This friendly neighborhood fella goes by the nickname, "The Commissioner," and is a regular on the streets of the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He resides in a place that used to be predominately Jewish and Italian, but has seen an influx of various races. No matter what the topic - he has a strong opinion. You can throw political correctness out the window. The Commissioner tells it like it is and with little to no transition from topic to topic...
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Did someone take a sharpie and draw a line above your eye? What is that? Aren’t eyebrows tiny hairs that grow across the top of the eye? You must be one of those real high maintenance chicks. Holy shit! You’re a guy? As one of my favorite comedians, Artie Lange says, “This whole generation is a bunch of fruits.”
Listen, I’m not saying you should grow those things out ala Martin Scorsese, but at least maintain some sort of human eyebrow consistency after a trim. I’m looking at you and I’m thinking a few things:
1) Are you a clown?
2) Which part of Jersey are you from?
3) Or maybe one of those places north east of the city…Queens, Long Island, whatever…
4) Seriously, are you a clown?
5) Were your eyebrows bothering you so much that you had to have them surgically removed and replaced with a dark black line?
6) Why am I even obsessing over this? Can you please just give me the coffee I ordered and I’ll be on my way…
I think at the very least there should be some sort of measurement guidelines as to how much eyebrow one can actually chop off. Of course nobody wants to see a unibrow – we’re not Eastern European here. But, the eyebrow should at least match up with the ends of each eyeball. Just give me that. Can we work with that? Sometimes I feel like I’m looking at hyphens over people’s eyes. Are you trying to work on your grammar? (old man joke I know.)
The moral of the story – I’m not that angry with you and your eyebrows. I just consider you inferior and a moron. No big deal. Now let me go trim my unibrow so I don’t look like an asshole.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
If you think Charlie Sheen is a scumbag on his hit show, TWO AND A HALF MEN, then you haven’t been keeping up with his real life antics. Then again, if you’re watching TWO AND A HALF MEN, you probably don’t have the best taste in programming anyway. Okay, there’s an occasional funny joke per season. But, this guy is unreal.
Just the other day I was listening to Howard Stern, as I regularly do in order to stay alive. (Please re-sign at the end of the year or I may die!) Stern just so happened to have Denise Richards in his studio. She was being flirty, hot, and a tad slutty. But, it was all in fun and there was no mention of what she had been through the previous night. Her ex, Sheen, had tagged along for her New York City trip with the kids. He decided to check into the room across the hall from her and the kids at the Plaza Hotel. What a nice father. The kids were staying in some ridiculous,” Hey, look how wealthy we are childrens’ suite.” While Charlie prepped his, “Hey, look how much of a disaster I am suite.”
Dinner was planned at some upscale restaurant in the city that I’ll never eat at, and Charlie lovingly brought along his HOTD – hooker-of-the-day. Who the hell brings a hooker to dinner with his ex wife and kids? Well, I guess Charlie Sheen. Charlie then proceeded to go on an all night coke binge, ending up in a THE HANGOVER scenario where his naked body laid out on the Plaza Hotel floor.
CBS, can you please cancel his show ASAP? Not that I have any morals or anything, but the show that needs to be aired is the show that is Charlie Sheen’s real life. This is quality programming at its best. Why watch twenty minutes of canned laughter and hackneyed jokes, when we can watch the dude from HOT SHOTS go to dinner with a hooker, have an all night coke binge in New York City, and tear up the Plaza Hotel in a fit of rage. That’s three solid story lines, and no fake background laughter necessary.
Anyway, apparently Charlie has been missing ever since the fiasco. Maybe we should check one of those office situation comedies on NBC – doo do chi!
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Almost every girl does this, and I only started realizing it through Facebook. Girls get together in a group photo and obnoxiously put their hands on their hips for a pose. What the hell is that? Did you all get together and decide this is going to be the one and only way girls will pose from now on. I mean I can’t even remember what photos used to look like PHOH (pre-hands-on-hips.) Although I vaguely remember a short HIP era (hands in pockets.)
So, what is it ladies? I’m not saying you don’t occasionally look good in this rigid pose. Well, some of you don’t, but that’s for other reasons. But, for some reason, it comes off a little arrogant to me. It’s almost speaking to me, “I’m so cool. I’m too good for you. Look how awesome I look now that my hands are confidently resting on my hips.”
I have one theory. Perhaps it helps with posture, giving support to the breasts and popping that ass out. Which is nice. Am I right, though? Who knows. It’s just a theory I’ve been throwing around for some time. Perhaps man will never know the answer.
Is it a conscious decision to do this? I know a lot of times I’ll take a picture of a group of girls, and then they’ll all gather around and look at it. Obviously looking to see how they individually look, rather than as a whole. Then. Oh no. I didn’t put my hands on my hips. Can we take another picture? That one didn’t come out right. Boom. The hands go right back to the hips. All is well again in HOH picture etiquette.
If there are any ladies reading this - which for God sakes I hope there’s at least one or two – can you please explain this phenomenon? Until then I will assume you are just rubbing it in our face with that insufferable pose.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Let me begin by saying I have an iPhone and it’s amazing. I have no idea how it was made, who designed it (well Steve Jobs I guess), or how it’s capable of doing practically everything except sleep with me (though it does rest beside my bed at night.) You could sit down and explain this technology to me for the rest of my life, and I still wouldn't have a clue how I could speak to someone in L.A., while sitting on a toilet in New York. Having said that, (and yes I know this phrase is becoming annoying: see Curb episode) who gives a shit about anything else? Why is it a conversation starter to ask what type of phone I have and what service I use? I mean it’s bad enough I have to fake banter with people about the weather, but cell phone services? Come on.
Someone told me they have TMobile. My first thought was – “how do I get out of this conversation with as little dialogue as possible?” But, being the friendly guy I am, I replied with all I knew, “Oh, isn’t that the Catherine Zeta Jones one?” A conversation had officially begun, where originally there should be no business for a conversation. Just what I needed.
Not only that, it seems as though there is some sort of ranking system amongst the providers. With Verizon being some sort of powerhouse and AT&T being the Kansas City Royals of cell phone providers.
“Oh you have AT&T? I bet you get a lot of dropped calls.” Yes, I do. But, first of all, why do you give a shit? Second, that is none of your God damn business. I own an iPhone. Back the fuck off. I think the iPhone trumps all, though it’s a catch 22 having AT&T be the sole provider.
Just the other day I saw a bartender hit on an attractive young lady, by asking her what service and payment plan she has. And it seemed to work! I don’t get it. To me it’s the same thing as breaking the ice with, “What kind of car do you drive, what insurance, and how much do you pay? OK, I could see if I was in Los Angeles - that’s like asking for the time over there. But, we’re trying to live in a society here! Are we now being typecast and categorized by cell phones? Can’t we go back to categorizing people the right way? By race, wealth, and cup size?
Monday, August 30, 2010
Now I’ll just be honest – I’m not a tattoo guy. Have I seen a cool tattoo here and there? Sure. Actually, wait, no I haven’t. I’ve yet to see the significance of the tattoo. What possesses people to have ink injected into their skin, through a vibrating needle? Is it so they could justify their unemployment? Is it so they can be embarrassed when they’re elderly and no one wants to look at them? Or is it so they can fill the Jersey shoreline, reminding me which nationality and religion they are. Apparently the chain with religious symbol around the neck isn’t enough of an indicator.
I’m barely able to endure the pain of a middle of the night foot cramp. Which, by the way are absolutely unnecessary – thanks human body. I’m assuming it hurts, right? And if you’re calling me a bitch at this point, I’m not offended in the least. I’m quite comfortable avoiding objects that break the skin, and potentially lead to HIV. Alright, I’m getting carried away. It’s probably just a little pinprick and people have the right to express themselves through body art. But, is it really body art?
The sleeve is a popular tattoo design these days. This is where a person’s entire arm is covered in some sort of tattoo or design. Personally, I’m quite fine with the traditional cotton or polyester sleeve, but what do I know? Then we have the tramp stamps. Obviously the girl can’t even see her own tramp stamp, so this must be specifically for me to gawk at. Honestly, I’m impressed that you’re telling me something with the stamp, but I don’t even know what I’m looking at. Is that a Batman logo? Is it a tree branch? What am I looking at here? Call me old fashion but I’m cool with regular plain skin in the ass area. I get it. I see it. No need to draw any more attention to the region. Last I checked we’re genetically wired to pick up on those things anyway.
Next we have the Chinese letters. I live in Chinatown and I will still never understand that language. I have a better shot at re-cracking the Rosetta Stone than I do of figuring those symbols out. Pretty sure no one understands or cares what the letters stand for. Even if the phrase is in English – still don’t understand why anyone would care. “Only the Strong Survive” or “God Is on My Side”….whatever the saying is…Looks like a sign of insecurity to me. Do you really need to tell us through inked skin how much God is on your side? I suppose God was playing for another team until you got hammered and decided to have those words engraved on your chest. Good for you.
Last but not least – the tattoo on the face. If you have a tattoo on your face, I think it’s safe to say you’ve pretty much thrown in the towel on life. We’re not analyzing those tattoos on your face, we’re in awe as to why you even bothered to get out of bed this morning.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Please don’t do it. I just finally knocked myself out with a scotch and Claritin D combo. (Which by the way is not good for the heart. Don’t try this at home.)
Dude, I would pay you not to do it….
WAAAA!!! WAAA!!! WAAAAA!!!
Fantastic. What time is it? 5 A.M. Well I guess in rural America you have the rooster’s crow. In New York City, you get the relentless cries of a foreign newborn, who just so happens to reside across from my conveniently open bedroom window. Sure I could close the window, pop on the AC, and pump up some Led Zeppelin on my itunes. But, Con Edison’s monopolistic power has what I like to call a chokehold on my budget. Let me wait this one out…again.
WAAA!! WAAA!! WAAAA!!!
Like come on, seriously? I don’t even hear the jitters in this thing’s excruciating screeches. Shouldn’t there be some jitters from the parent bouncing the thing around in his/her arms? Or a suffocating pause from a bottle being force-fed down its mouth? Give me something I can work with here. Does anyone even live over there?
Maybe the baby is actually living down in the ally. Should I call social services? Although then I would actually have to hold some sort of responsibility and actually act like I care about the child’s well being. When in fact the only being I care for is…myself. Kidding! (kinda.)
WAAA!! WAAA!! EeeHee!!! WAAA!!!
Was that a hesitation in between the “Waa?” Please tell me you’re tiring out, because God knows those neglectful parents aren’t going to put out your cries for help. Who let’s their newborn cry throughout the night? I’m actually considering walking outside, switching buildings, rocking the damn baby in my own arms, shutting it the fuck up, and walking back to my bed for precious sleep.
Comfort the damn thing! Put a pacifier in its mouth! Hell, give it up for adoption for all I care. But, for Christ’s sake shut it the hell up!
Eeehh!! Ekkk!! Ekkk…ee…e…
Wait for it…could it be? I don’t hear it. Thank you! There is a God! My pounding headache thanks you for allowing me the next half hour of peaceful sleep. Yes, I know it’ll only be for a half hour, but you’ve blessed me with this rare gift of peace, and for that I am thankful. Let this be a warning to always wear protection, and never have a child until I can afford for someone else to take care of him.
Uggh! I can’t go back to sleep now. What time is it? It’s after 6? The sun is out now. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Eh, I guess I’ll treat myself to some McDonald’s breakfast. Let me just find my basketball shorts…
Yea, yea, go ahead. What do I care now? The damage is already done. Cry away ya stubborn bastard.
WAAAAA!!! WAAA!!!!! WAAAA!!!!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
I commend you for your hard work. I don’t know how you can operate such heavy machinery in this weather. Please, take a break. Somebody get that man a drink. There’s a street vendor right around the corner. Why don’t you take a break, grab some chicken over rice while you’re at it. I’m not sure what the white sauce is that they squirt on there, but I whole-heartedly recommend it. Then, when you return, come back and have a seat with your fellow coworkers. Whistle at some broads while you’re at it, but don’t make it too cliché.
I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what it is that you are working on. I could’ve sworn I saw you guys here two months ago. This must be an arduous project. Good thing you put up this temporary path so pedestrians can squeeze through on their way to work. Don’t worry about the massive slush puddles along the way; focus on the main project at hand. We’ll deal with that. How’s the chicken? The white sauce makes it, right?
Boy I’d like to bring her home, huh? Everybody agrees, right? What an ass on her. Her skirt almost blew up like Marilyn Monroe over the manhole. Tony likes manholes? Gross! Oh, it’s a joke – I get it. Yo Tony, did you hear what Jose said about you and the manholes. Got to love that joke. Is there something you want to tell us? I’m only kidding. I’ve seen the girls you’ve brought home – real winners.
Man, I’m getting tired just looking at you. What time is your break over? No, don’t rush, I was just curious. I would take my time if I were you. It’s not like you’re getting paid by the hour or anything. God forbid if they paid you overtime too. Oh, this is overtime? Double-time? So you get paid twice your regular salary? My goodness – you guys better get back to work then.
I’m still not even sure what it is that you’re working on. But, I know how it’s intense. It would have to be a big project if its been going on for more than a month. Five months? God bless you guys. Oh, you’re going on a coffee break? Didn’t you just have a two hour lunch break? I mean this isn’t Mad Men. Is this Mad Men? It’s a show about an ad agency in the…never mind. I’ll let you guys get back to your coffee break.
By the way, what’s the estimated completion date for this project? December? Wasn’t that four months ago? No, I understand. I was just curious. Please, don’t let me bother you anymore. I’ll just take the temporary sidewalk.
God damn it! Can someone get rid of these puddles? Now my socks are all wet. They’re going to be scrunching all day. My feet are going to be wrinkled like an old man’s. No, I wasn’t blaming you guys. I’ll be back for your next break. Oh, you’re done for the day? Well, see you again tomorrow.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Just what I’ve been looking for, a meaningless dance session in the middle of a crowded intersection. Let’s all gather around and gawk at performers, as they do back flips and somersaults to an over played Michael Jackson song. Who is Billie Jean anyway? Or is it Billie’s jeans? There’s an easy pedophilia joke in there somewhere, but I’ll let the man rest in peace.
Did that guy just stand on his head, while another guy did a flip over his feet? Holy shit, get the kids, we need to take a picture of this. Wow, New York City is so exciting! I could stand here and watch this all day, without regard for people who live here everyday and are no longer fazed by the dancing, and are just trying to go about their business in an orderly manner. How do I hit record on this thing?
I just love they way they clap their hands in unison. It really brings a sense of camaraderie to the surrounding spectators and myself. I feel like we should all clap at the same time and smile. This is so much fun! It’s like I’ve forgotten all the problems in my life, by simply giving in to this simultaneous clapping session.
How old is that little boy? He can’t be older than seven. How can he do all these wonderful dance moves? Oh, they want us to all move in closer now. Well, they seem to have full authority on street traffic, so I suggest we listen to them.
How long is this clapping going to last? My arms are starting to tire. How did this all start in the first place? I thought we were here to watch them perform. Now, I feel as though I’m part of the act. Weren’t we supposed to meet someone at six? What time is it? I think I’m going to stop clapping now. That guy over there with the windbreaker stopped like a minute ago. Yes, I’m going to stop clapping now. I don’t need to smile anymore either, do I? I mean they won’t mind if I transition back to my neutral face, will they?
Perhaps we should get going now. It’s getting pretty crowded. Are the cops here to watch, or are they going to break this up? What does that guy want with the basket? Oh, he’s collecting money? No, I wasn’t really watching you guys. I was actually trying to get through. We’re meeting someone for dinner at six. I don’t have any bills on me. I’m sorry. I only have my credit card. You don’t take credit card do you? I’m sorry man.
Good thing we got out of there. I almost accidentally pulled out a five, when I fake searched for money in my pocket. Of course I have money on me. Who doesn’t carry money around? It’s not like I wanted to see them perform. They just so happened to be in my way as I was on my way to dinner. I can see if I went somewhere to see them. But, I’m not paying them for randomly performing in the street. They weren’t even that great anyway. I feel bad for that little boy. Isn’t there a child labor law against that sort of thing? Oh no, this guy on the corner is playing drums on buckets. Let’s cross the street so I don’t have to awkwardly ignore him while he asks for money.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Could this girl be even hotter than the last? She’s looking at me right now – giving me the eye. Not the lazy eye, or the “fuck off” eye either. The signs are all aligned, like 2012. It’s like a slow motion movie scene. Either that or I’m starting to feel slightly buzzed from the whiskey. A sly tap on my friend’s shoulder, with a nod in her direction will allow for friendly reassurance. What do you think? I know, right? Awesome. I need to walk over with a drink in my hand. It’s always good to carry a prop, especially one with beer in it.
“Hey!” yelled the slightly inebriated girl with no particularly great attributes.
Listen, you seem like a very nice person, but you’re jamming my radar.
“What’s up, I’m Jenny.”
Very nice to meet you. Again, if you could just step out of the way so I can keep an eye on my…shit! Where did she go? I’m not talking to this girl! She’s talking to me! Where is she? Somebody needs to take over this.
“How’s it going?” I say, without a look into her eyes.
“What are you drinking?” she asks as I take a deep chug from my Amstel Light.
“You’re funny. How old are you?”
“How old are you?”
“Guess,” she says, with a heavy dose of flirtation.
Honestly she looks anywhere from thirty to forty. So, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Twenty-seven,” I lied.
“Ew, you’re so mean.”
Great, then get the hell out of my way so I can find that girl.
“I’m twenty four!”
“You’re so sarcastic. I love that.”
Jesus Christ, are you serious?
Jesus Christ: "I thought you’d like her."
Jesus Christ: "My mistake. See ya in hell."
Me: "Thanks Jesus!"
And he’s gone. Sorry about that. Now, where was I? Oh right, I’m sarcastic. Yes, thanks. I get it.
“Are those Chuck Taylors?”
They clearly are. What is she driving at now?
“I once had sex with a guy just because he was wearing Chuck Taylors.”
The platter is served. But it’s more like an Applebees entrée, rather than a preferred porterhouse or lobster. Does this come with free dessert? Oh, stop it! You don’t want this. She is way too attainable. There’s nothing wrong with her though. Why does she want to throw herself at me like this? Must be a recent break up. I’m the rebound. I will rebound for no one. Well, unless the N.B.A. was thinking of recruiting five foot ten white guys without any athletic build and a sore shoulder. I could probably rebound for the Knicks or something. But, I will not be her rebound.
“That’s crazy. Did you see my friend?” I responded.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Don’t make me feel bad. I’m a very caring person. That’s not right. Did you just brush my crouch with your hip? That was pretty cool. Why did you have to come off so easy? That’s disgusting. I mean clearly there’s something wrong with you.
“I’m not trying to get rid of you.”
Where the hell is my friend? There he is! Get over here.
“Jenny, this is Adam.”
There you go. Talk to Adam. That’ll get you off my back. Now, where did that prize go? She must be around here somewhere. Maybe if I continue to talk to Adam and Jenny, make it look like I’m enjoying myself, the hot girl will get jealous.
“So tell Adam what you were saying…”
Jenny? It’s me. The one you were throwing yourself at two seconds ago. Adam, I introduced her to you to say hello. I didn’t tell you to block me out of the conversation. She likes me, not you! At least bring me back into the group so I look important and fun again. Quickly, here she comes. She’s back! She’s looking at me again.
Shit! She saw you ignoring me. How do I get out of this situation? Now she thinks I’m a loser, who is here all alone.
Don’t look away. Didn’t you see that I was talking to a girl earlier? She totally wants to sleep with me. That’s my friend Adam. He means nothing to her.
“So, Jenny do you want to get out of here?”
Shit! What the hell was that? I don’t want you. I want her. Adam, talk to her again.
“Actually, I may get another drink.”
“I really want to go though.”
God she is so desperate.
“I’ll walk you home.” Adam interrupted.
“OK!” said Jenny.
Wait a second. Where are you guys going? I can’t stand here alone, and Adam you know I like Jenny. How could you not tell? How did I just go from slam-dunk to the third wheel? Oh, you guys are sharing a cab uptown? That is so not right. You know I live downtown. Yea, yea – have fun you two. I set that up you know. You owe me big, Adam! Jesus, I totally want to sleep with Jenny.
Jesus Christ: “I told you. Now you’re fucked.”
Me: “Yes, thanks God.”
Jesus Christ: “Its just Jesus.”
Friday, January 8, 2010
I can’t remember why I got out of bed today. My Asian neighbors are in the hallway screaming in…Asian? I can’t write. I can’t even keep my eyes open. If it wasn’t for the screaming I’d be in bed sleeping. What time is it anyway? Oh shit. It’s 2P.M. Well, this has been a productive day. Let’s see, I brushed my teeth…I…That’s all I did. I need to get out of here.
I still can’t remember why I awoke in the first place. Maybe a coffee will lift my spirits. I’ll have to try the local café…
Sweet Jesus of Nazareth. She could be the hottest girl on the planet. Suddenly my reasoning for getting up and going out has been quickly brought to my attention. Heart rate increasing. Sweating profusely. Nerves…nerving? Oh my God, she’s so hot. Please look at me. Is she looking at me? She could be pretending not to look at me, but secretly is looking at me in the corner of her eye. I bet that’s what she’s doing. I’ll just casually turn toward her and show her I notice her disguised gaze.
OK, so she’s reading a novel. Yes, I know, you’re way out of my league. You’re perfect. You’re absolutely one hundred percent my type. Why should you look at me? Was that a look? Fuck.
Alright, I’m going to sit down and enjoy this coffee. I’ll put her out of mind. She isn’t even real. She doesn’t exist. I have to look. She’s so hot. OK, one more quick look then back to the coffee. Are you kidding me? That is the sexiest body I’ve ever seen. Do you have any idea how hot you are? Who the hell made you? A God of some sort?
Come on, really? How could you not have noticed me for like at least a second. I’m good enough for a one second look over. I’m not repulsive. In fact, I’ve been told how cute I am on several occasions. One look. Go ahead. Was that a look? What the fuck? How good can that book possibly be? What are you reading? I can’t read the title. Let me just squint and see what you’re reading.
No! No, I wasn’t staring at you. I wanted to see what you were reading! Please don’t give me that look. I just wanted to know what you were reading. Great! Now she thinks I’ve been sitting here gawking at her, and thinking about her this entire time. That’s preposterous. I’m just enjoying my coffee. Do you honestly think you’re that hot that I would want to stare at you this whole time?
Wait a second. Was twirling of the hair with your left hand a sign? Are you subconsciously telling me that you appreciate the stare and maybe even find me attractive in some way? I may be on to something here. I know! I’ll grab a copy of The Onion. She’ll see me laughing and enjoying the articles, and subsequently know that I have a great sense of humor. Hot chicks love that, right?
Oh man this article that I’m reading is so funny. Hey, look at me laughing at this article. I’m not laughing too hard, but enough to know that I have a sophisticated, witty sense of humor. Nothing over the top. After all, this is the Onion – not Jay Leno.
Ugh, I can’t believe how perfect her face is. How can you have flawless bone structure, gorgeous eyes, luscious lips, in addition to that body? Stop reading that damn book! Acknowledge me!
I need to walk over there. That’s it! I’m just going to walk over and say something to her. No, I shouldn’t bother her. She’s reading her book. Her boyfriend is probably working hard on Wall Street. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here wasting my day in a café staring at his prize. I knew I should have switched majors to finance.
That was totally a sign. You deliberately crossed your legs in my direction. It wasn’t a crazy Sharon Stone cross, but it was most certainly a “Hey, look at my legs” cross. Well, I noticed it baby. Don’t you worry. You don’t think I have the balls to get up and walk over there? Well, watch this.
I can’t do it. Why do I have to initiate the conversation? Why can’t you? I bet you haven’t had the courtesy to initiate one conversation in your entire life. Everyone comes up to you. How spoiled you are. You know what? I’m not going to be like every other guy. I’m going to sit here and ignore you for the rest of the day. I’ve seen better. You’re average at best. Back to The Onion.
“Excuse me. Do you know if there’s an outlet in here?” the beauty asked.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic! Is there an outlet in here? What is she really insinuating? Is this an innuendo? She is definitely just trying to open a conversation with me. I knew it! If you ignore her, she will come. I win!
“Ugh, I’m not sure. What do you need an outlet for?”
“My computer. OK, I’ll just ask the waitress.”
Is that it? Do you want to talk some more? Wait, don’t go!
“What are you reading?”
“The Lost Symbol.”
What the hell is that? I don’t read real novels. Why did I even ask that? I don’t have a follow up question for that.
“Who wrote that?”
What an idiot. I should have known that. He’s the most popular writer in the past five years. Of course I haven’t read any of his novels. The movies sucked. I’m done. She’s leaving. Holy shit, she is even hotter standing up. I can’t take it. I need to do something. I’m getting out of here. No, don’t leave. Man up.
“Do you want to have some coffee?”
“I just had a cup.”
“Oh, me too.”
She’s laughing. That was a cute joke. She likes it. I’m so in.
“So, do you live around here?”
“Yes. Do you?”
“Down the street.”
“Cool. What are you writing?”
“It’s a book. Mostly comedy.”
“Oh, that’s awesome. Did you see The Hangover?”
Oh come on! How can people think that’s funny?! Don’t even get me started. I have to lie to her. I’m not losing her over this. I will forego my pride and pretend I enjoyed the movie.
“Great movie!” (with fake smile.)
“Oh my God, right? My boyfriend hated it! He’s more into like Woody Allen, Larry David, and all that other smart, funny stuff.”
And that’s it. You’ve officially shattered my heart. You have a boyfriend and he has a real appreciation for comedy. I can’t even be mad at him. If only we had met before you started dating him. I could’ve bored you with those Woody Allen movies. I could’ve pretended to like The Hangover with you. I could’ve disappointed you in bed.
“Are you OK?”
“Me? I’m fine.”
“You look upset.”
And that was that. She broke my heart. She broke my heart. You’re not even that hot. What’s with that mole thing on your face? Your nose is pretty crooked too. By the way, don’t you work? My God your arms are flabby. I’m getting out of here. Why is she even talking to me? Go bore your boyfriend. I feel bad for him. He’s probably cheating on you as we speak. I’m so out of this chick’s league. I'm out of here...
“Wait, where are you going?”
“Have to get back to work. Was nice meeting you…”
Wow, that name is so hot. Shit, I should stay. She’s so damn hot. Ugh, she’s wearing high heels too? Look at her abs. I didn’t even see that…