My Rapture Bunker

Not my actual Craigslist Bunker, but you get the idea

Okay, it's been awhile since I have written, but I had been preparing for the rapture like any person who doesn't believe in this crap by going about business as usual. It's been 5 days since this shit was suppose to go down and my mangina is having a fissy fit because it and I are still roaming about New York City. I have to tell you that I feel slightly cheated since I went about purchasing a rapture bunker on Craigslist and now I have to potentially wait until October to get use it.

As I scoured Craigslist in search of my bunker, which by way is now collecting dust, I began to ponder the validity of the situation. How did they know back in the day about pacific standard time when most who roamed the earth believed it to be flat? (I mostly likely haven't a clue about what I'm talking about, nor do I care.) I would have to imagine that if the rapture were to go down, it would have to be 6pm in the middle east (all that bible talk happened there, no?), considering that America had yet to be discovered. None of that matters because my contemplation turned into giddiness having found the perfect bunker listing for the right price.

Not actual Zombies,
but close enough for 
the sake of humor

I suppose that being raptured would have been cool and all, but so is chilling out in a bunker preparing to slay zombies (braaiiiinnsss) as I watch the cable I'm stealing from the bunker next to mine (up until that time Oprah was still on TV, can't miss that). Seriously though, would I want to be high above the clouds with all of those goody too-shoes, or would I want to be roving the land with a posse of zombie killers ready to slice and dice? (By the way, the bunker only fits about 8 and so my posse is kind of small, I only had so much bunker money to spend). I really hoped to peer out it's windows and watch people float into the sky as I shoot at them like clay pigeons.

Nom, nom, nom

Well, since you are reading this, then you know ye old rapture never unfolded. I was actually having a beer when the clock struck 6pm and at that point was oblivious to the rapture that was not taking place. Basically, I now have bunker for the new and improved upcoming end of the world, which takes place this october (I hope all of those pb&j's that I made don't go bad), thus giving me plenty of time to revamp my posse list, so you better be nice to me (now that Oprah's show is no more she is off the list, so you're now on it Chris Rentner @thepipebit).

Now that summer has arrived reader, go out and enjoy yourself, but bear in mind that you should make the most of the summer because October will not be too far behind and so you better be prepared. Don't come crying on my bunker door when a gang of bible thumpers zombies come running after you to drag you into the afterlife. No pb&j's for you, I say good day.

Puff Puff, Cough Cough

Photo via http://news.humcounty.com/420_Idiocy_in_Arcata.html

Pffffhhh (inhaling) cough cough cough, yo Brah it's 4 something today ummmmm, right 420. April 20th of some year or another, stoners of the world unite yearly partaking in the annual observance of this faux holiday by smoking some kush hoping not to have their mellow harshed by the man, which in this case of course is Johnny Law. Does anyone have any potato chips, for some reason I have the munchies.

lick'em

Apparently according to wikipedia the term 420 was started way back in the 70's, the decade of butterfly collars, disco, and some other shit that I really don't seem to remember at this time (and I'm completely sober at this moment). 420 actually referred to a time and not a day, but of course it now refers to both time and day in which people gather and celebrate by smoking lots o cannabis and spreading Cheetos dust about their shirts via their finger tips (unless they were so hungry that they licked the dust of their fingers). Has anyone seen my hacky sack (hey, no self serve, or you get hit in the back)?

Your local corner store bodega must really be bustling with business today off loading all of that mexican brick to those that are just craving to enjoy today's observance of 420. The socks of dealers are probably packed to the gills with dimes ready for those willing to pick out the seeds and stems only to pack the rest into a bowl made of tin foil or modified coke can, or perhaps the edible appbowl. Ah, but you the reader enjoy your toke from a double blown hand made glass pipe, simply because you order from a delivery service whose sticker you found in a bathroom stall, only the best. hey, puff puff pass, it ain't a microphone even though it may be a bong as tall as a microphone stand.

via http://2.bp.blogspot.com

I really don't see why they don't legalize marijuana already! Everyone and their mother's seem to enjoy a toke now and then. How often do you really hear of people being in a automobile accident because the person behind the wheel was stoned compared to that of a drunk driver (honestly I'm not even going to bother to look at that up)? Plus, I think most people know that cannabis has proven medical capabilities which is why various states have approved medical marijuana. Personally, my opinion is why doesn't the government control it like alcohol in some fashion and just let people have the freedom to choose whether they want it or not, because we all know that if you want something then you will find a way to get it and enjoy it.

Anyways, to everyone out there observing 420 today throw on Dr. Dre's the Chronic (if you are my age this album then you know this album was the shit back in the day and still is), or if you are some hippie then perhaps some Phish (personally there is nothing really wrong with Phish, I'm just not into them), enjoy the day, be safe, and watch out for Johnny Law. Cough cough cough, pass the Turkey Hill iced tea (or perhaps so kool-aid if that's your thing) my mouth is pretty dry at this moment. Wait, where am I?

No Handle on My Bars

This is how I found my bike last Friday

There are only a few things in life that are worse than having to go to work Monday to Friday, only to repeat the process after two short days of relaxation. This past Friday what I thought was the start of a fine weekend turned to sadness as I exited the revolving doors that is the entrance and exit to my servitude and freedom. Low and behold what did I find waiting for me as my smile turned upside down, my bicycle. Normally I love seeing my bicycle after a long day of being tethered to my desk, but today when I gazed out like I normally do to my bike locked up on the rack I realized something was amiss. Turns out some asshole stole my handle bars and stem off of my ride.

As the two of you along with @thepipebit who read my blahg, I commute to work by bicycle. I have been commuting for at least two years since the MTA along with our Rat overlords decided that they would raise the fair to the point where a guy living alone making an honest earning can't afford to ride the train every single day of the year. When I moved to NYC in 1999 the fair was less than two dollars, now it is two fifty with talks of raising the fair again perhaps earliest as next year. Once you do the math, you'd see for a year that it's a ridiculous amount of money to throw at our public's failing mass transportation system, hence commuting by bicycle. Either way I love riding my bicycle, so it's a win for me.

This has nothing to do with this post,
 it was dinner the other night

I work at one of the busiest intersections that I am currently aware of in the city (I could be wrong on that assumption) which normally has a police presence all day either directing traffic or watching the hooligans leaving school after a hard day of preparing for summer school by failing while their pants sag (kind of like their future). So in broad daylight a thief rolled up on my bike and ripped me off in the same spot I've been locking my bike for what ever amount of time I said in the previous paragraph. So walking out of work and seeing the situation laid out before my eyes, I was angered to say the least especially with such a heavy police presence.

with new handlebars

Basically having no choice in the situation, I strolled down Park Ave. with what was left of my bike minus handle bars. I did receive some odd glances from people looking at me and my violated bicycle as they passed me, and I wondered to myself if they felt sad for me or they thought I was stealing my own bike (which of course they didn't know was mine). Either way I was determined to make it to the Bike shop before it closed at 7, and so with bike in tow I scurried along (not unlike our rat overlords).

In the end, I made it to the bike shop and dropped more money than I wanted to spend to get my bike back on the road. I was able to ride back to Brooklyn, but not without catching a flat tire (the 2nd one in two days). I have to admit I am currently nervous about locking my bike in front of where I work, and so I am looking into securing my handlebars and stem before I resume riding to work. I just want to say thanks to that asshole who stole my cockpit, I really hope you get doored and then immediately have taxi run over your shitty ass, you ass.

The Captain's Blahg

After reading my friend Chris's (@thepipebit) blog which you can read here, and conversing back and forth with him on twitter I began to think about Star Trek since it was the main component of our conversation which revolved around pipe smoking. Chris and I both enjoy smoking a pipe and it just turns out we both enjoy some sci fi as well, birds of a feather flock together.

The holodeck aboard USS Enterprise NCC-1701-D

If the stardate were 2363 and I were serving aboard the Enterprise under the command of Captain Jean-Luc Picard I would most likely find myself spending my leisure time on the holodeck enjoying a fine vintage of stardate 2250 serving under Captain James T. Kirk. Now don't get me wrong, both Captains and their vwessels are very admirable in their own right, it's just that I tend to lean towards one Captain over another. I shall now boldly proceed to explain where no one has boldly proceeded to explain before (yes I know, that was a stretch).

First off, let me say that Kirk wore normal clothes that consisted of a top and a bottom, but I assume he went commando considering all the alien tail he was slaying across the galaxy (I'm looking at you, green alien girl). Some how through a 100 years evolution the Starfleet uniform became a one piece like the one worn by Picard, so in stardate 2363 I too would be walking around in a outfit not unlike that of a newborn child, it didn't even possess an ass flap so how would one release the Captain's log? Easy access is just one reason the holodeck beacon's me to serve under holodeck Kirk while being stuck with Picard (at least give me some leg warmers to go with this one piece).

The Chek-uation brought
home a Photon Turpedo, again

Moving backwards on impulse power for a moment, I mentioned Kirk slayed alien tail across the galaxy, unlike Picard who was fond of that one ginger doctor in sick bay (glad he didn't serve on Voyager, awkward). I would on any occasion be Kirk's wingman over Picard based on my previous sentence, you want to chill with an aging shakespearean actor or would you rather want to hang with a swashbuckling, Kobiyashi Maru (not the hot dog eater) beating, klingon hating, alien tail chasing Captain like Kirk? To boldly go where no man has gone before riding shotgun with Kirk is another reason the holodeck calls for me, although judging by Chekov's face in the picture on the right being Kirk's wingman may not be all it's cracked up to be.

Although Pichard knows how to woo the ladies, Kirk will forever stand alone above all Captains. Kirk was the first to interracially kiss, not only in the galaxy but on television when the series originally aired back in earthdate 1968. So a century before Picard, Kirk was already out there starblazing which makes me think that Picard is simply following the footsteps of the Captain with the Golden shirt. Where Kirk was notorious for smooching the ladies and breaking boundaries, Picard was really skilled at pointing his finger and saying "make it so" to his bearded first officer, William Riker. I can sit in holodeck all day and watch Kirk kiss Uhura over and over again, instead of being pointed at by Picard (my mother is not dead).

Speaking of shirts, and I'm speaking of the television series only, Kirk wore a gold colored shirt where Picard wore red. I think we all know what happens to those who beam down upon any planet wearing a red shirt, and so I have to give it up to Picard for escaping death episode after episode, but that could be because every time the enemy tried to thwart Picard they were blinded by his baldness, thus enabling Picard the ability to escape time and time and again. If the enemies knew that little secret then perhaps they would have attacked wearing sunglasses so not to be blinded by that cranium sticking out from that red Captain's shirt of Picard.

Oh crap, my time on the holodeck is up, I would explain more about these two captains but I can't think of anything to write, besides Data is waiting to play Sherlock Holmes again. Perhaps I'll join him and have a pipe. Beam me up Scotty, there's no intelligent life in my Blahg, perhaps I myself have smoked one too many dilithium crystals.

Hello

To the 5 of you that actually read this blahg of mine I have to apologize for I have been out of action for a week or two. If you read my post from last week than you know that I had a bit of surgery on my face and since then I have been pretty much in a daze wandering this earth, well at least my mind has been wandering. As the swelling in my face subsides I will be attempting to get back into maintaining this silly blahg of mine at least a couple times a week, by a couple I mean at least twice a week. I realize attempting to write 5 days a week is difficult at best, plus I am not being paid to entertain you with my writings (though I wish I did). Don't worry all of 4 of you (I lost a reader as you were reading this) I'm still here.

Monday was not a Fun day

I wore my good shoes for the occasion

This past Monday, I paid a visit to ye ol' oral surgeon, participating in a minor surgical operation that happened to involve my face. @thepipebit, a friend of mine on
Twitter, can skip ahead to the next paragraph instead of learning what the definition of an apicoectomy is since yesterday I posted a link for him that explained the procedure. Now, for the rest of you to understand what I am ranting about click on this word: apicoectomy so that you may learn about the procedure I endured Monday.

All of this went into my face

After some prodding by my girlfriend, I paid a visit to the dentist whom I've not seen for quite some time (I know, my fault) to have a check up and cleaning. The most annoying thing about having your teeth cleaned is having to bite the chomp while wearing a lead blanket to protect me from kryptonite x-rays, but in this case it was this very situation that potentially saved me from a lot of pain and suffering. The x-ray turned out to show a dark area in my jaw, a hole slowly being eaten away by bacteria, sort of like how bodies slowly digest after being tossed into the the Sarlac pit by Jabba the Hutt from Return of the Jedi.

The infection in my jaw was roughly the size of a blueberry, not to be mistaken for a Boo Berry, that hard to find monster cereal and character who runs the streets along side Franken Berry and Count Chocula while at the same time tasting delicious. This infection flowed out of my jaw and swam through my blood stream menacing my body, meaning that
I have basically been sick for multiple years straight. So with the potential life altering knowledge I now possessed, I set up my appointment with the Oral Surgeon (Ha, I wrote oral) to have my face fixed.

Yes, that is my real x-ray

Skipping ahead, I'm now laying under the Oral Surgeon who numbed my face to the point where I could have been hit in the face with the bat of a loan shark collecting money from someone trying to allude him and I probably would have felt nothing, not unlike someone raging the hell out on PCP. Patiently laying in the operation chair, my gum line was sliced open and my jaw was then drilled to the point where I could smell the burning of bone (ironically, this made me hungry). The entire procedure (which you know about since you read the definition link above) went rather quick and before I knew it the slicing, dicing and the drilling of my face ended with my gums being stitched up. Dazed and feeling nauseous,
I was expelled back out on the street ready to go and fill my prescription.

Duane Reed's pharmacy is like an inner city Mc Donald's, neither have any sense of urgency when it comes to serving your order. An hour slipped by before I could pick up my medicine and even think about taking any of the pain killers that were prescribed to me, eventually I was accommodated and any discomfort and pain was soon relieved. The rest
of my evening involved watching television hopped up on pain killers as time slipped away, while I packed and unpacked the gauze in my face that was collecting the blood that was leaking from my now tender jaw.

With pain accompanied by a swollen face I took the following day off to rest and recuperate
from work, that place we all have to unfortunately go to Monday to Friday in order to sustain any sort of normal life and pay for procedures like the one I just wrote about. I slept most of the day, ate a lot of soft food and discovered again that day time television is rather terrible, although I did get to watch a Champions league game between Real Madrid vs. Tottenham Hotspurs. Also, I have learned that green tea has surpassed vanilla as my favorite ice cream flavor.

Now that this ordeal is mostly over with the exception of the healing process, I now have to sit and wait four months to see if this minor operation truly worked or not. Cross your fingers and wish me luck!

Fantasy Facebook Team

This is a post that you jocks or jockettes out there who love football to the point where you play fantasy (ha, don't worry, I myself play fantasy football as well). For all the geeks out there just replace any reference to fantasy football with Dungeons and Dragon nerd references.

Ready to join this bush league?

Welcome rookie to the inaugural draft of your Fantasy Facebook Team, finally your time has arrived after listening to your friends go on and on and on endlessly about how awesome it is play fantasy, which in this case is Facebook. Unlike real fantasy sports (which are still fantasy) you will not actually compete to win money but simply have your personal information sold to 3rd parties by commissioner Zuckerberg controller of the league, while you whittle away at time, checking to see if anyone liked your post (like I will be doing after I post this). Either way, you'll be pleased as you build a winning dynasty showing how awesome you are by the amount of players you have collected in your friends list to play on your team. Good luck!

The starting line up of your fantasy Facebook team are those in your friends list who entertain you with cutesy anecdotes or music video posts featuring bands you listened to back in the day while you experimented with the occasional narcotic. They are starters for a reason because they bring their "A" game with all of their newsfeed activity giving you a reason to return to Facebook and divvy out "like"s left and right. You probably actually see your starters in your real life, such as meeting them at the Friday night spot on some corner where you grab a pint of something or other, chatting for awhile with them about home brew before stumbling out the door to prepare for the forthcoming Saturday morning hang over.

use your imagination to
make the eyes move

If you have starters on your fantasy team then surely you have players sitting on your bench waiting for the potential opportunity to start. Your bench consists of those friends who simply come in for a play, or perhaps when a starter is out of action, post a comment or proceed to give you one of those annoying pokes (whoever came up with the poke is an ass, just sayin) then sits back down for rest of the game which in this case since it's Facebook could be days to months. Nothing's wrong with being a bench warmer but these friends equate to one of those paintings on Scooby Doo where the eyes follow you back and forth while never saying anything, only to creep you out knowing that even though they aren't commenting they are watching you (I myself, warm the bench on various fantasy Facebook teams so warmer so fellow bench warmer you are not alone).

taste one for the team

Just like fantasy football, Facebook too has the free agency as well as the waiver wire. Free agents are like free samples at Costco where you enjoy a taste and if you enjoy that taste you can add that item to your shopping cart, but in this case you simply send them an invite asking them to join your friends list squad. Of course, the flip side to the coin is you can easily release your friends to the waiver wire, especially when their point of view is too fanatical to the point where you want to kick them out of a third story window onto a bed of spikes because it's the totally opposite of your own point of view. Simply, the people you may have known 20 years ago are not the person you have on your squad now and so they have to go. Hey, if you aren't performing you get cut from the team and if you're not lucky it could be with a knife (just kidding).

Your fantasy Facebook squad is looking tight!! You have made all of the right moves and are sitting pretty with a bomb squad of people players who are there to propel you through your day of work with lol cat pictures and such. "Is hungry" and "is bored" are just two of the awesome posts that you are now going to read time and time again, Although when the game is a close one, the chance is always there that one of your substitutes will come off the bench and drop some crazy 80's song lyric from high school making you relive some awkward moment thus winning the fantasy Facebook championship even though there isn't ta championship to be won in the first place.

Game on!

Knock Knock. Who's there? OH, shi.....

Trying to make a buck

This morning, rap rap rap was the sound emanating from my front door along with multiple buzzes of my door bell. The four of you that actually read my blahg that have been to my home tucked far away on the fringe of the industrial side of my neighborhood know that one does not simply walk into Mordor, or in this case my home. Nothing frightens me more (actually a lot of things frighten me more) than dressing for work and hearing the door bell ring out beaconing for me to answer it's call.

Meowssage

As the situation played out I froze like a deer in headlights, the equivalent of a pedestrian freezing in front of an approaching cyclist when they've stepped out of turn into the bike lane. My heart raced like that of a business man whose massage at an illegal massage parlor was just interrupted by cops as he was about to receive his ending, which in this case  not so happy. My first thoughts were that I forgot to pay a bill and they have come a collecting or maybe the person simply wrung the wrong bell as they attempted to reach my landlord who lives above (neither were the case as you'll soon find out).

Not actually me

Turning the television down so not to allude to my presence,
I crept ninja like to the window peering out between my venetian blinds to see who was rap rap rapping at my door. It was not the raven for ever more (not even close), but New York's finest, those boys in blue, the New York city police department. "Oh fu.....K, what did I do that I was not aware of?!!" ran through my feeble mind upon realizing who was attempting to meet me face to face. Seriously, I could not simply ignore this visitor. As I looked through the slates of my blinds I realized that they were roving from door to door (not unlike Christmas carolers by the way) down my street, slightly relieving the anxiety that coursed through my veins. They were not here for me.

As I opened the front door poking my head out like a baby chick breaking out of it's shell,
I was greeted by an officer. Apparently, they were executing a warrant on the girl who lives next door. As the world turns, I am told this girl missed a court date and was not to be found (last thing I want are cops executing a warrant on me). All this time I have been living next door to a prostitute who sells her body on the internet (world's oldest profession in a modern times). I had no knowledge of this girl's where about's  and so I took the cops number and went back into my lair to finish getting ready for work, and that was that.

Anyways, how was your morning?

Snowbraaaaa!!

This has to be the worst blahg post I have written so far. Enjoy!

Glad my station is underground, haha!

Since time has sprung forward dangling a carrot of warm weather in our
faces making most New Yorkers as well as myself begin to think that Spring has begun to blossom only for this morning to be surprised and taken for a ride (but only if you didn't watch the weather). No sooner than writing a blahg post yesterday involving the subway the weather once again has turned dreary and the city is facing a potential blanket of snow.
It's almost as if the MTA called mother nature on her iphone and struck a deal with her to throw a tantrum and act miserable forcing me to ride the MTA miserably.

The 80's

You would think with our advances in technology, we would at
some point attempt to harness and control the weather like Cobra Commander tried to do during the 80's with his weather dominator
(The real 80's were awesome like Cindy Lauper to the left there, unlike the 80's revival we have been experiencing?). Watching the snow fall toward the sidewalk as I walked to the train this morning really makes me wish Cobra Commander along with his weather device were here to vanish this dismal weather. Unfortunately, Cobra Commander is a cartoon character and I'm simply day dreaming, wishing for better weather enabling me to bike to work, thus not granting our rat overlords (have you bothered to read that post yet?) a visit on the subway.

The Commander kicking it

Upon remembering Cobra Commander was in fact evil and would have jumped at the opportunity to join forces with the MTA and Mother Nature to ruin my day, I boarded the train hoping to not witness anyone shoveling pasta in their face while riding into Manhattan. Last thing I need is the inability
to move my arms on a packed train while having a food fight break out. Luckily no food fight broke out, but there was the infamous backpack guy, that person on the rush hour train who refuses to remove his backpack making less
room for those around him. Although if I had to choose,
I would prefer to have his backpack jammed into my back like a shiv than having to endure someone's stank pasta all over my face.

Normally when the weather is horrible as it is today, making it into work on time is thwarted like Cobra Commander's continuous attempts to rule the world. Why should any day be different. If I don't encounter any set backs while riding the train then it takes about the same amount of time it takes eating a bowl of cereal while watching an entire episode of
G.I. Joe thrashing the Commander himself. It's almost like setting a DVR to record your favorite show and then watching said show only to have the DVR cut off the last few minutes, but in the MTA's case they add minutes. Seriously, both instances are absolute
let downs.

Anyways, did any of this happened today? Maybe, maybe not, who am I to say. Does it snow in the city, does Cobra Commander always loose to G.I. Joe and when riding the train does it take longer than it should? The answer is yes, yes, and yes. Well now you know and knowing is half the battle.

GO JOE!!

The Spaghetti Incident

We here at the One Day Will be Farewell blahg (which is only yours truly) are continuing to play a bit of catch up from the past week of events that happened in the city. The City in which I dwell never ceases to amaze me and if you live here you know what I mean (wink, wink). New York city is a bottomless well of material to rant about and last week was seriously no different especially when it came to the subway.



I haven't a clue if you, the reader, have ever ridden on the MTA, but riding the train can be quite an adventure. The above video shows just one scenario that can play out for those who unfortunately open their mouth to the wrong group of girls in the wrong place at the wrong time. There is nothing more enjoyable than riding to work and bearing witness to pasta being tossed in someones face while the tossers friend repeats "Don't get in her face" over and over (I personally can't compete with that argument). Fortunately for us, someone with the technology was there to record the situation go down.

I will tell you this, if I witnessed those two girls sitting there and they began to annoy me, I would have to either a: sat there taking it like a man and ignoring it, or b: eject myself from the situation by moving away from the potential powder keg (or pasta in this matter) ready to blow. I have no idea why that woman even opened her mouth to complain, but she should have known that she was not dealing with one but two girls as soon as her lips parted like the red sea to voice the opinion she was soon to regret.

Waiting for next available table

Since this incident has spider webbed it's way across the internet and local television, the MTA is now contemplating the banning of food consumption on the subway. I personally don't take issue with this, but those who enjoy eating their meals while smelling garbage, body odor and urine while our rat overlords run around and poop at their feet may take issue. Would I feel bad eating my meal next to a homeless individual on the train who's passed out next to me dreaming of the meal I'm eating is not a question I never want to be in the position to ask myself.

Bon Appétit, my overlords

If the MTA actually proceeds to ban the consumption of food on the subway, then perhaps some will be pretty annoyed, but then again for most, the overall ride to work may become more enjoyable (although not soon enough for the lady in the video). If they do not go through with the ban then may be they can remove all of the seats so people can't throw their waste under them. Either way, I don't really care where people eat, if I have a problem I'll simply move away than put myself in an embarrassing situation like eating on the subway.

All of this leads me to reaffirm that riding my bike to work is more enjoyable than riding the train. Having to coexist with other people in a silver tube that propels itself through the underground realm of our rat overlords can be too troublesome for me.

St. Paddy's Day Past

I have returned. I felt I needed to stop writing for a while because of the events taking place in Japan. Watching everything unfold on television really makes anything I have to say trivial. Still I hope for Japan to have a speedy recovery. They are a strong nation and I know they will pick themselves up and recover. Still my thoughts continue to go out to those that have been affected by this travesty.

 St. Patrick's Day by Amauri Aguiar at flickr via Gothamist

This past Thursday was St. Patrick's Day, or St. Paddy's (not Patty with two T's) for those who are too lazy to say Patrick. As usual, I normally prepare for this occasion by taking the day of and the day after off. Why not take the day after off, I need to recover from a holiday that centers not around St. Patrick driving the snakes (no he did not speak parseltongue, and the snakes were actually pagans) out of Ireland, but of the time honored tradition of binge drinking. 

This year, the holiday started off with the consumption of an Irish Breakfast with my drinking crew. To my amazement it was rather delicious, just don't ask what black and white pudding is until after you eat it. Oh, be wary of any coffee drink that involves the addition of liquor to it because your coffee may turn from two dollars into twelve (yes, I was equally as shocked). With bellies now satisfyingly full, we were off and on our way.

After traveling via everyones' lateness provider known as the MTA, we arrived on the scene. If you simply enjoy watching people wave as they walk, then this is most certainly the parade for you. Everyone is Irish at the parade on St. Patrick's day including all of the revelers that douched their way in from Long Island, making the parade what it is today, Mardi Gras part deux.

via www.life.com

As is with every year, the parade was packed and a washed in a sea of green. This sea of green is mostly formed by drunken (understatement) roving packs of ____________ (insert your own made up name for these people) decked out in Irish Mardi Gras type beads, stately tall jester hats reminiscent of a Guinness and plastic bowler hats (I hope no ones head got caught on fire). By the way, I wore my own silly hat for the occasion. The only thing keeping these people from making it a total Mardi Gras type situation was the absence of boobage on display (this non-showing of the twins actually let me down).

I myself, unlike most I encountered during the holiday, enjoyed the day with pints of Guinness (nothing reeks of Irish more than Coors light, but who am I to judge). I will admit, I do feel on St. Patrick's day, drinking an Irish beer is the course of action, luckily for the Kegs and Eggs sect (link is slightly NSFW), Jameson is readily available, which more than makes up for their consumption of B(cr)ud and Coors as well as PBR for any boozed out hipster-chauns. For me and my own crew, a flask of 12 year old Redbreast was our whiskey on board. Mmmm, mmmm smooth!!

We hopped around to a few bars, never making a scene or asses out of ourselves. We found out that the Dropkick Murphy's and Flogging Molly along with the Pogues were the choice of many a bars music selection. We got to hang out with a real piper on 14th street, and made it home before the real danger set in, the 6pm fresh out of work crew and the 2nd wave of college drunken kids.

All and all, it was an enjoyable St. Paddy's day. Slainte!!

This MTA Subway Isn't Eaten Fresh

Well, the rant I served you on a moldy platter yesterday has burned up in flames since I've discovered last evening, the Dropkick Murphy's show at the Roseland Ballroom is still going to transpire. This fabulous news meant that my commute to work would not be the normal commute by bicycle consisting of dodging pedestrians who can't turn their necks to see if a cyclist is rattling towards them in the bike lane, cabbies who love to pull in front of you hoping that you and your bike will slam into their trunk, or Johnny Law, whose ticketing blitz has all nyc cyclists on edge looking over their shoulder at every intersection. No, today I descend into the realm of our Rat overlords to ride the excuse the capitol of the world calls a subway, the MTA.

There is nothing like waking up in the morning knowing that even though you will leave your house on time, you will still arrive late for work. I occasionally think that I should just take the time, sleep in and watch the continuing cover of the upcoming royal wedding that I don't even care about than rushing only to be tardy because of the MTA. There is no better way to begin your commute to work than to be stuffed in an over crowded train car like a sardine ready to be opened and noshed on by ravenous Norwegians banging their heads to
death metal.

Via: Gothamist

With a plethora of odors emanating from every nook and cranny of the subway system, I am truly baffled when I see people eating in the catacombs that make up our dilapidated subterranean transit system. It saddens me at times, when I see on the L train a mother feeding potato chips (I prefer rippled) to her one year old "baby girl", then simply tossing the empty bag under the seat as if the world is her oyster and the train, her waste receptacle. Eating Mc Donald's (love me some fries) is bad enough as it is, but to be seen devouring Ronald's burger on the subway truly gives me the impression that you have given up on life.

via College Humor

Forget trying to grab a seat or grip a pole on this throttling cattle car to hell that's slower than an old man with a walker.
I would not want to be a small child when I see someone in sweatpants lean back on the pole right around where that child would grasp, only for the pole to disappear in the backdoor of their sweaty nether region, that pole must have more fecal matter on it than our national currency. (yes, wow indeed). The seats are not much better, perhaps if you are lucky you'll only sit in the sticky residue of some dried up soda, rather than some homeless persons left behinds. For more info on the homeless experience check the blog post of rich gone.

I can't even go into the situation of the stations themselves, or how disgusting people are, throwing any regard for those around them out of the closing door of the train car. Hey, mister, how about you blow your nose with a napkin or your sleeve instead of your hand before you grab something to hold on to as the train exits the station? Nothing better than being smashed up against some one while trying to play solitaire on your iphone one to have them breathing hot breath (I prefer cigarette breath over coffee) down the nape of your neck.

Traveling first class

Anyways, I've written this entire thing waiting on the L train in the tunnel connecting Hipsterburg to Manhattan, and it's begun to slowly move forward once again. As I patiently wait to get off the train, I can only think about the Dropkick Murphy's show tonight and be happy in the fact that soon enough I will return to my regularly schedule program of commuting by bicycle. Enjoy the train ride folks.



On a side note: I would like to thank the readers in Europe, Singapore as well as Vietnam who have continually been checking out my blog, I very much appreciate it. I'm amazed that someone around the globe has actually been reading the hot mess that I have been writing.

Fire Fire Roseland on Fire

Photo via @BalzerDesigns

Last night while laying in bed like I do every evening, I watched the news as I slowly passed out, purposely leaving the television on to increase my electric bill (I'm all about helping local businesses). I'm not entirely concerned if a fire burns down a building unless of course, it kills someone or leave a person homeless (neither are a good thing), but if it gets in the way of my obese American way of life then I have to take issue. The news stated, the Roseland Ballroom in NYC, was on fire which means the possible cancellation of the Dropkick Murphy's show I am to attend this coming Thursday. This news does not sit well with me at all.

Could use some ketchup

I get that cavemen accidentally discovered fire a few years ago, even though Billy Joel said "it was always burning since the world was turning". According to creationists, this discovery made cavemen extremely happy since it was now possible to burn the flesh off the dinosaurs who lived along side them, thus enabling them to consume their souls. Personally, if I were a caveman when fire was discovered, I would have been absolutely ecstatic knowing that I would  no longer have to ingest my triceratops deluxe burger (hold the onions) raw while catching a show at the Roserockland.

Hey scout want feel, I mean hear a story?

From bar-b-cues to marshmallows to torching of witches at the stake, fires have been blazing a path of destruction for quite sometime since its discovery by cavemen. Fire is an enjoyment for many people, for example: the Boy Scouts (total homophobes), who enjoy sitting around a hearty fire telling ghost stories and roasting the before mentioned witches, I mean marshmallows. Once the weekend hits, people (both legal & illegal) living in the city, enjoy a nice jaunt to the park and engage in the art of  the bar-b-cue, then literally
proceed to litter our parks with trash and dump burning embers which come from, you guessed it, Fire, destroyer of worlds.

Fire does indeed heat our homes and light our way in the dark when we have forgotten to pay our electric bills from time to time, but it doesn't need to light up the mezzanine at the Roseland. We use fire to light candles to remember our loved ones who've moved on into the afterlife, as well as light candles to be romantic, bringing the possibility of creating new people in the current life (should have used a jimmy). We light a fire to enjoy our addiction to nicotine or observe the national past time of 420 (Fire, don't harsh my mellow, puff puff pass, don't bogart that....).

My mind is a battlefield where a fight rages about whether to unfriend Fire on Facebook or not. After watching the countless times the devastation Fire has left behind, I'm at least considering to block it from my newsfeed. Now with Fire potentially ruining my plan to take my girlfriend to the Roseland so she can see the Dropkick Murphy's for the first time, I'm starting to not like Fire more and more and may have to end this friendship.

(Note: Don't get me wrong and although I write my blog at an "attempt" to be humorous (I say "attempt"), there is absolutely nothing funny when any life is affected in a bad way due to fire.)

Winner winner Sheen dinner

Everything has its moment when they are considered to be at the top of the game, the pinnacle if you will, where everyone looks at you in awe while you do no wrong. Then, faster than locking a hooker in a hotel closet there comes a moment, like when the Fonz jumps the shark in his leather jacket (I'm sure the salt water can't be good for his jacket) throwing everything you worked for into a downward spiral towards ending your shows run. It only took a week before warlock Charlie Sheen jumped the shark, but not before he made me wish he was devoured by Jabber Jaw instead of simply leaping over him.

The "winning" around Sheen is melting faster than one of those little green army men under a magnifying glass on a hot summer day. "Winning" sounds more like "losing" when you're fired from a job which paid 2 million an episode, you were the highest paid actor on television until you were fired. If I had the job you lost, but hated it, still I would go through the motions, perhaps even tossing the camera man a reach around once in awhile for 2 mil an episode.

Sheen should go take a warm bath and let the tiger blood flow out of your cut veins (I'm kidding). He may compare himself to a tiger, saying tiger blood flows through his veins, but I have heard of no tigers snorting coke off the ass of a porn star (I may have made that last part up). Tigers have it hard enough having to face extinction through poaching, that if I were a tiger I would seriously be annoyed and want to eat his face off. Seriously, you don't hear tigers running around saying they have Sheen's blood coursing through their veins.

Milk may be white, like the inner walls of Sheen's nose but at least milk has a longer shelf life than Charlie's career at this moment. The greatest thing about Sheen, he's already prepared for his next career path which he trained for when he acted (exaggeration) alongside his brother Emilio in Men at Work. Perhaps when he begins his new job as a custodial engineer, he can pick the career he kicked to curb up and throw it away.

I have to admit though, he is one crafty warlock. Not only did he reach the 1 million follower mark on Twitter (heh, myself included) faster than anyone else on Twitter, but he started a webcam show on ustream and is constantly keeping himself in the news with insane quotes. America thrives on stars publicly going nuts whether it's planned or not, and perhaps we should have our own heads checked for not worrying more about our own lives. Though I feel Sheen has over saturated himself in the news, he's definitely taking us on one interesting ride, but please drop me off at the next stop. Thanks.

I could honestly go on for days about this, though I've wasted enough of your life for this day. Well... at least he is a Yankees fan.