Plot Mechanics

Earlier today, I was on the phone with one of my male friends who is extremely good looking... by any person's standards. I can't help but imagine that the haggard hags who work around me would be way impressed if they could see what the guy looks like. Of course this suggests that the women could see through the phone line into another state and yet somehow misinterpret the conversation I was having with my buddy. This is illogical, of course; if they had the omnipotence to see two disjointed people, surely one would assume they could also posses the power to understand the nature of our conversation. My imagination struggles with plot mechanics.

Have a great weekend. Temperatures of 100 degrees are forecasted for the outdoor wedding. It's a good thing I'm 5'4", 105#, and the only time I ever sweat is during my 11-mile morning jog - otherwise, this could be an embarrassing event for me.

By Request

Subtitled: Reality TV: more alit than real

First, I would like to admit I like reality shows. And while I am getting things off my chest, I would also like to confess to a series of murders I committed in 1996 while vacationing in Tennessee. I am not a reality junkie, however (and I am looking at you, Kiley - who is not reading this post and is the friend I referred to in Loyal Friend to the End). Where was I, oh yeah - reality television and my non-obsession. I like the following: Apprentice, Survivor (although, I missed seasons 3 and 4, those are the years I actually had a life), Amazing Race, and I used to like Big Brother, but this season sucks and I am so over it. Oh sure, I can't resist a weekend worth of the Mtv shows, but that's different.... no one can, it's like crack (and I outta know). What I don't understand is the new genre of people who make it their life's work to become a "reality star". There are people who interview for numerous reality shows in the hopes of cashing in on their ability to be a total bitch/idiot/douchebag/slut/etc. in front of millions of gullible viewers who watch in hopes of making their own lives seem less pathetic. Because even if you're 41, a virgin, and living with your mother in Brooklyn, "at least I'm not that guy." And since I am the 41 year-old virgin in NYC, I outta know. With the crop of tv personality wannabes, it's easy to say people are no longer acting like themselves... they are playing a role, a role they were cast in. I usually play the part of "the fat chick with multiple personalities and an affinity for porn and body washes that smell like a Mexican restaurant." Well, that's not much of a stretch for me, but you get the idea.

With this in mind, why are we still calling them "reality shows"? Why not just say, "improv night"... it's sketch comedy (even when there's "drama", it's still comedic). The situations are set up, the people hand picked, the producers probing questions and driving conflict and don't forget the brilliant editing. It's always great when Tonya (MTV's RW Chicago and RW/RR Challenges) goes on the reunion specials and blames the editing for making her look crazy. Let's review, you slept with three guys, made out with an additional six, threw a chick's Louis Vuitton (and entire contents of suitcase) in the pool, and flipped out because you were being picked on. No amount of creative editing can change that - those are facts. I could go on but it woud be more of the same.

In closing, reality shows are not going away anytime soon, so I suggest shifting your paradigm. Don't think of them as "reality", think of them as sitcoms with shitty writers, poor casting, and if your lucky, voyeuristic-like hidden camera sex scenes.

Haters.

I look down my blog and see, 0 Comments, 0 Comments, 0 Comments and so on.

I know I said I was going to ease off on the 'ol foul language and the last few posts, I've been a lot better.... but for fuck's sake - what is up with NO ONE leaving a God damned comment? Post after post, I pour out to you people and nothing, absolutely nothing. I know you're busy commenting on other blogs to create some personal traffic, (and I'm looking at you PHIL), but where's the damn love in this room, selfish bastards? If my posts suck, so be it - but most blogs suck and those authors don't get the silent treatment like I get. And what about the rest of you? NOTHING?!? I know "rest" only means like 3 people, but still!

This has been a real ego boost, thanks all. It's bad enough not to be at all interesting (or good looking) in person and now this. At the risk of alienating the 0 people who care about this blog, fuck all y'all for not stepping up.

Loyal Friend to the End

I have yet another wedding this weekend. I am the "Personal Attendant"... what a bullshit role, but I'll get to that in a bit. Since I am in the wedding it requires one thing - being there, this includes flight, hotel, car rental, gift. Since I am a greedy, selfish snob, spending money on or for others is simply out of the question. In addition, they decided against the one thing I go to weddings for in the first place, well two things, actually - a buffet and an open bar. After all is said and done, this weeding (I mean, wedding) is looking to cost me a cool $1000. I don't mind paying $1000 for drugs or to feed my gambling addiction, but to attend a wedding in a small South Dakota town - you must be joking.

Personal Attendant, aka: Runner-Up Bridesmaid, aka: Whipping Girl, aka: Servant.
No offense to those lovely women whose pleasure I've had to take on the duties of such a role, but know that I've cursed your uterus. For those of you aren't familiar with the job of Runner-up Bridesmaid, you get to run around, taking care of every detail at the request of every single person whose ever said two words to the bride or groom, because you're the personal attendant. There is no glory to this job and no real honor... I felt the same way when I worked as a fluffer for a very prestigious film company. I'd rather just be a guest than your servant, but oh look, a carnation boutonniere - gee, thanks. Interestingly enough, I have never been asked to assume the same role at my friends' second wedding. It could also be because at the reception, I got really drunk, punched the dj in the face to get his microphone and began to retell Spring Break stories just before being escorted off by the groom's father only to later find out that I offered him a blowjob and asked his wife to tape it. But, I doubt that was the reason. But back to the wedding at hand - since she and her husband already have one child, the uterus curse isn't going to have the same affect. (I commissioned a Caribbean medicine woman to come up with something.) Did you catch that? I said "husband", not fiance. They got married prior to having their (super kick-ass) son. Yes, $1000 to watch a couple who is already married get married. It's like buying a new DVD (porn, of course) when you've already downloaded the best parts.

Speaking of DVD (not porn, not totally, anyway) - buy Short Side of Nothing.


To be honest, though. I love my friends, I would do anything for them, and would pay any amount necessary to help out. Come to think of it, I have to pay-off most people to be friends with me.... where's the Xanax.

Hoagies... a love story

Ok, so I have a true appreciation for music and the people who make it. I would definitely date a "guy in the band" - unfortunately, I have little to offer him, or any man, for that matter. I am not passionate about one band, group, or artist in particular, however. True, I told a guy I'd screw him for a DMB ticket - but I've said the same thing for a hoagie sandwich. I just don't understand Superfans... and we all know at least one of them. The person who would wish bodily harm to their family to hang out with their idol for just one day - maybe that's not saying much, because I've wished the same thing on my family for a hoagie sandwich. Anyway, I used to make one road trip a summer to see an artist I liked and even then, I stayed with relatives and it was no big deal. Other than that, if they are in the area and I can score decent seats, I'm in. I simply enjoy hearing an artist in his or her purest form, without the studio tricks; what's more, I really love acoustic sets... and hoagie sandwiches, I'm not sure if I've mentioned that. I've never understood the people who fill their heads with useless artist facts, tour setlists, and 'what if' scenarios, all while trying to decipher every word to every song. I've also never understood necrophilia, but that's for another day. These people spend thousands of dollars traveling around to see "their band" and be a part of the moment.

Let me delve deeper into the whole 'moment' thing. I like listening to live music because it's art and I like expression of self coupled with a catchy chorus. What I am sick of are people who go to concerts just to say they were there. They feel there is a "coolness" attached to seeing this band or that, that somehow they will be more insightful or their life will have more meaning to others. I'd like to say to them, "You're still a douchebag"... or in most cases, "This concert can not erase the fact you gave a guy a blow job in the Carls, Jr parking lot."

In addition, there are also "new band" people. I am a new band person but only because I like good music and try to stay on top of emerging artists because I like new sound. But this is not about me and I don't have to justify anything to you people. The difference between myself and most "new band" people is that they are a bunch of pampered, supercilious pussies, who think they are so hot and always trying to be "in the scene". They crave the moment they can tell someone they heard that band in some dive bar three years before they were selling out major venues. And ultimately, he or she goes off on some bullshit tangent about how the group 'sold out' to sell records. They crave that "coolness" as much as I crave hoagies... hoagies and the desire to indiscriminately kick their asses.

Nothing in Particular

For the record, my friend's father-in-law is NOT an asshole, quite the opposite, really.

I can see my pregnancy post was a real hit. I usually get the same response in person, too, so I wasn't surprised.

At work this morning, I felt as though I was suffering from Cotard's syndrome. (Look it up, oh nevermind, you're lazy - Cotard's syndrome is a nihilistic delusional disorder in which a person thinks he or she is dead.) Anyway, I felt this weird listless feeling while I was in my chair off in another place. It appears as though I'm starting off another week with some stellar work ethic.

I curse too much. I don't swear at work or anything like that, but in everyday life, too much. I dropped the f-bomb while talking with my Mom on the phone. I need to remedy the slur of obscenities that occasionally pour out of my mouth.

Sci-fi Thriller

A probe injects you with micro-organisms, whereby something grows inside of you, feeding off you and using your body as it's sole way to sustain life and the only way to get rid of it is to painfully self-extract it from your body. Well, there are other ways, but we wont go into that here. It's totally a set-up for a great book, except for one thing - this is a work of non-fiction. It's pregnancy and it's for this reason that I am so totally freaked out by the whole thing. I am also freaked out by the midget transvestite who works at Burrittoville, but for different reasons. The whole thought of a human being growing inside of another human is not beautiful, it's disgusting. Story: a few years back when I was at the gym, I saw a pregnant woman and it made me physically ill, so much so that I had to get off the stairmaster and go to another area of the facility. I had eaten Chinese food that night and something told me it wouldn't be near as good coming up as it was going down... the plus side is that after it came up, I could enjoy it again. (too far? I thought so.) Point being, pregnancy is gross.

Anyway, 3 woman are... correction, were pregnant where I work. The first had her baby last week, the second last night and the third is due in two weeks. Naturally, they come to talk to me about it because I am so into babies.
Her: Do you want to see the ultrasound?!
Me: No... unless of course your baby is disfigured, then that would be pretty funny. So, is your baby defective or what?
Her: Well, the doctor said...
Me (interrupting): It's a yes or no question.
Her: No
Me: I guess that's good because there was a kid with a mis-shaped head we used to beat-up all the time. Well, see ya later.

Combine that with the fact that most of the people in this office are women, I am about ready to punch myself in the face. Correction, I am about ready to punch them in the face. I'm serious, one more mention of pre-eclampsia and it's over. Point being, as long as you and the fetus are "normal", I don't give a shit about your pregnancy.

For the record, I want to be a wife and a mother, I really do, preferably in that order. I should also take this opportunity to put to rest the idea that I may be a lesbian, I am not... and that year in Europe doesn't count. I just don't know about the whole 9 month thing... and there's that carrying a human thing. People, and by people I mean women who shit out a litter of their own, keep telling me when the time is right, my opinion will change. These people also said that about my opinion of Jews, Muslims, Blacks and any other race I can try to alienate for the story's sake. Point being, some things just never change.

Short Side of Nothing

Phil's movie has been released to the masses. Buy it.

www.touchofevilproductions.com


Have a great weekend, all... as you know, I'll be predisposed.

I hate him.

I was going to post something genius today but Captain Fucktard hadn't given me any of the shit I had been asking for since last Friday for a meeting I have tomorrow at 7:30 am. Today, I have been dealing with his incompetence while trying to get the information into some comprehensible manner by which I can use it to complete my own project. I hope he shits nails to understand the pain in the ass he is to me.

Two in one day!!!

What is more uncomfortable than spending the night at your college friend's parents house? Spending the night at your college friend's husband's parents house. Seriously, how do I get myself into this crap?! I agreed to a coed golf tournament a couple months ago under false pretenses. First of all, I was asked to participate during their intimate wedding reception, like I am going to say no to them on their damn wedding day. Secondly, they claim they didn't withhold information, but that I didn't ask. Yeah, that's the excuse my friends used the night I smoked crack, too... I may have used the term "friends" too liberally in that last sentence, but still.

What I thought:
I am partnered with my friend's father-in-law.... whom I hove only spoken to once, at the wedding, and I thought he was an asshole, but whatever. Tournament held an hour north of Cedar Rapids (CR), Iowa. Whereby, I would make the relatively short drive to CR at my leisure on Friday night, stay at my friend's place and we would drive up the next morning for a quick 18, leaving enough time to drive back to CR, shower, and be spitting drunk by midnight.

The Actual Scenario
The tournament is actually being held in north central Iowa, an additional 200 miles from CR and we tee off at 8:30 am on Saturday morning. I don't mind early mornings, but unless you're waking me up for sex, my weekend mornings are sacred. What's more is that since we have to drive to this middle-of-nowhere (which could be anywhere in Iowa, really) town on Friday night, my friend and her husband are requesting that I be in CR by 5:00 pm. It's not that I would work past 2:30 on a Friday anyway, but damn the person who dictates my schedule.

So... getting to the husband's parent's house thing. Somehow, a decision was made for me that I would stay with my friend and her husband at his folks' place. Unless this is Kansas, whereby I am sure we're all related, this is awkward to me. The real bitch of it all is that now they have asked me if I would be ok with staying an additional night (Saturday), not only having the uncomfortable hemorrhoidal-type pain of enduring another night at a stranger's place, but also having a 400 mile drive on Sunday. Yippie.

This place better be a manicured course, and this asshole a good golfer or I know a couple people who are getting severed heads in the mail next week.

Bitchy McBitcherson

Well, after the success of my home renovation last night, I've... you know what, I'm not going to lie. I don't know you guys and could care less what you really think of me. As it turns out, last night I cooked a pot of spaghetti I didn't eat, attached only three of four legs on a new coffee table, sat on the couch, and polished off a bag of Baked Cheetos all while I watched the most worthless television programming ever. If you add sexually touching myself uncontrollably to that, it shapes up to be just a typical night - but I said I was going to get something done. I did, however, organize my bathroom, which unless you have a vagina or wish you did, you would not understand the time or energy this takes. Hair products, face products, hygiene products, lotions, creams, jewelry, and the countless bottles of prescription drugs have finally have found a home in my bathroom. But, that's not where I was going to with the post today.

Work. I make it a rule not to bitch about work, but as we all know rules are meant to be broken - especially the one about not dating outside the family because let's face it, the sex was great. It's not complaining about my job as much as it is complaining about how I approach my job. I think it's pretty safe to say I get paid too much for doing nothing, not that you should be paid anything for doing nothing, but then how do you account for Section 8, Welfare, and Food Stamps? Prior to moving to this new position, I could easily say I was keeping my end of the bargain and actually earning my salary. Well, I wasn't coming in baked all the time, anyway. However, since then, I have been a total piece of crap. I'm doing just enough to keep my boss off my ass, which is very little.... the amount of work, that is, not my ass.

I have been given meaningless tasks that a blind monkey could do and as a result, have no real motivation to do them. The other projects I've been given don't mean shit to anyone, so I'll wait until the last possible moment. That moment being just before they shoot me an e-mail to the effect of, "how is the project coming along because we really need it done to save babies and kittens." It's in this last possible minute, I am in my finest, I bust it out like a champ and they are so impressed. Again, giving me no real drive to change my ways. Without boasting... I already established I don't care what you think... I am the resident expert on certain aspects of this facility and I would do a lot more with that, but the guy I work with for that part of my job is, to quote another, a total fucktard. (holy longest sentence ever) He is the most worthless, lazy, disorganized, piece of shit I have ever worked with. Believe me, I've worked with a lot of douche bags before (and I am looking at you Father Michael) but this guy is different. I can't explain it, let's just say he sucks as much as an Asian hooker during a sales conference (and again, I'm looking at you, Father Michael). I'd give it the 'ol college try, but if you knew me in college, you'd know that's not saying much.

But, the way I figure is that I have it pretty fucking easy right now and I need to make a better effort not to screw this thing up.

Living Alone

Throughout college, I had bouts of living by myself - a semester here and there. Usually, it only felt like I lived alone because my roommate was always at her boyfriend's house and by "boyfriend" I mean whatever guy she decided was in the mood for mind altering sex, ultimately followed by a total mind altering manipulation of their emotions. It was one hell of a battlefield - I saw a lot of good men fall that year. And I'm not sure sex with her was mind altering, but for the shit my roommates put men through, they had to be doing something right.

I have lived by myself for a while now, but I was living in transition - a new place every three months and there were people dropping in for days at a time.... well, for the night, anyway. And by people I mean some drunk I picked up by convincing him I was Jenna Jamison's sister and that I was the "talented" one. It just never seemed like I lived alone because whenever I was feeling lonely, there were always friends close by to go have a beer with. Well, a beer, two gin-tonics, one 7/7 and one shot of Jager. Nevertheless, there was never isolation.

Now, however, I truly live alone. I thought the best part of this would be watching porn constantly, eating chicken wings, and wiping my hands on my t-shirt. It should be said that I lived with four men during my final year of college, so this would not be all to different that what I was used to. I thought I would enjoy the solidarity, that I would relish the time to finally get those pictures in an album, to take up a foreign language, maybe even do projects around the house. Well, it's been a month since I moved into my house and lets just say, I am no Martha fucking Stewart, that's for damn sure. I am appalled by my lack of ambition and motivation to do, well, anything at all. I haven't felt this lazy since I was sedated in West Texas. Word of caution, never enter a Southern Baptist Church drunk, screaming you are carrying the next Messiah because Jesus just fucked you in the 7-11 on Route 92 - it's sort of frowned upon there. But, getting back to my house and my drive to be perfect. Yeah, not this year, asshole. Lately, I have found myself seeing the footage from Hurricane Dennis and say, "What's the big deal - it looks pretty clean to me. Whiners." My house is full of shit - not actual shit, but I can't be sure.

After I get home, I just don't want to do anything. This includes unpacking, picking up dirty socks on the bathroom floor, or actually opening mail. What's worse it that although I've yet to wrangle all of the stuff I already have, I keep buying more, see Broke. Gluttony and Sloth - shooting 2 of 7 from the field, folks. Now, I understand that this is how some people's lives work - I've lived with a couple of them, but that's not me. A place for everything and everything in it's place, that's me. Counters are wiped and garbage thrown away before going to bed, that's me. Bed made prior to leaving the house in the morning, that's me. Cleaning the camera lens to catch the neighbors having sex, that's me. Currently, I haven't even put sheets on the bed... how totally pathetic. I mean, it's not as pathetic as going without sex for three years, but it's got to be right up there.

I'm an engineer, everything is logical and has a purpose and a reason for being. (Well, except God - but that's a whole 'nuther can of worms). I don't have any "real friends" here, the kind that stop over or need to crash at my place, so there is no real motivation. That and there's just been way too much porn on to get anything accomplished. I know what you're thinking, how is it possible for this hot chick with tons of personality not have people over 24-7. I ask myself the same thing. People at work are SO LAME and I just haven't really found anywhere to make a connection with people here. The Y, forget it. Church, ummm... yeah no. The delivery guy, well, I think I may have freaked him out. Let's just say the last time I tried to order, they said they couldn't deliver to my house pending the current investigation. There are a lot of great bars here, last time I went out here (grad school), the night ended with a girl in tears, two guys in a fight, and a fly in my friend's salad. How can that not have been a good time?!

Where am I going with this? Shit, I am not real sure. But, I sort of promised TBC that I would put an honest effort into this. He doesn't actually know I made this promise to him because it was in my head, but whatever. Tonight, I am starting the move-in process. Enough is enough. Additionally, a guy is going to be living with me for part of the week during the upcoming school year; that gives me a month and seeing how the last thing I put my mind to, college, took me 7 years to finish (and no, I'm not a doctor), I better not waste another moment.

Broke

I often ask myself why I'm so broke all the time. Well, today gave me some indication.

I left the house to buy two items:
Blender: $14.98
Hose $11.94
Estimated Cost: $26.92 + $1.62 (tax) = $28.54

Actual trip:
Big Lots (ghetto, I know) = $46.70 (no blender, no hose)
Bed, Bath, and Beyond: $8.21 (no blender, no hose)
Target: $80.75 (got the blender!!!)
Lowes: $61.05 (and I didn't buy the hose).
Actual Cost: $196.71.

That's a 689% expenditure increase for those of you keeping track at home.

Crud.

Another one from that night...

Think for one minute - who are you? What do you want? What makes you happy? How many of these things are dependent upon someone else? Take a look in the mirror - your clothes, your hair, your style, your job, the words you use, the conversations you have, the music you like - notice how you can be categorized. What influenced these things you see in the mirror. You fit a stereotype; you are a generality. Is it good or bad? Are you an exception to the generalizations? How? It's nice to think you're an exception, but are you really? Are you upset that I held up the mirror? Pointing out what is so obvious to anyone who simply stops to see things for what they are? You'll be quick to point at me, call me full of shit, or whatever offense you call seem to call defense. Just don't fall into this generation's cliche of blaming others for your own situation or for the way you are.

I'll leave you with this:
Are you an expression of who you are,
an expression of who you wish you were, or
an expression of who someone else wants you to be?

Tired of Stupid People

• You don't think you're full of shit? Guess again.
• Talk, talk, talk – you don't ever DO anything. You're part of the Dead Generation - full of people who have never lived, those who run away from life every chance they get.
• Relentless sarcasm and online bravado - these things shouldn't give you a sense of pride.
• You’re not entitled to shit, unless of couse you've earned it - you haven't earned it.
• For the love of God (whether you think there's one or not), learn the difference between "your" and "you're". Fuck.
• Bury your braided belt, along with the fucking Nike visor the guy you make fun of is wearing.
• You're not a critic, a judge, or even the jury.
• You better be good-looking because it’s all you have…for a few years, anyway; after which, you’ll settle like the rest of them – you’ll have no choice. Hell, choice is one of the last things you want anyway – it means you have to think.
• Make more money and buy a low-end Luxury Car – she’ll like you more.
• Cover half your ass with a shameless skirt, dowse your face with paint, dance like the women you stand so proudly tall over – he’ll like you more.
• Play the game. After all, deception is our generation’s favorite escape.
• Get yourself a clique, you’d be lost without one.
• Lack the spontaneity of a sunset.
• Be politically correct because it’s gotten us sooooo far, to the point you can’t openly talk about the differences that make us unique and beautiful.
• Don’t do what you want to do; do what’s expected of you – and then bitch and wonder why you’re somehow lacking happiness.
• You have so many insecurities – you need and need and need, but you have no idea what you really want, except for immediate gratification.

Drop the ego and truly get in touch with your id.

I really miss California.

I'm kinda having a blue day - I really miss SoCal. That's it, nothing witty or humorous or even interesting.

I've thought it over; I am not a snob.

When you're here, you're family.

The next time you go to the Olive Garden chain of restaurants, be sure to keep your eyes peeled for the freak section. That's right, the Olive Garden attracts all kinds - although none that would be looking for decent Italian food, but that's another blog for another day. During my recent trip to the establishment, I noticed how they've cleverly found a way to corral the mutants into one area. This area is somewhat secluded from the average patron, wanting them to actually enjoy their dinner, not throw it up. I know this because I was in the section and although embarrassed, I'm not too proud to talk about it.
Upon our arrival, it was just another dining experience, then it took an ugly turn - literally and figuratively. We were seated next to a table of four women who could easily scare scores of children with one glance. Hell, they could probably scare adults with one glance. No big deal - the fuglies in the corner, keeping them in the shadows. The next couple to enter was toting the dual oxygen tank, nose hose in tact. The fourth table - two people on a date - the guy bearing a strong resemblance to Corky on "Life Goes On" with one exception, Corky was better looking. His date, a pretty face and a 3/4 right leg to match. I shit you not, her leg was a good four inches shorter than the other and as a result, she had a bit of a lurch. Hmmm.... maybe this was all some weird coincidence.... then the harelip twins walked in. Jesus, Mary and Joseph!!! What kind of place with this!? I just wish I had the foresight to charge admission!
You may or may not be wondering what I was doing in the circus tent? A gal I work with is 9 months pregnant (which is reason enough) and asked me to drive her to get her parents. They came from Honduras and although they are both doctors, their English is about as good as my Spanish, which is to say, "esta no muy bueno, mi amigos." So there we all were - one big traveling sideshow converging on the same night.

Ciao!

BBQ Fun

BBQ - real man's cooking?? (Got this in an e-mail, thought is was very 4th of July worthy)

It's the only type of cooking a real man will do. When a man volunteers to do the BBQ the following chain of events are put into motion:
1) The woman buys the food.
2) The woman makes the salad, vegetables, and dessert.
3) The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a tray along with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces, and takes it to the man, who is lounging beside the grill -- beer in hand.
4) THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL.
5) The woman goes inside to organize the plates and cutlery.
6) The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is burning. He thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he deals with the situation
7) THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.
8) The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, utensils, napkins, sauces, and brings them to the table.
9) After eating, the woman clears the table and does the dishes.
10) Everyone PRAISES the man and THANKS him for his cooking efforts.
11) The man asks the woman how she enjoyed "her night off." Upon seeing her annoyed reaction, concludes that there's just no pleasing some women!

Excess Baggage

So, when I fly into my hometown, I usually go through Mpls and have the choice of 2 Northwest flights: 3:30pm or midnight. Clearly, I am usually stuck on the midnight flight and you have the pleasure of riding one of the finest 3-seaters NWA has to offer. It sucks. With these "air suites," as I call them, there are certain weight restrictions. Now, I am all about following those guidelines, not wanting to go down like Aaliyah. But keeping this in mind, when the flight is 3/4 full, the gate attendant will start making announcements asking passengers to volunteer for tomorrow's flight. No one ever does, so I don't know why they bother. They should save themselves the hassle and make the following announcement, "Nicole S., your bags aren't going to be on this flight. You will be without all necessities you've packed and wont get your luggage until tomorrow evening. Thanks for taking up the ass... again. Love, Northwest Airlines." It's total bullshit and has happened to me not once or twice, but three damn times. This time was the worst, since I had to be at a golf outing/wedding 2 hours away by 9:30 am the next morning. But, what other choice do I have... and they know it. Thanks, NWA - bloody wankers.