"You stay classy… Interwebs."
Bad: getting a DUI
Worse: delivering an anti-semitic tirade while getting a DUI
Way to go, Mel. Sounds like you’re a mean drunk.
Then again, maybe it’s not his fault. Maybe a disgruntled former masseur rubbed bigot cream all over his lips before he went on his bender.
What? It could happen.
I’m in a cafeteria lunch line a few weeks ago and they’re serving make-it-your-damn-self fajitas. It’s a hectic day at work, and I’m preoccupied with a particularly vexing progamming problem. I’m doing my best to keep my head down and not talk to anyone while I think things through.
“Bet you’ve never seen one like that before.”
I detect a faint voice intruding on my self-imposed solitude. I snap back to reality, look up, and see a man in front of me. He’s dressed in khakis, boat shoes, and a shirt with a hideous tropical print on it. Even worse, he’s looking at me and waiting for me to acknowledge him.
“Excuse me?” I reply, trying my best not to look annoyed.
“Bet you’ve never seen one like that before.” He’s looking down at the fajita he has just constructed. It looks like every fajita I’ve ever seen before. The same fajita they serve at Chili’s, Don Pablo’s, or any Mexican restaurant in the history of man. It’s a tortilla with chicken, peppers, and onions on it.
Though the first reply my brain offers up is, “What the hell are you talking about? And why are you bothering me?”, my mouth wisely declines and asks Brain to try again. Before Brain can put the wheels in motion, bad shirt guy continues.
“You see, I’m from Texas, and this is how we make ‘em down there….”
What followed was a random, meandering explanation of how people from Texas make their fajitas different than the rest of the world and why they did it that way and blah-blee-friggidty-blah. His explanation may have been interesting, but I doubt it. I wouldn’t know anyway. I was too busy fantasizing about smashing his head through the sneeze plate on the fajita bar and asking him if he’d ever seen one like THAT before.
See, here’s the thing, Texans: Nobody gives a shit that you’re from Texas but you. We don’t care about how you make your fajitas, or that everything’s bigger there, or how you deal with things, or that you only have steers and queers. We don’t care.
In fact, here is the list of people that care you’re from Texas.
So the next time you’re outside of Texas and get the urge to tell someone how awesome it is, save it. No one wants to hear it. There’s nothng worse than having to sit and listen to some loser prattle on about how their state is superior to another. It’s tired. Just let us eat our fajitas in peace.
So the other day I’m talking to Jeff on IM and I’m looking for a display picture of someone doing the robot. A Google Image search for people doing the robot did not return many results to my liking. It was a cold, empty experience. Bad times.
I told JT that I should start a site dedicated to people doing the robot so no one would ever suffer like that again. Then I did just that.
I’m proud to introduce PeopleDoingTheRobot.com, the Internet’s first and only site dedicated to people doing the robot. Before you click the link, you should take a picture of yourself so you remember what it was like when you found out about the most awesome thing to ever hit the world wide web. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
Okay, now that you have your camera out, you should also take a picture of yourself or a friend doing the robot and send it to the site. You will be helping PeopleDoingTheRobot.com fulfill its mission of bringing peace and understanding to the world… or at least a good laugh.
Pass it on.
As I mentioned yesterday, Ashley and I had a brush with fame over the weekend in Atlanta. We’re sitting at a Starbucks in the middle of the Lenox Square Mall, when suddenly AG looks up and says, “Well, there’s Bob Costas.”
Sure enough, there he was strolling through the mall with who I’m pretty sure was Dick Ebersol, president of NBC Sports. I’d never realized how short Costas was until I saw him in person. He’s maybe 5′5”, tops. Anyway, they opened a museum in Atlanta last weekend to commemorate the 1996 Olympics, and I think that’s why Costas was in town. So he and Dick Ebersol walk right past us, and I don’t think anything more about it.
Fast forward twenty minutes and I’m in Banana Republic checking out the men’s clothes. I come around the corner and who do I almost run into? Why, Bob Costas, of course. We kinda glance at each other, but neither speaks. He goes about his business looking at stuff - he was trying on jackets - and I hung around for a minute trying to decide if I was going to speak to him or not.
He was very nice to the Banana Republic guys that were helping him, and I was somewhat surprised to hear that he sounds in real life just like he does on TV. With a lot of these TV guys, I think the voice is something they kinda turn on and off, but Costas’ voice seemed to be the genuine article. He asked the BR guy to hold his purchases at the counter in the same voice he uses to interview big deal sports stars. This made what happened next all the more funny.
Despite it never stopping me on the blizzog, the fact that I had nothing of value to say to Bob Costas other than “I’m a fan of your work.” convinced me to move along. I started heading off to find Ashley. As I’m walking away, Dick Ebersol comes up to Costas, Banana Republic bag in hand, and the following exchange occurs…
Dick (holding up his bag): “I think I’m all set here. Bob, where’s that marvelous men’s room you were telling me about?”
Costas (in his sports guy voice): “Oh, yeah. That place is great. It’s up the escalators, in the back past the food court.”
Dick: “Thanks. I’ll see you in a little bit.”
I could barely keep myself from laughing. In the span of 25 minutes I had learned that: a.) Bob Costas is pretty short, b.) Bob Costas is in the market for a new jacket, and mostly importantly c.) Bob Costas has a favorite restroom at the Lenox Square Mall in Atlanta. Who knew?
I was trying to imagine the earlier conversation where Bob told Dick about his prized commode…
Bob: “Dick, you want to go shopping today before the museum thing?“
Dick: “Sure, that sounds great.“
Bob: “Fantastic. We’ll go to Lenox Square Mall. They have some nice shops there, not to mention one of the nicest shitters I’ve ever had the pleasure of dumping in. It’s fabulous. The stuff of dreams.”
Dick: “Splendid. It’s a date then. I’ll be sure to have some bran for breakfast before we go.”
Now don’t get me wrong. I have a favorite toilet at work. I even have a favorite at home. But I can’t say that I have a favorite toilet that’s in a mall somewhere. In fact, if I were to show you my personal toilet ranking index, I’d bet that the bottom of the list would be crowded with mall and gas station crappers.
My big regret from the weekend is that I never sought out Bob Costas’s #1 Recommended Toilet, so I can’t tell you what it was like. Oh well, at least now I have something to look forward to next time we go back. 
Since I’m pretty sure this is the last birthday where it will be appropriate to divulge her age, I thought I’d take a moment and wish my lovely wife a happy 30th birthday.
We’ve been doing quite a bit of celebrating over the past few days. It’s like Hanukkah or something. We went to the Buckhead area of Atlanta this past weekend where we got to rub elbows with a celebrity (more on that later) and I took Ashley on a birthday shopping spree. Then, last night I took her to Chapel Hill and we counted down the last few ticks of her 20s in grand style, and by “in grand style” I mean by drinking Blue Cups. Werd. This morning we did presents, hit the SouthPoint mall for some more shopping, and then had dinner with her family tonight, followed by cake and more presents.
Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go host the Closing Ceremonies of AG’s Festivale del Birffday by administering the final present: the birthday back rub. Good times… for Ashley, anyway.
Happy Birthday, AG!!!
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