Celebrity Encounter!

I don't live in the big city.  My town is a conurbation with a greater metro population of less than a million.  The traffic is still bearable (when it's not being rerouted through BFE due to stagnant road construction), the ghetto relatively safe for those who aren't idiots, and the entertainment scene, though growing, modest in scale.  And you run into the same dozen-odd people everywhere you go, like a damned sitcom.  So, aside from the off-chance run-in with a popular DJ, you don't encounter celebrities often.  That's why I was so psyched just a few days ago when who should wander into my place of employ but Dr. Ivo Robotnik, AKA Dr. Eggman.

Who's that you ask?

Well, for those of you 90s babies who are too young to recall, Dr. Robotnik/Eggman is the archnemesis of Sonic the Hedgehog, undeniably the coolest platform mascot of his time (suck it, Mario).  Yeah, Sega crashed and burned after the failure of its not-quite-next-gen Dreamcast, but the company was on the scene, kicking ass, and taking names long before Xbox was a pixelated gleam in Bill Gates' eye.  Sonic was the definition of a 90s kids' hero: laid-back yet defiant, funny, fearless, infinitely savvier than his enemies, as fast with his quips as his feet, and naked save for a pair of white gloves and red shoes (it was a weird time).  And his counterpoint was Dr. Robotnik, a morbidly obese, rage-prone, humorless megalomaniac who mostly moved around via motorized chairs and armed hovercraft, trying to turn the world's furry fauna into automated soulless simulacra.

Trust me, whenever this fucker showed up on-screen, your heart skipped a beat.

In short, he was exactly the kind of dickhead you wanted to see Sonic stick it to in every game and cartoon.  So you can imagine my surprise, and perhaps fathom my traumatic gaming flashbacks, when Robotnik showed up at my workplace less than an hour before close.  My first instinct, as soon as I recovered from shock, was to jump on his head, the only known weakness of such bosses.  Then I realized, to my chagrin, it was not in fact a video game icon, but just a really fat, angry dude in bright red who couldn't get his electric wheelchair through the motherfucking doorway.  He was that obese.

So, yeah, this whole thing was pretty much a lead-in to a fat joke.  Sorry, it's a slow week.  But I still have a point to this article, a touchy issue I am about to manhandle with all the sensitivity and compassion of George Carlin.  And I am not promising it will even be as funny as his take on social issues.  You've been warned, and that is as close to an apology as you will get out of me.

Few times in my career have I felt guilty about supplying our company's fat-, cholesterol-, sodium-, calorie-laden food to all and sundry, but I couldn't help feeling a bit dirty in this instance.  The man, if he could have stood, was probably no more than six feet tall, and had to weigh in excess of 450 pounds, judging by most gorillas I've known.  It was all I could do to stop myself laughing at his predicament, which I achieved only by pretending he wasn't there while he looked over our takeout menu.  When he asked me where the burgers were listed, I had to restrain the urge to direct him to the salad page.  My manager quietly suggested I offer him a drink while he waited, and I could not believe it - the guy was in all probability dying of Type 2 diabetes on the spot, and I'm supposed to push more calories and sugar on him?  Before you call me a callous, mean-spirited, opportunistic twat, let me just say, I am one.  Happy?

At least I do it for free.

But, seriously, where do you draw the line?  You do not become that overweight without giving up at some point and outright embracing it.  How can you find yourself repeatedly ramming a doorframe to enter an unhealthy restaurant without pausing to reconsider your situation?  It's sublimely absurdist, almost surreal, humor.  Likewise for those people who discover they cannot comfortably fit in the booths we provide.  Your first reaction should not be, "Why don't they build these things bigger?"  In America, we love to call this an "epidemic" of obesity, as if it is some manner of uncontrollable disease, feeding into our culture of victimhood and absolved responsibility, which I have discussed previously.  Wicked little fat-cells are floating around in the air, burrowing into our otherwise-chiseled physiques and multiplying like insidious, Viagra-powered rabbits, according to this theory.

Oddly enough, they look just like another classic video game boss: Kaid of Metroid Prime.

Granted, there are people who have genetic and contracted disorders that can lead to excessive weight-gain.  I am not talking about them.  And some people are more prone to pudginess than others.  But there's a reason gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins, right up there with its bastard half-brother sloth, and if I of all social commentators am siding with the Vatican, you know the problem is a genuine one.  Yes, I am officially labeling myself a "social commentator" now, because it sounds better than "arrogant, opinionated tool with a blog."

I hate to say it, but this is a byproduct of modern American fuzzy thinking, which intentionally blurs the lines of reason, accountability, and simple reality in favor of political correctness, pop psychobabble, and trendy "thinking."  To put it bluntly, nobody wants to call a spade a goddamned spade.  I am sick of hearing people claim that being fat is natural and we need to appreciate it.  Obviously, homo sapiens can fall into a plethora of body-types depending on the individual, but let's take a gander at the rest of the animal kingdom, shall we?  How often do you encounter morbidly obese whitetail deer?  Or coyotes?  For that matter, in countries where food is available but limited and generally healthy, why don't some people just grow up to resemble Chris Farley if that's part of our genetic makeup?  No other mammalian species has the massive weight-range we do, because it's not truly natural.

A lot of this has to do with knee-jerk reactionary sentiment, or, as I prefer to call it, people being dumbasses.  When starving yourself became a trend in professional modeling, the masses felt obliged to follow suit.  Well, now the pendulum has swung the other way.  Hard.  I think it started with the public outcry to re-proportion Barbie's smoking figure, because little girls apparently felt a deep pathological need to emulate their toys.

I empathize.  My childhood was a tormented, fruitless quest to look like this.

Nowadays, some commentators actually condemn fit female celebrities for projecting unrealistic, unhealthy images of feminine beauty when it's patently obvious the ladies in question are just well-toned and most likely health-conscious.  God forbid!  "Don't be fooled, little Sarah, you'll never look like that when you grow up, unless you exercise and watch your diet!  Only celebrities can do that!"  This bullshit has even reached the point that when I attempted to search "healthy model" on Google, one of its suggested alternate searches was "fat model."  Are you fucking serious?  We are now required to equate the word healthy with a word that means the opposite to avoid hurting feelings?  There is a difference between not hating yourself for being out of shape and blithely accepting it as an unalterable fact of life, or even lying to yourself.  It's not healthy, so why should you be perfectly all right with it?  Case in point?  Fat pride rallies.  No, I'm not making that up.  These happen.

*Not pictured: more fatsos, because they didn't fit in the frame.

I'm all for self-acceptance and healthy perception of body-image, but, really, flaunting your cellulite as if it's something to celebrate?  Where the hell is my alcohol enthusiasts' parade?  *Insert Saint Patrick's Day joke here (rimshot optional)*  Notice most people have no problem with taxing the hell out of habitual smokers and hiking their insurance rates to roughly 2032 levels, but throw their hands up in horror when we talk about doing anything similar to the horizontally-enabled (or whatever the PC term is now)?  Both are results of choices made, and anyone who says otherwise is sugar-coating the pill, which makes sense, because everyone loves sugar.

The truly disgusting part of this is the way parents doom the next generation to the same fate.  For whatever reasons, you're fine with being overweight.  That is your decision.  Fair enough.  But turning your offspring into little porkers when they are malleable and don't know any better is borderline criminal negligence.  As a server, I have seen far too many moms and dads let their child suck down cup after cup of Coca-Cola.  Or, if they're really responsible guardians, Diet Coke, because we all know carcinogenic artificial sweeteners, sodium, and empty calories are just what growing bodies need.  They're just kids, they can worry about working off the fat-rolls when they're older and it's ten times harder, right?  Nice logic.  And then you have the gall to encourage them to eat more unhealthy food?

CUSTOMER: (as if I already know or care what the kid's name is) Devin here will have the chicken fingers.
ME: (extremely reluctant, very fast, and barely audible) Any dipping sauce besides ketchup?
DEVIN: (enthusiastic) Ketchup!
CUSTOMER: Devin, how about some ranch?  Do you want ranch?
DEVIN: (insistent) Ketchup!
CUSTOMER: But what about ranch?
DEVIN: (whiny) I want ketchup!
CUSTOMER: He wants ranch.
ME: Fuck you. (but only on the inside)

Wrong on more levels than hell.

Why don't you just start poking them with needles now, so they're used to it by the time they hit 12 and have to take blood-glucose tests every day?  While you're at it, remind them frequently that they can expect to die years sooner and in much worse condition than humanity on the whole.  Teach them how to drive the superstore's Rascal carts at an early age, too.  That way, maybe they will be proficient enough to avoid getting lodged in the doorway of my restaurant.

Oh, yeah, I almost forgot the obligatory hot girl picture.

I mean, really, how dare she promote such a dangerously unhealthy, unattainable standard?  Whore.

On the Subtle and Noble Art of Proper Imbibation and Consequences Arising Therefrom

We all have our specialties.  Some people can play music or sing, others execute trigonometry in their heads or skateboard as if gravity were more a guideline than an actual law.  Talents are as varied as the people who possess them.  But I have noticed over the years that one skill is relatively rare, despite the droves of people trying to master it day and day out.  No, I'm not talking about driving again (yet).

It's drinking.

More specifically, drinking alcoholic beverages.  For the record, I am good at this.  Really good.  As in, I am to drinking what Jordan is to basketball.  What Michelangelo is to painting.  What Criss Angel is to . . . whatever the fuck it is Criss Angel does.  (Scare the shit out of tourists, I think.)  Simply put, I am at the top of my field, a master of my medium.  When I say this, I am not referring to simply the ingestion of intoxicants, which many people excel at, but the subtler Art of Drinking.  I am one of the few to elevate it to an art-form in the Modern Age.  Benjamin Franklin was reputedly a prodigy at this as well, which is why they bypassed however many presidents and gave the kite-flying, bifocal-crafting, French-debutante-slaying motherfucker his place on the $100 bill; the highest denomination currency in regular circulation, and America said, "George Washing-who?  Fuck that, B-Frank's the man!"

His most commonly-cited quote on alcohol consumption, right after the more-popular, but oft-misattributed, "Fuck you, I'm drunk."

So what is the Art of Drinking?  Simply put, it's drinking to awesome effect.  I know that sounds suspiciously like an addict's reasoning, but we prefer the term "enthusiast," please.  Drinking is a delicate balancing-act, finding that perfect point of inebriation at which your full potential is realized before tipping the scale into drunken dipshittery.  It's like adding just the right amounts of each chemical into a beaker to achieve the formula for trinitrotoluene, except the test tube is your body, and the chemicals are working against you the entire time, hoping you blow yourself up.  Can you appreciate the skill this requires?

I am not saying my drinking career is devoid of inglorious episodes.  Far from it.  It took me eight years of hangovers, regretted decisions, and damaged property to hone my art, which I still haven't perfected.  Everybody has off-days, right?  Do LeBron and Manning win every game they play?  Of course not.  Some days you crank out Hamlet, others you can only write Henry VIII.

Methinks that wenst a bit over thine head, didst it not?

Point is, if you're good enough at something, the people will generally praise you no matter what you do, even if it's not your best every time.  I have garnered such a reputation in the drinking circles of my town.  "But," you whiny, self-righteous, judgmental boors opine, "think of all the terrible consequences of drinking, all the bad decisions and damage to your body!  How can you glorify such vile behavior?"

Like this, bitch.

Beer and society go hand-in-hand.  The leading theories of human civilization argue that the cultivation of crops en mass led to increasingly complex societies where non-starving folk could spend more time inventing shit like law, medicine, scientific methodology, bitchin' pyramids, and pimp flying machines.

Wait, that might have come a little later.

Not even touching upon the creative powers drinking unlocks in our species, beer in its primitive form was one of the ideal crops to produce because it was easy to make, easy to store, and easy to drink (thus was born the first beer slogan).  Consider: it's already fermented, so it takes a long time to turn bad, and vermin won't nest in it (the first failed beer slogan).  What do you think kept day-laborers farming the shit out of the fields in those days, tofu?  Why do you think beer is still considered the workingman's juice?  Because it has been since roughly, oh, the dawn of freakin' time.  It's high in calories, carbohydrates, and nutritional value, plus it gives you superpowers.  Well, maybe only the delusion of that last, but, seriously, real beer (ie. not Milwaukee- or St. Louis-made fizz) is real fuel, and when it's relatively low in alcohol content, most of which you sweat off during hard labor, you're not getting wasted in a hurry.  So, notice how your loved ones are living past 35?  Love that Audi R8 you drive?  In part, you have alcohol to thank for those advancements.  Beer=Society.

That's why these types hate booze.

Bearing that little history lesson in mind (you're welcome), my area of expertise doesn't seem quite so disreputable, does it?  Who was it that said, "The first sign of a cultivated society is the cultivation of spirits and a parlance pertaining thereto"?  Oh, yes, it was me.  Moving on . . .

In essence, the Art of Drinking is based on one central precept: hold your liquor, even if your liquor is beer or wine.  All other principles and rules flow (no pun intended) from that basic tenet.  Getting back to our old drinking buddy Franklin, "Do everything in moderation, including moderation."  From the ancient Greeks to the Buddha, a lot of wise old dudes have basically said, whatever you do, just don't overdo it, and you'll be fine.  And Ben's tongue-in-cheek maxim above suggests it might even be all right to go overboard every once in a while, so long as it doesn't become habit.  Unless your only true objective every time you drink is to become the proverbial "That Guy" - a shit-faced and blacked-out specimen of singular and unenviable oblivious stupidity - you must recognize how your liver and brain cope with your intake of intoxicants.  If you are a lightweight, own it.  If you can drink with the likes of Hemingway, Dr. Thompson, and Wolverine, drink on, soldier.

A few general guidelines will help you stay on top of your game, no matter your skill-level.

(1) Know what you're drinking 

Seems obvious, but I am always amazed at how many people seem unaware of the alcohol content of their beverage.  God did not create all spirits equal.  If all you drink is beer that features bikini-clad chicks and foam-finger-sporting morons in their ads, or the brand is actually too cheap to afford a marketing campaign, chug away.

Go ahead, see if you can get drunk.

On the other hand, if you love IPAs, Imperial anything, or Rumplemintz, pace your fucking self.  One of those drinks every hour will get you where two of those piss-water pilsners would.  Which reminds me . . .

(2) Lay off the straight liquor

Perhaps you've heard of John "Bonzo" Bonham, the virtuoso drummer of Led Zeppelin.  The dude could literally destroy a full drum-kit in one show with his bare hands.  That's how hard he rocked.  Unfortunately, he drank even harder, meaning he died of vomit-asphyxiation after downing roughly a fifth-and-a-half of vodka in 1983 (no, not in the whole year, in one night, dipshit).  Sweet.  The moral of the story is don't try to put all the liquor on the planet into your body at once.  A few shots per session will provide the desired effect, believe me.  And remember Rule 1: Watermelon-Kiwi Pucker is not the same as Sailor Jerry, despite both sounding equally gay.

(3) Drink often

If you want to succeed at something, practice.  Getting hammered once every two weeks is not going to transform you into a drinking champion, just like skipping training and being a total jackass during games didn't get Allen Iverson a single ring.

If this guy's "the Answer," the question must have been, "Who's the NBA's biggest douche?"

In spite of what AA may tell you, your body will adapt to having alcohol inside it on a regular basis.  That's not to say your blood-alcohol content will be any lower, but you'll be more-accustomed to the effects of the booze and better able to gauge your status - Awesome, Awesomer, or Awesomest?  Notice how teenagers are typically wasted after three Smirnoff Twists, while middle-aged men can put away a six-pack in the same time with barely a slurred word?  There's a reason for that, and it's called a built-up tolerance.  Just as your immune system needs exposure to various contagions to raise its defenses, your digestive and neural systems will only handle alcohol well if they recognize it.   If you have not worked at it, you'll forever be that idiot you were when you turned 17 and ended the night at 12 AM rolled up in a piece of outdoor carpeting in a sheet-metal outbuilding next to a five-gallon bucket of puke and esophageal lining.  (What, just me?)

That being said, we all know the main reason people drink is to break down social barriers and lower inhibitions, plain and simple.  Sure, booze can be tasty, and sometimes you just need to self-medicate after a hard day at work, but we drink for fun.  Alcohol is the social lubricant that renders your otherwise dubious behavior acceptable in public.  And you know what?  Sometimes that's just fine.

Feel like dancing to the Thong Song on a table?  Cool.  Want to talk to that hottie you'd normally spy on creepily from the darkest corner of the taproom?  Go for it.  Pretty sure you can take the loudmouthed asshole who looks like a WWE reject, only more 'roided out?  You can't, but odds are a lot of people would love to see you try.  Epic nights of mind-erasing indulgence are what separate the true barstars from the chaff.

However, a word of advice: accept the consequences of your actions and, for the love of Bacchus, don't drive home.  Every plastered jerkoff who smears someone else's life across the pavement gives a bad name to lushes everywhere, resulting in ever-harsher punishment for any alcohol-related offense.  As someone who has been through the legal ringer once, I can tell you this is something you want to avoid if at all possible.  My preferred modus operandi?  Recline that car seat, toss the keys in the back, and sleep that shit off.  Think of it as an impromptu camping trip.  If that doesn't work for you, try taxicabs or DDs (though I don't think I have encountered these semi-mythical people more than a handful of times).

Whatever you do, heed the Man's word:

"Stay thirsty, my friends."

Don't Be Hatin'

Previously, on This Is My Bar . . .

I took it upon myself to do the unthinkable: tell women how to dress.  You had it coming, ladies, after asking us since the beginning of time the unanswerable question "Does this make me look fat?"  (Sorry, I was legally obligated to incorporate that joke somewhere in here.)  Comeuppance, bitch.  Truthfully, this is kind of like community service, since I am doing everyone involved a favor, free of charge and for the benefit of society.  So, without further ado, let's resume the pain.  Hey, it can't be worse than menstrual cramps, am I right, girls?  Yeah?  What?  There's no turning back now anyway, I may as well push this as far as it can go.

Tights with Shorts

This is one of those iffy cases; yes, it can look okay under the right circumstances, on the right girl, with the right wardrobe.  But why risk it?  Like a straight man wearing pink, odds are some alternative is the better choice.  Because when this look goes wrong, it goes Titanic wrong.

No, like the actual ship sinking.
(Sidenote: why would they mention Cameron made Aliens, T2, and True Lies?  "If you liked those pseudo-intelligent action flicks, you'll love . . .  weepy historical disaster drama"?)

Remember when you were a little girl and liked to raid Mommy's closet?  Or, if your household was less-traditional, Daddy's?  You'd try on everything and anything, according to the order in which you found it, regardless of taste.  But you quit painting your face with cosmetics like Bozette the Hooker Clown years ago.  Time to do the same with the zany, anything-goes outfits, because, honestly, it mostly makes you resemble a little girl.

And we prefer to imagine you older.  Slightly.

Think of it another way: people make fun of superheroes' underpants-on-the-outside for a reason.

80s Stuff

I know I promised not to cover the glaringly obvious faux pas in this article, but then I turned around and immediately mentioned leg-warmers and shoulder-pads in the same sentence; why would you trust me?  Neon is dead.  The Pastel Plague is over.  Spandex resides in its proper circle of hell.  When you toy with such dangerous trends, you're like one of those cliched idiot scientists from the movies who decides to fuck around with an alien mutant zombie-producing super-virus for fun.  Fuck you.  What good could come of that?  Similarly, attempting to resurrect any element of 80s fashion is just asking for apocalyptic consequences.

On second thought, I'll take those alien zombies.

The vast majority of 80s garb makes a woman look frumpy, skanky, or mentally deranged, owing to the little-known fact that most designers of the time were senile slutty grandmothers.  Apparently.  That 80s Show failed because the decade in question wasn't even good for more than a few jokes.  What's that?  You don't recall That 80s Show?  Exactly.  More than anything else, it looks like you are (1) half-ironically emulating an era you weren't part of for humorous effect (fail), or (2) desperately trying to recapture the high days of your bygone youth (epic fail).  Either way, it's a major turn-off and reprehensible to good taste besides.

Writing/Logos Where You "Don't" Want Us Looking

Now here is one I have absolutely no problem with per se, but confuses me to no end, so I want to at least bring it to your collective female attention.  You are a modern, empowered 21st-century woman (who still doesn't buy half her drinks at a bar), and deserve to be treated as such.  Correct me if I am wrong, but that means not being treated as a piece of eye-candy, yes?  So why, for the love of Sir Mix-a-Lot, would you want to walk around in public sporting these?

Game on.

You read my mind.

It is challenging enough for the male psyche to avoid sexualizing the feminine form at every turn without drawing attention to the assets (Christ, I went for a pun there).  It's the equivalent of putting up a flashing neon sign that says Don't Read Me.  As exemplified by the above image, Victoria's Secret is especially guilty of this with their "Love Pink" line/mindfuck/whatever.  Then again, I guess this is not terribly surprising coming from a company that exists for the sole purpose of visually exploiting its target demographic.

Sexily exploiting them.

For the record, I think I speak for the majority of my gender when I say it isn't necessarily trashy or unattractive when women dress in such clothes.  However, you cannot get offended when wearing it causes guys to stare at your butt.  It's like wearing a padded pushup and a skintight V-neck that leaves half of your rack basking in sunlight - we're going to look, plain and simple.  Even sweatpants can look provocative on a female when they are this style, for fuck's sake.

Not.  Fair.  They aren't even pink!

I suspect women secretly do this as some sort of reverse-psychology, post-modern, domination-through-stereotype-exploitation stratagem, but lack the proof, since my brain basically turns into non-conductive Go-Gurt substitute, like most men's, in the face of sex.  Conversely, if wearing these pants/shorts literally turns your posterior into a billboard, in scale as well as purpose, maybe you want to opt for something a tad more demure.  Just saying.

"Breaking up the scenery, breaking my mind . . ."

And I think that about sums it up.  I hope you have found this simple guide useful, if not especially politically correct or tasteful (ha, get it?).    Before I start fielding complaints, let me just say that, despite the relative simplicity of our wardrobe options, men manage to screw up their look approximately ten-thousand times more than women.  That's because we aren't as vain, materially-obsessed, and superficial as you.  Just kidding, we're idiots.  There, happy?

Oh, Yes, I Did (*Snap*)

Hey, America, you know what I absolutely hate?  Of course you do - I come here to bitch about it all the time.  But what am I taking issue with today specifically?  Fashion and style shows on TV.  This is the genre of programming in which the most pompous and pretentious people imaginable criticize everyone, but especially celebrities, for wearing certain clothing.  While I am usually all about throwing idiots, famous or otherwise, under the bus, I find shows created for that express purpose grating.  The hosts are usually a sort-of attractive, but overly-made-up bitch and a ludicrously flamboyant male who gets to call himself a style expert simply by dint of being gay.

Because this is what you should aspire to: white slacks, faux denim, and silver hair.

What many viewers seem to lose sight of amidst the glamor and bullshit fashion doublespeak is the fact that these critics are complete prats themselves.  Why should you listen to them?  They will even claim on-air that a positively ridiculous outfit is unacceptable for one person, yet "just works" for another.  For the record, Lady Gaga's "style" does not work for anything remotely human, no matter how much your queer subculture idolizes her.  Women more often than men get sucked into this vortex of trend trash-talk and self-image questioning because . . . well, they're women.

Let's be honest.

So, what's my logical response to these shallow, pointless, soul-raping programs?  My own fashion guide for women, of course!  Yeah, I went there.  That's right, I am here to provide you ladies with a bit of sartorial wisdom, mostly accrued through simple observation tempered with common sense.  I am aware this will not gain me a bevy of female friends or particularly please my undoubtedly enormous feminist fanbase, but that is a risk I am willing to take.  Bros before 'hos and all that.  I realize the realm of feminine fashion is far more complex and fraught with peril than ours, even though you can wear our clothes when we cannot wear yours, and we can avoid all ridicule simply by rocking this look:

*Indestructible claws and urban decay optional.

I am not going to bother with all the obvious gaffes (Daisy Dukes are only for a select few women, shoulder-pads and leg-warmers died in the 80s, do not attempt to replicate anything worn by Snooki, etc.), but instead focus on the smaller WTFugly trends that have somehow slipped under the bad taste radar.

High-Waisted Short-Shorts

Why is this woman topless?  For the same reason covers of women's magazines look basically like the covers of men's magazines: T'n'A sell, no matter your target demographic.

In what world is this style attractive?  Actually, it is a testament to just how fugly these chick-jorts are that (1) the advertisers put them on a 3/4 naked Asian woman to distract from what little she is wearing, and (2) it did not even achieve that much, since my first thought was, Damn, those are some hideous shorts.  And she's a model!  What do you think the odds are you can pull off this look when she can't?  If there is a body-type that this little number does flatter, I have yet to see it, and hope I never do, because it would have to be something like eggplant-shaped.  Maybe a starfruit figure?  These shorts do weird things to any woman's proportions, accentuating nothing that needs it.  Your ass just sort of blends into your back, while from the front it looks like you cut off your grandmother's jeans.  Hot.

Isn't the point of a croptop to leave the midriff exposed?

Quasi-Maternity Wear

I don't know how else to describe these tops that have become all the rage over the past three years, especially in the bohemian-indie-hipster-art scene.  They are the Empire-inspired peasant smocks that have no definable waistline and simply drape straight from the boobs down.  To the best of my knowledge, this shapeless cut was designed to accommodate a growing baby-bump.  Why, then, have so many of you non-inseminated females taken to wearing these?

  

From the above photos, you tell me who's a prego and who isn't.  Honestly, males are bad enough at this game without you throwing bullshit curve balls.  At this point, you're just looking for an excuse to bitch us out for miscalling a pregnancy, aren't you?  All clothing need not be figure-hugging, but it should follow the basic contours of your body.  And, sorry to say, the larger your cup-size, the sillier this garment generally looks, as if you tried to pull your flowy skirt over your head and got it caught halfway down.  As an additional bonus, I have to imagine it increases the odds that a strong breeze will result in you unintentionally flashing the headlights.  Think Marilyn Monroe's famous pose above a venting steam-grate.

Skinny Jeans

Yeah, they look stupid on guys.  Do they look much better on women?  Not usually.  Don't get me wrong, we of the courser sex appreciate you wearing tight clothes in general, but it should be tight in the right places.  My Man Card may be revoked for revealing this, but when you feel guys' eyes following you out of the room, it's not because they are checking out your calves, well-toned as they may be.  Enter skinny jeans: if you are thin enough to comfortably wear them, you could probably use some carbs, and if not, those pants are probably choking off your ovaries.  It makes your feet look bigger than they are, too, and pairing them with tapered heels just screams hooker.

Or at least loudly proclaims tramp.

Not to mention, due to the proliferation of misguided Emo-Asian-Skater-Punk boys sporting skinny jeans nowadays, it actually makes you appear strangely androgynous (word of the day!).  Men are sexually insecure enough without adding to the confusion.  Imagine ogling a hot piece of meat from behind (if you'll pardon the expression), only to realize when it turned around that it was the same gender as you!  Only that wasn't hot and borderline-socially-acceptable.  Feel our befuddled, neanderthal pain, bi-curious ladies!

Wait, I just blanked out . . . what was I saying?  Oh yeah, more on this later.

onlinedivas

onlinedivas

More Parents of the Year (and other Dubious Honors)

And now for another Fucktarded Moment in Restauranting . . .

There I am on a Saturday afternoon, bartending.  In my restaurant, the building is divided into two halves, the dining room and the lounge/bar, like many casual dining establishments.  A wall, albeit one with windows, separates the two areas, which means that I necessarily have limited contact with the other side of the restaurant.  A middle-aged woman walks into the bar from the dining room.

CUSTOMER: "Did a little girl with pigtails come in here?  She wandered away from our table."

Wait, you're saying these need supervision?  Weird.

Seriously?  Not only did this woman utter these words with a straight face, she seemed almost as unembarrassed by the implications as she was unconcerned about the possible answer.  It was all I could do to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter.

ME: "Oh, yeah, she went off with some guy who was sitting in here.  That cool?  Ha, just kidding!  Seriously though, I didn't realize it was my turn to watch her.  She took off out the side-door, and since we're not allowed to restrain or verbally reprimand customers' kids, I figured there wasn't much I could do."

Sadly, that response occurred only in my mind.  One of my less-snarky coworkers happened to see the child in question enter the bathroom moments ago, and answered for me, fortunately.

Silly Casey, it's not that hard to get rid of a child.  (What, too soon?)

Meanwhile . . .

Some guy waltzes into the bar without pausing to see if anyone is going to greet him.  He's got his laptop in-hand, sunglasses and unbuttoned powder-puff-pink shirt on - clearly, he's too important to wait like a regular person.  He struts up to the bar rail, where I am posted, eagerly awaiting an interaction with just such a "guest."

HIM: "Hey, do you have outlets?"
ME: "Nope, sorry, our building is actually too old, so they didn't install them everywhere."
HIM: "No?  What about up here? (indicating the bar itself)
ME: "No, not really any that your cords would reach, because they're behind all the coolers and stuff."
HIM: "Oh."  (visibly discomfited)

At about this point, a woman of roughly the same age catches up to Pompous McPinkshirt.  Without asking me any further questions, he mutters something unintelligible to the woman, and they proceed to seat themselves.  Or, rather, they try to seat themselves.  With mounting agitation (on only the man's part, I might add), they go back and forth between three different tables in the same vicinity, spinning in circles and generally resembling nothing so much as guinea pigs cornered by a rambunctious terrier.  Either that, or one of those AI characters in a video game who glitches out and locks up the whole system by repeatedly running into a corner.

I am still trying to figure just what criteria, aside from a total lack of power-sources, they are using to decide between these tables in the Bar-muda Triangle when they leave in something of a flustered tizzy.  Really?  You can't enjoy your casual lunch with what appears to be your significant other on a Saturday afternoon because you cannot plug in your laptop?  For that matter, just how old is your oh-so-vital computer?  Because my puny netbook can run for well nigh four hours before the battery is totally drained.  Were you planning on an intense realtime MMPO gaming session that would suck your electrical stores dry in minutes without continuous current?  Last time I checked, PowerPoint isn't exactly a nuclear telemetry-running program, and, as far as I've heard, restaurants are primarily for eating at, not crafting and troubleshooting multimedia presentations.

Pictured: What this guy apparently thought he would be doing in my bar.

Maybe this is just me being overly-critical and kind of a dick, but I find people's technology fetish, and resultant inability to function without it, pretty damn amusing in cases like this.  Oh, and the restaurant actually does have one table with an outlet, but I don't like to publicize it.

Finally, a vicarious experience from another coworker of mine.

CUSTOMER: "How's your grilled cheese?"
MY THEORETICAL REPLY: "It's cheese between two pieces of bread.  Grilled."

This has been another Fucktarded Moment in Restauranting.

*NOTE: I am aware that I told certain individuals I would next be featuring a guide to women's fashion.  Rest assured, it's in the works.

It's not rocket-science, it's car-science

Despite my best efforts to affect a Dude-like Zen calm, I am actually a fairly high-strung, angry person.  Stunning, isn't it?  This is largely due, I think, to my elevated awareness of the world around me.  And, let's face it, the world is a pretty stupid, irritating, ball-busting place a lot of the time.  (Hence my "drinking problem.")  If you did not know this, it is probably because you are one of the ignorant, annoying, oblivious fucksticks I resent and aim to enlighten/demean whenever possible.  Congratulations.  I can only assume ignorance is in fact bliss, because knowledge is a bitch.

Few situations arouse my ire quicker than retards (read: most homo sapiens) behind the wheel, not least of all due to the fact that your shitty driving is endangering my life.  Or at the very least delaying me, which is almost the same, since you are actively stealing minutes of my life.  And, because of my Holmesian observational skills, I tend to notice every last little thing other motorists are doing wrong.

This would probably be funnier if I wasn't 90% sure it actually happens.

"Road rage" does not begin to cover it, as I exist in a permanent state of mild irritation with everyone else on the road, and it takes very little to make me, in the immortal words of Ron White, "spin off into a whole new dimension of pissed-off."  You are (nominally) operating a complex piece of deadly machinery weighing at least several-hundred pounds at high speed; is it too much to ask that you treat it as such?  Think of it like the podrace in Star Wars.  No, you are not piloting an explosive levitating pair of jet-thrusters hurtling through the air at 200+ mph, but, then again, you don't have more midichlorians than Yoda.  You barely have more brain-cells than a bright orangutan.  Driving a regular Pontiac Aztek is the Jedi-equivalent for normal human beings.

This accident could have easily been avoided by not sucking.

By no means do I consider myself one of the world's best drivers.  That would be the Stig and his ilk.  However, because I am in a mindset of constant vigilance, I can typically maneuver my Chevy Cobalt (don't be jealous) effectively and safely through the streets, bypasses, and parking lots of urban America.  Only one chip on my car is my own fault, while the numerous other dents, scrapes, and dings are thanks to, you guessed it, other people.  Statistically speaking, this sample can be seen as an accurate reflection of the driving world at large; my car is a giant, four-cylinder pie chart, and that minuscule bit of missing paint above by license plate is a wafer-thin slice of the graph, showing what percentage of the time I am a dipshit on the road versus everyone else.

For example . . .

This is not the same as . . . 

. . . this.

It's confusing, I know, since they are both paved areas with lots of automobiles.  However, while one is a purpose-designed, restricted competitive racecourse, the other is a place I actually take my car.  So do families with children, senior citizens, and people even less-conscientious than you, believe it or not.  Mario Andretti's famed maxim "If everything seems under control, you're just not going fast enough" should be born in mind, not only because of its racist humor (heh, get it?), but also because having control of your combustible steel battering ram/deathtrap in a confined space is sort of important.  You are not Vin Diesel, James Bond, or Tom Cruise (anyone remember him?).  All of the other cars will not miraculously avoid hitting you when you insist on peeling out of the supermarket parking lot at 35 mph in your sweet flaming-eagle-emblazoned 1987 Trans Am.  No, wearing your black shades won't change that, nor will the fact that you just watched Transformers: Fast Shit Blows Up or More Fa5ter and Even Furio5er.  Sooner or later, you will collide with another vehicle.  And, unlike Jason Bourne, you have to worry about insurance premiums.

As long as we're on the subject of parking . . .

Parking is not the easiest thing, I will admit.  Parallel-parking is something like a six-point turn for me, usually ending with a rear tire on the curb and my front fender a foot out in the traffic lane.  And that's if I am sober, which is mostly theoretical anyway.  What can I say?  I'm in touch with my feminine side (*rimshot*).

Not the recommended driving position from the owner's manual.

But that's why, recognizing my weakness and the inconveniences it may cause others, I simply avoid paralleling in most situations.  If I have to park a block away, so be it.  The drivers who approach parking as if it is neurosurgery still get on my last nerve, though.

Here's what I'm talking about: there are several open spaces along the front of the building, directly across the lane from another half-dozen on a cloudless, balmy, late-afternoon in summer.  Decisions, decisions!  What's the only logical way to choose?  Cruising by them at a speed no greater than 3 yards-per-minute so you can adequately browse each and every possibility, of course!  Because it totally matters how straight the lines are painted, not to mention how many weeds are growing out of the cracks in the asphalt.  Don't even get me started on proximity to storm-drains or shade trees.

You don't want to be this guy, after all.  Fail much?

That's just another thing I love about Americans: our insistence on searching for the perfect parking space for an extra 15 minutes, rather than spend an extra four walking a dozen more yards.  Because, damn it, if you start compromising your laziness in the parking lot, what's next?  No mini-fridge next to the recliner?  Actually walking through Wal-mart rather than using the fatass, er, "handicapped" go-carts?  Hell, no!  This is 'Merica!  We're number one!  Oorah!  Love it or leave it!  They took our jobs!  Go big or go home!  Yes, I do want fries with that!  Just do it!  Word.

Recent research I have conducted also suggests Americans possess slim to no awareness of the concept of "lanes" on most roadways.  They either (1) cannot see the banana-yellow or polar bear-white painted lines on the pavement, or (2) assume these to be purely aesthetic decoration.  It is the only rational explanation for why drivers feel comfortable swerving back and forth across the road, never once touching that superfluous lever on the side of the steering column mysteriously called a "turn signal."  The only alternative is . . . well, I will let Clive Owen sum it up:

Turning is a more complex maneuver than it seems, though, as a recent experience of mine proves.  A fellow motorist and I are both waiting to turn onto a two-lane one-way road, coming from opposite sides of said thoroughfare.  So there we, our vehicles practically facing one another across the boulevard as we wait for traffic to clear, affording probably a good thirty seconds for all parties involved to assess the situation.  In other words, this wasn't exactly a Hot Wheels stunt-course.

Here is my scientific diagram.

Rather than turn into the totally clear lane nearest him - you know, the one you are lawfully supposed to use, if pure logic isn't reason enough for you - he instead takes the turn extra-wide and ends up in my lane, presumably so that he can almost rear-end me as I simultaneously pull out (there's some kind of sexual joke here, but the wording eludes me).  For no discernible purpose.  Seriously, there was no reason whatsoever to do this - he wasn't avoiding oncoming traffic, or immediately trying to get over so he could make another quick turn ten feet down the road.  He just . . . liked the far lane, my lane, much better, I guess.  Very justified excuse for a near-collision, right?

Can't get enough of my commentary on strangers' driving habits and lack-of-skills, but want it stripped down, sans flashy graphics?  Look no further.  I have been griping about this subject for quite a while.

*By the way, you didn't get that reference to "the Stig" earlier, did you?  The Stig is pretty much the preeminent ninja assassin of the motor vehicular world, the professional driver on BBC's outstanding car comedy talk show - which, yes, is a genre in Great Britain - Top Gear.

Yeah, he's more or less ShadowStorm in a race car.

He's masked, he's silent, he's made of awesome.  Don't be fooled by the shitty American version of Top Gear, which was originally hosted by Adam "the Least Funny Comedian Alive" Carolla for God's sake, England has the genuine article.