is quite obvious! Fast food has become an alternative to cooking and that makes kids look down upon it. They figure, Mom didn’t want to cook tonight, so we are heading to the drive-thru.
Well, guess what? Fuck you children of the 2000's! I used to look forward to getting an "A" on my report card, so I could get a free cheeseburger at Mickey D's. Back in the late 70's, that was a goal to strive for an achievement, but now it doesn't mean shit! Ronald McDonald has become a lost face in the crowd. He's an outsider and has no relevance anymore. When I was younger, he was a role model, weird to be honest, but he was a type of role model. He rewarded children for doing well and even started the Ronald McDonald house for kids with cancer. In my eyes as a child, this guy should have won a fucking Humanitarian Award! But now, he doesn't mean crap. He is looked at as a red headed, poorly dressed, ugly shoe wearing, and a possibly child molesting, dork ass clown.
But I know he isn't that bad. He isn’t someone like the late Michael Jackson. He is just a misunderstood cat. He made a bad deal with a corporation. (He sold his soul to The Man!) But don't hold it against him. I want Ronald back. I want McDonald's to give a free burger for getting a good grade. (Hell, who knows I might take a class at night school, just to get something for free. Hell, call me cheap, but we are in a fucking recession!) The gratis cheeseburger is a compliment to us kids from the past. I want Ronny to stand for something, for a job well done. Bring him back, and while we're at it, bring along Grimace, the Hamburglar and Mayor McCheese.
Have to make a quick sidebar. I would have loved to seen the Hamburglar on an episode of the old HBO series, Oz. I wonder what gang he would have rolled with and whose bitch he would have been.
Kids go out for supper these days, and just go nuts. They act like characters from the book Lord of the Flies. (In fact, if I saw a kid out to dinner in a loin cloth, it wouldn’t surprise me.) And what sucks is parents these days don't have the balls to say anything about the sub-standard behavior. Society has deemed it inappropriate to be an authoritarian. If you yell at them, or spank them at all, people have a flash back to the 90's, and worry they might pull a Lyle and Eric Menendez on your ass. (Damn, you think for being a rich kid, that one Menendez would have had a much better hairpiece. Sy Sperling from the Hair Club for Men even laughs at him.)
Put it this way, if you have an uppity kid, instead of being thankful for being raised in a good environment, he'll blame you for his short comings. That is because everyone is a victim these days. Why thank you, Gloria Allred. And then he will plan to make up for that fact by shooting you or suing you. And if you try to discipline that child, and be a good parent, you always have that asshole sticking their nose in your business: "You really shouldn't treat your child like that. It's not good for them. It might leave emotional scars."
Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you shut the fuck up, Joyce Brothers, before I give you some scars of your own! Read some text books, ok? There is a difference between discipline and abuse. Discipline..."Don't do that or you'll get spanked." Abuse..."Next time it's not the Whiffle Ball bat, it's the Louisville Slugger!" So folks, don't worry about other people's kids, because as you do, your kid just bought an overcoat and went off to school with an Uzi.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Plight of the Pickled Egg Saleman - Conclusion
So you eventually find the Big Wig in the field! The big cheese when it comes to the craft of peddling the pickled egg. (Try to say that three times fast.) He tells you that he is going to retire and you are fucking ecstatic. This is your chance for the big time. You have the same feeling that a college player has when he gets drafted to the NFL or when a Triple A baseball player gets called up to the show. The future is yours and your dream is finally coming true! But there is a problem. This man who you want to learn the ropes from has a son. His son, in his dad’s eyes is a fucking idiot because he doesn’t want to take over the family business, and his dad wants him to carry on the pickled egg tradition. (But of course, no one else thinks the kid is an idiot, because who would actually want to do this type of sales? I’m sure being a Pickled Egg Salesman isn’t a profession that breaks the ice when trying to impress a lady.)
Now you need to convince the Egg Master that his son has no interest in carrying on the family name in the business world. (And his son is thankful, because you are helping him out, because deep down in his heart he wants to be a Plumber.) So you set up a meeting and you bring your A- game. You impart all the business knowledge that you have learned from the expensive and prestigious schooling you have had. You prove you are better than the Sham Wow guy when it comes to selling.
Oh, I am going to digress for a moment. What is the deal with the guy that pitches the Sham Wow? Is he a douchebag or what? His lines are pathetic:
“You’re gonna love my nuts” and “Linguini, Martini, Bikini…!”
Cut me a break moron. Oh, it gets better. This dunce got busted for beating up a prostitute in a Manhattan hotel room. What’s funny is, if you see his mug shot he looks like he got his ass kicked by her too. The reason why he beat her up? Because she bit his tongue when they were kissing! What a moron, he is. It’s a known fact you never make out with a hooker! I thought everyone knew that. Oh, and the moment he did that, he blew have of New York City by proxy!
So the Donald Trump of the egg world is impressed by you. He loves your passion and your fresh ideas about the industry. He takes you under his wing and imparts all his knowledge and wisdom to you. You are Ralph Macchio and he is Pat Morita! You have finally achieved your dream and are on cloud nine, when suddenly it happens! A Sal Manila breakout!
You are now thoroughly fucked! But weren’t you fucked from the beginning? I mean how many bars and restaurants sell pickled eggs? Just think of all the driving you would have to do and how many miles you would put on your car. And how much commission would you be able to make? I’m sure there isn’t a lot of room for a profitable mark up on your product. So people, my message to you is, if you have kids and they want to be a Pickled Egg Salesman, please discourage them. They would be better of selling Cutco cutlery door to door.
Now you need to convince the Egg Master that his son has no interest in carrying on the family name in the business world. (And his son is thankful, because you are helping him out, because deep down in his heart he wants to be a Plumber.) So you set up a meeting and you bring your A- game. You impart all the business knowledge that you have learned from the expensive and prestigious schooling you have had. You prove you are better than the Sham Wow guy when it comes to selling.
Oh, I am going to digress for a moment. What is the deal with the guy that pitches the Sham Wow? Is he a douchebag or what? His lines are pathetic:
“You’re gonna love my nuts” and “Linguini, Martini, Bikini…!”
Cut me a break moron. Oh, it gets better. This dunce got busted for beating up a prostitute in a Manhattan hotel room. What’s funny is, if you see his mug shot he looks like he got his ass kicked by her too. The reason why he beat her up? Because she bit his tongue when they were kissing! What a moron, he is. It’s a known fact you never make out with a hooker! I thought everyone knew that. Oh, and the moment he did that, he blew have of New York City by proxy!
So the Donald Trump of the egg world is impressed by you. He loves your passion and your fresh ideas about the industry. He takes you under his wing and imparts all his knowledge and wisdom to you. You are Ralph Macchio and he is Pat Morita! You have finally achieved your dream and are on cloud nine, when suddenly it happens! A Sal Manila breakout!
You are now thoroughly fucked! But weren’t you fucked from the beginning? I mean how many bars and restaurants sell pickled eggs? Just think of all the driving you would have to do and how many miles you would put on your car. And how much commission would you be able to make? I’m sure there isn’t a lot of room for a profitable mark up on your product. So people, my message to you is, if you have kids and they want to be a Pickled Egg Salesman, please discourage them. They would be better of selling Cutco cutlery door to door.
Plight of the Pickled Egg Salesman - Part 1
I was at a bar the other night and saw a jar of Pickled Eggs. Now, I have never tried a pickled egg before and to my knowledge, no one I know has ever tried one either. My assumption is that they must taste like, well a pickled egg. That does not sound very appetizing to me. As Cleveland from The Family Guy would say, “That’s nasty.”
The question I have is, who sells pickled eggs and how did they get into the business?
What would make someone choose that profession? Did some guy as a child strive to sell fucking pickled eggs to bars? Think about it. This guy is nine years old and in class the teacher asks the kids what they want to do when they get older. One kid says be the President. Another says be a Fireman. And yet another says be a Policeman. And this fool says he wants to sell pickled eggs. I could only imagine the Teacher’s response to this. (If it was a good teacher, the kid would have been signed up to Home Ec 101, ASAP!)
But hey, you have a dream, so you follow it! You go to college, major in Business with the long term career goal of selling pickled eggs. Then you graduate and start looking for jobs. But guess what? I bet it is always hard times in the pickled egg industry. It's some mean streets for the wannabe egg salesman. Think about it. You send out your resume, with the objective line stating:
“To have a prosperous, challenging and fulfilling career in the field of pickled egg sales.”
What company is taking that seriously? You could have graduated Magna fucking Cum-Laude from the Wharton School of Business, but most companies would laugh at you. You could be a god damn Rhodes Scholar, but you would be the butt of a joke that CEO’s would tell each other over a glass of Scotch forever.
OK. So now you need money to pay back your student loans. You could take a job in Pharmaceutical Sales, because you have the credentials. You went to an Ivy League school and graduated near the top of your class. It would be an ideal position. Great starting salary, good commission structure, company car, 401K, complete benefits and a short workday. Awesome fucking gig, huh? But guess what? It isn’t right for you, because you want to sell pickled eggs!
So what would the novice pickled eggs salesman do now? Would he try to find a mentor? Go in search of the most proficient pickled egg salesman who is a master closer? I’m sure there is the guru of pickled egg salesmen, but I think the reason he is, is because he is the only fucking pickled egg salesman out there! He has the monopoly on the business!
To be continued...
The question I have is, who sells pickled eggs and how did they get into the business?
What would make someone choose that profession? Did some guy as a child strive to sell fucking pickled eggs to bars? Think about it. This guy is nine years old and in class the teacher asks the kids what they want to do when they get older. One kid says be the President. Another says be a Fireman. And yet another says be a Policeman. And this fool says he wants to sell pickled eggs. I could only imagine the Teacher’s response to this. (If it was a good teacher, the kid would have been signed up to Home Ec 101, ASAP!)
But hey, you have a dream, so you follow it! You go to college, major in Business with the long term career goal of selling pickled eggs. Then you graduate and start looking for jobs. But guess what? I bet it is always hard times in the pickled egg industry. It's some mean streets for the wannabe egg salesman. Think about it. You send out your resume, with the objective line stating:
“To have a prosperous, challenging and fulfilling career in the field of pickled egg sales.”
What company is taking that seriously? You could have graduated Magna fucking Cum-Laude from the Wharton School of Business, but most companies would laugh at you. You could be a god damn Rhodes Scholar, but you would be the butt of a joke that CEO’s would tell each other over a glass of Scotch forever.
OK. So now you need money to pay back your student loans. You could take a job in Pharmaceutical Sales, because you have the credentials. You went to an Ivy League school and graduated near the top of your class. It would be an ideal position. Great starting salary, good commission structure, company car, 401K, complete benefits and a short workday. Awesome fucking gig, huh? But guess what? It isn’t right for you, because you want to sell pickled eggs!
So what would the novice pickled eggs salesman do now? Would he try to find a mentor? Go in search of the most proficient pickled egg salesman who is a master closer? I’m sure there is the guru of pickled egg salesmen, but I think the reason he is, is because he is the only fucking pickled egg salesman out there! He has the monopoly on the business!
To be continued...
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