Could it get any hooter, I mean hotter in here?

Dearest Bloggers,

It has been a fortnight since my last post, for I have been hard-pressed of late to find the quality of blogging material that my fine young readers expect and demand with a tyrannical appetite. And no, I don't talk like this in real life. I just prefer my blogs to come off like an episode of "Dawson's Creek" (props to Lynne for whom that reference would have been impossible to make without). The story that follows is an emotional rollercoaster for me and is the fantastic conclusion of one of my lifelong ambitions. On the other hand, it is an embarassing and incriminating story that is intended for mature audiences for sexual humor and partial nudity. The following happened between the hours of 12pm and 3pm on January 09, 2007.

It was a slow day at work, so I was already planning on taking longer than my usual hour at lunch. Because of my previous holiday travels, it was time to get the oil changed. Hooters restaurant is the only eating establishment within walking distance of the Big 10 Tires, so this is where I usually eat when I get my oil changed. It just gives me another lame excuse for going there beside all the other lies that justify it like "They have great wings" or "The prices are reasonable." When everyone knows the real reason I or any other XY chromosome darkens the door of said establishment . . . the sweet tea.

I am always leary of oil changes because I feel like I am being taken advantage of. There is always something wrong. This time, it was my drive axle. And being the "turn the other cheek/take my cloak too" kind of guy, I always give in to the recommended repairs. Lucky for me, Hooters had plenty of sweet tea to quench my thirst for my lunch date would be much longer than expected.

So that you can truly visualize and appreciate this little scenario, I will go into Tolkienish detail(I know Jules will appreciate this, sorry to all others).

Upon opening the door to the diner, I raised my sunglasses and propped them on top of my temple. I was casually attired in khaki Dockers slacks with an green plaid Ivy Crew long-sleeved button up shirt, untucked of course (spared no expense). I carried two textbooks under my left arm to study during lunch. I often carry things with my left arm as a form of exercise so that it can keep up with the exponential growth of my dominant right arm. The smaller of the two textbooks was an exotic animal drug formulary. The much thicker and more impressive of the textbooks was that of avian medicine and surgery, 3rd edition.

The fragrance of chicken wings and draft beer flooded my olfactory. I looked around for a hostess only to spy a long legged Asian beauty on roller skates and the custom issue orange and white coming my way from across the restaurant. I watched as she gracefully threaded the traffic and tables in a serpentine pattern and listened to the sound of her wheels on the hardwood floor. She asked me what I was studying, and I humbly told her. Her eyes grew to twice their size when she heard the word "medicine." I could only foolishly think to myself, "Maybe, this doctor thing does work after all."

Throughout my meal of wings, fried pickles, and delicious sweet tea, my waitress kept sitting down with me, flipping through my textbooks and asking me questions about my job, telling me about her chinchilla, and making other small talk. It was honestly nice to have someone to talk to, but I figured she was just working on a big tip. After I finished my meal, I recieved the call from Big 10 to find that my stay at Hooters would be much longer. I could have left, but 3 hours in Hooters is far more entertaining than 3 hours at Big 10 watching one of the three TV channels they pick up with the antenna.

After eating and about 30 minutes of post-prandial studying, my ADD was kickin' in, yeah. I soon found my section of the restaurant was quickly accumulating waitresses. Apparently, I had been seated in the section where Hooters' girls hang out when business is slow. In short time, I was surrounded by scantily clad women with unnatural proportions and even more unnatural pseudo-tan legs. There is suprisingly a lot to be learned from these wing-slinging wenches. They are really a carefree, funloving bunch. For one whose everyday work can be quite stressful, this was a most welcome relief.

Most of the tables around me were bubbling over with bittersweet excitement over a mandatory meeting that occurred previously that day. The guest speaker at said meeting was a local plastic surgeon who was offering payment plans for any Hooter girl who wanted discount breast augmentation. It turns out that Hooters corporation strongly encourages female employees to have work done to help the overall industry and boost third quarter earnings. (I wonder if the male employees feel left out.) Most of the girls were giddy with excitement and were shamelessly handling their business right in front of me trying to imagine what they would look like when the metamorphisis is complete. When I finally quit staring, my waitress asked me my opinion. I honestly said that I was a little disgusted by it, which was obviously the correct answer for her. She said she was never getting any work done, and we continued to discuss how unfortunate it is that some women resort to such lengths to either feel good about themselves, impress someone, or even make more money. I earned some definite brownie points for my staunch opinion on this matter.

I was suprised at how persistent my waitress was at working on that tip. She ended up staying at my table for 1.5 hours talking to me, only to get up a few times to check on her other tables. I actually had quite a nice time hanging out. We watched scrabble on ESPN (that could be a whole blog in itself). We talked about our lives and what we do when we are not working. She told me some stories about some guys she had punched out, you know, the basic ice breaker small talk.

Overall, the experience was interesting. With that many beautiful women around me touching themselves, I finally felt like the rock star that I have always aspired to be. Now, I can just go back to being a humble public servant. But maybe one day in 3,000 miles, I will see my Asian angel again and give her that tip she worked so very hard for.

Confession

Dear Baby Jesus,

Please forgive me for wasting 30 minutes of my existence while watching the last half of the new hit reality show "Identity" hosted by the everso charismatic Penn of the magical duo Penn and Teller while waiting on an hour-long rerun of "The Office" to air. I also would like to petition you for the strength to repent and break my addiction for writing ridiculous run-on sentences with unnecessary alliteration and feeling proud of myself for it. I know this is a pathetic waste of precious blog space and an uncouth slap in the face of those who wake up every morning and have to live with poor grammar skills.

Thank you for the chicken-flavored Ramen noodles that you have provided for me and a large pot where I can cook up a lovely double-batch for my dinner.

Thank you for my Casio keyboard on which I just so brilliantly picked out the theme song from "The Office." Thank you for using this to show me why I am still single.

Please give me sufficient rest and pleasant dreams tonight even if I stay up late and watch Family Guy and Aquateen Hungerforce on Cartoon Network so that tomorrow at work I won't try to spay a male cat.

Thank you reading my blog. Feel free to drop me a comment.

P.S.
Thank you for all the endorsements that made this blog possible.

Blogger? Hardly knew her

Style: To be sung to the tune of "Yesterday" by The Beatles

Yesterday. The prettiest client ever looked my way, but I was at a loss of what to say. So I began to vaccinate.

Suddenly. I'm not half the vet I used to be, and her cat's claws are sinking into me. Three explicatives came suddenly.

Why she was so hot, I knew not, she wouldn't say.
I said not enough cooler stuff to make her staaaay.

Yesterday. "Wow!" was all that I could think to say. My female staff considered going gay. Oh, I can't believe I made her pay.

Why she had to leave, I want to heave for what I said.
I stared a bit too long, and now this song's stuck in my heaaad.

Yesterdead (Sorry, I had to rhyme with head.)

Table for Two

Hey Blogheads,

If anyone is still reading my nonsensical ravings and was wondering, yes I am still using my George W thesaurus. For this week's installment, I would like to reconsider two humorous observations I made this week.

The first act opens with two young men in their late 20s to early 30s entering an upscale Mexican restaurant. Both of our heroes are casually dressed and moderately attractive. Both characters are immediately and violently pierced by the jagged stares and furrowed brows of other restaurant patrons. The two young men look at each other each having a certain uneasiness in their eyes. The host greets them. "Table for two," he cries out like a death sentence at a decibel that the guy on the deep fryer comes out to get a good look. The two humiliated men are led to a table with the best lighting right in the middle of the restaurant and hesitantly sit down.

In hindsight, I should have ordered a beer instead of a cosmopolitan. But seriously, it is an unfortunate circumstance in the 21st century the connotation that is assumed when two decent looking gentlemen enter a dining establishment at night. I am not here to judge because I have been guilty of the inquisitive stares as well. But being on the recieving end is no picnic. It doesn't stop at restaurants, I have recieved these looks in grocery stores, coffee shops, church, etc. Well, maybe not church, not yet at least. I don't think I'm alone in these feelings. I feel that there are more of us heteros out there who are being wrongly accused just because we enjoy having dinner with a friend who just happens to be a guy. Girls can luckily get away with it, and here are two theories why. It is either because it is more acceptable for two girls to hang out alone or lesbianism is not frowned on as much as two dudes.

The second act will also probably not be appreciated due to lack of experience on the readers' part. Therefore, I would like to include a homework assignment in this brief story. The other day when I was killing time before a job interview, I went to a local guitar store. The thing that always makes me laugh about these stores is the cacophony of noise that is produced by an army of electric guitars cranked up to eleven with enough distortion to make Metallica blush. Saturdays are the best time to go. This is when all the middle/high school rockers are there showing off for their peers. This past Saturday, I was fortunate to witness four of these prep-school hippies wearing their backwards hats fully equipped with self-inflicted scuff marks and fraying, and all four were rocking out simultaneously to different tunes in different time signatures. I know none of my readers (if anyone still reads this crap) appreciate this now. I want you to, desparately I do. So, I challenge you to visit a store over the holidays and report back to me on the comments with what you saw, heard, and smelled. This assignment is worth 100 points which represents 1/4 of your overall grade for this semester. Don't dissapoint me.

New Job

Dear Bloggerinos,

I was just settling down to a warm bowl of chicken soup pie. It's actually quite good, and if you would like some for your Christmas dinner table, you had better get your orders in soon. For simplicity just include your order with the usual comments and praise of yours truly.

I got a new job yesterday, and I wasn't even looking for one. It just goes to show how much God loves and wants to bless us. It was one of those spontaneous job interviews to see how well I thought on my feet. Obviously, I did quite well. Starting this Monday, I will be tying bags closed in a secure fashion so little fish cannot escape into the floorboard of automobiles thus making small children cry. That really is my job description. Unfortunately, like my previous occupation, this too is a highly stressful job, but the hours are much better. This job really just fell into my lap. Let me tell you how it happened.

I was at the local pet store and was planning to purchase some roomates for my 5 year old fish "Buddy." There was no help in sight. So I sojourned down the dog biscuit aisle to find a young clerk arranging a display of doggy Christmas stockings. The following dialogue ensues:

Chris: "Excuse me, miss."
Charming Clerk: "What!?"
Chris: (Taken aback and fighting back laughter) "Could I possibly get assistance with some fish?"
Charming Clerk: "Michelle! You busy?"
Charming Clerk #2: "Yeah!"
Charming Clerk: "Ok, so you want some fish?"
Chris: "Yes, please."
Charming Clerk: "Alright. Sorry about saying 'What' earlier. It has been a long day, and I'm 'bout to get off. Which ones do you reckon you want."
Chris: "How 'bout. I mean how about one of these orange gouramis and that pleco there."
Charming Clerk: "Alright. Hey! Are they supposed to be that skinny? Oh my, look at that one. Ooh, that's gross. (As she pointed at a fish belly up in the adjacent tank with some scavenger fish taking advantage of their roomate's unfortunate mishap) My, they sure are tricky to catch. Got'em. Hey, do you mind tying this bag up so the fish don't get out. I would do it, but my hands are wet. That'll be $7 even, and you might want to keep your reciept in case one of them dies on you. There is a week's warranty.

And that is how I came to be an employee of the local pet store. Pretty smart interview process if you ask me. I'm sure it really weeds out those who can't handle the pressure when they are put on the spot. It will be such a privilege to work for someone who thinks outside of the box like that. The ironic part is that I had just come from another job interview and merely wanted to buy some fish. Well, needless to say, in the end they made me a better offer. The financial incentive was just icing on the pie; because honestly, they had me at "What?".

Chicken Pot Pie

I had been looking forward to Thursday night all week. It was the beginning of my long weekend, and I was more than ready to kick back and watch my stories. The past two weeks of work had been hellacious, and my Thursday night cooking escapade was the icing on the proverbial cake, or pie as it were.

Work has been very difficult, and I feel like a complete failure to my clients and patients. Nothing has gone right lately. Fortunately, that is a huge exaggeration. I have had some splendid cases with wonderful and happy endings. Unfortunately for me, it only takes a few bad cases to ruin my week and shatter my confidence. These cases always make me second guess myself, my treatment choices, and sometimes even my career choice. The responsibilities and emotional fatique that come with this job are sometimes overwhelming. My boss says I am too hard on myself and that I shouldn't beat myself up over situations out of my control. I know that he is right, but I can't seem to make myself believe it enough to practice it. I carry all of my bad cases home with me at night and then back to work the next day, then back home and so on. I know that can't be healthy, especially if I ever want a marriage like my grandparents have. The only good that can come from baggage like this is knowledge. I must learn from what I consider mistakes and just try better next time. However, the thing that really gets me whenever I recite this cliche to myself is the context. We are not talking about a bad financial decision or a few missed questions on a test. This is life or death. An animal's life or death. I am so thankful that I am not a human physician. I could not handle that pressure. But to my clients, these mere animals are almost like children to them. And when I lose one of their children and have to tell them this . . .

I am emotionally fatigued from the number of clients I have made weep in the past month. I need a break. I decided to take one today. A minor one, but one nonetheless.

I woke up this morning, and decided I did not feel like doing any surgery today. I told my boss this, and he gracefully agreed to take my surgeries for the day. All I did today was vaccinate a few animals, do a pregnancy check on a weimeraner, and stitch up one of my patient's stuffed rabbit. I thank God I felt like crap this morning, and I'll tell you why. My one surgery of the day was a routine dog ovariohysterectomy(nice big doctor word, impressed?) . When my boss went to make the incision, he noticed a finite linear scar right down the midline of this dog's belly. "This dog's been spayed," he said. I looked at the scar which was exactly where a surgical scar would be. It was so small and clean that I know I would have missed it had I done that surgery today, and the dog would have been cut needlessly. I was relieved.

Since I did not have a lot to do, my boss let me leave early. I was very excited to get home and go running. On my way home, I stopped by the store to get some things for dinner. I wanted to cook for my aunt and uncle who come over every Thursday to watch my stories with me. I had the strangest notion to cook chicken pot pie. . . without a recipe. I was obviously suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome or some delusions of iron chef grandeur to think I could pull off such a culinary feat. Granted, I had done this once before, but that was many moons ago in a lovely village called Northepointe.

Like a mad scientist, I gathered all my ingredients on the countertop and began to add them to the pie crust. I was so excited, I called my grandmother to get confirmation on heat and time. To my surprise, my guess of 400 degrees for 20 minutes was exactly what she recommended. I felt really good. I was in the iron chef zone. I decided to shoot for bonus points by brewing some lipton sweet tea (spared no expense). Twenty minutes later, I remove my masterpiece from the oven, and it is beautiful. The crust a golden brown. The aroma of rosemary chicken consumed my little kitchenette. I eagerly cut into the pie's golden exoskeleton and attempted to scoop a piece to serve to my famished guests. But I scooped nothing but crust. The filling of the pie was nothing but chicken soup. It was then that I realized my fatal error. Instead of cream of chicken soup, I had foolishly used chicken broth. I don't know why I was so surprised after the week I had just had. But God also used this oppo. to bless me.

After declaring the chicken soup pie unfit to eat, I ordered pizza. Only then, did I discover that the cravings of my aunt for that evening was in fact an italian pie. Poetic, isn't it? Despite my pie being a complete disaster, God gave me a peace about everything because she wanted pizza. To me, the simplicity of that is beautiful. I don't know if my storytelling does it justice for everyone in Bloggerland. I hope you can see it as I do.

Anyway, thank you to everyone who wastes precious minutes of their lives to read my thoughts. And even more thanks to those who comment. I am really addicted to this blogging thing, and when I started, I didn't think I would have anything to write about. The truth is, I can't stop writing. I love it, even if no one is reading. I love you all.

Thanksgiving

Dearest Bloggers,

The first thing I am thankful for this year is you. Which coincidentally also happens to be all I want for Christmas(for those of you who have upgraded to beta blogger, you can download Mariah Carey's fabulous interpretation of this holiday classic by clicking on the previous link). Your comments and sincere concern for my haircut and the loan I took out to pay for it have been recieved with open arms and it has truly warmed my heart. However, this week's blog may prove to be less jovial, I'm afraid.

This week's episode is obviously about Thanksgiving. . .the most American holiday of the calendar year. We can all thank our first log cabin republican for giving us this one day off to spend with family and friends in order to gorge ourselves on tryptophan and take afternoon naps. What's more American than overeating? Maybe fighting with your fellow man at "the Walmarts" at 5 am over sweatshop-made flat screens at unbelievable holiday "price cuts." Dear bloggers, I implore you to please forgive my bitterness, but this holiday really has been raped of it's simplistic beauty by giving way to good old-fashioned American consumerism.

That's really all I want to say on that matter. Onto a far more important matter that has gone too long without saying. Warning: the rest of this blog gets really political, and the views and opinions expressed are not those of blogger, ninjas, or pirates.

I recently saw a motion picture, or "movie", that really upset me for its completely unrealistic content and representation of how the USA deals with terrorist. I'm sure W would agree with me that the content of this film and its portrayal of homeland security are nothing short of insulting. The picture of which I speak is the 2005 release of King Kong, directed by Peter Jackson. If you are a patriot and want to support America, I highly suggest that you boycott supporting this movie. Outside of pathetic CG animation and poor writing is its desparate attempt to spurn patriotism with an elaborate display of our military might within the streets of NYC. In this spectacular scene, Peter Jackson spared no expense with special effects to push his political views. But they are not really his views after all, considering this is a remake of a classic movie. Maybe, it is more of a historical piece of cinema.

The 1930s were vastly different than the 21st century. But when it comes to homeland security, we stick to our guns. Perhaps, the scene of Kong being chased by the national guard shooting up buildings with no regard for innocent bystanders or a damsel in distress is realistic. Maybe I am wrong for the first time in my life, and this masterful work of PJ's is reminding us Americans that we do not negotiate with terrorists. However, it is still shocking to me. I mean, I could see us behaving this way in say Baghdad, Tehran, Ahganistan, etc. (credibility out the window for spelling errors). But, I have a hard time believing that we would not try to negotiate with a 30 ft. terrorist gorilla on American soil. If the mayor ordered the kind of attack that this movie portrays, the PR clean up would be a complete nightmare. I also think PJ could have taken an interesting spin on the classic by trying to negotiate with a 30 ft. gorilla.

Anyway, I am now satisfied for sufficiently wasting more of your bleaping time. I mean your blogging time.

The Haircut

Dear Fellow Bloggers and Future Leaders of America,

Disclaimer: The blog you are about to read may very well change your life; however, for better or worse is unfortunately out of my control. It is entirely up to the reader and how he/she chooses to use said information.

First of all, I would like to take this opportunity to welcome myself to the 21st century and this lovely blogging community. This is a huge step for me, and I'm sure you are all very proud.
I would also like to thank Al Gore for inventing the internet for us so that we can keep in touch and also for giving us the environment.

This week I got a haircut. Isn't that great? I recieved said haircut at a salon that was recommended by a friend with two first names. (Note to self: taking advice from people with two first names should be done with upmost caution). First, I must stress how difficult this haircut was for me. I have always regarded the client/stylist relationship as one of fidelity. It's not business, it's personal. When you find a good stylist/barber, you stick with them for better or worse. I unfornately was tempted by the fruit of another.

It all began about 5-6 weeks ago at my previous haircut experience when I was sexually harassed by my exstylist. Bloggers, the remainder of this blogoraph is rated PG-13 for mildly strong sexual content. It went down during the shampoo session of the appointment. Exstylist proceeded to shampoo the back of my neck for what seemed to be 3-5 minutes. Last time I checked, I didn't have much hair on the back of the neck. Nevertheless, she lathered, rinsed, and repeated while informing me she just broke up with her boyfriend. Needless to say, I was a bit uncormfortable. But I don't think the back of my neck has ever been cleaner.

Recent past. . . I decided to try a new stylist as recommended by forementioned friend with two first names. This place was swanky. It was like a salon/night club, but the musak was more soothing. This place even offers men beer while they wait for the haircut. I was not as fortunate to recieve this perk because my appointment was for 9 am, and they don't start serving alcohol until 10:30 am. While I was waiting, I kept recieving smiles from the staff and other clientele. I was thinking to myself, that this place was really friendly. It wasn't until I sat down in the barber chair and looked into the mirror to see a spot of chocolate on my nose from that morning's mocha. That's funny.

The haircut was going great. You should have seen it. I have never seen such masterful use of scissors except from Johnny Depp in Edward Scissorhands. I mean we are talking that good.
I recieved a phone call while in the chair. Leslie just said, "I am a prisoner of my own mind." Isn't that great? Anyway, the phone call was from none other than my exstylist checking up on me, and I was in the middle of cheating on her. How could I answer? I did not answer. I would not, should not, could not answer. So nothing happened. Moviescript ending, huh?

But that is not the end. I am not yet done wasting your time with my story. The cost of this affair was astronomical. It made me nauseated when I heard it. Forty-eight freakin' dollars. That number is now forever burned in my memory. For the rest of the day, I kept repeating that number to myself under my breath. I even saw the number everywhere . . . street addresses, phone numbers, etc. It even exists in my own phone between the lines 908-4947. This is not a shameful plug or parody of the new Dr. Pepper commercials or the next Jim Carrey movie. THIS IS REAL LIFE PEOPLE. I just wanted to warn you, bloggers, because I love you all, and I don't want you to befall the same fate as me.

Take Home Points:
1. Don't cheat on your barber. It costs alot. It costs about $48.00.
2. Don't be that guy that spends more on a haircut than a girl.
3. Don't entirely trust people with two first names.