Classy!

Ahhh, I love geniuses. Especially geniuses who commit genius crimes! Like these people:

Enter Roger and Nicole, two lovely citizens from Ohio (Midwest: stand up! ). Roger and Nicole, just greedy young bucks, decided that they needed some money. Instead of working overtime, or even robbing someone or moonlighting as strippers, they decided to rob the armored car company that Roger worked for. Now, I've never committed serious crimes, but I have watched Law & Order quite a bit. So if I were to commit a serious crime, I feel like I'd be pretty well versed on how not to make stupid mistakes.

Well, Roger and Nicole clearly aren't as bright as yours truly. Though they succeeded in stealing $8.4MM by using another employee's access code, then loading up a truck with the money, it all went downhill from there. They decided to drive the truck to their new digs, stopping only once on the way: to get McDonald's. I'm sorry, but you just stole $8.4MM. At least stop at Red Lobster, or something. But nope, they got some Mickey D's, threw out their cell phones, and kept it moving. No, not to Greece. Or the Cayman Islands. Or even Miami.

They went to West Virginia, where they had a trailer all set up for them. THey had been back and forth already, stocking up on books, video games, and probably, combs for their mullets. West Virginia. If I stole that much money, I'd already have the private jet waiting for me, and thats the last anyone would hear from me. You might get a scenic postcard from "Georgina", with no return address, letting you know I'm alive, but thats about it. You would NEVER catch me in West Virginia.

I mean, you stole millions of dollars, and they only place your small mind led you was a trailer park in West Virginia? You don't deserve the money anyway! Have fun in prison!

BARACK THE VOTE!

I LOVE this family! If you're in a super Tuesday state, make sure you go out and vote!

This Ain't Right

Take a good look at the white people pictured above. They look a little bit strange, right? Just a tad? Maybe it was all those years of walking around with fabrics draped over their faces.

Those people are Prince Michael, aka Blanket, and . . . I won't pretend to know her name. But the girl is also MJ's child. Yup folks, the two people pictured above have the unfortunate destiny of being claimed by Michael Jackson, if he's still alive.

These two people came from God-knows-where, and are potentially mothered by that random white woman who was in the pictures years ago, and some unnamed, though clearly Caucasian sperm. So they don't really know who their parents are, I assume. And just when life couldn't get any stranger, here comes Michael Jackson, with his prosthetic nose, pale skin and hawaiian silky hair-plugged tresses, naming them Blanket, dangling them out of windows, speaking in a falsetto like the Dream's girl, and pretending his Black DNA could possibly have produced them.

If you ever feel sorry for yourself, if you ever go home for the holidays and think "I can't wait to get away from these lunatics", if you ever mistake your parent's quirkiness for craziness, stop and thank the Lord that you don't have to call Michael Jackson 'Dad'. Because you truly would have never had a chance. Do you think these kids will ever have friends? I mean, they might have before. 'Jackson' is a fairly standard last name, and assuming Blanket's mom was smart enough to keep 'Blanket' off his birth certificate, the kids at their private school might never have known. THen the blogs had to come along and ruin it all.

Bet you these kids have spitballs in their hair as I type. No matter how nice they may seem, no parent is going to let their kids play with Michael Jackson's children. At least, I wouldn't. There's no telling what they'd be exposed to. And life may not really ever improve from the day of their reveal on: who wants Michael, LaToya, Janet, Tito, Joe and the rest of 'em as in laws?

Alcoholics Anonymous

This morning, CNN ran a bit on George Bush speaking about addiction, and the power of faith the help heal them. I won't comment on the fact that faith hasn't helped his ultra-conservative republican buddies curb their addiction to gay escorts, but lets move on. Though I'm pretty bummed about Georgie being president all these years, his term will lend itself to numerous quote books after all the ridiculousness is said and done. That is, if Americans are still reading by the end of this year. Let us pray.

Anyway, George was addressing some group of addicts, and said the following: "I used to have a drinking problem. Once upon a time, I drank too much". Well, George, thanks for the clarification, but we didn't really need it. Generally drinking too much is what people mean when they say they have a drinking problem. Usually its not that they have trouble swallowing, or a hole in their throat or anything. I would like some clarification on one point though.

Georgie says he used to have a drinking problem. Perhaps he meant when he was in college, just a wee little rich Bush frat boy who enjoyed keg stands and joints. Or maybe he meant in high school, when he was that rich kid who took it way to far, far too soon. I know that type well. We would be like 17, and here would come Jon, whose dad ran Company X and lived in an 8-bedroom house in the hills. Jon would be high on pretty much any drug available to mankind, and would wash it all down with as many beers as possible. Jon is generally the kid who ended up in a minimum-security prison after causing some sort of drunken driving accident.

But I happen to think that Bush's problem may have began far before any of us think: in the womb. I really can't think of any other explanation for his genius. Think about it . . . mama Bush threw back a few too many glasses of wine while preggers with baby G, and thus gave America the monkey we call the President.

Coffee will make you Black!

So I happen to live in a gentrified area of Harlem. As in, when I moved in, things were nice and brown, and there is more cream in my coffee everyday. Suffice it to say that I like my coffee black, but I'll move on.

Anywhoo, the Rite Aid below my building came after the cream did, since you know, black coffee doesn't need conveniences like pharmacies and UPS stores. Nope, black coffee just needs bodegas and check cashing spots. Oh yeah, and little stalls to buy phone cards, white tees and weaves. Right. Back to the point. So I grew up in the 'burbs, and I know how things are supposed to go in drugstores.

In drugstores, everything except the stuff behind the register is self-serve. Candy, batteries, toasters, razors, apple juice. Not so in my oppressive, caught-in-the-midst of the "new Harlem Renaissance" Rite Aid. Not only do you have to step over the big blue bins of product that block just about anything you could possibly want, you also have to go ask the clerks if you want some of the simplest things. One time, I needed a charger for my cell phone. A cheap, $20 universal charger. I found it, right up front, and tried to take it off the rack, but it was stuck. Confused, I asked the cashier what was wrong. "Oh, you need the magnetic key for that". Ummm, okay. So now cell phone chargers are akin to loud leather jackets in City Blue stores in hood malls? You're really going to tie them down so I don't steal them?

Maybe. I let that slide. I've seen crackheads selling phone chargers before, so maybe they have a point. But then today, I needed a personal trimmer to keep my sideburns under control. Quick trip to the Rite Aid downstairs, right? Not when there is still some black coffee in the cup. Nope. You know black coffee likes that five-finger discount. Once there is enough cream in the coffee, maybe everything will be self-serve. But for now, one can only purchase a $10 personal trimmer by finding a listless employee to remove it for you. And I highly doubt that there is a black market for personal trimmers .

I want a famous face

Yesterday I happened upon a rerun of one of the scariest shows ever: MTV's I Want a Famous Face. In case you don't remember the show, random people would have excessive plastic surgery in an effort to look like whatever famous person they idolized. Frightening, right?

So yesterday, the episode was about a girl who wanted to look like Britney Spears. Now, note that the show was produced back in Britney's heyday, before the marriages, the babies, the divorce and the meltdowns. Anyway, this chick already slightly resembled Britney, but wanted to look more like her, and to be like her as well. So here she went, ruining her credit and dignity, having several surgeries, starving herself, and even taking stripper lessons.

Little did she know that she should have practiced meeting deadbeat PWT, birthing and neglecting kids, going to public restrooms without her shoes and wearing visible hair weave plugs. But in all honestly, what worried me about this show was the lack of psychological help that was offered to these people. I'm rather concerned that MTV found it appropriate to document these people's sicknesses (other subjects included a transvestite who wanted to look like Jennifer Lopez) and act like they didn't need immediate and intensive mental assistance. But then again, these are the same people who produced Fanatic, the show were a black girl once met with some random pop star--I think it was Jessica Simpson-- and happily talked about how she had dyed her hair blonde and was bald, but it all okay, as long as she got to meet Jessica.

Here come the loons

I always knew something was wrong with Kansas, and this confirms it. Now, I'll admit. When I heard Heath Ledger had died, I immediately thought of Clint Eastwood, and while I was sad, I was like "Ehh, he lived a fairly long life. Not so devastating . . .". Well, after being shamed by my much more pop-culture savvy friend, I learned that Heath Ledger was in fact 28, and the father of a toddler, making the situation a lot more tragic.

Anyway, the guy is dead, right? And here come the crazy people. And yup, they're from Kansas. And yes, they're radical Christians. Crazy, Christian, and from Kansas. A very bad combination indeed. And you thought Islamic Extremists in Fallujah were to blame for all of the world's problems!

So these crazy people in Kansas sat around an decided that because Heath Ledger played a gay man in a movie, he doesn't deserve the respect one would afford any other dead person, or even, say, a dead laboratory rat. They 've decided to protest his funeral during a family-building outing with other members of the Westboro Baptist Church. Because thats what all good Christians do, right? Launch graveside assaults against mourning individuals because the deceased had the nerve to play a gay actor in a movie. God Bless America!

This is what one of the progressive church members had to say:

"He (Ledger) got on that big screen with a big, fat message: God is a liar and it's OK to be gay". Did he really? Or did he get on that big screen and say his lines from the script? I don't recall Heath Ledger saying that God is a liar, or that its okay to be gay, but I do think that its NOT okay to be that crazy, and meet up with a bunch of other crazy folks in the name of religion.

Just my thoughts though. As well, I guess they might protest my funeral too. For shame.

Pump your breaks, Amy

I'm having some trouble with the fact that Amy Winehouse now allegedly smokes crack. I'm pretty liberal, and was with it when she sang about not going to rehab, and even when she was spotted roaming the streets of London looking like someone who froths at the mouth on the C train, but I can't support the crack smoking.

I've actually met someone who smoked crack. Well, I'm sure we all have. But I was actually friends with someone who smoked crack, unbeknownst to me. I overheard her trading drug stories with a mutual friend, and listened as she said, "oh yeah, I've smoked crack before". Now, she had a very strong Scottish accent, so I wasn't sure that I had heard her correctly'. I was definitely not part of the conversation, perhaps because I couldn't run off a laundry list of drugs I'd tried, but I interrupted anyway. "Excuse me, did you just say you smoked crack?" "yeah, i did. it was awesome" she said. Errrr, no thanks. I don't smoke crack, homey.

And I wonder. Who smokes crack? I had always hoped that everyone that currently smoked crack did so because they got addicted back in the 80s, before people understood how addictive it was. I had hoped that all those poor, lost crackheads I saw just couldn't withstand rehab, so here they were, in 2008, scratching invisible sores, wearing tattered rags, and talking about how they just got out of the hospital and needed money for food (while wearing their hospital band from 1998 as evidence).

But nope, some people just don't know any better. Stacy the Scottish druggie was one. And Amy Winehouse is another. Crack clearly kills, people. But I guess that some people don't care. I guess that some people are unfazed by the shells of people that stick their heads in a phone booth outside the bodega, only for smoke to rise above it, thinking they're fooling us all into thinking that the phone is just smoking as they talk on it.

Free OJ!

You know what? OJ should just up and move to Mars. Clearly he won’t ever get a minute of peace here on Earth. You know how I know that? Because you OJ haters can barely contain your anger right now, and I didn’t even say anything.

I didn’t even say that, yeah, OJ might have killed Nicole Brown, but get over it. A black man may have killed a white woman. A rich black man. A rich, ig’nant black man. Say it with me, haters: A rich, ig’nant black man may have killed a white woman. But he was acquitted. Years ago. And that’s more than we can say for several murderers of random black people. That’s more than we can say for the people who lynched Emmit Till and countless other black men. But, honestly, that’s not even relevant. Or on the same level. And as far as we know, thanks to the unequivocally fair justice system of the U.S of A., OJ is a free and innocent man.

So tell me then, why I’m watching CNN morning news, and right smack in the midst of important stories, the Soledad look-alike starts talking about OJ Simpson leaving jail last night. I think he may have been there a day or so, for something inconsequential. Then they showed a picture of OJ leaving jail. Somebody please tell me why the paparazzi follows Orenthal James around. I guess for the same reason that the fact that OJ stole some of his own sports paraphernalia is front-page news. Because America loves to hate OJ.

OJ is the symbol of everything that went ‘wrong’ when the slaves were freed. Look how fast he can run! And how strong he is! And he likes white women! And lives in a mansion, bringing the property tax down! And he’s handsome! A millionaire! And back to that white woman thing—he likes to kill them! Well, so what. Spare me, haters. Can OJ live?

That Guido Smell

So I’m at the club the other night, with my drink and my two step, wondering why I had been coerced into being there, and trying to drink the edge off it all. It was a midtown, New York City club, so all of the usual annoyances were in full swing: the DJ that tried to hard to cater to the mixed crowd, alternating “Living on a Prayer” with “Push It” and “From the window to the wall” (or whatever that horrible song is called), the wanna-be video hoes whipping their weaves in my eyes, the abundance of black male WWLs (reference: Rangel post, and the point at which I digressed), a specific wigger turned Penn graduate who I avoid at all costs, the infiltration of the bridge and tunnel folk, and the general corniness that is weekend crowds.

But I’m most thankful for is the west-village white girls, who were wildin out in the most unprofessional manner. Besides being on the verge of death by alcohol poisoning and ‘freak dancing’ with their men of choice, they were in full snob mode, as disgusted, if not more, with the crowd than I was. Whenever a wanna-be video ho, or bridge and tunnel-er, or even, the Penn wigger tried to trespass into their space, they would look completely revolted, and spill their drinks all over their Louboutins in an effort to get away. I watched one particularly amusing interaction, when a man who I would guess was from Staten Island tried to show off the moves he’d picked up from MTV’s The Grind as a child. Aggressively bobbing and jerking, and even doing a little spin, he was pretty much unconcerned with whether or not she was interested.

Well, she wasn’t. She was completely horrified, and ran into the arms of another guy, who looked a little more monied and a lot less bridge and tunnel. “ohmigod! HELP me! Ugh! I can’t stand him!”. Her friend laughs, and hugs her, and says something I can’t hear. Here comes the highlight of my night. Safe and sound in her with her friend, the girl looks over her shoulder at the guy who had tried to dance with her. She looks back at her friend, and was like “ugh! He’s sooo disgusting! And he totally had that, like, Guido smell”.

Dead wrong.

Pat your weave, Charlie

I have to pause this morning to do something very important. Publicly shame Congressman Charlie Rangel. I would also publicly shame Bill and Hillary, but they’re not even worth my time.

The dealings of this political election thus far have pretty much shown people’s asses. Whether it is Hillary Clinton demonstrating not only her inability to appear human and connect with voters, but also displaying just how desperate she and her has-been husband area, or black people disappointing me. Now, I’m not saying you HAVE to support Obama as a black person. But I am saying that unless you have good reason not to, why wouldn’t you?

Oh yeah, that’s right. The same reason why some black people don’t want to be seen by black doctors. The same reason why, when a black man was elected mayor of her all black suburb, a girl I knew said “I don’t know, I just don’t know if he can do it”. And the same reason why pathetic black men will argue for hours and list reason after reason as to why they are open to dating non-black women (I once argued with two losers for 4 hours about this, so I wont get started on the subject). But you know what? I’m used to that, and as sad as it is, its to be expected. I mean, I’ve never witnessed any other race of men sit around and list their thousand reasons for seeking women outside their race, but again, I digress. I understand there are social and political roots to black American self-hatred, so please don’t hit me with the “but you just don’t understand . . .”

Anyway, moving on. Here we are in 2008, with Barack Obama campaigning to run for president. And here with are in 2008, with people like Charlie Rangel, with the conked ridiculousness that is his hair and blind lust after the Hillary, and her husband, ‘the first black president’ (rolling my eyes) Clinton. I’ve ignored the black politicians who have gone on CNN and declared the danger of supporting a black candidate because of his race. As I said before, I am not advocating anybody support anybody else on the basis of racial identity alone. But I don’t think you need to be up on CNN talking about it. Just endorse who you believe in, and move on. Trust me, you’re not gaining any points in racist white people’s minds by saying something like that.

Back to the permed negro Rangel. This whole conversation about Obama and Clinton sparring over race has really annoyed me, firstly because I think the racial undertones are pretty one-sided (Clinton), secondly, it’s a distraction from the real issues that need to be talked about (you know the foreclosure crisis, the credit crunch, the economy in general, healthcare, education, Iraq, blah, blah, blah), and three, and most importantly—it will create further polarization on the basis of race, making Obama the “black (read: bad) guy”. So here comes this negro (who, admittedly, has done a lot of good work), jumping in the debate, and vehemently calling Obama’s remarks “absolutely stupid” on NY1. Maybe Rangel just wanted some press. Maybe he was in a bad mood because he had burns on his scalp from his perm. Who knows.

But I have to shame him for perpetuating the conversation on race, for jumping into the Obama/Clinton MLK/President Johnson conversation, and for sitting there with a conk and being the prototypical crab in a barrel.

I mean, you don’t see Eddie Murphy talking sh it about Bobby Brown, do you?

God Bless America

God Bless America. Especially the middle of it. Just be thankful that you’re not there. And if you are, try to get out.

I say this not to disparage the folks who keep this country going. Life ain’t easy out there. Not for the Wal-Mart or factory workers, and not for the people with money either. I mean, I remember all the rich kids I knew growing up having severe, grown-ass-people problems by the time they were like 12. You know, the usual: anorexia, alcoholism, body dysmorphic disorder. Teenage sluttery. No self esteem. Unfortunately, the list goes on and on. But aside from the drugs, soap opera addictions and small-town mentality, the middle of America is allegedly a wonderful place to raise children. Allegedly.

At this point, I have to question that concept. Its what every person in middle America says in an effort to defend themselves/their parents/their friends: “but it’s a great place to raise kids”. No, actually, its not. I’ve found that people who were born in middle America stay in middle America. And that’s where the trouble begins. When I go back to my own enclave of middle American hell, I’m greeted by all the high-school era cool kids, who are now relegated to working at the local call center, and picking their kids up from day care on the way home. The people who went away to college also like to come back, to move in down the street from their parents, build their McMansions with their unfaithful spouses, and make the ‘other people’ in town feel bad. Its rather lovely.

And the ‘other people’? Keep them in your prayers. By the time they’re like 28, their measure of excitement is so tainted that the sickest things make them euphoric. Case in point: a friend, who also hails from middle America, was on her friend from high school’s facebook page. The friend’s name is Cerenity, but that’s deserves another post altogether, so I’ll pretend that her parents didn’t name her that. Anyway. Her facebook status read: “Cerenity is happy that she was able to buy a pair of $36 capris for 99 cents at Fashion Bug. So excited!”. Umm, what?

a) Fashion bug still exists?
b) You shop there?
c) You are so excited that you got capris (in the middle of winter, nonetheless) for 99 cents that you updated your facebook status?


Unprofessional.

Weekend at The Check Cashing Joint

When I was younger, I was pretty into the movie Weekend at Bernie’s. I’m not particularly into dead people or anything, but something about Bernie all propped up in sunglasses, having the time of his life, appealed to me.

So I was overjoyed when I heard about the two men who wheeled their dead friend into a check-cashing place, all dressed up with nowhere to go, except, oh that’s right—around the corner to help his friends get his last $350 dollars in order to live it up a bit before his funeral. There are a few fantastic elements to this story. The first being, these guys actually tried to cash their dead friend’s social security check without bringing him in with them, but the clerk told them that the payee had to be present. So, in true celebration of those “G is for Gangsta” tshirts you can get at Urban Outfitters, they went back home, dressed up their naked friend (he died nude), put him in an office chair, and brought him back to the store. You read that right. They put him in an office chair. Nope, not a wheelchair. Who knows where they got the office chair. Maybe they borrowed it from a neighbhor or something. At any rate, these two fools pushed a dead man past hundreds of people in midtown New York City, rolled up in the check cashing place, but unfortunately, were arrested before they could make off with their riches.

The second fantastic element is that the two friends acted really shocked when the cop who confronted them announced that their friend was dead. They said something along the lines of “oh my God! He’s gone?”. Right. At that point, it’s too late. You clearly were up to something when you tried to cash your friend’s check. You obviously were up to something when you told the clerk you’d bring him in, then wheel a lifeless body down a crowded sidewalk in an office chair. They should have taken some time to sober up and rethink their plan before proceeding.


The third fantastic element, and actually, my favorite part, is that, this actually is pretty funny, assuming the dead guy enjoyed practical jokes. Aside from it being wrong and disgusting, think about it: who else gets to die and then play that kind of practical joke? And you know, lets not judge. Maybe the dead guy would have been all for it, and maybe he’s in heaven right now, upset that his friends couldn’t cash that check, buy some gin and juice, and go to his funeral with smiles on their faces.

Missing Child!

She's black, so you won't see her on CNN or MSNBC. But I'll discuss that another day.

Her name is Adriana Warwell, and here are her stats:

DOB: Nov 21, 1997
Missing: Nov 24, 2007
Age Now: 10
Sex: Female
Race: Black/Hisp
Hair: BrownEyes: Brown
Height: 147 cm (4'9")
Weight: 34 kg (75 lbs)
Missing From:MISSOURI CITY TX United States

Here is a link to more information, including who you should contact if you have any information:

http://missingkids.com/missingkids/servlet/PubCaseSearchServlet?act=viewPoster&caseNum=A0801001&orgPrefix=TXCH&searchLang=en_US

Spread the word!

Get Your Life Together!

The other day, I met a young man, who seemed to be a 6 out of 10 on the normal meter. I can only give him a 6 because his shirt was a bit too 90s-baggy, and his dancing was overenthusiastic and somewhat stripper-esque. Needless to say, I wasn’t impressed. I like to deal with 8s or better, so this guy wasn’t ever really an option.

Well, this 6 made a crucial mistake that plummeted him down the ranks to a 2 or less. After observing his behavior, I concluded that if he had the audacity to ask for my contact information, he’d receive an email at best, and a fake number at the worst. You see, an email is a step above: its actually real contact information, and if I’m feeling particularly euphoric or philanthropic, I just might answer it. A fake number, on the other hand, is solely a guarantor of my personal safety. I’ve met many a closeted thug in my young heyday who would say something along the lines of “alright, I’m gonna call you now to make sure they number is real” with a menacing look in their eyes. I’d either run, or slap my head and be like “whoops! Just changed my number, I must have given you the old one!”. I don’t live by the gun, and I don’t expect to die by it either.

Anywhoo, after yapping up a good game of having an online company with his ex-girlfriend, buying some drinks and working my nerves, he finally did it. He asked for my number. I told him I would not be able to give that to him, but I would give him my email address. He froze. “But I don’t have an email address”, he responded, arrogantly flicking his toothpick around his mouth. “I’m sorry?” I said. Because I could not have possibly heard him correctly. He didn’t just say that he doesn’t have an email address. “I don’t have an email address, but I should probably get one, because they’re free, right?”. I didn’t respond. I just shook my head, took his phone, and started entering my email address in his address book. In actuality, this was perfect! If you don’t have an email address in 2008, you’ll probably never have one, unless you’re an infant or toddler. “well, when you get one, email me!” I said. He gave me a deadpan look and was like “but wait, you’re not going to give me your number then? I don’t have an email address.”.

That was the final straw. I was tired of trying to tap out my info on his old-school phone anyway. Get a smartphone and an email address. I snapped the phone shut, looked at him, and was like “no, I’m not going to be able to do that. And how exactly do you run your online business if you don’t have an email address?”. His response? “Over the phone”.

Game over.

PSA: Don't Eat This on a Date

Recently, I went on a date with an unfortunate lad who made all the wrong decisions. In fact, he’ll probably be the subject of quite a few posts. And to clarify, I wouldn’t necessarily call it a date, but for hesitation of divulging details about my life, and lack of a better word, I’ll call it that.

Anyway, I opted for a delicious breakfast of corned beef hash, scrambled eggs, and Johnny Cake. My friend opted for the same. However, the two fools we were with ate some of the most “I’m not getting lucky tonight” food a man could eat. Not that they were getting lucky at all. Quietly, the fact that they were even eating with us was more a testament to the fact that we’d had a few drinks, but that was about all the liberty we were willing to take, liquored up as we may have been. So man #1 orders something strange, like stewed sheep tongue or something. I’m not knocking anyone’s cultural foods, but please don’t eat sheep tongue the first time you meet a woman. It’s inappropriate.

However, man of the year on the other side of the table took the cake. He looked at the menu, closed it, smiled at the waiter, and ordered tuna salad. TUNA SALAD? You mean to tell me you just ordered tuna salad, and you’re sitting next to me? And you expect to have a conversation? Unprofessional. I don’t care how much you like tuna fish: eat it at home, and consume several gallons of mouthwash after you do, please. So, ignoring the look of shock on my face, this fool got his tuna and started to eat it. And that was when my stomach started to turn. Attempts to make conversation were met with my scrunched up face and look of disgust. Actually, that was only the first attempt at conversation. All subsequent ones were met by the back of my head, as I turned away from his breath to keep myself from retching. After that, I couldn’t wait to get away from him, and couldn’t sleep for fear of having nightmares of his breath. As I said, he wasn’t getting anything more than my voicemail to begin with, but now he won’t even get that.

So fellas, if you ever want to sabotage a date, get back at someone you don’t like, or just act a fool, order Tuna Salad on a date and try to talk to the girl next to you.