Dear Evil Discussor... How's lunch?

Horrible, thanks. Just got back from picking up a chopped salad. Which is enough of a strain on the emotions and psyche as it is. The lineup is always tremendous, and not only that, but there's the fact that I'm lining up for a chopped salad. Which, even at my age, is something I haven't completely come to grips with. Call it an identity issue or a case of mild to awful insecurity, but when I hear myself ordering a chopped salad, I even want to make fun of myself. It's just something I haven't gotten over. Salad is something you DON'T want to eat. Not something you, in any way, desire to eat of. Because it's something that generally TASTES HORRIBLE. And besides, it's FOR THE LADIES. Any dude would rather be sinking his teeth into a greasy bacon cheeseburg without a fucking doubt, and really, when ordering a salad, is just succumbing to societal pressures to turn himself into a lady boy of some kind. But anyways, once in a while, I succumb. Mostly for the sake of anyone who ever has to have any encounter with my belly, be it topless or shirted, whether on the beach, on the street, in the office, on my desk, wherever, anywhere, everywhere. It's a little baby belly, but a belly no less. So anyways, when I do succumb, when I decide to go for it, to take that high diving leap into a crispity bed of half romaine half iceberg, I need said salad to be tasty. No, delicious. No, perfect and perfectly deliciously delectably delightful! It has to taste at least a quarter as good as a greezy slice of meatball pizza might, albeit a greezy slice of meatball pizza that instead of meatballs and pizza, is made up of some sort of earthy-tasting leaf and the most flavorless and innocuous as possible vegetables, such as cucumbers, green peppers, and more cucumbers. If it doesn't taste at least an eighth as good as something good tasting tastes, I might freak out. I might impale myself on my fork and throw my salad at you and get the fuck out of saladtown forever.


Upsettingly, there was a new salad lady behind the salad counter today. And I could see it in her eyes she was in way over her head. She was frightened. And so was I. And the whole time in line I was thinking "pleeeeaase don't stick me with her, please deliver me to one of the old pros who knows just the right amount of dressing and how to chop it just right." She was only one of the eight salady salad makers, so my chances were good, right? Wrong, bitchpants. Of course, it's only right that I should end up in the newbie's clumsy salad hands. And thus, with a totally underchopped and overdressed chunk of salad. A soggy piece of poo for the low price of eighteen dollars or however much.

I should've said something you say. Stopped her and her feeble salad making ways dead in its tracks? Jumped the counter and pulled the overflowing bottle of dressing out of her dangerous clutches? Grabbed the chopping knife out of her horrible novice palms and showed her how to chop like she meant it? Yelled at her and belittled her til she cried or beckoned the manager or until other kindler gentler customers tackled me to the ground and forcibly restrained me until the proper authorities could arrive?

But I couldn't. I couldn't really tell her how to make my salad right without sounding like a huge asshole. Firstly, I already look like a huge asshole for ordering a salad in the first place, right, cause only assholes order salads, especially of the chopped variety. And secondly, I mostly reserve being a huge asshole for this here blog, where no one knows me or sees me and I can hide and conspire in the safety blanket of anonymity. (In my other, "realer" life, I'm actually a tad more meek and a lot less wanker-like, but keep it to yourself, Doucheface.)

So now what? Now I'm left with a wet-ass big-bite salad. And it's just taking my afternoon in the wrong direction. And all was going so well. I'm gonna have to salvage this day somehow.

Any ideas?

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What did you do over the long weekend?

Not much. Bought a pair of pants. A nice pair of pants. A really nice pair of pants actually. Slacks, really. Took me a long time to find them. Almost too long. A couple of days, here and there, over time, going after work, looking for just the right pair. Something formal yet casual yet summery yet spring-like. Then I found them.

Isn't it funny how much time one spends looking for just the right pair of pants, or searching for that specific ingredient, or trying to find the perfect hairdresser, or seeking out that forgotten song, or writing that line just right, or whatever it is you might spend time doing, when in the end we all just die?

I suppose the time could be better spent.

But then again, how well would it be spent without the right pair of pants?

Probably not too well at all.

So, yeah. I bought pants. What did you do?

Yours,
E.D.

Related post: Dear Evil Discussor... How do you feel about pants?

Dear Evil Discussor... Do you know who's wearing these grey New Balance? They were crapping in the stall next to me.

Good question. But, honestly, no, I don't know.

But here's what I do know. There are three stalls in the bathroom by me. Now, obviously, I, as any insanely intelligent person like myself would, go for one of the end stalls. You needn't even be as smart as me to realize that. It's just plain common sense. Only sharing a wall with one stall makes more sense than having neighbors on both side, right? Of course. But sometimes, every once in a while, people take the middle stall. See, they think they're being all smart and all. Using the old reverse psychology, that because the middle stall is less popular, it is less used and therefore cleaner. It's the "when eating at a restaurant, hold the coffee mug with your left hand so as to drink from the less used side of the cup" mentality. They're real smart, right? No. Fuck no. They're not smart. They're dumb. Dumb dumbasses. Dumb dumb dumby dum dums. And totally effing crazy! You're totally over-thinking it, middle stall beeotchskies! Cause what ends up happening is, you sacrifice some private crapping space for an insignificantly cleaner stall! But good for you. Stay out of my end stalls, buddy buddies. All the better for me.

But yeah, that doesn't really help you with your question, does it? But so what? I can't speak my mind here? It's my blog, bitchpants. Anyways, what do you think I am? Some sort of soothsayer? Some sort of Criss Angel, Mindfreak? Yes, I am a crazy brained madman, a smart-ass smartypants with powers of sight and smell and sense far greater than those of an average human being. But still, I don't know who's shoes those are. I don't even know where you work. Look, all I can say is, I'll keep on the look out. And good luck with your search.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is this live re-enactment of the 1st level of Super Mario Bros the greatest accomplishment ever accomplished by man?

By far and away, yes. Man's greatest feat, albeit, with some audio difficulties.

The hours of painstaking practice and rehearsal!
The unbridled ambition!
The pure audacity and bold-headedness!
The unstoppability of man's desire!
See, I told you! When you put your mind to it, you can do anything, pal!
This, my friends, is Man in his finest hour.
Man with a capital M, not a little baby lower case one.
This is Man living the dream.
Living life to its fullest.
Living as if he were Mario, the Italian plumber.

E.D.

WATCH SUPER MARIO LIVE

Dear Evil Discussor... Why do you love it so much when people just miss the subway?

Because. I love it. I love it I love it I love it I love it. I love when you see them racing down the stairs, huffing and puffing, hope-filled and wide-eyed, such promise, such longing, such potential for an ideally timed and perfectly planned subway trip, and just as they get there, those doors bing and close, right before their outstretched arms. And they stand there, in disbelief, sighing, and panting, and fuming, and praying that the Conductor will have but an ounce of humanity hidden somewhere behind his burly exterior, and offer them one last tiny speck of hope, one fragment of a glimmer of a glimpse of an opportunity, one teensy weensy chance to salvage this rapidly deteriorating day, and open those doors just a sliver of an inch, so they can ram their arm in and pry their way into the sweet safe innards of the subway car, knowing that all is right and fair and just in the universe, and that they've been saved from hopelessly waiting in disgust and shame and bitter bitterness and embarassment for the next train to arrive.

But he doesn't. No. Because, like me, he loves it too. He loves their misery. And we laugh together. The Conductor and me. We laugh heartily. Not out loud. That would be weird. No, we hide our laughter. And then we go and blog about it. Well, I do. He probably doesn't. He has to conduct the train.

Always,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... When you're rinsing off shampoo, do you go in head-first or back-first?

I go head-first. Of course I go head-first. Cause that's the manly man way. Backing in is for pansies and daints. And taking the shower head off the wall like this guy? That's just ludicrous and actually, plain offensive. You've gotta throw yourself in headlong with abandon. Without a thought or care given to caution. Do I worry that searing hot water might scald my face? No. Or worse, that the shampoo might run in my eyes and cause slight irritation? Fuck no. I give myself over to the powers of the shower. It's not a bath! It's a fiery baptism! Alright, well, I guess it is kind of a bath I suppose. Anyways, I let the water run down my chiseldly ripply hot hot man bod, and soak myself all sexy and masculine-like just like the guy from the Irish Spring commercials. Without the barrel and the outdoors and the giggling girls part, that is. Well, sometimes there are giggling girls. Only they're not girls. They're me. Giggling cause the shower feels so damn good. And that makes me giggly.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What the fuck, Chuck?

Yeah, Chuck. What the fuck?

Always,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Does it bother you that your initials are the same as erectile dysfunction?

Now that you brought it up, Copyranter, yes. Yes it does.



So much so, in fact, that I am right now considering changing my name entirely.





There. I considered it. And decided against it. Because, you know what? My initials might be the same as that horrible bad peeny problem, but they're also the same as Electric Dancer. Elegant Diner. Epicurious Designer. Episcopal Druid. Epitome of Dastardliness. Even-handed Dope-fiend. Everlastingly Dashing. Eclectic Doll collector. Energetic Doomsdayer. Everlastingly Dashing again. Extra Deadly. And, fuck, those are all the ones I can think of. You'd think I'd be able to come up with more. After all, I am brilliant. But I can't. Cause my head is soft right now. So soft. Need rest.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What's up?

Just hangin'. Doing my thing. Rocking out. Hanging loose. Doing it doggie-style and everything. Chilling. Relaxing. Chillaxing. Banging on the beatbox. Keeping faith alive. Dreaming big dreams. Dancing with the stars. Skating with the stars. Skating with some dancers. Loving life. Taking er easy. Giving her onions. Fizzling and beshizzling. Easing up. Ramping up. Touching base.
Hangin' with Mr. Cooper.

WUT UP WIT U?

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Who let the dogs out?

Who?

Who? Who?


I let the dogs out.

What do you want? They were barking.


I'll give you a moment to stop laughing and get back up on your chair. Take your time.

Yes, it's true. That was most likely the funniest little joke, or humor piece, if you prefer, ever read or written on a blog. And it's no coincidence. Seeing as I am the most hilarious blogster to ever hilariously operate a hilarious blog, pulling my bloggy strings from behind your monitor, using only the keyboard, its keys, and my cunning.

It's no wonder people often refer to me as The Wizard of Blogz. Or, of course, Dr. Blogenstein. And even, sometimes, for whatever reason, Bilbo Bloggins.


Bye for now,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... How do you feel about underscores (_) ?

Funny you should ask. Cause I have some pretty strong feelings about underscores. Underscores are tremendously sucky. If anyone's got an email with an underscore in it, I'm sorry, but you lose biggy big time.

Wouldn't you hate having to always say to people "My email is doofus underscore johnson at shithole dot com" or something to that effect?

I would. I would hate that. I would hate that so much that I would stop giving people my email. Or maybe I'd just make up an email address and tell people to email me there. Either way, I wouldn't be receiving any emails. And that would be sad. Cause I like emails. I just don't like underscores.


Yours always and forever,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Did you just spend another morning feverishly rewriting the lyrics to Mambo #5?

Yes, but like always, only the choruses. I'm too good for the verses. Besides, who needs them?

I like to let Sir Lou Bega lead with the first chorus. Then I take it from there.


A little bit of Monica in my life
A little bit of Erica by my side
A little bit of Rita is all I need
A little bit of Tina is what I see
A little bit of Sandra in the sun
A little bit of Mary all night long
A little bit of Jessica here I am
A little bit of you makes me your man

(speeding up now)

A little bit of Monica blah blah blah
A little bit of Erica doobie doo
A little bit of Rita up my bum
A little bit of Tina buckle my shoe
A little bit of Sandra touch my nuts
A little bit of Mary tickle my nards
A little bit of Jessica what the fuck
A little bit of you fuck fuck fuck fuck

(faster! faster!)

A little bit of Rita you're a douche
A little bit of Wendy douchey douche
A little bit of David fucky malucky
A little bit of Bernie on my knee
Bernie, Bernie, get off of my knee
Please get off you're hurting me
What the fuck, Bernie, get off, man
A little bit of this and that's the end!



If you have a Mambo #5 line you've been working on yourself, please, do share.

That's all,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why do I love Sarah Nussbaum?

Here's a question posted by an obviously smitten anonymous poster. And here's my answer.

Because.
Because she turns your crank, boy-o.
Because she makes you feel all gushy inside.
Because she's hotter than hot.
Because her sister's hot too.
Because she prefers to eat at Taco Bell over anyplace else.
Because she can drink you under the table if she wanted to.
Because when she passes, you get a tingle tween the knees.
Because sometimes, at the right angle, you can see through her shirt.
Because she never wears clamdiggers, capris, culottes, or any sort of non-full length pant.
Because she's read more books than you.
Because she doesn't have a Blackberry or Palm Pilot.
Because she's got a nice chunk of cash in a Preferred Money Market Savings account.
Because sometimes her hair is straight and sometimes its all curly.
Because her cell phone ring is the first few bars of Kashmir.
Because she's never worn a pant suit.
Because in junior high she had boobs before any other girl.
Because you see those boobs every night in your dreams.
Because she makes a killer lasagna.
Because she converts that dull aching pain in your belly into butterflies.
Because she's Mindy to your Mork. Spock to your Kirk. Sundance Kid to your Butch Cassidy.
Because she doesn't mind getting dutch ovened. In fact, she kind of likes it.
Because she refuses to eat mayonnaise.
Because her favorite train is the F train.
Because she smells like rainbows and rosebuds. The chocolate kind.
Because she doesn't say "like" a lot.
Because, when she was a kid, she used to cut out Absolut Vodka ads and hang them on her wall.
Because she doesn't put sour cream in her seven layer dip.
Because sometimes she walks around her apartment bottomless like Juliane Moore in Shortcuts.
Because no matter where you look you think of something that makes you think of her.
Because she's got the tiniest little toes in all of toetown.
Because she wouldn't even care if you wrote a stupid-ass blog.
Because she doesn't even exist.
Because you're so dumb and she's so smart.
Because you've seen her belly button and that's enough.
Because everyone's in love with Sarah Nussbaum.
Because she's fucking Sarah Nussbaum, that's why.


Yours,
E.D.


And now, a question for all of my dear readers. Why do you love Sarah Nussbaum?