Please, won't you make it stop?

So I'm training a guy at work, right? As part of the process, I ask a series of questions designed to broaden their knowledge of the menu. One particular question alluded to a sandwich consisting of a chicken-fried chicken patty, two slices of bacon and cheese. I asked him what meat, other than chicken, the sandwich comes with. His answer?...Ham. Right away this sounds bad. In his defense, several sandwiches on the menu contain a slice of ham and 90% of trainees will answer incorrectly on the first try. Usually I repeat the question, making sure to emphasize the word bacon, and we can move on. Five incorrect answers later, I revealed the answer and was met with a blank stare rivaling the staunchest of cult automatons. Why? He was unaware bacon was in fact , a meat.

And so the 'there but by the grace of God club' gains yet another lifetime member.

Say What?

Those of you prone to ethical reverence will be pleased to know I am posting this from my very own, legally procured internet signal. While I still find paying for such a service ridiculous, it's nice to no longer pace the apartment in a frustrating signal search, or worse yet, traveling to a local coffee joint filled with individuals whom no one likes yet all attempt to emulate.

In more rant worthy news, I was recently submitted to the remixed version of a certain commercial depicting a culinary accoutrement through which slaps are exchanged for a chopping motion of sorts. It's nice to know that the despair brought on by manhandling a prostitute can be healed through clumsily dubbed advertisement abortions...keep up the good work guy,,,

Your Bike and You. A handbook for the feral female...

I spend the majority of my day avoiding people for one reason or another. Pretentious? Perhaps, but I assure you, it is more for their benefit than mine. Occasionally, however, I put aside my particular brand of snobbery for the greater good. Today was one of those days.

After an 11 hour work day, I headed for home, anticipating my collapse into the waiting arms of my garage sale recliner. After, a mere two blocks, the car in front of mine made a last minute turn decision and I was forced to apply a liberal amount of brake. Such occurrences are not uncommon, but today I had a trio of crotch rockets rapidly approaching my rear and was unaware of their presence until they changed lanes and blew past me, setting off a series of strokes. Being a little on the testy side, I rapidly increased my speed with the intention of exacting a form of justice yet to be determined. Luckily my fellow motorists and I were on the same page. As I sped up, the vehicles ahead of me seemed to simultaneously slow down, effectively entombing the bastards in a coffin comprised of a semi-truck, a Prius, a low riding Cadillac (complete with a genuine banger), a duo of SUV's and myself. For two awe-inspiring miles, we managed to thwart their attempts at escape when an inevitable yellow light provided the lead bike a chance at freedom. Having only begun to slake my lust for justice, I attempted a maneuver inspired by the amalgam of a senior citizen and a junior high girl and suceeded in cutting the tail bike off from his clan by 3 cars and a redlight. I met douche-baggery head on and kicked it square in its overly exaggerated genitals.

Sadly, all these efforts were for naught. While stopped in the left hand turn lane, a Jeep full of rather esteem-lacking females instictively initiated an ego stroke more powerful than even my well-honed misanthropy could counter. Damn...guess I'll have to save my bitch-bike quips for next time...

Lamenting Latex

As if contraceptive commercials needed to be creepier, Trojan recently aired a commercial showcasing a pair of mime hands engaged in some grotesquely suggestive gesticulating. Painful, I know, though equally genius. It's not everyday a product instills new hope in the date-rape crowd, while simultaneously pissing off the French. Too bad I can't scrub the inside of my brain.

"Sometimes, I throw nickles in the oven...

There are few things more rewarding than shedding light on one of life's great mysteries. It is in this spirit that I happily report the debunking of the penultimate conundrum. After years of agonizing search, I have stumbled upon the infamous Nickleback fan-base. I know what you're thinking, said fan-base is nothing but a myth, spoon fed to the masses by the music industry in order to give the illusion of credibility. But the truth is, someone is buying this crap. If not, the entire band would've died off years ago, thus making an iron-clad argument for evolution. Who is listening, you ask? The answer shouldn't surprise you. It appears to be single, white, heavily sauced 2o somethings, doling out sexual harrassment and indiscriminately plucking half-smoked cigarettes from the ashtray with a total disregard for Hepatitus C. Now that this group has been identified, avoinding them becomes all the easier. Avoid community swimming pools, dive bars, seedy hotel lounges and any other locations where members of the 'there but by the grace of God' club may frequent. At the risk of sounding insensitive, Helen Keller had it made...

Disclaimer: I am in no way insinuating that the aforementioned music is enjoyed only by one group. Another possibility seems to be the competitive eating cirtcuit. While data is still being collected, any group of people disillusioned enough to believe the consumption of food constitutes an act of courage shows a monolithic lack of inhibition.

How the Hell Did New Jersey Become A State?

For centuries, school officials around the world have deemed it necessary to enact bans on things considered to counterproductive to the learning process. Past bans have included items like weapons/firearms, alcohol, drugs, school prayer, dodge-ball and of course, pedophiles. But in what can only be described as a disturbingly absurd abuse of power, a New Jersey school has taken upon itself to ban one of the most perverse acts in all of history. Students enrolled in the aforementioned Middle School are no longer permitted to hug. Why, you ask? A statement by the principal says it all. " It was needless hugging...It wasn't a greeting. It was happening all day".

Frankly, I'm relieved. As you are aware, hugging is the number one cause of spontaneous pregnancy. Recent medical studies have also shown that those engaging in superfluous hugging are 98% more likely to contract a chronic venereal disease. I don't know about you, but tonight I can rest easy knowing that 13 year old's living in New Jersey will never know the horrors of chlamydia.

Unfortunately, students will ultimately find another way in which to show affection. Hand holding is out. As is the eerie practice of sex-ting and a variety of other covert/overt displays. I predict that within the decade, schools across the country will ban hugging, forcing students to greet one another by ceremoniously rubbing together their asses. Let the chaffing begin...

Anyone Know How to Free-Base Music?

My name is Phil and I am an addict. It started it out solely as a hobby; a quick fix here and there, with the occasional big score. But thanks to the penultimate of all anniversary gifts, what was once a harmless pastime has blossomed into a full blown addiction. For hours on end, I methodically browse the Zune marketplace in search of my next hit and on more than one occasion have spent upwards of $75 in one sitting. As you can imagine, my wife was less than pleased. So displeased, in fact, she was forced to place me on a 2 month musical moratorium. And herein lies the problem. Last night, a meager 2 weeks into my sentence, I found myself curled in the fetal position cradiling the case for my latest hard copy purchase. (If you're interested, its a recording of Fiddler on the Roof as performed by the original Broadway cast)

In an effort to cope I've decided to live vicariously through my readers. Feel free to comment on your latest musical discoveries. Following are a few of mine. I've refrained from critiquing these selections in order to avoid bias. Enjoy.

Chutes to Narrow, by the Shins
The HMS Pinafore and The Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan (as performed by the Welsh National Opera
Trouble by Ray Lamontagne
Sea Sew by Lisa Hannigan
Symphony No. 3 (Symphony of Sad Songs) by Henryk Gorecki
One Cell in the Sea by A Fine Frenzy
Photo Album by Death Cab For Cutie
Cabin Ghosts by Cory Chisel and the Wandering Sons
Funeral by Arcade Fire
Existence by Antoine Dufour
The Art of Motion and the Gates of Gnomeria by Andy McKee
and Ny Batteri by Sigur Ros

Can You Count the Consonants in Incontinent?

I lost a battle tonight. There I sat, my jaw locked, muscles taut with strain, beads of sweat slowly working their way down my brow...and suddenly and quite unceremoniously I raised the white flag of surrender. Tonight, for the first time in my admittedly shaky memory, I left a film to use the restroom.

I tried, I really did. Trying to will it away seemed near impossible while trying to remain engrossed in the film and inflicting pain in other regions of my body seem equally as fruitless. Even the old standby, crossing my legs in the most feminine way possible for those of my ilk, backfired. By the time wetting myself in public seemed a very real possibility, the numbness in my leg had reached critical mass. I frantically hobbled for the bathroom, initiated the evacuation, and hurried back. Well, not hurried exactly. Its not easy to run with that infamous 'pins and needles' pain shooting up your legs. I'm guessing it looked a bit like a crippled crackhead frantically trying to run down his next score.

I'm sure it was inevitable but I wish my bladder would have chosen a different film. Through "Monster In-Law, the most recent "Punisher" installment, "Marly and Me" and countless others I dripped not a drop. But 3/4's of the way through "Wolverine" and the 3 espresso and creams, two cans of Coke, several cups of cereal milk and a ginormous theater Coke collectively browbeat me into submission. Luckliy my grief was assuaged with a free movie pass.* Next time I'm coming for blood, catheter in tow...

*In recompense for accidentally subjecting us to the first 3 minutes of "April Showers", the theater was kind enough to provide us all with one free movie pass. I suspect it was purely an accident, yet I can't help but wonder if it was deliberate. Had some douche bag suggested I 'show my tits', delaying the feature would have been the least of his concerns.

"I'm a Little Despot..." The Phil Kelly Story

In yet another display of arctic inhumanity, I laughed at a 3 year girl. Well, not so much at her...it was more about her, though I doubt that makes much difference. It was all a bit surreal, what with the unnaturally warm weather, the unexpected second cigarette break and the particularly mind-numbing bubblegum pop spattering out of the restaurant PA system. There she walked, one hand firmly clasped in her mother's hand, the other haphazardly bouncing those helium-filled orbs, a veritable emblem of youthful innocence. And then it happened. Who knows what caused it...an overly moist palm, a sudden gust of wind or perhaps any number of traffic induced cacophonies. Eventually they dwindled into nothing, slowly at first, and then steamrolling into obscurity, not unlike the career of a one Josh Hartnett. As was expected, those around me reacted in the appropriate fashion; a gasp, a sob, any number of empathetic groanings. I, on the other hand, was engaged in a fit of jovial hysterics. Before passing judgment I offer this for consideration. In an effort to protect the child's feelings, I hastily buried my face in my lap, no easy feat for those of us with freakishly long torsos. A weak substitute for true empathy, I know, but an effort nonetheless. I'm fairly certain Pol Pot would've pushed her down...

Dear Sir...

Keep up the good work. IOUSAthemovie.com? Brilliant! Thanks to your most audacious of window graffiti, the world is aware of the fiscal fiasco taking place. You know the one I'm talking about; the one all the rest of whom, at least until recently, remained blissfully unaware of. Way to use that freedom of speech, pal. There's just one thing...would you mind driving the speed limit? I'm seconds away from ramming those fair tax bumper stickers up an orifice of your choice...

Finding Hilarity in Our Eminent Undoing

Several weeks ago, my great-grandmother passed away due to complications from leukemia. At 94, she had lived a good life, and was preceded in death by her husband of multiple decades. While not wanting to make light of her passing, I could not help but laugh audibly at her time of passing. Having settled into her brand new hospital bed, and listening to the musical musings of my father in the other room, she simply slipped away, destined for the blissful heaven immortalized in myriad hymns. During what song did she choose to exit? None other than, "I'll Fly Away"...priceless.

"True! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad?"

My ever-slackening grasp on lucidity has recently been paired with a mounting sense of paranoia. Everyone from store clerks to infants seem to be lurking just around the corner, vying to enact their most gruesome of justice. Who is it this week? Why none other than the management and maintenance staff of my very own apartment complex.

In a move intended, so far as I can grasp, to illuminate the piss stains on the carpet, they've installed a new light in the hallway. To anyone else, this would seem innocuous. What danger could come from a light? But this is no ordinary light. This is the Aston Martin of fluorescent glows. An oppressively bright wave of metallic rays, steadily sapping my spirit. With my apartment lights off and a full reclining of my trusty man throne, a single beam of light finds it way to the side of my face. Add a constant stream of visitors to my ethnically-ambiguous neighbor and you have an illuminated form of the Chines water torture, a la Poe. I swear, if I start hearing heartbeats, I'm bound to start pushing down the elderly...

This is How "Wii" do it....

First and foremost, television, along with my pun making ability, has reached an all time low. When Howie Mandell, the illustrious voice-over talent from Bobby's World gets his own hidden camera show, the time to escort TV producers to concentration camp style showering facilities has come to pass. But that's not the point of this post.

Over a year ago, my wife browbeat me into the purchase of a Nintendo Wii. Pretty awesome, right? Let it be known that my loyalty has always been with Nintendo. Bring me someone incapable of enjoying the original Super Mario Brothers and I'll personally deliver a swift kick to their brown-eye. And I'll admit, the first few months were fantastic. We purchased Guitar Hero and spent many an hour trying to master the complimentary Wii Sports disc. But after awhile the novelty wore off. I reached the pinnacle of my rockin' abilities and my wife grew tired of the monotany of Mario Party. Now it sits, slowly gathering dust, waiting for whatever TV gameshow turned boardgame, turned DVD boardgame, turned video game might catch my wife's eye.

Perhaps I've become overly sentimental. I miss the Super Nintendo more than I care to admit. I recall many an hour spent playing games long forgotten: fighting crime with SpiderMan and the X-men and I was once 25 minutes late for a JV football game (hard to picture me in pads and a helmet, right) becaused I refused to stop playing Star Fox until I had achieved cosmic dominance.

At least it's not all bad. I hear retirement homes have utilized the console as a physical therapy device. Just picture it...thousands of blue-hairs, hell bent on crushing eachother in a virtual boxing ring. Who knows? Maybe one day the masterminds at Nintendo will release a game devoted to the simulated ass-beating of a certain game show host...

25 years Uterine Free and Loving Every Minute Of It

I recently reached the 1/4 century mark and I find myself contemplating those mysteries in life more and more often. As of late, my topic of choice is trying to make sense of the female psyche, an exercise in futility, I know, but there it is. Most intriguing is the daily pre-sleep lavatorial ritual and its A.M. counterpart. Our cramped bathroom is littered with countless creams and scrubs, lotions, spritz bottles, compacts, cotton application accoutrement of numerous varieties, and a wide array of fiendish looking instruments one might expect to find in some hellish torture chamber.

I can't quite wrap my head around their uses either. One bottle is used to pre-clean the face. Next comes the actual cleansing of the face in order to remove remove the pre-cleanser. After the face is thoroughly clean, a lotion must be applied to counteract the drying effect of the industrial strength detergent now slowly eating away at the outermost layers of skin. Next comes the blemish spot treatment, wrinkle creams and a full five minutes of mirror scrutiny, during which the discovery of any noticeable marring is bound to lead to the lave-proverbial 'rinse and repeat'.

Everyday this accumulates to a collosal loss of time. In an effort to save my female readers this hassle, (or any metro-sexuals) I've devised a much quicker method, fool-proof as well as expedient. Three minutes spent 'exfoiliating' with 80 grit sandpaper attached to the blades of a personal fan and a healthy dose of Robitussin applied liberally to the entire face. Ladies, you're welcome. Check back for tips on how to save time on make-up application

:This is a song by a gay guy..."

Recently at work giant of a gay man started quoting Scripture. While I can't for the life of me recall the reference number, it had to do with showing love to others. This was a rebuttal for making an insensitive remark about homosexuals, to which I replied equally insensitive to with, "Then stop being gay". Anyway, the occurrence made me think of the recent coming out of the Christian music superstar Ray Boltz. I can't quite grasp the thought process. Here's a guy who makes a living by spreading the Gospel through song, (albeit badly written ones), with what I can only assume is an extensive knowledge of Scripture, who seems to have no problem embracing a homosexual life style. It's possible some things in the Bible are clouded in shades of gray but homosexuality is not one of them. For a long time I was mad. "How dare he?" I thought. He's just one more guy making Christianity a puching bag for the media. But after a while it dawned on me...I'm really no better than him, and may in fact be worse. I have a truly filthy mouth and a brain that may be lacking in a moral filter. I still periodically turn to substance abuse to cope with life's wondrous banality and the very thought of sharing my faith makes me uncomfortable to the point of inanity. Man am I weak...maybe Santa will bring me a pair of stones for Christmas...

In lieu of physical violence...

It has become apparent that all chefs, aspiring or otherwise, are complete asses. This in itself is not necessarily a bad thing. Motivation comes in many forms, one of the most effective being verbal abuse and intimidation. However, it does make many things exponentially more difficult. As part of my Monday-Wednesday Fine Dining class, we are expected to partner with a student chef from the Tuesday-Thursday class, (all of whom are hacks), conceptualize a menu and implement it for a week's worth of dinner service. Hence the dilemma: each of us our sure that our respective palates are superior. In an effort to avoid coming to loggerheads, I thought I might poll my humble audience on their preference. To keep thing fair, the courses will be presented blind; you won't know who crafted each dish. Shall we begin?


First Course
- Red cabbage and shaved fennel salad with grapefruit and dried cranberries. OR
- Root vegetable salad, (carrots, parsnips, rutabega) with an orange-maple dressing and candied pecans.

Second Course
-Pan seared scallops with linguine and a champagne grape butter sauce. (this dish will also be dusted with finely ground roasted almonds) OR
-Scallops with caramel and butterscotch reduction.

Third Course
-Braised duck thigh with roasted parsnips and a celeriac puree. OR
-Black Cod Rouillade stuffed with ricotta and marscapone cheese and covered with bechamel sauce. (bechamel is a cream sauce, similar to alfredo)

Dessert
Caramel Bread Pudding OR
Creme Brulee.

While voting is important, the final menu will most likely go to the one who bitches the most...or throws the first punch.

For the Sake of Clarity

I thought it best to head off the quips of all you jokesters before hand. The previous post was not intended as a jab at homosexuality. Had it been about pirates of the butt variety and not those noble maritime seamen, you would have been treated to various forms of words like 'booty' and 'plunder'. Also, references to 'crude oil' would have taken on a much different meaning.

p.s. Each successive holiday season brings with it more reasons for hatred. This year it is a holiday themed commercial touting a male enhancement drug. As if this was not reason enough for the gnashing of teeth, they actually used the phrase 'and to all a good night'. I contemplated choking myself to death on a strawberry Swiss cake roll.

To Peg-Leg Pete,,,An Homage

While the United States may be the penultimate nation of all time, when it comes to crime, we are the very definition of criminal hackery. Idiots attempt to rob banks with water-guns and thugs are thwarted mid-robbery by their obscenely baggy trousers. Whatever happened to taking pride in your craft?

Take Somalia, for instance. While their country may be in a state of ruin, they at least have the decency to carry on crime in a vigorous, swashbuckling manner. That's right, Somalia has pirates. On November 18, Somalian pirates made away with a Saudi oil-tanker worth upwards of $100 million in crude oil. More impressive still is the size of the tanker. At 1090 feet, the length of the Sirius Star is comparable to 3 1/2 football fields. I wonder how one becomes a pirate? Perhaps I'll try getting shanghaied...

Back in the kitchen, woman, or I'll kick your teeth in!

Sunday night my wife received a visit from Omaha's finest. Fortunately I was at work because it seems they were responding to a domestic disturbance call. (Thank you 30 tops) Shortly after moving into our current apartment building, I became aware of sporadic yelling, most of which was incomprehensible. And while sitting idly by was not my first choice, I refrained from reporting the incidents primarily because I could not determine from which unit it was coming from. As it turns out, neither can my neighbors...they told the officers it was coming from our third story single bedroom. Upon first hearing this news, I was rather unaffected. I know I don't beat my wife and so does she. Rarely do I ever even raise my voice to her. Yet it seems that others do, and that speaks volumes. I ask you this, my faithful few, do I look like a wife-beater?

Dradle, Dradle, Dradle

There's somethings acutely magical about winter. Daylight retreats faster, making my days infinitely more bearable. In the air is a crisp, almost metallic smell, not unlike the taste of blood in one's mouth. Ultimately snow will make it's appearance, delicate flakes hissing gently as they nestle in amongst their brothers. Unfortunately with winter comes the impending bastardization of Christmas. Even a lackluster economy can't slake the blood lust of Hallmark, the biggest perpetrator of poisonous, yule-tide prose. Perhaps I'll become a Jew...