Oh Yeah? Why Don't You...

Go Fug Yourself. Defintely in the daily rotation. Girls are so mean sometimes, but this is priceless. Whereas, there is something deeply disturbing about this. I sense hours of time wasting going back through the archives.

iPod Zepto

This is so good, it should have been mine.

THE IPOD ZEPTO:
INCONCEIVABLY SMALL.

BY JON FITCH

- - - -

Congratulations on purchasing your new iPod Zepto.

Capable of holding 12 million songs and only one-tenth the size of the head of a needle, the iPod Zepto is a revolution in sound. Once filled with music, the iPod Zepto will play for over 68 years without playing the same song twice.

Enclosed with your iPod Zepto are a USB 4.0 cable, an iTunes 12.1 starter disk, earphones, and a high-magnification lens. (An optional follicle-mounting strap is available.)

Getting started

Insert the iTunes starter disk into your computer and then connect the iPod Zepto using the USB 4.0 cable. The iPod Zepto will automatically synchronize your music, create genre-specific playlists, identify songs of interest similar to your current favorites, create a Myers-Briggs personality profile based on your musical tastes, and write your New Year's resolutions.

Charging the battery

For best results, the first time you use your iPod Zepto, let it charge for three hours or until the battery icon shows that it's completely charged. Once charged, the battery—an amazing 9 microns in length—will last for a full 12 minutes.

Troubleshooting

Q: The iPod Zepto box was empty.
A: It's not empty. Look closely at the period-sized dot in the middle of the box. Now, find the red rectangular square in the center of the dot. This is the outer packaging of your iPod Zepto. In a sterile, wind-free environment, carefully open the outer packaging and remove the clear-plastic inner wrapping. Finally, using the enclosed high-magnification lens, unwrap the plastic and look for a white case. Inside the white case is your iPod Zepto.

Q: My iPod Zepto stopped playing and now it keeps eating flakes of dead skin that have settled on my furniture.
A: That's a dust mite. Unplug the headphones from wherever you've inserted them in the mite and try to locate your iPod Zepto.

Q: The engraving on the back of the iPod Zepto I ordered was supposed to say "We love you, Cody," but instead it says "We love Cod!"
A: Due to the incredibly small size of the iPod Zepto, personalized engravings had to be condensed. We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.

Q: Sometimes I'm thinking about a song and then my iPod Zepto plays it. Is the iPod Zepto telepathic?
A: Ha ha. No, although with the iPod Zepto's new IntellectShuffle feature, sometimes it may seem that way. IntellectShuffle incorporates data from your PDA, cell phone, credit-card statements, browser history, medical records, and school transcripts, along with an intensive background check, to help choose the "random" playlist sequence.

Q: Every time I sneeze I hear the Beastie Boys' "Sure Shot."
A: You've inhaled your iPod Zepto. Consult a qualified otolaryngologist.

Q: My iPod Zepto has turned evil and is holding my family hostage.
A: A patch to the IntellectShuffle feature will address the evil-Zepto issue. The main things to remember in the meantime are: (1) don't talk in a condescending tone to your evil iPod Zepto, (2) don't meet any of your evil iPod Zepto's demands, and (3) don't, under any circumstances, urinate.

Q: I'm having difficulty synchronizing my iPod Zepto with my iPacemaker.
A: Connect the iPod Zepto with the USB 4.0 cable and hit the reset button. The iPod Zepto and iPacemaker should automatically synch. You should now be able to activate the Beats Per Minute feature, thereby synchronizing your pulse to your playlist selection.

Q: It will take seven hours until the evil iPod Zepto patch downloads. WHAT'S THE FREAKING DEAL ABOUT URINATING?
A: While we can't elaborate, we can tell you that an evil iPod Zepto sometimes mimics the Amazonian candirú fish.

Q: I hate having to recharge my iPod Zepto every 12 minutes. Is there any way to extend the battery life?
A: Yes, if you keep your iPod Zepto's power button in the off position, the battery will last significantly longer.

Q: The engraving on the back of my iPod Zepto was supposed to say "Happy birthday, Mary," but instead it says "We love Cod!"
A: Well, who doesn't love cod?

What's next?

Look for the iPod Yocto—the world's first subatomic media player—coming soon.

- - - -

The final wrap-up of The Purification is coming soon. I bet you're excited.

Cabin Weekend Update

Almost forgot...

After OVERWHELMING reader response (not really), I thought I would include the rules for Shooters Dice Game. Two points about this. 1, Remember that Shooters is the name of the bar in which this game was invented, so the word "Shooters" works on at least two levels, which is nice. And B, although the rules may appear simple here, remember that you are sober, and that they become much more intricate and appealing with three or four pre-beers.

Shooters Dice Game Rules:
Everyone starts with five one dollar bills. Everyone rolls one die, and the highest roller starts the game. The first player rolls two die, and play proceeds according to the chart below, with the next roll going to the person to the right (unless direction is reversed, as indicated in the chart).

2 - Roller pays; an additional roll is required to determine the amount (1 or 2 - $1, 3 or 4 = $2, 5 or 6 = $3); pass die
3 - Player to the left of the roller pays $1; pass die
4 - Player to the right of the roller pays $1; pass die
5 - Player to the left of the roller pays $1; pass die
6 - No one pays; pass die
7 - Roller takes a dollar from pot, unless pot is empty, in which case you're screwed; roll again
8 - No one pays; pass die
9 - Player to the left of the roller pays $1; pass die
10 - Player to the right of the roller pays $1; pass die
11 - Player to the left of the roller pays $1; pass die
12 - Roller takes from pot; additional roll according to rules for rolling a "2" above; pass die

There you go! Feel free to amend to your evil needs.

I'd also wanted to add one more story from the weekend, which is quintessential northern Wisconsin. We walked into another bar that I haven't mentioned yet, where the year before we had played several rousing games of table shuffleboard (one of the best bar games of all time, btw). It was intense. This year, however, there happened to be buffet sitting on top of the table, which I would estimate was rated x*(1/100) quality, where x is Old Country Buffet. So instead, we were forced to drink beer, and buy some Old Style off-sale for later. While we were sitting there, we learned of the drink special of the night. Apparently, Jagermeister was being doled out that evening in proportion to your ability to shoot four-legged animals in the face. That's right. Whereas on other nights, you would pay bucks for booze here, on this particular night it was instead Booze for Bucks. And in order to confirm the exact size of said carcasses (in "points", for the uninitiated), the lovely bar maid had a clipboard dedicated to recording the claims of the blaze-orange-clad patrons before scurrying out to the parking lot periodically to verify the deadness of these animals.

We were not given any Jag for cabin mice that we ensnared with the cunning use of peanut butter.

Damn.

I Blame Pooh

You know what's funny? This is....

The Purification (#3)

I was reading about a heart condition a writer had recently whose diagnosis looked something like this:
Premature ventricular contractions caused by stress, nicotine, caffeine--fixed with pills and a couple of lifestyle subtractions.

The analogy to my diseased ability to maintain a healthy relationship with a wonderful woman was not lost on me, but I'm comforted that the cause and solution I've self-diagnosed is similar....in my case, we'll call them lifestyle alterations (within which are plenty of subtractions). I'll look into the pills later.

In my case the diagnosis looks more like this:
Premature relationship fracture caused by long-distance, for-granted taking, and various neuroses (including unhealthy boundary drawing, self-involvement, and vestigial sense of responsibility)--fixed with lifestyle changes leading to growth of personal character.

In the meantime, here's the latest installment of the big P, which is in and of itself supposed to be therapy too:

3. Cook for yourself. Hmmm...McDonald's or Wendys? No wait...Papa John's new deep dish? Mmm no...just had that... Chipotle? Chipotle. That guacamole is like crack.

These are the kinds of inner monologues that indicate that my gut has shit for brains (to steal from Nick Hornby). I've seen Super Size Me. I know what non-stop junk food can do to me. Hell, I even studied liver biology in grad school and understood some of the numbers that Morgan Spurlock's doc was throwing at him. But you know that moment? That moment right after you've decided that yes, I am hungry....and yes, I should probably have something to eat because if I don't go now then Lost will be on, but I'm Tivo-ing it, but it is nice to watch live, but the Timberwolves are on too and I could watch some of that, but by the time those both are over it might be too late and I'll be really hungry. After you make that decision, that it is in fact the correct moment to eat, then you have to decide what exactly is the perfect thing to eat at that moment. If you're Chicks (my roommate & new contributor -- welcome!), you go to Chipotle or "make" cereal. "Cooking, eh Chicks?" we would say, and giggle like college freshmen, because basically, that's what we act like more often than we should.

But cooking for yourself is cathartic. At least, if you inherently enjoy doing it, which I personally do, and have since I first picked up that first cast iron skillet. Back then, I was probably going to try and take out my sister with it Bugs Bunny style, but still. Laziness though, has of late prevented me from doing enough cooking. Habits again. But now I'm going to mince myself back to mental stability and saute my way to sanity.

The act of cooking not only makes the food taste better (a LOT better), but you might even learn a thing or two about food along the way that you didn't know already...like the virtue of grey sea salt over kosher, the ingredients of garam masala, or what the F is a shallot, scallion, or leek. You also might impress a girl or two...one of them being your mom. It warms a mother's heart to think she's raised such a talented kid that can emulsify at will and braise with the best of them. One of my greatest simple pleasures is going home and helping my mom with dinner (particularly this Thursday--sweet potato creme brulee & curried pumpkin soup) and bringing in some new recipe. I stopped doing this for awhile, but now I'm back on the wagon.

Mostly what I like about cooking is the ritual itself; prep, cook, clean, eat. The cleaning actually happens during the cooking (unless you ask my 'landlord'), but you get the point. There is a sense of accomplishment about getting something done that really fits my To-Do-List-completing mindset. In a lot of ways, cooking is a lot like the lab work I do everyday...start with some cell culture media broth, dash of amino acids here, cup of penicillin/streptomycin there....OK, I'm reaching. But cooking does appeal to both the rigorous recipe-following scientist side of me, while allowing for creative tweaks here and there to get the best result. It is, if nothing else, a comfortable ritual and let's not forget, you get to eat what you make.

Still. That Chipotle guacamole is pretty freaking good....

Boys Weekend Out!

A couple times a year, several of my friends and I head north a couple of hours to my friend Spen's cabin. The guest list is always strictly male. I'm not sure that we've ever specifically said it was an all-male thing, but judging by the typical activities it is probably a moot point, as I'm not sure any female would want to subject herself to the virtual testosterone bath that ensues. Mostly we enjoy just hanging out with very little to do, and patronizing local dive bars, of which northern Wisconsin has approximately 10 per capita. This particular weekend happened to also be the first weekend of hunting season in Wisconsin, so the potential for unintentional comedy was as high as Kate Moss on a New York weeknight.

We arrived at our favorite bar (and by that I mean the closest to the cabin) after grocery shopping for various fried foods requiring only oven preparation (no running water in winter), the champagne of beers, and a full 18-wheeler full of natural spring water and advil. "Shooter's Bar" was indeed busier than usual, and we were the only ones not wearing camo and orange. Now, Shooters has been the site of several fabulous Cabin Weekend moments, including:

*My friend Chris asking "One-eyed Tony" if he could look under his eye-patch
*The infamous Minnesota Mexican shot (tequila with a live minnow in it...well, it's alive when it goes in -- yes, Shooters also sells live bait..it's Wisconsin stupid)
*The Great Stealing of the Inflatable Miller High Life Blow-Up Deer of '03
*The Great Stealing of the Life Size Brett Favre Cardboard Cut-Out of '04
*On our first trip to Shooters, thinking that a $2.75 Jack & Coke was a pretty good deal before realizing that tap beer is normally priced $1 (you can't beat northern Wisconsin prices)

On this night, the drinking was a little slower than usual, and the group smaller than average, so there were no truly glorious frat-boy moments for us, but we did come up with an incredible way to waste time with two dice and a wad of cash a piece. We spent more time coming up with a set of rules that everyone could agree on then playing, and frankly, for men this is the most enjoyable part anyway; with the possible exception of trying to come up with the funniest drunken quip, hopefully at the expense of someone else in the group. And dice are one thing, so you can only imagine what the Rules Committee Meeting for wiffleball looked like the next day, when actual athletic competition is involved. If I ran the country, coming up with Wiffle Ball rules would be required training for all United States Ambassadors. I'm not sure that there is a female equivalent of this pheonomenon. I don't ever recall my younger sisters having heated arguments about the proper tree to use as foul pole, the merits of opposite field home-run area on left-handed hitting, or equality of semi-soft toss pitching. It was more about which My Little Pony to play with, or the proper positioning of Single Mommy Barbi at a tea party with Malibu Ken. Right, ladies?

For guys, competition in any form is comforting and relaxing, and all we're really looking to get out of these weekends, and god-damned it...we better win something. Fortunately for us, there was too much snow on the ground to allow base-running during Wiffleball, or I would more likely be writing this paragraph from the Bumf@#k County Memorial Hospital emergency room. My roommate Keith found out the hard way that even relieving yourself outdoors can be challenging in the snow, attempting to injure a rock attacking from above with the cunning use of his chin.

The weekend also saw a couple of lines from waitresses that were absolute web-gem nominees. The attractive girl in town (I assume there's only one) who happened to wait on us the second night opened with, "Hey guys. Kill anything today?" While another at breakfast Sunday morning uttered, "Hi guys, my name is Jessica and I'll be your waitress....You're in for a treat." We learned soon thereafter it was her first Sunday on the job. She later pronounced, "Sorry I was late coming back over to take your order here. I'm a piss-poor waitress." It's funny that the simple fact of her admitting these things to us pretty much guaranteed that she could screw up as much a she wanted and it wouldn't matter to us.

Ah, the Cabin Weekend;

Beer and fried food: $80
Hours of Xbox, Wiffleball, dice, and cards: 34.7
Feelings shared: 0
Guy-style personal therapy: Priceless

Is There One for Billy Packer

A website devoted to The idiocy of Tim McCarcer.

Some gems

• "The reason we call that pitch up and in is because the arms are attached to the shoulder."


• "There is a world of difference between a count of one ball and two strikes is a lot different situation than hitting with two strikes and one ball."


• Joe Buck: "I am stunned the Angels don't have anyone warming up in their bullpen."
  McCarver: "I am your co-stunner."

cross-posted here

The Pickle

A short digression for the big P to bring you this. Sportspickle (a sports satire site much like The Onion only slightly less genius) has a list up of their Top 200 headlines (and associated stories) on the front page. Click on the link above. Here's my personal favorite....enjoy!

The Purification (#2)

2. Reduce alcohol consumption. "I love scotch. Scotchy, scotchy, scotch. There it goes, down my belly."

This seems like a simple and obvious one. But my thinking about it is somewhat more complex than just doing your average, run-of-the-mill, New Year's Resolution or Lent-style sacrifice. Any boob with a healthy fear of a vengeful god can convince themself to swear off booze for a month or two before hopping back on the wagon. I, however, am a new-age boob. Maybe it's the Buddhist in me, but I loves me some good old fashioned balance and harmony. My personal opinion is that extremes can be harmful, or are, at the very least, much easier to accomplish than finding "the perfect balance", so therefore, a somewhat empty gesture. What's the point of giving something up for an arbitrary amount of time if you know you're just going to pick it up again, and more than likely do it the same way you've always done before?

The point of the Purification is not to deny myself pleasure at all costs, and not to excoriate, castigate, or berate myself either (I did that already and yes, I used a thesaurus for that). The point of it is to break old habits, to have to think about "the why" of decisions I might have previously taken for granted, and to exact LASTING change. So in a sense, I feel like giving up alcohol completely for an arbitrary length of time would be pointless, to some extent. I don't want to learn if I can do it or not. I don't feel the need to get all 12-steppy about it. I have, in fact, done it at various other times in my life, so there's not a lot of mystery there for me personally.

What I want to change are those moments in our drinking careers when we feel a little too indulgent....when the Reason we are drinking just "feels wrong". There are a million reasons why we Bomb Jaeger or Shoot Purple Hooter, but some are "good" and some are "bad". At least, that's how my brain works. Maybe yours is different.

Examples:

Good - Bachelor Parties, Weddings, Happy Hour with friends, Holiday dinners, Lagavulin 16 or Caol Ila 18 anytime or place (they're that good), etc...

Bad - Proving manhood, PR'ing, Revenge, Sulking, Putting a good keen edge on that depressed state you've been working on...

Let it not be said that I didn't give those "Bad" ones a fair chance, because I have. I have accumulated quite a bit of data about them, in fact (I'm a scientist...this is seriously the kind of thing I say...weird, isn't it?). There's a period of my life that I now jokingly call "The Haight-Ashbury Days", in homage to a phrase coined by a local radio personality, and during that period I was having a raucous good time during the 4pm to 4am shift, and pretty much hating myself the rest of it...which caused me to want to drink more, more self-loathing, body shots, disgust and shame, etc....ad infinitum.

Don't let it happen to you, brother.

The Purification

A lot of blogs contain a whole heap of self-indulgent crap. I'm sure I'll type my share here. The goal being, however, that some of the aforementioned crap is actually interesting to other people (!), leading to praise and glory from them, leading to more self-indulgence, a book deal, self indulgence, etc....ad infinitum.

However. Although we here at 6'2" intend to entertain first and foremost, from time to time, we may have to delve into personal matters, albeit with a comical bent. On a rare occassion, we may even speak of....our feelings. (crowd noise/whispers)

Now. I've screwed up my fair share of relationships, although I probably don't have X beat. But recently, I PR'd in this particularly infamous (that means more than famous, right?) category. I don't want to blog about the details, because it's not funny. Not in the least. I loved her deeply, and I still do. But I screwed up, and it is completely my fault. I thought for awhile that she played a part in it, but I've since realized that that is just dumb. Males are generally stupid, and now I've got personal data to prove it. I've tried like hell to make up for what I did, but she hasn't been receptive. She has, in fact, been pretty much royally pissed from what I've surmised, and she has a right to be. So, I decided to take control over the only part of this that I can. I decided to change what I don't like about myself....some of the things that led to our demise. I decided to purify myself. Maybe there's hope of reconciliation, but if not...we can probably all be better people...and any excuse to get there is probably worth it. I enter it all here for your amusement, or for your education.

The Purification Plan
(Just 20 or 30 easy steps!!)

1. Tea is the new coffee. I started drinking coffee longer ago than I care to remember. And I've relied on it more and more as the years go on. For me, it's not even about the caffeine jolt, although it might be nice to not be hopped up all the time in an unnatural state of alertness, reeking of the Sumatran highlands. I've always felt guilty about having to apply for a personal loan to get a half-shot of hazlenut Torani in my triple-cheesecake pumpkin macchiato too. But I do love the ritual of getting up in the morning and having a warm cup of coffee the very first thing. Habits and rituals. Such has been my life. Such has led to my current predicament (in part), the building of boundaries I didn't even know were there, and a prime target for which the PP is taking dead aim. So now I will be switching to tea. Most of the time. There may be an occassional cup of joe, but god-damned it, it's going to be on an emergency basis.

To be continued...

You Asked For It

Science Humor: MIT-types study the effectiveness of Tinfoil helmets.



And here's the abstract:

Among a fringe community of paranoids, aluminum helmets serve as the protective measure of choice against invasive radio signals. We investigate the efficacy of three aluminum helmet designs on a sample group of four individuals. Using a $250,000 network analyser, we find that although on average all helmets attenuate invasive radio frequencies in either directions (either emanating from an outside source, or emanating from the cranium of the subject), certain frequencies are in fact greatly amplified. These amplified frequencies coincide with radio bands reserved for government use according to the Federal Communication Commission (FCC). Statistical evidence suggests the use of helmets may in fact enhance the government's invasive abilities. We speculate that the government may in fact have started the helmet craze for this reason.

(via Law Geek)

I Get One Per Week

Tall has told me not to post about law-dorkish stuff here. But I'm granting myself a 'one free pass per week' dispensation, so long as I bring the funny. Plus, this could really happen (or something much like it) in any profession where one works for the man. LegalGeek humor beats ScienceNerd "jokes" any day of the week.

Caption Contest (cont.) (again)

Caption Contest (cont.)

We welcome submissions to all caption contests! Use the email link at the right if you have any suggestions. -->

The FYU (Adventures in Juve Hoops)

So, this fall, lacking much to soothe my competitive Jones, I'm co-coaching a 6th grade boys basketball team. Coaching 12-year olds is, to put it mildly, an experience. (Especially considering that my previous 'coaching' experience has consisted of calling subs for college kids and yelling at people to get out of my way at the Rec...) They have the attention span of a gnat. On meth. Many of them have just started growing, so body control is an issue. Judging by the amount of times they've come up to me at practice and said "Coach Pooh, (they don't actually call me Coach Pooh, behind my back I'm pretty sure its some derivation of "Coach Asshole"...) why can't we play 7-on-7," basketball is not their first love. But they're good kids when their parents keep them away from the pixie stix.

A-NY-WAY, before our first game, the coaching staff realises that the team does not have a name. We get the uniforms, and they are bright yellow. Actually, maybe more bright yellow. So, in that spirit, we let the kids come up with their own team name ideas and then we'll vote. Of course, the "Yellow Jackets", the "Honey Bees" (danger...) and the "Golden Bears" all get suggested (as did "Pee", but that was quickly vetoed). Finally, perhaps the goofiest kid on the team (we'll call him Will, because that's his name) has a stroke of genius:



No, not "Jerome Bettis". Simply, "The Bus". The team unity displayed by a name in the singular. The sheer variety of the cheers we can teach the parents. The stories we can tell about the wit and wisdom of 12-year old 'burb kids. And when we vote, "The Bus" makes the final two.

Where, to the horror of the entire coaching staff, however, the final vote is 8-4 against "Bus" and for...the "Fighting Yellow Unicorns"*. Not that there's anything wrong with that. (One of the four dissenters was overheard as saying "that name is so girly."** Indeed son, it is. At least it's not "My Little Yellow Ponies" or "The Hoopin' Cabbage Patch Kids".)

After the game, (where, sorry to pile stereotype on top of thinly veiled, sports-related homophobia, the team of 'city' kids beat our South Ancherburg (read: rich kids) youths about 70-30) the father of our 4'4" point guard comes up to speak to the coaches. He's got the typical look of an Alaskan redneck. Beer gut. Facial Hair. Keys to the family dogsled. (Not to mention a fabulous Bagdhad Bob t-shirt). Thanks us for coaching the team. Says, "but the name..."

"Yeah, we know it sucks. We vetoed worse." Such as 'Pee'.

"Well, there's that. But, and I don't know if you know this, but unicorns, and rainbows (uh-oh, uncomfortable conversation alarms going off...), are symbols of gay pride - "

"Really? I mean, I know about rainbows, but I've never heard that about unicorns."

"Well, it's true, it is. Big time. And I don't have any problem with those people, (this is now officially my most akward moment since showing up at a job interview without functioning vocal chords due to an errant (accurate?) elbow from my esteemed co-blogger the day before) but I don't think we should support that with this team."

". . ."

Uncomfortable silence.

"Well, we can't preach democracy if we don't practice it."

He was less then satisfied with that remark. Thankfully, the gun rack was empty. This time.

* Update: I have been informed by my co-coaches that the name is in fact "FLYING Yellow Unicorns." I disagree, since my head would have exploded on the spot had that happened.

** Ok, so he actually said "That name is embarrassing. It's fruity." I santized it because my Grandma might read this blog. If my Grandma could work a computer or stop her VCR from flashing 12:00 .... 12:00 .... 12:00 ...

Caption Contest...

Dear Leslie

This item was sent to me by my friend Quinn the Flighty Eskimo (no, not you Pooh), seller of apples. "Do you like apples? Do you like apples?" It is deliciously naughty...much like the Mulligatawny Soup I made last night. Well...delicious anyway. I did use a generous amount of butter, cream, and curry, so I suppose one might consider it naughty too.

Mmmmm...atherosclericious.



P.S. My favorite ex-NBA splinter-gatherer has a new column up....on being tall.

My Best Bar Story (Stupid FratBoyish Story #1)

In the interests of appeasing Miss Frankie, I'm blogging at work...If I get fired, I'll, I'll, well I'll do nothing of any sort. Stupid anonymous internet.

This all happened to Me. Except for, well, any of it, but you can imagine what it would be like if did. (Though I did win money from platonic, her now husband (then fiance) and several others with this yarn. It has traveled around the world courtesy of the nuclear submarines of your U.S. Navy.)

"So, I used to live in Minnesota, but I have lots of friends in New York City. Now Minneapolis has a decent nightlife, but its no NYC. So when I go to the Apple, I try to manfully keep up with everyone. Like this last time, when we end up at this huge club/bar. Tri-level, like something from cocktail or a Lenny Kravitz video. So we're up in the corner on the top level, and my idiot friends are bored with beer bongs, so we're doing gin bongs. Now, I don't drink any more, (Pooh: of course, I don't drink any less...thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week. Try the veal...) but I'm in NY and I don't want to get called a pussy, so I do one. And it got good to me, so I do another."

"This is clearly a bridge to far, and I'm going to be sick. Now the morons who desgined this place put the only bathrooms in the basement, so I have to sprint/stumble/tumble down three flights of very crowded stairs, pushing anorexic model typespeople over the railing as I go. I reach the basement just in time, kick open the bathroom door, kick open the stall door and let it go..."

Fast forward five minutes...

"So, I run up the stairs to my buddies and I'm like 'fellas, we gotta go. We gotta go right now.'

'Dude, why, did you not make it in time?'

'No, I ran down the stairs, kicked open the door, kicked open the door to the stall and let it go...and there was someone in there'

'Dude... So what did you do?'

'I thought about what I'd do if I was in the toilet, sitting on the pot and somebody kicked open the door and puked all over me...So I punched him in the face first and ran out.'"