Leftover broccoli and chicken for breakfast.
MichaelFred.Com
the world according to a writer/director/producer/plus size hand modeling sports aficionado
Hammer > Brinks Home Security Safe > Paper Clips (in my hands)
What do you do when you’re going as a 1920’s fella and the sweet pocket watch your amazing sister — who as part of her amazing-ness happens to be an outstanding attorney in the DC area — gave you for college graduation is locked inside a Brinks Home Security System, and you’ve lost the keys?
You take out a hammer, and some screw drivers, and you bash that shit… with a few precise blows, or many if you have a lot of angst to excise. Game 6 of the World Series was on so I went for the quickest safe kill possible. How great was that game!? Two comebacks! Both down to the last strike! Come on! Sorry… but that game was great. Back to my MacGuyverin’.
I’d be lying if I told you that was my first plan of action, or one that I had come up with on my own. By the bashing point, I had already wasted 15 minutes watching a Youtube how-to video using paper clips. They were futile in my inexperienced, law-abiding hands. So I called my much smarter, engineer father and discussed the prospect of enlisting a locksmith. His retort, “A locksmith is going to cost more than that safe you’ve got. Hit it with a hammer.”
Ends up a locksmith does cost more than a Brinks Home Security Safe, which should have been a hint to the amount of security i had purchased for my stuff in the first place. Though my stuff isn’t valuable enough to warrant purchasing a safe that actually saves. A protective quandary. Or conundrum. Ah, at least I get to hold this piece de resistance tonight…
halloween in(VEST)ment
There it is… all alone in a Jim Crow fashion show. Let me be clear… there is no intergarment hatred going on here, only a universally accepted arrangement between vests — and cummerbunds — and standard suit attire to never live as one on my person. It’s far from my best look… like Pluto far… not to be narcissistic… but I don’t need to erect additional lady obstacles for myself. I’m set.
But I do feel guilty. Look. It can’t even turn and face Tie, or Dress Shirt 1 and 2. F$ck it. I’m going to “Abe it up!”… free the vest… and unify my entire wardrobe for the good of a 1920’s theme party. So it won’t be my best look… either was Miss Vatican City 2005.
occupy wall street doth protest too much
They must have been given some bum site traffic and revenue figures.
personification perfection with a twist of crop identity crisis
Cherry with an apple bottom badonkadonk.
statement cookies (update)
My Chinese establishment of choice did it to me again… and again… and again. They raped me… of a real fortune. They, or their fortune cookie contractor, didn’t stick a precognition in my cookie. Luckily this time I forfeited delivery service in favor of personally picking up my Broccoli and Chicken to guarantee procurement of an actual prognostication.
Befuddlement flashed across the cashier’s face as my thick fingertips labored to navigate the tiny knots in the plastic take out bag. After a few minutes I managed to crack open dessert and unlock their first forecasting gem:
NOT a fortune. It’s a statement, and a highly subjective one at that. And it’s partially, if not entirely, in the wrong tense. Fortunes need to be in future or present tense followed by a prediction in future tense based on the statement in the present tense. This non-fortune could have been turned into a fortune if the fortune cookie writer had added a prediction of some impressive future feat based on the subjective appreciation of my sense of humor.
But they didn’t, so I demanded another cookie. More befuddlement was followed by cookie relinquishment and this:
STATEMENT. Again. WRONG tense. Again. My eyes already magnetized the secret admirer. What now? Is she a babe? Is she a stalker? Should I be looking over my shoulder and cocking my pistol? Help a single brother out with more conclusive intel, Mr. Fortune Cookieman.
But he didn’t, so I demanded another cookie. At this point befuddlement had turned into full blown apathy and eventually this beauty:
LAME… and incredibly self aggrandizing if the biggest decision I made all day was what to eat for dinner. Technically it qualifies as a fortune because it’s written in future tense, but since I received it at the end of the day it’s based almost entirely on past events. If I had ordered Chinese for breakfast I would have accepted it.
But I didn’t, and another cookie, with the following fortune, was placed in my hand before I could demand it:
Sweet… though my project would probably gain more momentum if I hadn’t just lost thirty minutes picking up Chinese food and fighting for fortune cookies with fortunes from a befuddled, and eventually apathetic cashier.
i am a man therefore i AM…
… flawed … especially when it comes to my steady thirst for physical interaction with the fairer sex… which is complicated by my relatively recent release back into the world of singledom after years of monogamic commitment… which is further complicated by the balance of my bank account and the fact that I look nothing like Brad Pitt… which is even further complicated by having a conscience that I listen to more often than I’d like, but still less than I probably should because that would be really…
Even with all these obstacles, especially the thirst, I still think there’s a right way to go about convincing a woman of legal age – click here to double check North American age limits – that an evening of drunken, or sober, monkey is a solid decision.
Unfortunately, our Machiavellian culture emphasizes winning over process which leads to some of the douche-y singles etiquette I witnessed this past weekend.
Like the:
Showwater
[shoh-wot-er]
– noun
1. A not so chivalrous, public ice water offering to an intoxicated girl by a less intoxicated guy trying to make it appear that he’s not attempting to bring her to the brink of incapacitation for a session of oingo boingo… not to be confused with Oingo Boingo… though if the guy is really creepy he may be playing this Oingo Boingo song during oingo boingo.
Then there’s the follow up to the showwater:
Prickdrink
[prik-dringk]
– noun
1. Any alcoholic beverage purchased by a less intoxicated guy for a more intoxicated girl following a showwater to get her back on track for nearly incapacitated oingo boingo.
And while it’s difficult – and often times illegal – to observe it firsthand, one can only hope that all prickdrinks are followed by:
The Exorcist
[th ee ek-sawr-sist]
– noun
1. When a girl, bombed on prickdrink, ejects the contents of her stomach through the mouth and onto her douchebag date, hopefully soaking his fine Corinthian leather interior in the process as well.
Don’t be douches, fellas. You’re not always going to get what you want… unless you’re famous, rich, or ridiculously good-looking. And if you’re all three of those things… well… feck off… seriously. Most of us aren’t. But that’s okay. There is plenty of complimentary adult material just a few keystrokes away to get us through the lean times.
