You know when they say “Order when you’re ready?” I hate to be the one to inform you of this, but they don’t really mean it. It’s code for “Start talking, asswipe.” Maybe if they could say that out loud, the job would be worth the $5.50/hour they get paid, but alas, they can’t.

I know, I know, the menu is big and pretty and you got confused. Plus, you only had twenty minutes to peruse it while the three Dodge Neons in front of you were ordering. But guess what? It’s fucking McDonald’s. They’ve had the same basic menu for 50 years, so stop staring at it like it’s the Rosetta Stone.

Yes, they’ve recently added a bunch of chicken crap and salads to the menu, but let’s face it: you’re not going to order any of that stuff. After a solid half-hour of questions about value menu sizing, what you’re going to order is a Big Mac meal, Super-Sized. So stop kidding yourself that you’re going to live up to your New Year’s resolutions and order the damn thing so we can all get on with our lives. And don’t worry about the fact that it’s got about 600 grams of fat, because you’re going to leave the last two bites and four fries and convince yourself you didn’t eat much of it.

What’s that? You’ve got a soccer team to order for? Fuck you, buddy. Park that ‘92 Caravan of yours and go inside. I’m not sitting here in my car for an hour and a half while Trevor figures out whether or not he’s allergic to the Fillet o’ Ecoli. He’s a crappy goalie and he’s going to throw it up when he takes a ball to the gut in the first half anyway.

Seriously. Stop ordering Happy Meals. Now. Rob Thomas has been on the lite rock station my radio is stuck on for like the last half-hour and I’m going to put a tire gauge in my eye if I have to listen to another song while I slow-cook in my car. It’s a no-fault state and I’ve got enough room to get some decent momentum when my foot “slips” off the gas.

Yes, he said around the corner. Around the corner. Yes, drive around the corner. You’re in a fucking driveway; where else are you going to go? There’s a little wall on one side and a building full of miserable community college dropouts on the other; it’s not brain surgery. Just follow the little road to the little window with the guy who looks like Paul Wall on a bender.

NO! NO! Do NOT back up! I will get out of my car and kill you with this broken Soul Asylum CD if you back up! I’ve already pulled forward; so have the 92 cars who showed up while you were asking how much more the 6-piece nuggets were. There is nowhere for me to go, and you do NOT need any more food! Stop! STOP! You ass.

Okay, I’ve got my McChicken sandwich and coke ordered, and I’m considering forgiving you. Oh, cute. Your 4-year-old son is staring at me out of the back window. Hi, little guy. Daddy’s a tool. Yes he is! Yes he is! And you’re going to grow up to be a tool just like him, coaching soccer teams to distract yourself from the fact that your wife has had a headache every night for the last seven years.

Okay, seriously. Stop staring at me, kid. It’s hot, I’m looking forward to undercooked and over-fried chicken for lunch, and I still have this jagged CD.

Dude, your kid’s starting to drool. Maybe you should have him looked at, before he ends up pushing a mop in this fine establishment.

Or maybe it just runs in the family, judging on the number of condiment packets you just demanded from the window. What the hell are you planning to do, build a fort? Take a sweet & sour bath? Or is your counting so off that you don’t realize that 172 barbecue sauce tubs for 6 nuggets is overkill?

Yes, your youngest kid gets a crappy Happy Meal toy. No, I don’t care that it’s the same one. What difference does it make? It’s a 42-cent piece of plastic made in Taipei, and it’s going to get tossed out onto the street in 4 minutes where it can get caught in my axel and manage to do $748.65 worth of non-claimable damage. No, you can’t exchange them. Tell Sling Blade back there to sack it up and deal; in a month he won’t remember what Kim Possible was anyway.

Yes. YES. Drive away now. No, don’t pull up 4 feet and stop to count your cheeseburgers. I can’t… I CAN’T PULL UP TO THE WINDOW WITH YOU THERE. Idiot. Just a few more feet. Yes, they got it all. Wonder upon wonders, they got the order right. Now fuck off.

…

What do they mean, they’re out of barbecue sauce?

Love,
Pip

Who the hell are you talking to on the phone? You’ve been chattering nonstop for the last half-hour. I don’t think I’ve even seen you breathe, much less allow the person supposedly on the other end of the line to speak.

Who is your carrier, and what crazy rate plan are you on? I know you’re not swimming in cash or you wouldn’t be driving a Towncar that looks like it ended its career as an extra on a Dukes of Hazzard episode.

Speaking of which, I may not know much about cars, but shouldn’t this model have come with, y’know, a dashboard? I know you don’t have a meter, but a speedometer might be nice. I’m just saying, is all. The fact that you appear to be shifting gears with a socket wrench is a tad off-putting.

And what is that smell? I didn’t want to say anything at first, because I thought it must be some kind of ethnic dish and I didn’t want to be insensitive, but now my eyes are starting to bulge. It smells like Andrew Dice Clay’s career in here, and I can’t take it much longer. I thought I knew what “stench” meant from that time my roommate left a burrito in the sink for a week, but that was before the word was so brutally redefined in this backseat.

What’s that matted clump stuck to the window? Is… is that… is that hair?

Uh… that SUV is… it’s… it’s gonna… JESUS H. CHRIST! C’mon, man – I know I said I was in a rush, but my dismemberment insurance isn’t paid up this month, so how about you relaAAAAACK!

Erm… does the West Side Highway really seem like the best route to get from Midtown to Queens? Okay, okay! Sorry I asked. I don’t know what you’re saying but you’re obviously very excitable. Eyes back on the road, please, ’cause there’s a Dodge NeOOOOOOLY FUCK!

Hey, that was neat. You actually managed to re-locate my spleen. Cool as that is, though, I just retched a bit of street-corner gyro into my mouth, so how ’bout we ease into the gas from now on there, Sparky? I didn’t know an ‘83 Lincoln could go from 0 to 60 in 0.2 seconds. Learn something new every day.

What do you mean, where’s Queens Boulevard? It’s Queens Boulevard. It’s the big fucking boulevard that runs right down the middle of Queens. Well, I don’t know how to get there, man, I just moved here. I’m not the one who drives around New York for a living. How about you take the money you didn’t spend getting properly licensed to do this and invest $3.49 on a map?

Just up here. No, keep going. A little further. No, a little furth… oh, just drive. I’ll tell you where to pull over. No, not on the corner; I just said I’d tell you where to… oh, fuck it. Here’s fine.

Forty bucks? Forty bucks? Where’d we go, Midtown to Queens by way of Rhode Island? I’m not paying you forty bucks to scare the hell out of me.

On second thought, it’s worth the extra ten bucks you’re overcharging me just to get out of the car.

Love,

Pip

*The term ‘Gypsy Cab’ is used to refer to a cabbie who cruises for passengers, most often without a license to do so, and has nothing to do with actual Gypsies.

Hi! I’m the guy who sits behind you in class. You know that odd crunching noise you hear every time you speak? Yeah, that’s me griding my teeth. I know you look down on me because I rarely speak in class. I know you think I have nothing to add to what you say. And you’re right, I don’t.

Because what you say is stupid.

You know that professor you told us you worked with at Moderately-Prestigious University? The one whose name you’ve now said in class 16 times? Nobody’s ever heard of him. Yeah, he wrote some papers. Guess what? That’s what professors do. I’ve written some papers too. One of my favorites is a particularly poignant one entitled “What I Want for Cristmas is Peece.” I wrote in the 1st grade. My mom showed it to her co-workers, which probably means that more people have read my paper than your professor’s.

What’s that? You did a workshop with <insert meaningless name here>, where you learned to use your bodies as tools to fight oppression? That’s great. I’m a little fuzzy on how it relates to our discussion of iambic pentameter, but still… great for you. How about you continue to tell us about the workshop while I take a little brain nap and think about that chick from Lost sunbathing?

I’m not staring at my pencil, by the way, because I’m retarded. I’m staring at it because I’m wondering if the graphite in the tip is strong enough to make it through my eye and into my temporal lobe. I’m going to try it in a few minutes. Possibly sooner if you encourage us to “unpack this issue” one more time.

On a side note, the word you’re looking for is “gravitate.” People gravitate towards certain trends and pretty rarely levitate towards them. Levitation would be more interesting, sure. And maybe, if that’s really what you were actually talking about, I could focus for more than 1.73 seconds on what you’re saying, and maybe ask for a little of what you’re smoking after class. But I’m reasonably sure that’s not the word you want. Keep using it, though – I’m enjoying the laugh.

I honestly do know that it’s rude of me to roll my eyes every time your mouth opens. Forgive me; its an autonomic response to complete bullshit. Usually, I try to doodle stick figures in various inappropriate poses so that my eyes are averted when this unfortunate reflex occurs, but sometimes I take a break from my erotic/anorexic masterpiece to look up, and that’s always the moment at which you choose to speak.

Or maybe you’re just always talking.

Speaking of which, are you still talking? Feels like you’ve been pontificating since roughly, oh, 1994. I tune in every once in a while to pluck some tidbit with which to mock you mercilessly later, but even this pasttime is losing its joy. Plus, since I paid $1000/credit, I’m sort of hoping that the professor will get a chance to speak this class period. Or semester, come to that.

Love,Pip

Every year, around this time, exciting red and blue and green packages appear on the shelves at my local Albertson’s. And every year, around this time, I buy one of those shiny foil-covered boxes, remove one of the contents, and eagerly eat it.

And every year, around this time, I spit the contents of the box out of my mouth and say, “Motherf*cker! Gross!”

That’s right. I’m talking about Cadbury eggs.

I don’t know how it is that I manage to forget every year how disturbing these little candies are. Maybe it’s the bright primary colors, designed to disable my higher brain functions and replace them with a craving for pretty candy.

Candy eggs. What a hellish concept that truly is. Candy eggs. The unfertilized offspring of a chicken, only made out of chocolate and sugar.

Sugar yolk. Yolk that tastes like sugar. Sugar that looks like yolk. It is a fundamentally skewed concept. Yolk. Made out of sugar. Need I say more?

I need not, but I will anyway.

The Cadbury Egg is merely a symptom of a larger social distortion: The Easter holiday. Here is a holiday in which we celebrate the crucifixion and resurrection of a religious figure by hiding chicken eggs from children and encouraging them to eat baby chickens* whole.

Setting the religious/secular discrepancies aside, the holiday is bizarre. The concept is that a large, invisible bunny makes his rounds every year in order to stick a bunch of chicken eggs in bushes, or around your house.

Wait a minute… a bunny that hides eggs? Bunnies don’t even lay eggs. Where the hell is this rabbit getting all these eggs? Does the rabbit run a chicken farm? Does he sneak around rural Illinois, violating chickens and stealing their eggs? ‘Cause if so, I don’t want that damn bunny in my house. That bunny has some serious sociopathic tendencies.

I had a bunny once. And it hid stuff in corners, all right. But they weren’t painted up, and they sure didn’t taste like candy.

*made of puffed sugar

I just want a word to explain to you why I reacted the way I did when you playfully “discovered” an invisible wall in front of me on the street the other day. I admit that kicking you in the testicles and running away screaming like a girl was an indecorous reaction, but it’s important to me to explain myself before you pass judgment on me.So I thought I would enumerate the reasons your profession gives me the willies so that we could reach an understanding the next time I happen to pass through Union Square while a non-existent wind is causing you trouble walking.

1. Your mind is anarchy. Mime requires years of rigorous physical training as well as an astute sense of spacial perception and imagination. You have chosen to put yourself through such rigors – most likely at some prestigious French art school where teachers wear faux-turtlenecks and, I don’t know, berets or something all the time – just to stand on a street corner and have dimes thrown at you. Is it so far-fetched to assume that an individual that would make this deeply disturbing choice might also choose to remove my legs with a chainsaw? I think not.
2. Look what you’re wearing. The very Frenchness of your outfit is bad enough, but – and this is real cause for concern – you’re fucking silver. Yes, silver. The color silver. You’ve painted yourself up like a giant statue that answers invisible phones. Am I really the only one who has nightmares about this?
3. You’re obviously insane. In case my earlier point about logic and self-punishment didn’t hit home, consider this: you’re playing tug-of-war with a person who isn’t really there.
4. You’re about 20 years behind the rest of us. The “robot” might have been a dance craze in 1983, but it’s 2007 and you’re still doing it. And what’s worse, you’ve added a little zip whistle thing to blow at kids who, flying in the face of all self-preservation instinct, try to touch you. And when you blew it at me last week, you got spit all over me. Great, now I’ve got hepatitis. Thanks, mime.
5. You’ve got multiple personality disorder. Yeah, I said it. Last week you were a gold cowboy, and this week you’re a silver robot. Not cool, dude. Pick a horrifying manifestation and allow me a few weeks to get used to it, would you?
6. I did acid in college. Seriously, that thing you did with the masks last week? How the hell was I supposed to know it wasn’t a flashback? One minute I’m walking to work and the world is normal, and the next minute something that looks like that guy from Powder bred with Richard Chamberlain is skittering up to me on all fours. I made a very expensive appointment with a neurologist the next day, only to find out you were real. I can’t tell which is more frightening – the idea that hallucinogens are hiding in my spinal column waiting to be unleashed during a board meeting, or the fact that you actually exist.

I just wanted you to understand why it is that I hate you. I don’t know you personally – you may be a very nice, if somewhat odd, fellow – and I didn’t want you to think it was personal. Granted, I may have called you a “child-molesting creep show” and a “freaktard,” but I meant this with all due respect, which is to say little or none at all.

Love,

Pip

I know it’s been some years since I’ve spoken to you, and you probably assumed I’d gotten past it by now, but I need some closure. I couldn’t tell you this before because I was too close to it; I needed time and space to gather myself and recover enough to say this to you.

You were supposed to be mine forever. We were happy with each other, weren’t we? For that little time we had together – those moments we shared, we were happy.

And then he came along. I tried to ignore it, but I could see in your eyes that I was losing you. And when I walked in on you two… doing what you were doing… your bodies moving in that perfect rhythm we had never been able to achieve together…

You ripped out my heart and shat on my soul that day. You shattered my world, ruined my life, and left me a broken man.

It was the worst 5th grade dance ever.

Love,

Pip

I had to get up to turn the humidifier on the other night just to get a little sleep. When it gets this arid, and sinuses dry up, a funny thing happens. My girlfriend begins to make this horrible noise in her sleep. It’s so loud it wakes me up a few times a night.

The noise she makes sounds like:

“Honey, stop snoring. I can’t sleep with you making that racket. Turn over or something.”

I know that you do not know your own names; in fact, you may know yourselves better as “Holy Shit” and “You Little Bastard,” respectively. Chloe & Toby are the names I gave you upon adoption, however – the ones you cheerfully ignore on a daily basis.

There are a few matters that I would like to discuss with you, without the use of the spray bottle. Apparently, tapwater has corrosive properties when applied to cats, which may make it an effective tool for expressing anger, but not productive for a civil conversation.

The following are a few points you might keep in mind in order to foster a more nurturing relationship between us:

1. The bowls in the corner next to the scratching post are yours, and contain your food and water. The rest of the dishes in the house are mine, and contain my food. I do not sneak up when you are otherwise occupied and nibble out of your dishes; I would appreciate the same treatment in return. Granted, I do not particularly like processed liver and salmon bits, but the veterinarian has assured me that this is the preferred diet for your breed, and that Kraft macaroni, while appetizing, will do you little good in the nutrition area.*

Placing a paw upon the edge of my dish does not make the food contained therein yours. Please do not bat at me when I try to recover my own dish. If you pick a fight, it will end badly for you, as I am much bigger and have opposable thumbs.

While we’re on the topic of food, I’d like to point out that being able to see the bottom of the bowl does not necessarily mean the bowl is empty. There is no need to yell at me the instant a half-dollar-sized spot is cleared away; there is still more than enough for you to eat.

2. The door to my office is solid wood, 1.5″ thick. If, by some miracle, I manage to beat you through the doorway and shut you out, you will not be able to claw your way through the door before I am finished working; this is simple physics. You will, however, deprive me of my security deposit, which means you will be eating factory-outlet Cat Chow should I ever need to relocate.

Incidentally, my homicidal mood as I exit the office is a neurosis directly attributed to the noise of your claws on my door. If you do not wish to be drop-kicked down the stairs, I would suggest you desist.

3. I’ve been bathing myself for years; your attendance is not necessary. Yes, the water splashes on you when you smack it. Yes, it will splash you again when you timidly try it ten minutes later.

4. I’m sorry about the incident with the laser pointer. I did not know that you would charge full-tilt at the little red dot on the wall; nor did I know that you would be unable to halt your progress on the linoleum.

5. I cannot give milk, so stop treading for it. I realize that some kneading is a natural sign of affection in cats, but you’ve crossed into the realm of obsession with this behavior. Also, try to learn a bit about human physiology; when you knead certain places, it makes me very uncomfortable. It is what child psychologists call a “bad touch.”

6. I’ve seen you sleep perfectly well, curled up in a ball. I wonder, then, why it is necessary for you to stretch out to your fullest extent across my bed.

7. The couch was $400. You were $50. Do the math.

8. I know you can do the math, because I’ve seen you count. You allow me to walk exactly 5 steps in any direction before you attempt to dart between my legs. This may be a really neat game for you, but the kitchen floor is hard, and I don’t always land on my feet.

9. The litterbox is under the bathroom sink; the big mound on the floor is my jacket. Please do not confuse the two.

Thank you for taking time away from eviscerating each other to address these issues. I trust that you will continue to let me know the instant you need something.

Love,
Pip

*Me neither.

Heeeeey-Ya.

It was the Escalade (surprise!) stopped next to me at the stoplight. At first I assumed that there was something horribly awry in the engine compartment, but then I realized that the driver seemed to be actually enjoying the testicle-shrivelling rhythm. So…

Dear Bass Fanatic: I want you to know that I’m saying this because I care. About my own reproductive organs, of course, but also about your musical deprivation, because I’m such a philanthropist.

There is a whole world of notes out there – entire octaves – that you are missing out on. And not just notes, either, oh no; lyrics, too.

Maybe your stereo was installed improperly. Maybe nobody ever told you that that little knobs marked “BASS” and “VOL” actually turn – counterclockwise – to produce an entire world of musical possibilities that don’t make your fellow male motorists feel like they’re constantly on the freefall ride at Six Flags.

I implore you to experiment with these knobs…. before your bassline ruptures my spleen.

Love,

Pip