misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

I need to stop watching sports.

I'm all pissed off right now that USC lost to Texas, a game I just got done watching. The beauty of it is, I neither went to USC, nor Texas. In fact, the college I went to didn't even have a football team. So I shouldn't even care about college football in any way, shape, or form. So why am I pissed? Because before the game, I decided I hate Texas. Actually, I've known for some time I hated the state of Texas. Any state that could produce George Walker Bush is a state that I cannot tolerate. Any state that nominates George Walker Bush to the title of governor, is a state I cannot tolerate. And any state whose primary contributions to the wonderful country is the death penalty and longhorn cattle, is a state I cannot tolerate. So, suffice to say, I don't like Texas. Thus, I projected my hatred of the state upon their college football team. It was good vs. evil. USC represented the enlightened citizens of coastal states everywhere. Texas represented the christian fundamentalist, bring-em-on attitude I have come to resent from all middle states. Thus, I watched the game with passion. And now, I am pissed. The good guys lost. Bush won again. It is the 2002 election all over again. Another affirmation that our country has no place for progressive thinking. I shall spend a restless night pissed off about this game.

I truly need to stop watching sports.

What's up bitches. I apologize to my two readers for the sfninja.com downtime, but Lee, owner of a six-figure salary, found it critical to save 2 dollars a month, so we had a domain switch. In any event, it was a chaotic week for me, so I apologize for the lack of domain access.

I'd like to start with the events of a week ago, when I joined some co-workers for a late Friday lunch at a West Village restaraunt called "Blue Mill". Not to insult my west coast readers, but one of the many beauties of New York City is that there are 19 world-class restaurants within a block radius, and "Blue Mill", an American Grill, is no deviance from this norm. In any event, my readers are questioning the point of this paragraph. And so I feel compelled to explain:

Nobody can question that New York City experiences temperatures that San Francisco can only envy. However, one of the side effects of this temperature is the retreat of my testicles into my torso. In normal situaitions, this side effect would be a small issue. However, it is quite important in the context of my story. Anyone who has had "shruken balls" (as defined by Merriam Webster), can understand that when it is particularly cold outside, uriination becomes extremely difficult. This is primarily because no matter how bad you have to piss, when you bring your penis to the urinal, your frozen testicles make it difficult to pass urine. I am explaining this simply to put you into the situation I am soon to describe.

When we entered Blue Mill, after a tedious ten-block walk in 20 degree weather, I quickly realized that I needed to take a piss. So as my co-workers were seating themselves at the table, I excused myself to the bathroom. I hit the urinal, and, despite testicles that were as shrunken as a tiny sponge set in the Gobi Desert for eight years, I was able to squeeze out a minimal amount of body liquid. Sadly, as I placed my 16-incher back in my boxers, an entire new squeeze of urine escape my penis, dribbling down my leg like a warm pat of melted butter.

In panic, I grabbed as many paper towels as I could hold and reached down my pants with an up and down rubbing motion. Suffice to say, when my co-worker entered the bathroom at the same time, he must has wondered why my hand was half-way down my pants and rubbing in a stimulatory motion. He made an awkward comment like "woah. small bathroom, i'll wait out here." but the point was clear. He thought I was rubbing a quick one out. To his defense, to the outside observer, it probably looked like I was taking my daschound for a walk. I tried to play if off with a pathetic excuse .. I told him as breathlessly as I could muster: "Oh .. hey .. my boxers got caught in my zipper .. I hate when that happens!" .. He just nodded and left the bathroom .. I had no room to maneuver at this point. I finished dabbing my urine-stained leg, washed my hands with a generous amount of pink soap, and returned to the table.

It goes without saying, I haven't talked to my co-worker since. After an awkward exchange of glances after his discovery of my "rubdown", I don't think he felt comfortable addressing me. I can only hope the story goes no farther than this blog, and his.

Yours Truly,
Mr. Rubdown.

Sorry to address a political topic twice in one month, but I couldn't pass this one up. Tonight, some "doctor" employeed by San Quentin Prison is going to inject a death-inducing cocktail into Clarence Ray Allen's left arm. On its own, this usually wouldn't raise eyebrows in our death-hungry country. The difference this time is Clarence Allen is 76, legally blind, nearly deaf, and confined to a wheelchair. In other words, he is zero threat to anyone outside of the orderly who pushes his wheelchair. So, because his execution isn't meant to protect society, as some death penalty supporters proclaim, it is solely a revenge killing. Kill him as punishment. The best part isn't even that he is a dying old man. The best part is that in September, while in prison, his heart stopped. He had died of natural causes. However, the state of California couldn't miss out on their chance to kill someone, so they brough in doctors to revive him. They literally brought him back from death so they could return him to death row. Saved him so they could kill him. Some of you might not consider that "cruel" or "unusual", but anyone of mild intelligence has to consider that "stupid". Another in a long line of intelligent decisions by the human race.

Happy Martin Luther King Day. I just got done reading an incredibly insightful article revealing the shocking revelation that blacks are more likely to celebrate MLK Day than whites. This suprising data came from the same research group that determined Christians are more likely to celebrate Christmas than Jews, people without legs are more likely to buy prosthetic limbs than other people, and sheep are more likely to "bahh" than cows. The fascinating article also revealed that while 75% of people think there has been sweeping progress towards racial equality, only 66% of blacks think that. I find this very curious. Somehow, the rich white middle-aged wives they called for the poll are convinced the black gardners they allow the privilege of pulling their weeds for seven dollars an hour have equal rights to their CEO husbands who make 9,000 dollars an hour to fly in their corporate jet. Or maybe they think the teenage blacks who put mayonaisse on their whoppers have an equal chance at going to UNC as their beloved sixteen-year old daughter Kylie. In any event, I feel enlightened having read the article. I suggest a read yourself.

Keeping with our theme of intelligent human actions, tonight, some "doctor" employeed by San Quentin Prison is going to inject a death-inducing cocktail into Clarence Ray Allen's left arm until his heart stops beating and he is pronounced dead. The human beauty of this situation is that exactly four months ago, Clarence Ray Allen's heart did stop, and he was dead. The problem being, of course, that his heart stopped on his own, and not with the assistance of San Quentin. Clarence's heart stopped four months before his scheduled execution, so the prison called in the doctors to revive him, which they did. So they brought Clarence back to life. They literally brought him back from death so they could return him to death row. Save him so they could kill him. Adding to the intelligence of this decision is the fact that Clarence is 76-years old, legally blind, nearly deaf, and confined to a wheelchair. Thank the heavens above we will finally rid the world of the threat of a 76-year old cripple. I'd like to add to the whole amendment banning the use of cruel and unusal punishment. We should also ban stupid punishment. Bringing back a dead guy so you can kill him again is stupid, and thus should be illegal.

Another fine day for the human race.

I just got back from an amazing dinner at Black Headquarters. For those of you who have never been to the Red Lobster on 41st and 7th Avenue in Times Square, I highly suggest you pay a visit next time you are in the vincinity. It has the highest BPR I've ever been to (BPR, of course, being Blacks Per Restaraunt. Compare the BPR at a Red Lobster, which averages about 94%, to that of another restaurant, such as Olive Garden, which tops out at about 4%, or a Chevy's, which averages a 9%. The MPR [Mexicans Per Restaraunt] at a Chevy's is lower than expected, but balances out at a respectable 32%). In response to a question from Jill, who whispered very quietly to me while at dinner, "Why are there so many black people at the Red Lobster?" I had to answer, "This is their food." It isn't a mystery that black people like fried foods, and apparantly also have a penchant for seafood, making Red Lobster the destination of choice for blacks throughout the Tri-State Area. Actually, now that I put some thought to it, they dominated the Red Lobster in Milpitas as well, which is funny, because Milpitas had three total black people in whole, not including Taj. So where they came from is a mystery. It is the same as if you left a dead sea lion out in the middle of a city street in San Antonio. Eventually a Polar Bear would come looking for it, even if San Antonio isn't known to have Polar Bears anywhere in a 2900 mile radius. The Polar Bear would just seem to know it was there (as a sidenote, I don't want to hear any shit about stereotypes from my ethnic readers, because this isn't a stereoptype, it is a truth. Had I walked around the Red Lobster today with a clipboard and paper, I would have counted about 387 blacks, 5 whites, 2 asians, and 6 mixed/unidentifiables, and this fact isn't up for dispute. And if white people can get knocked for dancing shitty and being bad jumpers, I can knock blacks for loving Red Lobster). Some of you might be asking how i ended up at a chain restaraunt such as Red Lobster in a city which has 9,000 independant restaraunts in a 2-mile radius, but the answer is simple. I like what black people like. Cheap, fried shellfish washed down with a stiff rum punch. And you can't find a better place for this than Red Lobster. And don't even get me started on the cheesy biscuits they have there. Divine. All you arrogant assholes who believe a place like Red Lobster can't have top-notch seafood simply because it is a chain can kiss my ass. Some of the best king-crab legs I've ever had in my life have been at Red Lobster and Outback Steakhouse, and this includes the crab I've eaten at expensive, top-notch restaurants in Singapore, Auckland, Fiji, San Francisco, Las Vegas, and New York. You guys want to believe that Red Lobster can't compete with these five-star restaraunts, but it can. And for a cheaper price. Granted, you won't find as many black people at these five-star restaurants, but I don't consider that a benefit. I enjoy eating where the black people eat. Blacks demand a higher standard of stiff drinks and food quantity, so I know I'm in good hands (case in point, the black couple next to Jill and I. When they ordered their rum punch, the woman insisted "you better make that shit strong" The white waiter said, for $1.50 more, he could guarantee a double shot of rum. The woman agreed, but again insisted, "You better not be lying. I want that shit strong." You have to love their honesty). To conclude, if you want a good mahi-mahi with an orange-peppermint sauce and brown rice pilaf, head over to the Mermaid Inn in West Village. If you want some Parrot Bay Cocunut Rum fried shrimp with garlic butter scampi, and a lobster-crab monterey jack cheese dip with tortilla chips, you head to Red Lobster. It helps if you like hip-hop and Tangeray, but even if not, I recommend a trip.