Coupon D’étât

One day last week, I was hungry. No, I mean, I was really, really hungry. And what’s a hungry American to do? Overeat until you can barely stand up, of course.

I surveyed the current eating options and ruled out anything of quality. Nothing home-cooked. No Indian food. Nothing prepared with any ounce of care or regard for the human body or health.

Then I spotted it out of the corner of my eye: the answer.

I found a coupon from a national pizza (franchise) chain that entitled me to more than one pizza, wings, garlic bread, and soda. Caffeinated soda? Yes, of course.

So, I phoned in my order.

Clerk: Hi, can I take your order?
Me: (reading title from coupon) I’d like to order the American-Heartstopper with a 2-liter of Coke, please.
Clerk: Uhhh, what does the American-Heartstopper come with?
Me: Two pizzas.
Clerk: Okay.
Me: Wings.
Clerk: Okay. Would you like those hot?
Me: Yes.
Clerk: What else?
Me: Garlic bread.
Clerk: Okay. What else?
Me: 2-liter of Coke.
Clerk: Okay. What else?
Me: One million dollars.
Clerk: Okay, so that’s 2 pizzas, wings (hot), garlic bread and a 2-liter of Coke, then?
Me: Uhh, yes.
Clerk: And what’s the price that’s listed on the coupon?

(Mind of evilMe thinking evil thoughts about getting everything for free.)

Me: $22.95.

Coupon D’étât thwarted. Let them eat cake!

A Footprint in the Sand is Two in the

I ran into the Tar-Talking gal again today, this time at a sandwich shop. Previously, and upon further discussion, it was suggested to me that I’d judged her (intentions) too harshly, and that maybe — if I ran into her again — I should just go with her talkative spirit, since it was possible that her conversation about tar stains was off-hand. Fair enough.

While I don’t have a flirtation detector (a flirtation filter?), I am able to spot “hitting on” from a mile away. First, I watched the guy at the sandwich shop eye the gal up and down (while her attention was diverted by the menu). Then, I watched him ignore me and take her order first, even though I’d gotten in line before her. I’m not one to gripe about those kinds of things, given the scope of what I was looking for (a stupid sandwich, with a sliver of meat and loaded with romaine lettuce, no doubt), plus I was fascinated about what he was going to say. So, I just stood there and listened.

At first, he was charming and friendly, making idle conversation while he gathered the ingredients for her sandwich. And then, he pulled out all the stops. What? Yes, there were stops, but not one of them was left unpulled.

Actually, at this point, his intentions became blurred. He began to speak of a sick relative and this poem (on a little wallet-sized card) that he’d been given. He began to read aloud a poem called Footprints. The gal, lo and behold, knew of this poem, and began to burst at the seams about how much she loved it, and how the poem had a “calming affect” on her. So, maybe there wasn’t hitting on after all.

Oh wait. Yes. Yes, there was. Between reading lines of “Footprints”, the guy would stare quite obviously at the gal’s breasts. Line. Breasts. Line. Breasts. Line. Breasts. Then, just breasts. This went on for ages, it seemed.

Finally, he finished the poem, and finished making her sandwich. “That was a rather sensuous creation of (the gal’s) Turkey Club”, I said to myself. And, feeling hungrier, I was ready to leave some footprints by the door as I felt like leaving to forrage for food elsewhere.

So, she gets her sandwich, turns, and heads for the door. Then, she stops, turns back, and starts talking to me. The clerk waits on the next person in line, who just happens not to be me.

“Okay”, I say to myself, “be nice.” And I am.

She: So, how’ve you been?
Me: I’ve been really good. How about yourself?
She: Busy, just took a road trip.
Me: That’s cool. Where’d you go?
She: To visit my Grandmom in Canada.
Me: Did you have long to drive?
She: 14 hours.

[ And so it went. A nice conversation. Maybe I'd wrongly read her after our first meeting. ]

Or.

She: So, I have a parrot.
Me: Oh?
She: Yeah, he’s 5 years old.
Me: Oh? Does he talk?
She: No, not really. But, he does act like an asshole.
Me: Umm?
She: Seriously, if I don’t let him do this or that, he’ll turn his head and give me a dirty look.
Me: Wow, pets can be so human.
She: But, that’s not it.
Me: It’s not?
She: No. And after he gives me a dirty look, he’ll motherfucking shit all over the fucking rug. Fucker. But I love him.
Me: (jaw dropping to the floor)

Now, knowing my penchant for swear words, you’d think that I’d have fallen for this woman, what by her saying a sentence with the words “shit” and “motherfucker” in it.

But it’s not that way. She went on and on about the parrot and its discharges, and each sentence used less and less words that didn’t resemble shit or fuck.

Is there a doctor, or an extra copy of “Footprints” in the house?

Hi, I’m Hallucinate.

Yesterday turned out to be a freakish day. I can point to everything from the moment that I woke up until the moment that I went to bed as culprits.

It all started out at around 6:30am. In my sleep, I could swear that I heard a “pop pop pop”, like an air interruption that you’d hear by someone making a loud and low noise in the distance. Finally, I could take the “popping” no more, so I got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.

I began to pee, sigh, and stretch, like I do at the start of every morning. But, in the case of this past morning, something was different. Something had caught my attention because it didn’t belong in my backyard.

Now, I’m pretty confident when I tell you that it wasn’t a racoon. No, not even a man in a racoon costume.
	No, it wasn’t an oil rig, either. While this is a picture of the Eiffel Tower, we’re all educated Americans here, right? Personally, I kind of would liked to have seen the Eiffel Tower being wedged into that asteroid in the movie “Armageddon”, but I’m not picky. Dynamite is acceptable, too. And no, the Eiffel Tower wasn’t in my backyard either.
Nope.
Nor this.

So, what was it, then?

This.
	And this.

It’s not everyday that you’re sighing and peeing when a hot-air balloon works its way to your backyard. In fact, my shock turned to amusement when 6-8 people turned up and dragged the balloon to the street so that it could be deflated and taken away.

Next time, I don’t think that I’ll be amused, however.

Fit to Flirt

I don’t understand flirting. In fact, I understand it even less than people who insist on talking to strangers. Together? Two bad tastes that are inedible together.

I was waiting for an elevator in my office building. Strange, the elevators are normally much faster than they were today. Following my no gawking policy, I only half saw the woman who was also standing and waiting for the elevator. But she saw me, apparently, since she started blah blah’ing almost immediately.

I turned around and looked to see if she was talking to someone else. She wasn’t. Unlike the normal rank and file who decide to spontaneously expound, this woman was different (at least in appearance). She was friendly and outgoing, and dressed in a business suit, which is a fascination of mine. Er yes, so now you know.

She: So, do you have problems buying pants?
Me: Umm, what?

Well, if I was standing here in a pair of assless pants, I guess that her question would’ve had some context.

She: You’re tall. Do you have problems buying pants?
Me: Oh. No, not really. I find what I like, then I order them from the Gap or wherever.
She: That’s cool. Because I find that it’s the other extreme for short people. Like, I go to clubs, and guys are always shorter than me.

Ummm, wait, then what does that have to do with my pants?

Me: Oh, well, you are kind of tall.
She: But they’re really short, like 5′2″. I mean, where do all these short guys come from?
Me: I don’t know.
She: And more importantly, where do they buy their pants?
Me: I don’t know.
She: Do you think that they make them that small?
Me: Since they were wearing pants when you met them, I’d say “yes” they do make them that small.
She: (laughing)

And this is where things got even more random than before.

She: So, I have to stop smoking in the house.

(Gee, I don’t see how smoking has any relevance while standing outside of the elevator.)

Me: Oh?
She: Yes, I had this white blazer that got stained by my smoking in the house.
Me: Oh.
She: I really have to stop.
Me: Smoking?
She: No, smoking in the house.
Me: Oh.

(Two strikes: (1) clubbing and (2) smoking in the house. Talking to a stranger was fouled behind the plate.)

Elevator arrives. We get in.

Elevator stops at my floor.

Me: Well, see you later.
She: Sure! And next time, it would be great if you knew the answers to all of my questions.

After explaining this story to my co-workers, 1/3 said “she was flirting with you, dude.” The other 2/3 said, “she’s sounds like a psycho.”

Those of you who know my “sense of fashion” are aware that I’m a very boring dresser. This was an intentional move on my part so that I wouldn’t draw attention to myself. I like to keep my compound thoughts and eccentricites to myself, unless I feel comfortable with you, okay? Thanks.

I’m Tripping

I came to the realization the other day that I don’t mind falling down, even in public.

Now, I’ve been tripping (over my feet, silly) and falling down since I was a kid. And I used to hate it when people harassed me about it. But I’ve turned over a new leaf. After staggering, I’ll swing my arms around, and make the whole process seem intentional and super-extra dramatic. Hell, I might even oblige by falling down completely.

I call this one “The Cube Farm Dismount”. Learn.
1. Walk slowly and drag your feet.
2. Bob your head forward and slump your shoulders.
3. Trip over something with your right foot.
4. Try to gain your footing, but bend your knees instead.
5. Fall forwards.
6. After you touch the ground, roll on your back.
7. Kick your feet in the air, and hold them there for 4-5 seconds.
8. Drop your feet to the ground.
9. Say “ow” quite matter-of-factly.
10. Stand back up, and without dusting yourself off, walk away.