Attention food servers:

I don't want to come off hostile, here.  The truth is, I love food servers.  But I also love efficiency.  Let me save food servers everywhere thousands of 7-8 second intervals of time -- that time you waste asking questions we both know the answers to.

Yes, I want to super-size, value-size, "go-big" or whatever the hell Da Vinci Cryptex riddle I need to mumble so I get the large fries.  I've seen the regular-size fries.  I ate bigger appetizers while in the womb.  I can cover the 79-cents you're hustling after.  Just give me the bigger cup and the large fries.  You're a regular Lee Iacocca.  You up-sold me 79 cents.  Honestly, shouldn't you aim higher?  Take that salesmanship where you can make some real money.  Hey, why not apply at Grease Monkey and hit me up for the 15-dollar air filter change?  It's worth 15 bucks just to shut the guy up before he walks back out with my dirty filter and a new-from-the-factory filter and makes me feel like an abusive jerk.

Attention, restaurants everywhere: revert back to small, medium and large.  I know that men especially shun the word "small" because we all fear it's a poker tell for our peckers.  And I know everybody with something to sell wants their product to compare favorably to the competition, even though it's the same crap.  By the way, ladies.  This is why all those 8-inch guys you dated magically became 5-and-change right after they closed the deal.  Let me give you the secret formula so you won't suffer from buyer's remorse:  Take the number he's quoting you; round down to the nearest integral; then subtract 2 inches.  Bingo.  That's his longitudinal penile dimension.  Prospecting penis size is a lot like signing a cell phone contract in that the numbers will surely change against your favor before you connect to the service.  Anyway, every time I order a pizza at a new restaurant, I have to look up "large" in my thesaurus and utter 15 synonyms to get the big pizza.  I'll take a colossus pizza, please.  That is your largest, right?  Oh no?  In that case, I'll take the ten-ton colon blocker size with sausage and onion.  Whatever you call it, just get the kid smoking weed in the back to slip it in the oven so I don't starve to death eating you "large" pizza which is really your medium, which is the size of a silver dollar.

Here's another unnecessary question:  Do you want everything on that?  Yes.  That is, unless you're going to discount the item for keeping stuff I'm entitled to off of it.  I don't care if you're adding plutonium flakes and fiberglass.  I'm paying for it. You're adding it.  After all, I can always pull or scrape it off.  But if you omit it, I feel like a chump.  It's a recession, yo.  I want what I'm paying for even if I hate it.

Soup or salad?  In what universe does it make sense to opt for salad over soup?  I have nothing against salads.  If they serve it, I'll eat it.  But I'm not ordering a salad in lieu of soup because I'm not a masochist!  Be rational, people.  The waiter is asking whether you'd rather have a bowel of broth with chunks of meat and vegetables, seasoned and suitable as an appetizer or a dip for bread -- or some leaves with dressing.  Order the soup.  Only a communist or a homosexual chooses salad over soup.  Spare me the "But have you had the salad at Olive Garden?  It's fabulous!"  Yes, I have.  Yes, it is.  Have you had the spinach potato soup?  It'll induce orgasm if you're hungry enough.  The salad is good.  The soup is sublime.

Do you want more chips and salsa?  Well, did you see me spelunking the bowl with a chip fragment for the last 17 minutes?  Yes, I'd like more.

Are you ready for the check?  Yes.  I was ready for it the minute I ordered.  Lay the leather billfold thingy on the table.  It's not an imposition.  You had no problem asking me "how is everything" the second I stuffed my mouth full of complimentary pumpernickel.  Lying a piece of paper on the table between drink refills is nothing compared to that.  Yes, I'll take the check.  And thank you.



LBB, cock fighter.

If I had it to do all over again, I'd be a professional cockfighter.  Man, was my high school guidance counselor was asleep at the wheel when he failed to bring this fine and noble vocation to my attention.  I wasted 6 years in college learning about faggy things when I could have been raising and training a backyard full of cocks.  I'd spend business hours in the “Cockpit,” which is the cool name I'd give to my backyard, in my wife-beater t-shirt, blinged the fuck out, thumbing my way through a stack of 100-dollar bills -- last weekend's profits.  I'd hire a shifty right-hand-man from a questionable background to schedule fights, book the bets and get me the best deals on cell phone service, as I would need to focus my time and energy on training the savage birds.

Why would I be a successful cockfighter?  What makes me so freggin' great?  I'll tell you.  I would handle my cocks differently, better.  I'd revolutionize cockfight training.  I know how to coax the best from my cocks (NOTE: please don't cut-and-paste the previous sentence and post it along with an innuendo.  I'm baring my soul here and I need you to take me seriously).  I'd tap into the caverns of cock aggression and rage.  For instance, I'd say to my cock “See your hen sitting on that egg over there?  Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this.  That's not your egg.  The cock you're fighting tonight, Luigi -- that's his egg.  Now go bury your beak in that sancho's chest.”  My cock could best a wolverine in battle after some coaxing from me, his loving handler.

That's the essence of a champion cockfighter: you have to tap the primal rage of your cock, then refine it and focus it into a laser beam, and then aim it on the opposing cock.  You can have the meanest cock in the world -- meaner than Naomi Campbell on a coke binge.  But if you can't conjure the magic on fight night, you'll lose your entire bankroll and get jacked by a gang of street thugs who collectively form the underbelly of the illicit cockfighting circuit.  If you lack the virtue of deliberation, don't cockfight.  The affable and happy-go-lucky have no place at a cockfight.  Go be an architect, a nurse or some other faggy tradesman.  Otherwise the real cockfighters will eat you alive and feed your bones to their cocks.

Alleged hen infidelity isn't my only device for conjuring cock rage and aggression.  Each cock has a different temperament and a successful handler must discover which style of coaxing motivates the individual cock.  Some cocks respond well to gang signs.  Others froth up when, just before the fight, you shake their wire cages to and fro.  Still others peak in ferocity after you feed them an Atomic Fireball gobstopper.  A rare few go into a frenzy when you force them to watch reruns of MASH.  Few outside cockfighting circles know that Alan Alda agitates cocks to homicidal state.  The latter technique, however, is under scrutiny by PETA and several regulatory agencies as cruel and torturous treatment of animals.

It's moot anyway.  My God-given talent for cockfighting remains dormant.  It's too late and I'm too old to enter the profession.  Instead I've got to work in healthcare like a chump.  Healing sick people and comforting the infirm and dying don't deliver the satisfaction of watching your little fella scratch and gnaw into the thorax of the enemy bird, but they'll sustain me.  I think I'll go kick the crap out of my guidance counselor.


Too sick...

to read or write.  Miss you all something awful.


More cool things I'd like to do someday

  • Make my way into a fancy restaurant without a reservation by brandishing a money clip full of 20's in front of the maitre d'.  Ah, yes.  I believe we can accommodate you after all, sir.  
  • Escape a situation by taking a tablecloth, towel, leather belt or other textile, slinging it over a telephone line, and sliding to safety.  Land in patch of vegetation which cushions fall.
  • Catch home intruder by assembling likeness of myself under sheets of my bed with pillows and a bowling ball.  Bad guy thinks I'm sleeping.  He moves in for easy kill, draws back the sheets, discovers decoy.  Too late.  I've already clocked him with a lamp post. Surprise, bitch.
  • Retreat from gunfire by ascending fire escape.  Bing, bing, bing.  Sparks along fire escape.  None hit me. 
  • Decapitate venomous snake with a machete just before it bites my unsuspecting wife who's chattering away, oblivious to the danger.
  • Solve murder mystery dinner party.  Explain my brilliant deductions while wearing tuxedo and sipping brandy from a snifter.  Draw round of applause from guests.  On drive home, other couples' wives remark how clever I am.  Disgruntled husbands bark "He's not so damn clever as he thinks" or words to that effect.  
  • Make a temporary repair to failed electronic device by using foil gum wrapper.
  • Dig up some dirt on a colleague by stealing their notebook and then lightly scribbling a pencil across the page and highlighting the text artifact left by whatever he or she wrote on the page above it.
  • Locate buried treasure or downed top secret military aircraft using a map found in old library book nobody ever checks out.  Outwit native peoples guarding said treasure/aircraft.  Publish adventure in Archeology Monthly magazine.
  • Hot-wire a vehicle for use in an emergency situation, preferably getting woman in labor to hospital.
  • [This one is unlikely until somebody invents time travel]  Travel back in time with friends in makeshift time machine.  Arrive in unfamiliar place.  A friend asks, Where are we?  Then the science buff responds with, Not where -- when are we?  Note:  I don't want to be the scientist guy who says that.  I want to be the guy who punches him in the face.  Gaywad.
  • Take a shortcut that my friends are afraid to take because of the perceived danger.  Arrive safely.  Wait for them to arrive some time later.  Ask them rhetorically, "What took you guys so long?"  Alpha male, yo!
  • Force car salesman to lower price 500 dollars immediately after he quotes me the first price by remaining silent and raising my eyebrow in a "we both know there's room to negotiate here" facial gesture.   


LBB, fast-food critic

The culinary world is void of fast-food critics. That shouldn't be.  After all, that's what we eat the most. So I’ve volunteered.  I’ve reviewed America’s most popular fast-food franchises and published it for my readers. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed eating it. And more important, I hope it makes you a more informed consumer. Caveat Emptor!

Carl’s Jr.: Huge burgers, so bring your appetite (and a fly swatter).

Filiberto‘s: Good fare, and it qualifies as diet food as you will void it in the form of diarrhea before your intestines have time to assimilate the nutrients. Many people with bowel obstructions find the food at Filiberto’s both delicious and therapeutic.

Mc Donald’s: They must glue the employee smiles in place with the same bonding agent they mix into their shakes.

Taco Bell: Medical researchers have proven Taco Bell’s food “the best agent for absorbing excessive alcohol and alleviating hang-overs in college kids.”

Whataburger: A redneck favorite and rightfully so; if you have a tattoo on your breast, you get 50 cents off a combo-meal of your choice.

Jack-in-the-Box: Come for the food. Stay for the gangland ambience and because the hoodlums working the grill have already stolen your rims. (Say, did you ever notice the one white guy working at Jack-in-the-Box has this desperate look in his eyes like he’s being held hostage: “I can’t talk right now, but please SEND HELP”).

Arby’s: For all you senior citizens who were bilked out of your pension plans and live on a fast-food budget, Arby’s is the place. The average age of their patrons may be 79.5 years, but there’s nothing average about their Big Montana Roast Beef Sandwich.

Wienerschnitzel: They do miracles with a hotdog. Strangely, this franchise enjoys a large gay demographic.

Burger King: They live up to their promise. They do it your way -- as long as “your way” means whatever way the retarded kid working the register pressed the bright, colorful buttons on the metal box thingy. 

Subway: If you believe Jared lost 280 pounds eating 12” meatball sandwiches with provolone cheese and marinara sauce, then stop into Subway today and eat one with a side of baked fries and diet soda. Only 2350 calories.

In-N-Out Burger:  I went in and out without ordering my food because the place was as crowded as a Justin Biebowitz concert.  What's that li'l bastard's name?  With the haircut?  Biebowitz.  That's it.  Anyway, why was In-N-Out so crowded?  It must have been hand-job day or something.    



  • Headline this week:  Pharmacy accidentally gives pregnant woman abortion pill.  "Gee, my headache still hurts, but the swelling in my belly is gone!"
  • A congressman sent a picture of himself with his shirt off to a woman on a Craigslist ad. When confronted, he offered what some say is a flimsy excuse: He was "just producing a visual aid for how Congress is taxing the shirts off our backs."
  • I was playing an arcade game at the local pizza shop yesterday. Just before the game started a message from the FBI popped up: "Don't use drugs. Only losers use drugs." Hey dudes, I'm a 40-year-old man drinking beer and shooting cartoon zombies in the middle of the day. It's a little late to warn me about becoming a loser.
  • Michelle Obama insists her husband does NOT dye his hair. She admitted that he does occasionally lighten the Department of the Treasury.
  • Dallas gives Michael Vick the Key to the City, which is weird because where he's from he couldn't get elected dog catcher.
  • Why does a 104 degree day feel so lousy when a 140 degree sauna feels so good?  I think this is loosely related to the phenomenon where when your mom makes a sandwich it somehow tastes better than when you make it yourself.
  • When I'm feeling particularly sadistic, I'll bring my laptop into my work's IT department and turn it off before shutting down Windows.  It's like fingernails on the chalkboard to those dweebs.  Those guys are so high and mighty about shutting Windows down first.  But I'll bet they revise their position when they're watching porn and the HR girl walks by.
  • Here's another way to have fun: when you're in a line where you have to wait for your number to be called, play a word game.  Every time the girl calls a number, announce the significance of that number.  For instance, "Number 34?"  "Walter Peyton!"  "Number 2?"  "Another term for poop!"  "Number 7?"  "Number of Police Academy sequels!"  "Number 90?"  "The length of Mr. Bilbo in centimeters [gesture to your crotch for this one]."
  • In movies, when a couple is dancing, why can a stranger come up and ask, "Can I cut in?"  And the other dude lets him!  That would never happen in real life.  Can you imagine the balls?  "Hey, I know you've got a lot of leg-work invested in this lady, what with the surf-and-turf and cocktails and all.  But now that you've got her softened up and drunk, I'd like a shot at her.  Do you mind?"  Get lost, dude!  Here's a 10-spot.  Go have the men's room attendant jerk you off.  You're not dancing with my date, bro!
  • When somebody farts, I like to tell them conflatulations.  Who wouldn't appreciate a little levity when they've embarrassed themselves?  Then I give them a round of applause, which I like to call my "sarcasticlap.  Take a bow, Theresa [sarcasticlapping].  Way to convert that protein matter to methane! 
  • Sometimes I worry about the recession.  I've found that I can soothe my fears by remembering that I can buy two McDoubles and a bottomless Coke at McDonald's for 3 bucks -- and a bottle of Ten High Whiskey still costs a mere $8.99.  Fuck a recession, yo. 


LBB Manifesto

I read this blog called The Chronicles of a College Girl, authored by the charming and witty Penny Lane.  I'm not sure how I found her.  But I'm glad I did.  I hang on every word she writes.  Some blogs just have that quality.  I'm not sure what it is.  You know that quality -- where you click on it the minute you see it update.  Anyway, go check her out and start following her immediately.  It's great insight into college life for 20-something women.

And get this.  She's guest-hosting my post!  I've never done this before.  I'm so darned excited.  So read me  right here! 


Sixty-five things

I got caught with my blogging bloomers down.  It's already Friday and I haven't written anything.  So I lifted this note from my Facebook account.  See, FB isn't a waste of time!  Enjoy reading 65 useless facts about me.  

1. First thing you wash in the shower?
It depends how much time I have. 

2. What color is your favorite hoodie?

3. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?
I'd do more than KISS her.

4. Do you plan outfits?
No, I'm just an innocent victim. 

5. How are you feeling RIGHT now?

6. What's the closest thing to you that's red?
My sunburn. 

7. Tell me about the last dream you remember having?
Spiders and scorpions – the usual stuff. They grow and multiply in the corners of my home and I become more and more terrified until I wake up. 

8. Did you meet anybody new today?
Yes. Moi, my new landscaper. Hola, Moi!

9.what are you craving right now?
I'm getting a hankerin' for some Kenny D's. 

10. Do you floss?
Yes. I have to floss to feel human.

11. What comes to mind when I say cabbage?
Those cute little dolls from the 1980s. 

12. Are you emotional?
I've physically assaulted 4 computer printers, 3 gaming controllers, numerous household appliances, and an unruly DMV clerk. I yell at the TV. I cuss at other drivers, and I weep at Whataburger commercials. I suppose I am. 

13. Have you ever counted to 1,000?
I've identified over 1100 personal pet peeves and hatreds. 

14. Do you bite into your ice cream or just lick it?
If I'm confident nobody's watching, I'll roll around in it. 

15. Do you like your hair?
No. But I'm thankful I still have it. 

16. Do you like yourself?
Oh, yeah. Great guy. Gave me the shirt off his own back once. 

17. Would you go out to eat with George W. Bush?
Yes. I'm a great admirer of GWB. I would not, however, go hunting with Dick Cheney. 

18. What are you listening to right now?
Psychedelic Furs on iTunes.

19. Were your parents strict?
Only when they caught me!

20. Would you go sky diving?
No. I'm not a thrill-seeker. 

21. Do you like cottage cheese?
No, which is strange, because I enjoy both cottages and cheese. 

22. Have you ever met a celebrity?
Paul McCartney. 

23. Do you rent movies often?
Yes. I have a Netflix account. 

24. Is there anything sparkly in the room you're in?
Does my personality count? 

25. How many countries have you visited?

26. Have you made a prank phone call?
Sometimes I'll call PETA and ask them if they have any good recipes for baby seal meat. 

27. Ever been on a train?
Yes. A train of thought. 

28. Brown or white eggs?
I dislike eggs. 

29.Do you have a cell-phone?
I have a sweet-ass Blackberry Pearl. 

30. Do you use chap stick?
I don't even own a pair of chaps. 

31. Do you own a gun?
I've got two guns: one on either side of my torso. 

32. Can you use chop sticks?

33. Who are you going to be with tonight?
The wife.

34. Are you too forgiving?
No. I keep a mental equivalent of the “permanent file” our teachers threatened us with in school, on each individual in my life. Too many entries in the mental file, you get the axe. 

35. Ever been in love?

36. What is your best friend doing tomorrow?
She's busy being my wife!

37. Ever have cream puffs?
Heck yeah. I eat them every chance I get. 

38. Last time you cried?
The last presidential election.

39. What was the last question you asked?
How much?

40. Favorite time of the year?

41. Do you have any tattoos?

42. Are you sarcastic?
Only in the presence of dishonesty. 

43. Have you ever seen The Butterfly Effect?
Yes. It was perhaps the worst movie I've seen. A cheap, unimaginative and immoral steaming pile of cinema. 

44. Ever walked into a wall?
That sums up my professional life nicely. 

45. Favorite color?
Caucasian. I kid, I kid. 

46. Have you ever slapped someone.

47. Is your hair curly?
Wavy and unruly. 

48. What was the last CD you bought?
Menudo: Their Greatest Hits. 

49. Do looks matter?

50. Could you ever forgive a cheater?
I'm still trying to get over the Milli Vanilli incident of 1990. 

51. Is your phone bill sky high?
No. My electric bill is getting obnoxious, though. 

52. Do you like your life right now?

53. Do you sleep with the TV on?

54. Can you handle the truth?
In small doses, yes.

55. Do you have good vision?
20/15. My vision for the future, however, isn't so good. 

56. Do you hate or dislike more than 3 people?
Between Hollywood and U.S. Congress, I hate more than 300 people. 

57. How often do you talk on the phone?
As little as possible. 

58. The last person you held hands with?

59. What are you wearing?
Running shorts, sweet-ass Pulsar Aviator wristwatch. 

60.What is your favorite animal?

61. Where was your default picture taken at?
Cook County Juvenile Detention Center, Mugshot photo, 1976.

62. Can you hula hoop?

63. Do you have a job?

64. What was the most recent thing you bought?
I bought Obama's promise that he'd keep unemployment below 8%, not raise taxes on the middle class, not socialize health care, not abandon our allies, not encourage our enemies, not explode the deficit or spend our tax money recklessly. Oops. 

65. Have you ever crawled through a window?
I've crawled through several windows of opportunity, but they didn't live up to their promises.