Gangsta Grande Thug Latte

I was walking down the street this morning when I saw a straight thug walking down the street with a Starbucks cup in hand. How do I know it was a thug, you ask? First off, dude had neck tatts. I'm talking about praying hands with his baby mama's name underneath neck tatts. Everybody knows you get those at thug graduation. And this dude graduated Magna Cum Laude. I noticed the Starbucks cup when I was admiring his knuckle tattoos that read 'Get Paper'.

The whole thing begged the question: Do thugs drink coffee? My first thought was, thugs don't drink coffee—they're not going to work. Either this guy is a bad undercover cop or he enjoys his morning cup of purple drank from a Starbucks cup. But dude was walking kinda fast—probably on his way to a robbery—so he wasn't on the purple stuff. That usually makes makes you sleepy.

So I thought again: Nefarious activities usually take place at night. With all the late night stabbings, drug-cooking parties and money-counting sleepovers, thugs probably doesn't sleep much. And when they do, it's with one eye open. You can't get a good night's sleep with one eye open. So what better place for a thug pick-me-up than Starbucks? Everybody likes pumpkin spice. And nothing says street cred like a Starbucks Member's Reward card—or one of those cardboard things they give you so you don't burn your hand. There's nothing thugnificent about burning your fingers on a hot Chai Latte. How are you gonna stack paper with burned fingertips?

So I came to the conclusion that, yes, thugs do drink coffee, which brings up another set of problems. What happens when they burn their tongue on their double shot espresso? Because, let's be honest, can you see a thug standing on the corner blowing on his coffee before he sips? NO. Most people would do that thing when they make the O-shape with your mouth and try to blow air over their tongue to cool it off. But that's soft like two flamingos having a pillow fight. What do thugs do when they burn their tongues? They certainly don't talk with that burnt-tongue speech impediment all day—The one that sounds like your tongue is heavy. That's not gangsta either. And there is certainly nothing gangsta about ordering coffee. "Yo, yo, yo, my man. Real talk, son. Lemme get that Double shot macchiato, extra sexy foam, with legs. Werd, son. That's on my motha. And lemme get one a them scones over there too. Oh, What's the name on that? Tray-Von."

A Little Caulk in Your Ass.

So I'm reading this article the other day and a couple things struck me. First was the authors use of the phrase "botched “butt enhancements” have turned women's rears into pocked “moonscapes.” That's a gem right there.
Second, how deep in a bottomless pit of poor self-esteem do you have to be to want a butt job? How much do you have to hate yourself to want to make over something that you sit on it all day? And how bad could your ass possibly be? I mean, I've seen some terrible asses, but I've never thought damn, she really needs a butt job. And if they thought their booty was that bad, why didn't they just get a pair of bootypops?
Your booty has to be an absolute tragedy to even THINK about paying thousands of dollars to have it re-done. And from the guy with NO OFFICE? Your booty has to be pretty sloppy if you're willing to overlook the fact that your surgeon has no office, and check into the HoJo around the corner to have it remodeled with caulk and duct tape. What these women needed was a self-esteem transplant—or maybe a brain makeover. I mean, where does this guy do his consultations, a gas station bathroom?
And then they're going to sue him? For what? What did they expect? He should be suing them for having unreasonable expectations. I'm sure he did the best job a guy with no license, office or proper equipment could do. I'm sure he's the best con man posing as a surgeon this side of the Mississippi. But if you fall for the old "surgery in a hotel" bit, then you get what you get. And I won't feel sorry for you. Just like I won't feel sorry if an adult gets chopped up by a guy driving a white panel van and wearing a Mustache Ride t-shirt because you hopped in when he told you he had some candy. You're a grown ass adult. Use your head. Just like when you hop in the van and realize there's not candy, at some point you have to start having some questions. Obviously these women never did that. They didn't do it when they checked into Malpractice Motel for surgery. They didn't do it when the good doctor wheeled out his equipment on a tv stand. When he used Nyquil and a handful of pills for anesthesia. Or when he opened the door wearing a tool belt with a box cutter, pliers and a caulk gun in the waistband.
A word of advice. If you don't remember a word I say on this blog (if anybody is reading this): If a doctor tells you that all his surgeries are being moved to the Holliday Inn across the street because his office is being fumigated, JUST DON'T GO. It's a setup.

Buyer Beware

I moved to New York in September. Since then I've been living with a friend until I could find my own place. If you know anything about New York you know that finding an acceptable apartment is next to impossible unless you're P-Diddy rich. And all the ones on Craigslist are great until you get to the bottom. So my advice to you people searching for NY apartments on Craigslist: just skip to the bottom of the ad.

That's where you find all the dirt. The bottom part of a Craigslist ad reads like end of a Viagra commercial. It's where you find all the stuff that makes you go, why do I want to do that again?

I've seen all kinds or ridiculousness on Craigslist ads. And I'm not talking about the freaks looking for a live-in prostitute. We're all looking out for those. I'm talking about regular people trying to rent out an apartment they know sucks by making it sound like champagne wishes and caviare dreams at the beginning when it's really a rundown crackhouse with no windows in a "good neighborhood". The heading usually reads something like AWESOME APARTMENT IN GREAT LOCATION, and has a sparkling bathroom, brand new fixtures, hardwood floors throughout, and an eat-in kitchen. But you get to the end of the ad and find out that there are no windows, you have absolutely NO use of the eat-in kitchen (but they do have a hot plate and an oven mitt)—except that you can eat in it, and you have to walk through that kitchen and five other bedrooms (but only if there's not a sock on the door) to get to the sparkling bathroom that you only have use of from 3am to 5am. But it's in a nice neighborhood, though. Don't forget that. They always seem to say that. And what the heck is a nice neighborhood? I saw a place in Bushwick that was apparently in a nice neighborhood. I came out with no cell phone, no jacket and a pit bull. I guess it's a nice neighborhood because they let me keep my underwear.

I've seen all kinds of stuff. I even saw a guy that was renting out his bathroom. Seriously. The ad said you have full use of the bathroom as your bedroom, but you had to leave when he wanted to use it. And the worst part about it is that guy has a roommate right now. People will live in ANYTHING in New York. The average jail cell is 7x10. That goes for about $800/month in SoHo. Only in New York can rent out a shelf in your closet with no windows and limited kitchen and bathroom priviledges for 800 bucks and the person thinks they got a deal.

Craigslist apartments should come with a disclaimer: "This apartment isn't for everyone, including men or women who are nursing or pregnant, or who may become pregnant, and to those who have an averse reaction to rats, roaches, mold or filth in general. Living in this apartment may cause sudden and serious side effects such as tetanus, polio, smallpox and sudden loss of sex (SLS). Many roommates in this apartment have experienced involuntary loss of cleanliness, chronic scratching, and acute and persistent loss of appetite. Typically these symptoms last for the duration of your lease. Tell your landlord if you have a condition that limits your ability to accept that you have to pay rent in a timely fashion, but that he will not fix problems in the same manner. Or if you are not ok with living under slumlord or at least not willing to shut the hell up about it. These may be signs of a serious problem called "I'm a human being" (IHB) that may require large doses of living in worse conditions like, in an abandoned building or on the side of the road in a ditch, so that you can justifiably say things like, "Eh, I've lived in worse," or "It's really not that bad." Don't let another day go by without living in an overpriced shanty. Reply to this Craigslist ad today.

New Guy Beware

A little advice for somebody starting a new job: the new guy always gets stuck being friends with the person nobody else likes. When you first start out you don't know who to stay away from. You talk to everybody. Nobody bothers to tell you to avoid the loud talker, overtalker, mean person or the one who'll invite himself to your apartment to play Magic: That Gathering. Next thing you know you've made a friend. You don't find out until two months later, when you get invited out but asked not to bring so-and-so, that they're the person nobody likes. Then it's too late. You've made a friend. And it's only because you're the only person who talks to them. Now you're stuck with them because it's too late to start being mean.

Textwalkers

Textwalkers. People who walk around town watching their phone instead of where they're going. It's a new phenomenon brought on by the accessibility of smartphones and the information they broadcast. People can't go five minutes without knowing who planted a row of corn of Farmville. This is a message for you.
I'm going to go out of my way to run into the next one of you I see walking down the street texting and not watching where you're going. I will find you. I don't care if you're all the way across the street. I'm running slap into you. And then I'm just going to keep going. You walk down the street texting with your head down like you own the sidewalk. Like I'm supposed to move out of the way because you're not paying attention. It's not my job to watch where you're going, so why should I move out of the way because you're texting? I'm just writing this for those of you that are in New York tomorrow and may find yourself walking down the street texting. I want you to know who ran you over, stepped on your iPhone and kept walking.
Thank you,
The Management

Baby Got Back?

Guys, for those of you that thought girls' undergarments and cosmetics couldn't get more ridiculous, here's something for you. Yes, panties that make girls that are flat in the back look like they have a booty. Aside from not knowing that the words booty and pop went together—sounds noisy—do girls really need to be more fake? There's already padded bras. This is just a push-up bra for your booty. Girls have fake eyelashes, fake eyes, fake boobs, fake tans, fake everything, now everybody can have a badonkadonk. As a girl, isn't that first time embarrassing enough to begin with without you having to take off a pair of panties that have a huge ass in the back? It sounds like a deterrent to me. I know If I got a girl home, we got to that point and I found I she was wearing these, I may not even make it to the bed. I may just throw her right out. For a butt man this is appalling. The booty is the final frontier. One of the few things on a woman that couldn't be fake. Girls already take their eye lashes, hair, lips, cheecks and everything else off at night. Now they're taking off their booty too? Terrible. What would Sir Mix-A-Lot say? You can do side-bends or sit-ups, but please don't lose that butt takes on an entirely different meaning.
And it's yet another reason why girls are smarter than boys. This is nothing but a ploy to make men really care about personality. I mean, if you know you're going to wake up in the morning with a girl who looks entirely different than the one you left with last night, you better give a damn about the only part of her that doesn't pop off like vacuum cleaner attachments. And when your friends see her, you better have an excuse for showing up with a girl who looks like Dan Patrick when you said she looked like Danica Patrick. "She was hot last night," isn't going to cut it anymore. You should've known it was fake. With all these press-on, glue-on, stick-on, and slide-on parts, ANY girl can look good. What's the world coming to when you can't even look at a booty to decide whether or not you're going to talk to a girl? Now we're going to have to start listening when you talk (Joking).

Do I Know You?

I was out with a couple friends from college this weekend and the worst thing happened to me. I ran into somebody from college who I "kind of" knew. You know, the ones you knew OF, but never really want to take the time to actually know or be friends with. I seem to uncover about two per weekend. It's so awkward—especially when they remember you, but you have absolutely no idea who they are. They walk over to say hello, and you're like, "Heeeeey maaaaaaan!" (those get protracted so as to buy more time to figure out who the they are, what their name is and why the hell they're talking to you.) Then you start asking questions, hoping to somehow remember one thing that's going to spark one iota of memory as to who this person is. The only problem is that the questions make it seem like you give a damn, when you could care less if they went to grad school or just got back from a small island in the Pacific where they really found themselves working for the Peace Corps. But your questions keep them talking. All the while you're looking at your warm beer getting warmer, the clock ticking towards last call and the drunk girl you were trying to talk to leaving with some fortunate soul who DIDN'T go to a rich-kid school where everybody moves to New York after graduation.
It's even worse when it's somebody you remember—but only in the sense that you remember you hated them. So you're standing there doing the question thing and it hits you, I despised you in college. And then you're really mad. Not only is your beer getting cold and your drunk girl leaving, but it's because you got caught up in a conversation with some asshole you never liked anyway. Then you like them even less. We weren't friends before, and if my beer sweats any more we'll be even less friends than that tomorrow. Going to the same college doesn't make us friends. I went to a pretty small college, so the fact that we both went there and I never knew you should say something. It was probably on purpose. And it should definitely say something if we both went there and I didn't like you (I don't make a habit of not liking people). Your post-college stories of law school, your ex-girlfriend, who I also don't remember, and how you wished we would've talked more in college are not enriching my life. Yeah, it's been five years since we graduated and I've burried the hatchet, but I still don't want to be friends. I didn't like you then and I probably wouldn't like you now. And whatever it is you hated about me, I probably haven't changed.
And then you get to the awkward ending. How do you end this oh-so-awkward conversation? Unfortunately it usually ends like this: Annoying guy you hated says, "Say man, we should definitely hang out sometime."
And you, disingenuously as possible say, "Yeaaah, man" (this part is more or less friendly depending on how drunk you are). Then there's an awkward exchange of numbers where you pretend to enter his when you're really not, only to have them ask you to call so they he'll have your number. And then you have to act like you have a new phone and haven't gotten a hang of it yet so you need to get the number again. I hate it. I wish they'd just be rude when they walk by me and not say anything. That's what I'd do to them. At least it would reinforce the hatred.