TFG: Food Critic

Having read An American Geisha for several months, I'm beginning to realize that their is more to eating than merely shoving food into the hole in the front of my head. Thus, I've written a restaurant review:

Yesterday, I had to go to pickup a required item for my new job from a store on Russell St. in Pigtown*. On the return trip back to I-83, I was driving down Washington Blvd, when I noticed Evelyn's Cafe & Coffeehouse (784 Washington Blvd, 21230). Evelyn's has a blog, which I followed a little bit before they opened. If I recall correctly, I asked about posting a menu and they told me that I'd just have to come in to see the it. Being the customer, and consequently always right, I concluded that I didn't need to go see the menu, after all. Business is business.**

Regardless, Evelyn's has seemed to flourish nicely without my patronage. Since I was already there and hungry, I decided to check it out. It was well after lunchtime, so I was surprised to see that the place was packed with customers. A couple was having a business meeting, another guy was enjoying lunch in a window seat, while a third gentleman was talking on his cell phone, while viewing some of the most depraved adult entertainment that I've ever seen on his laptop. Call me a prude, but the combination of midgets, elephants, lithium grease, and a catapult is just a little too excessive for my tastes. Other than that, the cafe was rather charming.

The proprietor was clever enough to discern that she was not dealing with a terribly bright man, when she observed me gazing stupidly at the posted menu. Thus, she simplified matters by asking whether I wanted meat or non-meat. Encouraged by my familiarity with meat, I went with the former and ordered a pressed roast beef sandwich. This consisted of (here is where I'll make you foodies proud) bread, meat, and some other stuff. Actually, it was high quality roast beef and a thick slice of Swiss cheese on sourdough with an excellent horseradish spread. In the immortal words of noted food critic R.W. Apple, "Dat shit was da bomb, mofos."

Although the menu contained 6 varieties of fruit smoothies that sounded delicious, I realized that these items were reserved for the non-culinarily retarded--or at least those sharp enough to know what a smoothie is. To minimize embarrassment, I ordered an iced tea. Unfortunately, this strategy backfired when the proprietor saw me looking curiously at the orange wedge in my tea. She graciously reassured me, "Yes, that's really lemon." Of course, it could may well have been a potato or Ernie's severed ear and I wouldn't have known it. Nevertheless, it was good, as well. As a result of the terms of my Work Release Program, I didn't have time to eat in. Thus, I ate my lunch while zipping up I-83 at unwise speeds. I can assure you the ambiance of the '93 Camry was marvelous, but then again, I've always been partial to the Mobile Dumpster Americana genre of interior design.

In conclusion, I strongly suggest you visit Evelyn's, if you find yourself in the Pigtown/Washington Village/Whateverthehelltheycallitnow area. For less than $8, I had a lunch that was much better than my $15 dinner at a popular Italian restaurant that will remain nameless.

* I'm not certain that Russell St. is part of Pigtown, Washington Village, or Ridgely's Delight.
** This has been remedied.

PhotoDildolatry

I wonder if the Maryland MVA would issue a vanity plate that said: FUCKWIT.

I May Have Joined the KKK Yesterday

As you probably hadn't noticed, I haven't posted for an entire week. It pretty much escaped my notice, too. As it turns out it, I spent most of last week at an inpatient psychiatric facility for treatment of what can only be described as a "psychotic" episode. I'll spare you the sordid details, but you should know that it involved a glockenspiel, approximately 3.03125 liters of Crisco, and a strong hankering to "make a scarlet woman" out of Mrs. Butterworth. At least, that's the way the police report reads.

OK, I made all of that up*. What I was really doing was finishing my final week of employment at Treblinka-tec, with a series of 12-14 hour days. I did this primarily because I've got rocks in my head. On Friday, otherwise known as Fuckthisfuckedupfuckingfuckawfulmotherfucking Job Day, I decided to celebrate by taking a trip to exotic location known as Indiana. Nothing of any note occurred while I was there, as it hasn't since 1838. Some of you may be wondering what part of Indiana that I visited, but I can assure you that it doesn't really matter. Closet yourself with a bushel of corn, five pounds of manure, and a first cousin and you've lived the Indiana Experience.

The interesting part, and I use the term loosely, happened on my way home. I was booked on a flight from Louisville to BWI. Since it took 30 minutes to get through security, I was one of the last to board the plane. Once aboard, I saw that it was full of Kentuckians embarking on their "Big Flying Machine Adventure." If you can envision a winged Walmart, you've got the idea. I got the the pleasure of sitting between two Good Ole Boys from central Kentucky. At least, I think that's where they were from. Even though I am a native speaker of English, I couldn't understand much of what they said due to their accents.

Redneck: Yew goan to Bottlemuh?
Me: Yes. (Just like everybody else on the plane, pigfucker.)
Redneck: Hew yew bakadul Bottlemuh shillter?
Me: Yes.

Apparently, his second question wasn't a yes or no question, because he gave me a strange look. I didn't elaborate, so our conversation was blissfully complete. I promptly went to sleep and awoke, during final approach to BWI, to the two rednecks conversing across me, while looking out the window winder at Baltimore city.

Redneck1: Lewk et all dem hooses so cloose to each udder.
Redneck2: Dats where de niggahs leeve. Ain't nudding but niggahs in der.
Redneck1: I hoop we aint goan in der.
Redneck2: We maght. We gunna go duntun Dursday.
Redneck1: I shood uv brut my niggahknocka wid me.
Redneck2: Laughter.

They said some other things that I couldn't make out, but, mercifully, the plane landed. I debarked and was able to snap a picture of one of them in baggage claim:

The costume also came with the obligatory cowboy boots and enormous belt buckle. With that get-up and their liberal use of the word "nigger," I am eagerly anticipating reading about them on Baltimore Crime.

* This is funnier for some of you than others, but how many of you scurried to the kitchen to to determine whether your maple syrup had been defiled?

WordNerdery

Recently, I've been reading Parenthetically Speaking..., which is a blog written by Serena Joy. Serena is a daily poster who includes a section called Words Gone Wild, where she offers clever, alternative definitions to misspelled words that she runs across. This reminded me of some of the Word of the Day emails that I'd sent to selected coworkers over the past few month. I've included some of them below:

1. Sexecutive- An employee that gains managerial status solely by virtue of the fact that he/she serves as a penis holster/penis provider for a senior manager.

2. Delusioneer- Someone, typically a manager, that attempts engineering design without being qualified to do so.

3. Krisismachen- The creation of an artificial crisis, by a member of management, to instill an unnecessary panic in the rank and file. This only works a finite number of times, because when everything is an emergency, nothing is an emergency.

4. Corporate Firepole- The opposite of the corporate ladder. It's where you find yourself when you are competent, but your buttsmooching skills aren't up to snuff.

5. Manure Ceiling- The point at which technical employees aren't allow to advance above for fear they will discover that corporate managerial duties consist primarily of bullshit.

6. Fore-revisor - An individual who anticipates having to explain their incompetence and, consequently, refuses to use e-mail or written documents to communicate.

7. Profaganda- Bogus claims of strategic success or managerial brilliance in the company newsletter or website.

8. Fecal Flume- A reiteration of the old adage, "Shit flows downhill."

9. Me-mail- E-mail that is sent to many, under the pretense of being informative, but really serves to announce that the sender has actually done something. It is typically sent after hours or on weekends.

10. Thinking Outside the Bum- The type of thinking that is required to turn the head-up-assed schemes of upper management into reality.

11. Bitchpiloting- Guiding corporate policy by giving your boss ideas and letting him/her take credit for them so that they can be implemented.

It's a good thing that I resigned recently, because it doesn't look like I'll be making Employee of the Year, either.

Heist of the Century

Recently, Baltimore blogger Jason J. Thomas posted about having his home burglarized via an unsecured crawlspace. Although, his losses were merely material, having your home invaded leaves an irreparable sense of violation. This is precisely why, when I returned to Baltimore 2.5 years ago, I made certain to live in the suburbs. Before leaving, I'd lived and worked in Baltimore City and had my fill of incessant crime. Although some parts of Baltimore city are attractive, the stress of expecting to be robbed was simply not worth it. I had assumed that when I'd moved to Baltimore county, I wouldn't have to worry about these kinds of things. As you will see, this was a poor assumption.

It was late Wednesday night, when it happened. I heard some strange noises and realized that something was amiss. By remaining perfectly silent, I was able to deduce that the source of the noise was in the living room. Unfortunately, I'd left my phone in the car, so calling for help wasn't an option. Although I was scared stiff, I crept into the room and turned on the lights. What I found was shocking and infuriating:



As you can see, I'd caught the thief red handed in a brazen attempt to steal my crotch. I was instantly overwhelmed with indignation--she was not only stealing from me, but robbing humanity of it's magnum opus. The thought of future generations being selfishly deprived of such a wonder was too much to bear. With no regard for my personal safety, I sprang into action. She turned out to be a formidable adversary and a fierce struggle ensued. Initially, I had the upper hand, but she felled me with a mighty blow. I was completely incapacitated--defeat was imminent. Then, when all seemed lost, my valiant trousers sacrificed themselves so that I might live. This diversion allowed me time to regroup and employ the Angry Pirate, which is a Jiujitsu technique with no known defense. Thus, disaster was narrowly averted and my crotch was spared the humiliation of being trafficked on the underground market.

This just goes to show that no matter where you live, you aren't immune to the criminal element. Whether you live in the city or the suburbs, you never know when these villains will strike--maybe this weekend, if I play my cards right.

I Ain't Gonna Work On Maggie's Farm No More

I was feeling a little artsy-fartsy today, so I wrote about my current transition from being an overpaid prick to becoming a grossly, overpaid prick:

Douchebaggery Waning

I write these words with utter glee,
in a state of ecstacy.
My sentence is done, I've been paroled.
No longer will I be cornholed.

Please don't think of me as crass,
but the time has come to kiss my ass.
Don't be timid, don't be meek,
just plant a smooch on either cheek.

I will not miss most of you tools,
as I debark this ship of fools.
Since I don't work here anymore,
I doubt my butt will be as sore.

The die is cast, I will not stay,
for gold, jewels or beggar's pay.
Let this serve as my resignation,
I'll no longer suffer this fucktardation.

Remember once that I've escaped,
that I can no longer be buttraped.
If you need me, expect the worst,
as this consultant won't kiss you first.

In the future, I think I should focus more on the fartsy side.

Tough Love

In a recent post, Mighty Dyckerson has proclaimed that he has finally found the woman of his dreams. Much to my amazement, she doesn't need to be inflated or wear a maskless football helmet. Dyck has even given her a pet name, which would be "Miracle Ass." Here is an excerpt of his devotion to her:

Ladies and gentlemen, I want this ass with every fiber of my being. If this ass were in my home, I would spend my remaining days on this Earth admiring its splendor and caressing its gentle curves. And I would spend my nights with my head perched atop its cushiony cheeks like an angel hovering above a puffy white cloud, dreaming dreams of bliss while drool oozes slowly from my mouth and into that superb crack, forming a river of sweet nectar surrounded by two fleshy banks of pure goodness.

Clearly, this is the real thing--or at least as close as it gets without matching, his and hers, Valtrex dispensers. Unfortunately, somehow the communications between his johnson and his brain got garbled. That's the only way that I can explain how he spent an entire Saturday in a tv room (I'm sure it's got a more technical name, but, honestly, who gives a shit?) being groped by her and not getting her phone number. Thus, I believe it us up to the blogging community to help Dyckerson help himself. Consequently, I propose a boycott of The Mighty Blog until Dyck posts a photograph of the Miracle Ass complete with the following tattoo:

Remember Dyck, someday you'll thank us for this. Probably after the itching goes away.

Crankometrics

Recently, I have become aware of a brilliant tool for psychological evaluation invented by Kira, which I have taken the liberty of naming Crankometrics. This technique consists of tabulating the contents of the subject's brain in a graphical manner and its application is described in depth in her post: What Lurks Inside. Despite the hindrance of not knowing anything about most of these people, I've applied the technique to several bloggers.

1. Cham Green


2. Geisha


3. Broadsheet


4. Malnurtured Snay


5. Charissa


5. Mighty Dyckerson


6. Revree



7. TFG


As I mentioned before, this is a new tool for psychological evaluation, so we may not have all of the kinks worked out yet. Thus, if you see any flaws or corrections that are needed in my analysis, feel free to refer all complaints to Dyckerson, as he clearly has the proper state of mind for handling these things.

Speaking of Aggressive Driving. Updated

Nevermind. See comments