SouthFresh

Words of advice, if you’re going to open a Chinese restaurant, make sure that you’re not located so close to a hair salon that your dining room constantly smells like someone getting a perm.

I come from the land where coffe shops, cafés, espresso bars are where bohemians, socialists, commies, and artsy types tend to congregate. Where poetry readings from hairy-pitted, dread-locked sporting, patchouli smelling women exert much energy to bring synergy between the writings of Bukowski and Carlos Castenada.

And now I’m in Georgia.

fucking Georgia:

me: Whats the name of that nasty smelling “perfume” that dead-heads wear?
someone: weed
me: no, the other one.

How many of our cowboys would have died without a food dehydrator? I have no idea where I would be without my pocket fisherman, and everyone knows that there’s no way the Berlin Wall might have come down if it wasn’t for…

Pasta Express.

Pasta Express, yes, Pasta Express, only now do you have the ability to produce perfectly produced pasta by mixing boiling water and, well, pasta for just minutes at a time! No longer must you suffer through the laborous trial of mixing boiling water and, well, pasta outside of a cylindrical piece of plastic! Now with your new cylindrical piece of plastic the doldrums of pasta cookery will no longer be the bane of your kitchen existence!

So what happens when you try to experiment with the dishwasher?

Knowing that in my new location of residence there are not too many Starbucks, and that I’m unfortunately addicted to them, a friend sent me the following picture:

So I quickly e-mailed her back with the following:

me: Isn’t it the thing before lentil?
me: Or lent?
lunchbox: Yup
lunchbox: Lent
lunchbox: Live it up before you have to give something up
me: Live it up, then give it up?
me: I like the sound of that!
lunchbox: except the giving it up part
me: Oh, damn
lunchbox: I say we plan to go to Mardi Gras 2008
me: :: gets out his apoinment book::
me: Actually, that one’s taken, can we schedule for…
me: :: flips through pages::
me: I’ve got 2013 available… no, doctor’s apointment
me: How bout 2025?
lunchbox: no dice
lunchbox: can you take a pending?
me: Rain Check?
me: Mardi Gras Layaway…
me: get it… Lay-away?
lunchbox: dork

lunchbox: No one’s here and its really quiet
lunchbox: lets stop talking about scary stuff
me: …what was that?
me: I think I just heard a noise from your side of the screen.
lunchbox: You’re an ass

Why is it that one never hears about someone with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder who is obsessively compulsive about not being obessive-compulsive?

Somehow running in public places with a large open flame has been considered traditional and worthy of armed escort, while smoking in a bar is comparable to genocide.  Add to the running-in-public aspect, the traditional pidgeon-fry once the Olympic Cereal Bowl is lighted, and we’ve got family fun for the whole… family.

I wonder if they put Wheaties in that bowl.