Oh, Craigslist...

So I'm shopping for a digital camera on Craigslist, when I decide what I REALLY need is actually some commissioned grafitti. Good thing this listing is on there!

WILL DRAW ANYTHING, ESPECIALLY GRAFITTI @ ANY PRICE!

The only information provided is:

IF YOU NEED A DRAWING FOR A TATTOO OR ANYTHING, HIT ME UP

Although, I shouldn't mock. Maybe if I'd known about this guy five years ago, my tattoo would look more like the fleur-de-lis its supposed to be, and less like marijuana.

Saved by the BBQ

A few weeks ago, I was on my way to Austin for a conference when I decided to pull over in a parking lot off the highway, so I could dig my allergy medicine out of my bag. This particular parking lot belonged to a local barbecue restaurant. As I'm digging, I notice flashing lights behind me. I received my first speeding ticket ever just a week prior to this, so I had been conscious of my speed on this trip, and I hadn't noticed that a police car was following me.

The state trooper slowly made his way to my window. He was your average Texas state trooper: a lovable fleshy lump of beige poured into a slightly beige-r uniform, who probably goes to church, spanks his kids, and super-sizes his combo meals. He informed me that I was driving 63 in a 50. I apologized, and said that the last sign I'd seen said 65, and I must have missed one. As I'm searching for my insurance, the following conversation ensued:

"Did you drive all the way here to go to Meyer's barbecue?" he asked, indicating the restaurant outside which I had parked.
"No sir, I'm on my way to Austin. I've never been to Meyer's, should I try it?"
He smiles proudly. "Well, some people say its the best in the country!"
"I bet it is! I think I heard about it on the Food Network or something."
"Do you like brisket?"
"Yeah, that's my favorite! Is that what I should order here?"
"Oh yeah, it's the best." He pauses, after checking out my license, clearly trying to decide whether a fellow brisket-lover should be punished. "Since you're not from around here, I'm just gonna give you a warning."

I thanked him, and he shuffled back to his car.

So, vegetarians: you might be healthier and more environmentally responsible than I, but I can bet you would have had to pay that ticket.

The Onion is so aptly named. Under the first layer of mockery and humor are several layers of truth. Consider this latest example.

As a 26-year-old who only goes to drinking establishments in her hometown approximately twice a year, I can relate (or, at least, in nearby towns...I'm not even sure there ARE any bars in my town, really). I am less bitter than the fictional Jordan McCabe, but I do have those moments where some former cheerleader, who wouldn't have been caught dead pretending to like me in high school, suddenly seems really excited to see me. My optimistic side would like to believe that this is because we have all moved on from high school stereotypes and cliques and whatnot, but I'm more inclined to believe it's some combination of fake-niceness (possibly my least favorite personality trait) and southern manners.

Personally, I am honestly quite happy to see anyone I recognize from high school. If you genuinely want to be friends now, even if we never talked, that's just super. There are a few people from my past who I am just now getting to know, and it's great. And if you're genuinely a giant asshole fuckface, even if we never talked, I will enjoy making fun of you with anyone else who might remember you.

whipped cream...HAIR CREAM?!?!

While the Japanese may have brought us such unforgettable Engrish phrases as "boiling fish with colorectal," I think we need to give more credit to our creative native speakers. When the owners of the "The Hairport" needed a name for their salon, did they have to call up some Asian dude? NO. Or what about the East Texas owners of "Hair by Jesus?" They only needed to look to their Lord and Savior when christening their mullet factory. Surely no other country will ever take away our place at the top of the cheesy-hair-salon-name mountain.

However, the Arabs would like to try. For instance, consider the "Hair Saloon" in Amman, Jordan. Since Muslims aren't really down with the drinking, I can only assume that Os were on sale at the letter factory.

Hair salons aren't alone, though. Perhaps the most unfortunately named liquor store I've come across is Hobby Liquor. Presumably named for its proximity to Hobby Airport, this liquor store is not for the amateur drinker. No Boone's Farm for you, just straight up Night Train.

Today as I was driving I SWEAR I passed an establishment called "Faceload." I was in a respectable part of town, so I don't really know what to make of this. Maybe I misread it, or I just had porn on the mind, or something (although I was never into THAT type of porn...but that's for another day). Anyway, I figured that the only thing "Faceload" could be, if that is in fact what it was called, is a salon or something, and that's what made me think of all the awful hair salon names I've ever encountered.

don't need no diamond ring

Eventually, when someone decides he wants to try to tolerate me for the rest of his life, I hope he has the good sense not to give me a diamond engagement ring (unless it’s a family heirloom or something). I’ve always been slightly bothered by the “I love you this many dollars” implication, almost as much as I’m bothered by the subtle woman-to-woman “my fiancé loves me this many more dollars than yours loves you” ring comparison game. It’s possible that law school—which seems to have become the husband-shopping arena of choice now that home economics degrees are passé—made me biased. Also, aesthetically, I just prefer gemstones with color. If you’ve seen my apartment, you know I’m not a fan of white.

Recently, though, I have gathered new information which strengthens my anti-diamond ring stance. First of all, diamond engagement rings were not the standard until about 75 years ago, when DeBeers launched its marketing campaign, attempting to convince all women that diamonds were associated with everlasting love. (Now, your suggested ring price is supposedly equal to three months’ salary. I wouldn’t even feel comfortable wearing three months worth of someone’s salary on my body.) Then, they took it another step by promoting the previously unorthodox surprise proposal concept. The reasoning behind this is that men allegedly spend more money when left to their own devices, whereas women are thriftier, and would choose cheaper rings. I find this hard to believe, but apparently it’s proven to be true.

So, in light of that, those obnoxious Robbins Brothers commercials make more sense to me now. You know, the ones where they invite uncreative husbands-to-be in for advice on creative proposals. If you have to have a salesman tell you how to propose, you probably shouldn’t be doing it.

George, Kenny, Cheryl, and Cappuccino Asshole

Ever since I've been working at soul-sucking office jobs, I've longed for my days as a barista in New Orleans. Who am I kidding, I longed for those days since the day I quit, and would probably still be there if they paid more than minimum wage (although if I hadn't left, I would never be able to write my memoirs which will be cleverly titled "From Barista to Barrister." Even though I can never be a barrister because I'm not British, and I'll never write my memoirs because nobody would give a shit. So you'd better appreciate my fabulously alliterative title now).

The best thing about the job was the people. I love nice customers because they're nice, and I love mean customers because they're funny. My coworker Katie and I used to play a game called Customer Bingo to pass the time. We made a list of all the regulars, including those whose names we actually knew and those we'd lovingly nicknamed (such as Cappuccino Asshole), and then chose nine of them to create our bingo cards. One of my favorite regulars was George Two-Butters: a huge, friendly, shy man who always wanted a "a biscuit - with two butters. Two butters." Even though I knew what he wanted and often had it out for him before he even came in the door, he still had to say it. He worked for the Salvation Army, and would usually have some story about how the youth today just don't respect nothing anymore. I also liked Kenny and Cheryl (who ordered black iced tea, no ice and a decaf coffee, respectively). They were middle-aged and tried to act like they weren't dating and/or living together. I tried to act like I didn't know.

I also enjoyed those random customers who would make my day by coming in and saying something really stupid, which I could add to my wall of dumb quotes in the dish room. I understand not being able to decipher all of the coffee jargon, but if you don't know what something means, it's best to ask before angrily making accusations such as "excuse me, there is chocolate in my mocha!" or "this cappuccino has foam in it!" I didn't make those up, by the way.

When there weren't any customers, I would pass the time by creating new drinks, such as the ice cream-espresso-chocolate cheesecake milkshake, which was invented by putting all of the above into the blender. I should never be left alone with a blender and pastries.

I have one more memorable regular to tell you about, but I can't fully explain without photographs, and I don't have a scanner, so that will have to wait for another day.

It's Candy Time - literally

Earlier this year, I was having a debate with a coworker about daylight savings time. I insisted that the time changed in October, he was thoroughly convinced that it happened in September. Imagine our surprise when we looked at my gigantic office calendar and saw that it was, in fact, in November. I was confused, but excited at the prospect of extra time before that awful period when you have to leave work after dark.

The time change is part of the recently enacted Energy Policy Act, because three extra weeks of daylight apparently aids in the energy conservation effort (and if someone could explain to me how that works, I'd like to know). However, there are also theories that the lobbying efforts of American candy companies had something to do with it. The word on the street is that the candy companies wanted an extra hour of daylight, which would result in an extra hour of trick-or-treating on Halloween...and you can take it from there. Their selling point was that trick-or-treating in daylight is safer for children (so they don't get run over while gathering an extra hour's worth of cholesterol--I mean, candy).

Now, maybe they can start campaigning to get an extra hour of light on Thanksgiving and Christmas, too, so we can just do away with Daylight Savings altogether, and never have to suffer through that one Saturday night in the spring with one less hour of sleep, or that first day after the change in the fall when it gets dark before Happy Hour is over. Where's my extra hour of daylight for half-price appetizers?