The Yogi Berra

New York Yankees Hall of Fame catcher Yogi Berra, who’s famous for his zany zen-like phrases, famously once said, “It ain’t over till it’s over.”  But, according to a local Montclair, New Jersey waitress, Berra is calling it quits.  “He and his wife came in for the Early Bird as usual, and Yogi looked kinda down,” said Cozy End waitress Donna Burrows. 

The eighty-three year old has recently been spotted at Yankees Stadium, as well as the YES Network, but has never shown signs of deteriorating health.  However, Berra was seen getting up to go to the bathroom at least four times, during an hour and fifteen minute meal at Cozy End.  When asked if everything was okay, Berra replied, “I’d give back half my World Series rings to be able to piss without this pain in my junk.”  In fairness to Berra, his frequent trips could have been prevented had he cut back from the three cups of coffee, and two glasses of OJ. 

“The future ain’t what it used to be.  If the world was perfect, it wouldn’t be.  A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore,” Berra ranted.  “My prostate feels like a beach ball, and I hate the Beach Boys,” Berra continued. 

“Even his orders were confusing,” said Donna.  “He asked for a heated cold turkey sandwich, with a side of baked French fries.”  Berra ended up finishing half the sandwich, then asked to have the whole sandwich to go.  The scene was not pretty; neither was the smell emanating from his booth.

Before leaving the diner, Berra was asked by a fan, “Whatever happened to the upbeat spirit, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over?’”  To which Yogi replied, “It’s almost over.”

Shit Shit Says

The Hot Chick

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?”

“Dan Brown.”

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.”

“Nope. Fine.”

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…”

“Mandy.”

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…

The Repeating Your Order

I’m going to make this as simple as possible for you. So, please pay attention.

“I’ll have a footlong on Herbs and Cheese bread…”

“What kind of meat?”

“Italian lunchmeat.”

“Italian bread?”

“No, the Herbs and Cheese bread please”

“Six inch or footlong?”

This is why I told you in the beginning of the order the specific flavor and size of the bread. So, I wouldn’t have to break it down for five minutes.

“Footlong please.”

“Spicy Italian or Italian B.M.T?”

“B.M.T., with Provolone.”

What the hell does B.M.T. stand for? Bowel movement testosterone? Bowling minus tits? Buying Meat Trash? I’ll stop there.

“B.M.T.”

“OK, B.M.T….not BLT? Correct?”

Yes, B.M.T. That is precisely why I said BMT. I know what a BLT is. I’m from this World.

“What kind of cheese?”

You guys heard me say Provolone, right? I mean I’m not going crazy here, am I?

“Provolone. Can I have that toasted too?”

“Lettuce, tomato, onion?”

“Yes, but can you toast it first, please?”

The toasting really enhances the sandwich. If you aren’t toasting your sandwich, you’re totally missing out. How long have I been ordering by the way? It’s got to be nearing ten minutes. I’m missing the Simpsons.

“Lettuce?”

“Yes, lettuce, tomato, onion…”

“Tomato?”

Really?

“Yes.”

“Onion?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“Olives, oil, and oregano.”

“Oil and Vinegar?”

Did I say oil and vinegar you jackass? If I wanted oil and vinegar, I would say, “Oil and vinegar!”

“No, just oil please.”

“That’s it?”

“And oregano.”

Finally! Thank God. That was ridiculous. It’s a fucking sub. This guy acts like he’s building…well a sub. The underwater military kind.

“That’ll be all. Thank you sir.”

“You want soda and chips with that?”

Pretty sure “that will be all” means “that will be all.”

“That will be all. Thank you sir.”

“$5.42.”

Damnit, I have to break a twenty over this. I thought the deal was $5 for the sub. What’s this $5.42 shit?

The Really Really Foreign Dude

His country of origin is just as indistinguishable as the brand of his cologne. If that is considered cologne. The gaudiness is overwhelming and I’m positive that’s only one eyebrow. Is that a mole on his face or some kind of…eh, it’s a mole. Let’s not get carried away. I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and say at least five of the ten pieces of jewelry that garnish his body are real. That third necklace is totally fake though. On second thought, from the chest hair being shown by the neglect of fastening the fourth button, I’m going to say he’s quarter Grizzly Bear.

It’s so humid out and this block is jammed with shoppers. Judging by the perspiration under Gaudi’s armpits, he’s going to duck into that Armani Exchange nearby. What the hell, I’ll follow.

Hello, guy who stands by the door and gets paid to greet people. Say, how can I go about acquiring this position? I need to what? Never mind, I’ll stick to following around foreigners and writing their daily habits in great detail. Oh of course, I’ll give you a shout if I need any help. Although, correct me if I’m wrong, wouldn’t it be a lot easier to just walk over and speak in a normal tone? I have a feeling if I shouted at you, people may think I’m crazy. Then again, I am crazy for walking into this store in the first place. So, perhaps I’ll fit right in.

Where did he go? He blends right in. It’s like finding the one Korean person in Chinatown. I wonder how Eugene is doing by the way. I’ll have to give him a call later. Anyway, I may have lost Johhny Gaudi. That’s the nickname I just came up with. What would Gaudi be looking for in a place like this? First of all, what the hell do they sell here? Is there any article of clothing that doesn’t have the Armani logo slapped on it? Does everyone in here have eighth grade syndrome? Hey, look at my shirt. I bought it at Armani, and hence I am cool and fit in with everyone else. Please don’t make fun of my acne, braces, and/or glasses.

I bet he’s looking for one of those skin tight T-shirts. The kind that might as well be painted on. I’ll have to give the doorman a shout.

“Excuse me doorman dude! Where are your really tight T-shirts!!?? No, not those. The really really really tight ones! Oh, I thought you literally wanted me to shout at you. No, I’m not crazy. I’m sorry. Next time I will lower my voice. Sorry everyone.”

There he is! Woops, now I’m shouting in my head. Damn you doorman and your words with double meanings. Tight jeans section. I was close. Let me play it cool so I don’t look like I’m following him. Why would anybody want to wear these jeans? I suppose if they’re deliberately trying not to impregnate someone, for eternity. I’m all about waiting to have children, but I’m pretty sure there are easier ways to go about that. Then again the mentality here is eighth grade. I think that’s been firmly established. They’ll find out about the birds and the bees soon enough. What an awful video they’re in for.

How can Gaudi afford all of this? I wonder if he owns this place. At least that would justify the ten articles of clothes he’s carrying with him. No, he can’t own this place. Oil money? Bailout money? Wait a second. Is this the guy who invented Velcro? I always wanted to meet him. Velcro – what a cool name. Oh shit, here he comes.

Who is this Corey Hart? You do realize you’re indoors now. You can take your sunglasses off. I’m sorry, what did you say? Do I know where what is? I can’t understand this guy. I don’t even know what accent this is. I pride myself on picking up accents. This is like a combination of French, Israeli, and…Long Island? Fuck! I can’t even narrow down the continent! Here I go with the shouting again. OK, let’s just calm down here. I know I can crack this.

Oh! You want to know where the Meatpacking district is? I wouldn’t go there. You’ll have to wait in line forever. Plus, you’re going to need at least three girls per guy to get in. You have your own table you say? How many girls?! No, I wasn’t shouting. I’d love to help you find the place. Was I outside following you earlier? No, wasn’t me. We all look the same. We? You know, we as in…New Yorkers? You’re going right from here. Yes, I’d love to join you – sounds like a good time. You don’t think I should wear this outfit? Well, I wouldn’t exactly call this an outfit. It’s just something I threw together…No, you don’t have to buy me anything. Well, that tight blue t-shirt with all the shiny logos on it does look pretty cool. You like it too? These jeans would fit really snug on me too. Why don’t you throw these in as well. Do you own this place or something? You didn’t invent Velcro did you? It’s the stuff that sticks together….ah never mind. Let me find a belt with the Armani logo as a buckle. That’ll look real hot for tonight.

The Friendly Drunk Guy

It’s midnight, give or take an hour. He’s on his tenth drink, give or take five. He is the life of the party, and yet he is barely coherent. His face is painted red from his own internal boiling blood. His eyes are blood shot, but the grin tells me he can care less. The reason he is the life of the party? He is buying everybody shots. Not to mention he is so damn friendly. It’s as if he’s known me for twenty years and while I’ve only know him for ten minutes, it feels more like five hours. “Another shot of Jack Daniels you say? Well, I don’t know. I do have to be up by noon tomorrow. Oh what the hell, make it a double.”

He’s either from England or Australia, but I can’t remember which. From the stench of his shirt I would say…well I still couldn’t say which. Nevertheless, he’s here on business and his business is supposedly something in finance, but it seems more like drinking to me. I sure hope his place of work is paying for this excessive tab. Come to think of it, I’m actually getting a little hungry looking at those sliders.

“Hey, Ted (that’s his name) what’s your last name again?

“McGinley”

Get out of here. Here I thought all McGinleys were Type A personalities. Well, pardon me once more. This is no type A. Maybe AA. Or maybe he needs to visit AA, but that’s another story.

“An order of sliders please! Put it on the McGinley tab. Thanks Ted.”

“You got it. For what, though?”

“Oh, nothing. How about another beer?”

“I love this guy!”

The night would continue in this manner and the moochers were lining up outside the door to meet Ted. Somebody must have been texting their friends about the free food and drinks, compliments of Mr. McGinley.

Ted wants to know if I’m interested in soccer. I’m going to need some help on the subject, asap! Well, I followed Team Italia during their World Cup run. Actually that’s another story. SOHO was off the hook that day. I suppose I could discuss their win over France, and how Zidane was a big d-bag who cost the French the Cup. Plus, with this accent, Ted probably doesn’t care for the French.

Indeed I was right. But, Ted has already moved onto the next topic. I don’t know why I bothered to come up with a soccer anecdote in the first place. I should have known he wasn’t going to pay actual attention for more than ten seconds. He’s starting to slur a lot now and he’s spraying onto my face. Are those sliders almost done? By the way, how old is this guy?

For starters he’s definitely not married. Sure I could simply look at the ring finger and see nothing but knuckle hair and a scab. Maybe he’s divorced. I would say he fits the profile. He hasn’t really hit on any girls yet. He’s not gay is he? No way. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Maybe I should hook him up with one of the ladies around here. They’re not exactly the cream of the crop. I imagine it wouldn’t be too difficult. Ugh, I just got spit in my eye again. On second thought, it may be difficult. Are those my sliders? You’re the man, Ted.

Nothing like three miniature burgers after a few beers and a double shot of Jack Daniels. If I didn’t fill my stomach soon, I may have turned into Ted. Nobody wants that. Although he is so damn friendly. No matter how annoying he is about to become, I can’t imagine anyone wanting him to leave. Ouch! Ted, watch it. You just stepped on my foot and spilled half a beer on my jeans. No worries. Just be careful next time.

“What was I drinking? Oh, just a Peroni. No, you don’t have to buy me a drink over this.”

Thank you. I’m convinced my wallet will not see the light of day for the rest of the night. These are the best nights, financially at least. Where are my other friends that I came with? How are they not taking full advantage of this? I should text them, but I don’t want to take full advantage of Ted. Those chicken fingers look good. I could dip a few of those in Ranch dressing.

“McGinley. Yes, with Ranch dressing.”

I was still hungry – alcohol will do that to you. What’s one more order of appetizers? Ted would have wanted it. Is he talking about religion? Oh no, he’s entered the downfall of the drunkenness. Drunkenness is like the stock market, it reaches its peak and takes a turn for the worst. This could turn ugly real quick. I’m assuming he’s Catholic. The gold cross dangling from his neck gave me a slight inkling. Let me try and lighten the mood with a quick joke.

OK, that didn’t work. Ted, I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m actually Catholic myself, not by choice but by birth. Church? I love going to mass. Sarcasm? Since when did you think I was being sarcastic with you? Ted your face is getting really close to mine. You have officially crossed the boundary of my comfort zone. How about a piece of gum? You were supposed to chew that not throw it behind the bar. No, those aren’t my chicken fingers. McGinley? Oh, Ted did you order those?
Do you honestly want to fight me over a religious wise crack? I love Jesus! I’m not being sarcastic, that’s just my normal tone. Actually, I think I should check up on my buddies. They should be around here somewhere. Well, it was great meeting you Ted. I’m not a big hugger. Again, I’m not going to fight you over this either. I know, I know, you’ve had a few drinks. It’s OK you don’t need to apologize. We’ve all been there. What these chicken fingers? You want me to have these chicken fingers? I can’t take these. I don’t even know whose they are. They do look really good though. No, I shouldn’t.

These chicken fingers are really good. Where were you guys? I was by the bar the whole time talking to that drunk dude. That guy over there. Is he being carried out? Yea, well you should’ve seen him five shots ago. What a really friendly guy. Oh, he was from New Zealand. That’s right. I knew it was one of those countries. It’s a shame he had to go out that way – usually they toss them feet first. Get your own chicken fingers. I paid for these.

Regular Guy Tries For Girl Out of League

NEW YORK – During the wee hours of the night this past Saturday, Lower East Side bar hopper, Thomas Finkle (25) ended up getting a sympathy number from a very attractive girl – whom we only know as Kim (23.) When reached for comment, Finkle said, “I just got a vibe she was digging me, and asked for the number.” Kim gave him a 201 area code, which verified her North Jersey background after a simple Google search. However, it should be noted that Finkle was seen talking to Kim for a mere nine minutes, in what was described as, “typical banter.”

“No way man. It was at least a half hour,” responded Finkle after stumbling out of the LES bar with a grin from ear to ear. Finkle’s state of obvious inebriation was the result of numerous unknown dark ales, as well as a Jolly Rancher shot – which was purchased during the nine-minute interaction with Kim.

It was around 2:46 AM that Finkle was able to establish contact with Kim. “I broke the ice by asking, whatever happened to DMX?” In Finkle’s defense, the outdated DMX song, “What’s My Name,” was playing on the computerized jukebox. Kim was seen giggling from the somewhat comical observation. She gave the average looking Finkle a shot to move in on her clique of friends – which consisted of two less attractive women.

“To be honest, I don’t remember exactly what we talked about. I was a little wasted.” Also, Finkle’s friends had left the bar to check out a near by diner on 2nd Ave. “I just wanted to make sure I locked up the number, and my friends couldn’t wait. They’re such d-bags.”

Finkle woke up Sunday at around 4:11PM, and decided to devote most of the day to recovery and Food Network programming. “I was really looking forward to the Iron Chef that night.” That night’s Iron Chef involved Finkle’s favorite chef, Bobby Flay. The secret ingredient was melons. His champ Flay ended up losing.

Finkle did spend his entire Monday crafting the perfect text, in order to yield a positive response from Kim. “I didn’t want to go too aggressive, but I wanted to try and set something up for the week.” Finkle spent hours trying to figure out the perfect text. He made sure to abbreviate each of his words, and use “…” when necessary. “I wanted to tie in the DMX reference with a possible second meeting.” After countless hours of debating, and advice from friends, Finkle crafted what he considers the perfect text. “Hey we shld get 2gether this week…I know a good drinks spot – altho might not play DMX…”

As of today, Finkle has not received a response.

Overprotective Mom Goes Public

NEW YORK – FRIDAY - An Overly protective mom brought her abhorrent antics to an Upper East Side Starbucks coffee shop earlier this afternoon. She was first noticed after enthusiastically asking her toddler if he would like to wash his hands. The toddler was reluctant to wash his hands. As a result, the mother needed to approach the subject in an alternate manner. “Want to wash your hands in the bubbles? Mommy brought your bubbles with her.” This was enough to put her child over the edge, and the hand washing began.

Upon her return, the mother pulled neatly cut up pieces of what appeared to be Rotisserie chicken out of a Tupperware container. The toddler started grabbing pieces of the chicken, and helping himself to a nutritious meal. “You can’t eat the chicken. It’s too big!” said the mother. Unsure of what to do (and on the verge of panic) the over protective mother snapped into action, and pulled pieces of chicken out of the toddler’s mouth. But, the biggest food threat had yet to come.

The young boy reached into a tidy Ziploc bag, and pulled out a grape to munch on. “Don’t eat grapes!” cried the mother. Considering two healthy items were pulled away from the child, it is inconclusive as to what exactly his diet is. Perhaps he is allergic to food. Nevertheless, the second snack rejection sent the boy into a tizzy. There was only one way out of this debacle.

It was around 4:32P.M. when the mother started singing that familiar tune that makes those of us without children cringe. “Heads, shoulders, knees, and toes, knees and toes, knees and toes…” sang the mother. It should be noted that her rendition of the excruciating song was out of tone, and her pitch was way off. However, she did synchronize the words of the songs with the pointing of the appropriate body parts. This sent the child into an immediate trance, which can only be described as peculiar and disturbing. The song proceeded to last for an excessive six and a half minutes.

It should also be noted, that around this time other former overprotective mothers, whose children have left them for better lives, were seen reminiscing about their past occupations of stifling their children in humiliating and mentally unhealthy ways.