Two Minority Chicks and Some White Girl

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

The Interview

Christy and Mo, two Asian women, sit at a table surrounded by paper. Christy wears a gray suit and drinks out of a huge cup of coffee. Mo has a very large Coach tote bag on the floor beside her.

Mo: You’re good at math.

Christy: I’m horrible at math.

M: Did they ask for a transcript?

C: No.

M: Then you’re good at math. Also you should wear a girdle.

C: I’m not fat.

M: No, but you want to look weak. And hungry. Maybe “mew” a little. When’s the interview?

C: Monday.

M: Stop eating Thursday.

C: Wait, am I smart and independent, or weak and subservient?

M: You have to look smart enough to do all the work, but subservient enough to work in the back room. You also have to be pretty.

C: If I’m in the back room?

M: For the dog and pony shows. They want to show off the Asian.

C: Why?

M: Diversity quotas, financial analyses.

C: I’m horrible at math.

M: You’re great at math. In fact, you should walk in with these. (M pulls out a huge stack of green bar paper from her tote bag and hands it to C).

C: Nobody uses green bar paper.

M: It shows you have experience.

C: On what? A Telex?

M: It looks very Asian, very inscrutable. Like we know something that they don’t know, you know? (In Chinglish, sotto voce) Ancient Chinee Seek-let.

C takes the green bar paper and sets it in front of her.

C (snottily): Should I put my resume on it?

M: Don’t be stupid. What are you going to wear?

C (looks down at the outfit she’s wearing): This.

M: No, you have to wear navy blue.

C: Why?

M: Navy blue sets off red nicely.

C: I’m wearing red?

M looks at C as if to say “duh.”

M: Navy works well because you can also wear red without looking Communist. Here, try these.

M pulls out a pair of red plastic Hello Kitty slippers from her tote, and hands
them to C.

C: I am not wearing Hello Kitty slippers to my interview.

M: Just put them on, they’re not bad on.

C grudgingly takes off her shoes, and puts on the Hello Kitty slippers.

M: See? Now, what about the hair, it seems long.

C: I can wear it in a bun.

M: I think you should get a bob. With bangs. You know, like Cookie Kwan.

C: No way.

M: At least get it cut. It’s too long, too provocative.

C: What if I wear glasses?

Christy pulls out a pair of sleek black eyeglass frames and puts them on.

M: Oh yes, I get it. But if you’re gonna do that Jenny Shimizu fugly geek thing, you have to shave your head.

C: No.

M: You have to!

C: I’m wearing a bun.

M: It’s not sleek enough, you have to cut your hair.

C: I’m not cutting my hair.


M (snapping her fingers): I’ve got it.

M pulls a Chinese coolie cap with pigtail out of the tote and puts it on C. C tries to resist, but it is futile.

M: It’s perfect! You get to keep your long hair, but it’s sleek and pulled off your face. Beat. But I don’t know…something’s still not right.

C: Ya think?

M: You’re too nerdy. We want to project smart and subservient, but also sexy. Beat. Take your shirt off.

Beaten, C takes off her jacket and her shirt, revealing a red lace bra underneath. M puts jacket back on a now tractable C, and buttons the bottom two buttons only.

M: Perfect! Hmm, but you’re still too sexy. (Beat) I’ve got it.

M pulls out a set of fake buck teeth from her tote, along with an abacus. She puts the buck teeth in C’s mouth, and the abacus in C’s jacket pocket. She takes the pile of papers and puts it under C’s arm.

M: There! Now you’re ready for your interview. Where’s it at?

C: Banana Republic.

M: You’re gonna get it gurl.

M finishes Cs coffee with gusto, with C standing fully dressed for her interview, as we blackout

Monday, January 08, 2007

Dead Birds in Outer Space

Plutoed has been selected by the American Dialect Society as 2006's Word of the Year. To "pluto" is "to demote or devalue someone or something. It beat out “climate canary”, which is “an organism or species whose poor health or declining numbers hint at a larger environmental catastrophe on the horizon.”

Both words made me think of a word that’s generating buzz in Corporatespeakville:


Nope, not like, “we’re going to synergize our ’07 objectives by leveraging our existing efficiencies” but rather, “we should expect some efficiencies with our impending merger.” It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that mergers can only mean one thing…

LAYOFFS. Expect some LAYOFFS. Gosh, why didn’t you just say so?

Perhaps they should say they’ve been “plutoed.” “Thank you for your (insert number here) years of service. Here’s a small severance package and some classes to ease your transition,” which really means, “thank you for years of indentured servitude. Please don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”

Or, perhaps they can be described as “climate canaries” – those employees (usually the ones doing the bulk of the work) who are eliminated in the first round. If you’re one of the “lucky” employees who survives this first cut, you can either bury your nose deeper in your work and/or your boss’s ass or you can stop chugging the Kool-Aid, read the writing on the wall and start hitting your personal connections for job leads.

Eventually though, you will be “efficiencied” – which isn’t a word yet...

But there’s always 2007.

Friday, January 05, 2007

Person of Disinterest (PODI)

- noun
per·son of dis·in·ter·est
[pur-suhn · uhv · dis-in-ter-ist, -trist]

A phrase used by law enforcement when announcing the name of a minority involved in a criminal investigation who has not yet been arrested or formally accused of a crime, but who, because of their minority status, is presumed guilty thus warranting public indifference.

Thank you, Sir! May I Have Another?

I spend a lot of my time in meetings – some productive, some not.

In the most recent round of meetings, I thought how wonderful it would be to have them sponsored by pharmaceuticals companies. They could set up a little kiosk outside of the conference room to distribute drugs. We use drugs to lead “more productive” lives…perhaps the time has come to use drugs for “more productive” meetings. And really, what a wonderful partnership – big pharma companies and corporate behemoths with the shared goal of keeping the proletariat complacent and compliant.

Sample Drugs:

Hocus-Focus-Pocus Potion

Treats: Trips of fancy during corporate brainstorm sessions which may result in wild and “unexecutable” ideas. An overwhelming desire to smoke the crackberry for job updates from

Side effects: Verbal incontinence (the random spewing of corporate jargon)

Yellowtail Cocktail

may be taken in conjunction with the Buck-Passing Pill

Treats: Any impetus to speak up or otherwise disrupt the individual who convened the meeting during their 30-minute “introduction and overview.” Also quells any desire to disrupt the meeting with questions, comments, or medical emergencies.

Side effects: Paralysis, stagnation and eventual death (all considered beneficial conditions).

Warning: Should not be taken by senior management.

Buck-Passing Pill

Treats: Need for ownership or responsibility for ideas and/or tasks. Suppresses individuality and initiative.

Side effects: Please contact our customer service center for additional information.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Why I Love Construction Workers

Because they are Superheroes

That, and the no shirt thing.

Thursday, December 28, 2006

Hooked on Corporate Ebonics

First there was Newspeak. Good ol' George was really onto something when he invented "the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year."

And now we have what I can only describe as "corporate ebonics". In a recent meeting in a c-suite boardroom (stating the obvious, but shouldn't they just be called "boredrooms"?), I listened to my colleagues bandy about impenetrable corporatespeak that stretched our 1/2-hour meeting to 3. Since I was already invisible, being the only minority in the room (shocking, I know!), I closed my eyes to really concentrate on what they were saying.

And all I heard was Oswald Bates.


Oswald Bates, the prison philosopher from In Living Color, who clearly, in today's corporate setting, would be a Sr. VP or higher if not for his color because he obviously talks the talk. That is, if we agree that weird, nonsensical nominalizations strung together with CONVICTION make for a cogent business case, especially if you take...long...pauses...before you get to....THE BIG MADE-UP WORDS.

Art critic Jonathan Jones wrote in the Guardian, "There is no good work of art that cannot be described in intelligible English, however long it might take, however much patience is required."

The same can be said for business...assuming you actually have something to say.


Friday, December 22, 2006

That's Why They Call It Work

If it were easy, we’d all get up and go to “easy” every morning. It would be nice to spend our days typing sexy stories, pausing occasionally to gaze past our Kate Spade curtains and onto the tree-lined, sun-dappled boulevard below. Unfortunately, some of us require housing, utilities, and food. And no matter how sexy our lives may be, few would pay $5,000.00 a month to hear about it (although they might if they could participate in it).

The majority of us, therefore, have to find work that pays. And people only get paid to do what others won’t. This is why we have garbagemen, morticians, meat-renderers, and attorneys. Many, however, believe that every day they toil for The Man is another day robbed from The Dream. But unless you are one of the fortunate few who dreams of doing what others despise, chances are you will never find your Dream Job. And even if you do attain that elusive Dream Job, you will still have to wake up at a certain time, and be forced to do something that you do not want to do. Whether it involves catching a bus, or guest starring on Leno, it still ends up work. A few notable examples:


Dream Job: Rock Star

Work: Zooropa and beyond.

Stephen King

Dream Job: Best Selling Author

Work: Insomnia and beyond.

Molly Ringwald

Dream Job: Movie Star

Work: Lifetime TV (nothing lies beyond Lifetime TV).

Perhaps we envy Bono, Mr. King and Ms. Ringwald, because they were able to explore and exploit the rock star/author/actress within, while most of us never get past the waiter/barback/busboy without.

That may be why we envy Paris Hilton and her independently wealthy life. Like Paris, we would love to discover what we really want to do, as opposed to what we have to do to get by. And it seems that Ms. Hilton has indeed found her calling in reality television and pornography. For some of us then, independent wealth, rather than work, can be the goal. However, achieving said wealth, will also require some work. For example:

If you are a woman, marry up. It certainly helps to be pretty, however, it is not always necessary. You can be short, fat, and freckled, as long as you are attractive; that is, you arouse interest or pleasure in the opposite sex. To that end, spend 16 hours a day researching how to interest and pleasure a man into husbandry, and the remaining 8 getting your beauty sleep. Live and die by The Rules. Bake a moist delicious cake. Appear educated, but not smart. Wear a girdle. Giggle behind a fan.

Most importantly, adapt your standards to the situation at hand. You are not looking for a lover but a provider. Your future husband need not be tall and good-looking. You don’t have to be beautiful, so neither does he. Strive only to be slightly better looking than he is, so that he knows he could never do any better. It might be smartest to go for the ugliest man possible, since this provides the best assurance that he will never leave you for someone prettier, thinner, and younger than yourself.

Additionally, your husband does not have to be Hilton-rich. He just has to make more than you, which should not be too difficult since you don’t have a job. He also has to make enough money to put a roof over your head, food in your mouth, and clothes on your back.

The issue of children can be tricky. You might want to avoid having children, since this would require sharing the roof over your head, the food in your mouth and the clothes on your back. However, once you divorce, children come in handy as you can share in their child support.

Divorce is inevitable, as your husband will ultimately expect that you love, honor and care for him until death do you part. Prepare yourself by investing in an attorney who can draft an airtight prenup so that post-divorce, your husband will be required to support you in the lifestyle to which you have become accustomed. At least until you remarry.

Remarry well and divorce often. Marriage is like a job: The more experience you have, the more you should get paid. Demand significant raises, bonuses and benefits with each new marriage. By your seventh marriage, you should be making seven figures. At some point, you’ll have enough capital to start a business if you want to try working. Open a hair salon and buy yourself a white corvette.

Unfortunately, men rarely have the option of marrying up. Single women who make enough money to support two people often choose to spend their extra cash on shoes rather than men. They have been known to share the wealth with others, but it’s usually a family member or a child they choose to raise alone. Thus, the pool of sugar mamas who work for a living is staggeringly small. Given the laws of supply and demand, the least attractive and least wealthy of these women will still require a man to be devastatingly handsome, perpetually young, and fiercely loyal, before he can even get an interview. Much less half her paycheck. And even if one were devastatingly handsome, young and loyal, maintaining the status quo would require an insane amount of work, which is exactly what you’re trying to avoid. Going gay is not an option, as the standards for a kept gay man are twice as high as those of his straight counterpart.

For the man of leisure, finding a married woman who is living off her husband’s wealth (see above) is probably the best solution. Your primary responsibility is instant availability. Physically, you will have to be fit, handsome, and tall. If you are not, invest in a gym, plastic surgeon, and elevator shoes. Luckily, many women crave emotional rather than physical stimulation. Therefore, cultivate your personality. You never know when an endearing antidote will prevail over a premature tonsure. Listen like Oprah and subscribe to Cosmo. Appreciate the finer points of the zaftig form. Memorialize said form in a poem or song. Develop a charming yet self-deprecating sense of humor. Get your teeth capped. Win and influence others. Convince them you are loveable and capable. Expand existing relationships.

Sell yourself, not the product.

At some point, you may find that the burden of keeping your married lady happy outweighs any financial rewards you may recoup. Despair not. Your years of servicing the desperate housewife have not been in vain. Upon opening the classifieds, you will instantly realize you have the perfect skill set to make a killing in used car sales or commercial real estate brokerage.

A Moratorium on Christmas

Due to treacherous traffic on America’s expressways, colossal delays at the Nation’s airports, and unruly mobs threatening the health and safety of our most prominent shopping malls, the Department Of Homeland Security (hereinafter, the “DOHS”), has declared a moratorium on Christmas for the month of December, pursuant to Executive Order Number 102-9/PLS2, Clause 8432868-FM3 (hereinafter, the “ANTI-CLAUSE”).

Specifically, the ANTI-CLAUSE provides in relevant part:
During the month of December of any calendar year, no man, woman or child within the borders of these United States shall be allowed to celebrate Christmas. The term “Celebrating Christmas” includes but is not limited to:

1. Buying gifts.

2. Cooking a turkey dinner.

3. Traveling for non-business related purposes.

The ANTI-CLAUSE provides exemptions for the most exceptional individuals in the most extraordinary circumstances. That is, the ANTI-CLAUSE excludes those for whom Christmas was expressly meant. To that end, those who wish to be exempt from the ANTI-CLAUSE must file an application with the DOHS no later than January 1st of each calendar year. All applicants shall be required, among other things, to submit proper Proof of Lineage, as defined below, in order to obtain exemption from the ANTI-CLAUSE. Proof of Lineage shall require original certification of one’s direct descent from pilgrims on the Mayflower. Moreover, the applicant’s current surname must have been used in at least one (1) Nathaniel Hawthorne novel or, in the alternative, in at least two (2) of his short stories.

Applicants shall be subject to rigorous physical examination, and shall conform to the following standards:

For Females:

1. Height: Exactly Five Feet and Seven Inches (5’7”).

2. Weight: Exactly One Hundred Thirteen (113) pounds.

3. Age: Twenty-one to Twenty Five (21 – 25) years.

4. Race: Caucasian.

5. Hair color: Natural blonde. Modestly cut.

6. Eye color: Blue.

7. Number of children: Exactly two (2).

8. Gender of children: One (1) male, age eight (8); and one (1) female, age six (6).

9. Religion: Wealthyhousefrau. Must hold self out as God Fearing Christian (hereinafter, "GFC").

For Males:

1. Income: In excess of One Million and 00/100 Dollars ($1,000,000.00) per annum. Net.

2. Height: Exactly Six Feet and Two Inches (6’2”).

3. Weight: Exactly One Hundred Eighty Five (185) pounds.

4. Age: Thirty to Forty (30 – 40).

5. Race: Caucasian.

6. Hair color: Natural blonde. Cut short, but in abundant quantities.

7. Eye color: Blue.

8. Number of children: Exactly two (2).

9. Gender of children: One (1) male, age eight (8); and one (1) female, age six (6).

10. Religion: Satanic Capitalist. Must hold self out as GFC.

Persons who do not meet each of the above-enumerated requirements are strongly discouraged from applying. Applicants who do not meet the above-enumerated criterion shall forfeit their $1,000.00 application fee, and be subject to at least twelve (12) year’s incarceration at their local State Penitentiary.

Those who have been granted exemption from the ANTI-CLAUSE (hereinafter, the “CHRISTMAS WORTHY”) shall be notified via overnight mail no later than April 1 of each calendar year. During the month of December, the CHRISTMAS WORTHY shall be required to perform the following:

1. Spend at least six (6) month's salary, gross, on gifts for each of the following:

a. Nuclear family

b. Extended family

c. Employers

d. Employees

e. Friends

f. Acquaintances

g. Pets

h. Pets belonging to those enumerated in sub (a) through (f)

i. Children belonging to those enumerated in sub (b) through (f)

2. Cook and eat a seven (7) course turkey dinner with nuclear family of four (4).

3. Travel in excess of two-thousand (2,000) miles to eat second seven (7) course turkey dinner with extended family.

4. Agree to appear as the perfect traditional American family, in the Christmas issues of each of the following publications and television shows. Gratis:

a. Strom Thurmond’s Very White Christmas

b. The Norman Rockwell Retrospective

c. The Martha Stewart Retrospective

d. Good Housekeeping

e. House and Garden (Magazine and TV show)

f. Oprah (Magazine and TV show)

g. The View

h. Live with Regis and Kelly

i. The Today Show

j. The Tonight Show

k. Anything on TLC

l. Anything on HGTV

m. Anything on Food Network

n. Anything on Lifetime

Please note that those who are not CHRISTMAS WORTHY (hereinafter, the “UNWORTHY”), shall only be allowed to celebrate Christmas during the months from January through November.

Most importantly, the UNWORTHY shall be required to do the following during the month of December:

1. Spend at least six (6) hours speaking their mother and actually doing what she says.

2. Cook and share a seven (7) course turkey dinner with a homeless shelter.

3. Travel to the nearest humane society and adopt a pet.

4. Agree to never falsely hold themselves out as a member of the perfect traditional American family, or as a member of the CHRISTMAS WORTHY.

Only with the cooperation of the American people, can the DOHS reasonably and impartially ensure the safety of this great Nation.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

The Cam Whore

Laura Lee, or as some of her fanboyz mistakenly call her, "Lorali," is Korean. Though she doesn't know Inchon from Panchan, Laura is never shy about flaunting her Asian-ness, especially when there is manual labor involved. "Can you her-rup me, prreej-uh?" She will mewl, offering up an unyielding pickle jar in her outstretched, emaciated little monkey-paws.

Naturally, the world is more than happy to oblige. Clad in teeny-weeny Hello-Kitty T's, black-rimmed Emo glasses, and uber-distressed Seven Jeans, Laura is the hip version of the Unicef poster child on crack cocaine. Although Laura would never do crack cocaine. She would never do any drugs. Laura, in fact, has only one addiction. The Internet. Only in the vast world of cyberspace can she find millions of suitors to come to her rescue. After all, someone as frail and delicate as Laura Lee can never have too many heroes.

Laura visits several webforums daily under the exotic handle "PassionatePersimmon." Just in case that is too subtle, she also posts a thong-clad Pokemon as her avatar. Just in case that is too subtle, she constantly posts pictures of her half-naked, anorexic body, perhaps in the hopes of making non-confrontational, non-violent, pan-pacific, pacifist statements about starving children in the war-torn, third-world country that is South Korea. Not that Laura's ever been to South Korea. However, she did watch an episode of M*A*S*H which haunts her to this day. Thus, inspired by Nick at Night and its dead-on depictions of Buddhist self-immolation, Laura makes daily vigils to politically conscientious sites like,,, and Once there, she tirelessly scans for opportunities to make her statement, sometimes surfing for hours before she finds threads such as:

"Which part of your body do you hate the most?"

PassionatePersimmon: I just HATE my twelve-year-old-little-boy-bewbies, see?





Or this:

THREAD: Any Secret Santa Ideas?

PassionatePersimmon: A T-shirt please! Just make sure it is EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA SMALL, due to my itty-bitty twelve-year-old-little-boy-bewbies, see?


FriendsOfFrodo: OMG HAWT!!!

WouldGoGayForLegolas: OMG HAWT HAWT HAWT!!!


Or this:

THREAD: "How is everyone feeling today?"

PassionatePersimmon: LIKE THIS! WHEEEEEEEEE!


CaptnJTKirk: OMG HAWT!!!


1stLieutenantSulu: FAP FAP FAP!!!

As in any public forum, sometimes Communist-loving Nazis will spark fierce political debate with offensive racist rhetoric such as:

REASONABLEPERSON: Does anyone else think PassionatePersimmon is a total attention whore?


PerceptivePollster: Who jacks off hardest to Persimmon's posts?

(A) Men

(B) Women

(C) Persimmon

These questions immediately evoke cerebral rejoinders such as:

PussyWhipped4Persimmon: FUCK YOU!

2Fat2Date: ASSHOLE!

40&LivingWithMommy: FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!



PussyWhipped4Persimmon: OMG HAWT!!!


40&LivingWithMommy: FAP FAP FAP!!!

Sing to the Tune of The Raven

For my Kat, Da Chubba

Once upon a weekend dreary, while I slept through soaps on TV,
Over Cheetoes and Doritos and half-eaten apple cores—
While I lay there, gently snoring, suddenly there came a purring,
Like a turbine loudly revving, revving up and down Lake Shore.
“Tis a big mack truck,” I muttered, “revving up and down Lake Shore—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember from October through December,
Never leaving home except to get some Twinkies from the store.
Comatose I watched award shows, home and garden and all-talk shows
Vainly hoping to forget the girl I dated on my floor—
That gross disgusting neighbor who resided just next door—
Permabanned for evermore.

But the never-ending thumping of my horny neighbor humping
Another man kept me jumping up and down from two to four;
So that now, to still my anger, and to keep myself from murder;
I wrote a nasty letter and ran to tape it to her door—
“Keep it down in there you hooker or I’ll bust you and your manwhore!”
This it said and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
Ninja-like I taped the evil note onto my neighbor’s door;
Just then the door was opened, and my neighbor grabbed my token,
As I turned and raced as fast as I could to my condo door,
Although she tried to chase me, I ran in and slammed the door.
Darkness then and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, feeling nervously like peeing,
Seeking out the remote so that I could watch TV some more;
But the silence was unbroken, for deep within the cushions,
Unbeknownst to me lay hidden, the remote that I looked for.
So I lay there on my futon, made of plywood fiberboard,
With no TV and fully bored.

As I lay there tossing, turning, all the Cheetos in me churning,
Soon again I heard a purring somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment while I raise the Levolors;--
'Tis the traffic, nothing more.

Then I heard a distinct sputter, followed by a hiss and flutter,
And suddenly there sat the furry black cat from next door.
Not the least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my VCR--
Perched upon a tape of J-Lo just atop my VCR--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then the ebony cat beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the lazy, bored decorum of the countenance she wore,
Said I, "Your coat is furry, and outside is a snow flurry,
So stay here and be all cuddly and curl cutely on the floor—
I will name you Chubba Wubba and I’ll squeeze you ‘till your sore!”
Quoth da Chubba, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly cat to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing a cat atop his VCR—
Cat or bat upon the J-Lo tape atop his VCR,
Say such a thing as "Nevermore."

Gleefully I pinched and grabbed her, squooshed and smooshed and plain harassed her,
“Oh you are so cute!” I gushed with feeling and fervor!
Nothing farther did she utter; not a whisker did she flutter—
Til I asked about the skank and all her suitors from next door—
“Were they stringy, were they stingy? Did they clean and do her chores?”
“No,” the cat said, "She’s a whore."

Cackling I embraced the kitty, laughing cuz she was so witty,
Howling at her meanness and her evilness galore.
Though she yowled and tried to bite me, I just squeezed her extra tightly
Then she hissed at me forthrightly, till I dropped her on the floor—
Silently she glared at me astonished and abhorred.
Then the cat said “This means war.”

Pissed she raced along my hallway, heavy belly swinging sideways,
As her teeny paws attempted to take hold upon my floor;
So I chased her to the bathroom, then the kitchen then the bedroom
Round and round I chased her till she fell in a stupor.
Panting and exhausted she lay sprawled upon the floor,
Pleading, meowing, “Please no more!”

Laughing I ignored her crying, picked her up as she lay sighing,
Pushing and stiff-pawing me with yellow eyes that did implore;
Yet I held on resolutely, refusing absolutely
All da Chubba’s sad entreaties to be let down on the floor;
Onto the hardwood floors where she was so comfortable before,
To which I replied, “Nevermore!”

Then, it seemed the air grew rancid, smelling like sulfuric acid
Just like rotten eggs that sat forgotten in a grocery store.
"Gross," I cried, "You have just sprayed me! Even though I know she spayed thee!”
Respite—respite I needed from the sour air indoors!
“Get away from me!” I screamed, “So I can breathe the air outdoors!”
Quoth da Chubba, "Nevermore."

"Putrid!" said I, "stinking evil!—wicked reek that’s so medieval!—
Then I dropped her and she rolled like a boll weevil on the floor,
Gagging I ran to the bathroom, hoping I would make it there soon—
Heaving up the burning Cheetoes and Doritoes from before—
Is there--is there some Pepto Bismol?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth da Chubba, "Nevermore."

"Farting monster! Cat of evil!—farting spraying fat boll weevil!
I’ll kill thy mother and thy father, and that stupid whore next door—
Don’t you know my stomach’s ailing, don’t you know I fear inhaling,
That horrid stench still emanating, from your foul posterior?
Please go home!” I begged the kitty, as I held open the door.
Quoth da Chubba, "Nevermore."

"Be that our sign of parting, cat or fiend! Will you stop farting!”
Then she arched her back and hacked up two huge hairballs on my floor.
“Leave no hairball as a token of the wind that you have broken!
Here take all my subway tokens and get your smelly ass outdoors!
Move thy butt up out my face, and take thy form from off my floor!"
Quoth da Chubba, "Nevermore."

And da Chubba, never flitting, is now shitting, yes she’s shitting
On the bootleg tape of J-Lo just above my VCR;
And her crap has all the reeking of a demon defecating
And the bulb over my toilet bowl glows brighter than before;
And my heaving, clenching belly that convulses on the floor,
Shall be hungry—nevermore!

You Are Not Carrie Bradshaw

"Oh My God! That is SO ME!" Ever since syndication, the cry is ubiquitous. No longer the sole property of HBO, anyone with basic cable or even an antenna can pick up all six seasons of "Sex and the City" in glorious technicolor. Whether you live on the Island of Manhattan or in the trailers of Honkey-Tonk Heaven, you can choose to be a Carrie or Miranda, a Charlotte or Samantha. Perhaps the ladies feel such affinity for these characters because unlike Jill Munroe, Kelly Garrett and Sabrina Duncan, the fabulous four are somewhat accessible. They are not poster-girl gorgeous, they do not pack heat.

But the similarities do end there. The chances of writing a sex column for The New York Star equal one's chances of working for Charlie Townsend. And while no one is beating down the doors of their local police academy, suddenly, women making $40,000.00 a year are buying $500.00 shoes. They layer jeans under miniskirts under leotards under tube tops under short wrap shirts over Manolo Blahniks, and they down enough martinis to fell a longshoreman. But because they are not Carrie, they whine that they look "fat" in their bag lady couture. They complain that their girlfriends are too "busy" with their "jobs" and their "lives" to listen to the same story about the same guy who dumped them the same way at the same day time and place.

So here is the truth ladies. You are not Carrie Bradshaw. The only way you could afford her apartment on 72nd and Lex is if you are Sarah Jessica Parker. The only way you could write a column for a New York daily is if you had the talent, connections and sheer luck of Candace Bushnell. To that end, kindly stop abusing your friends just because they will not listen to you complain about how empty your life is. If you have a roof over your head, and family and friends that support rather than enable you, you are light years ahead of Carrie. For the "real" Ms. Bradshaw would be nothing more than a ghetto crackwhore, and Mr. Big, nothing more than her small-time pimp.

Cut the Chase

"Why doesn't he call?"

"Because he does not like you."

Men work, they sleep, they eat, they exercise, they relax. They do not want to take the time out of their busy schedules, to add yet another thing to do to their list. The only reason that they might add yet another thing to do, is if it were really worth it. Sex, of course, is really worth it. So maybe they will take the time to find a willing partner so they can have sex.

The problem, of course, is that the willing partner is only willing if there are all kinds of ridiculous strings attached. Like a second date. Some men even forgo having sex as often as they would like, because they do not want to make room in their lives for that second date. They are too busy working, sleeping, eating, exercising, and relaxing.

However, some men finally come to the realization that everyone needs love, including their busy selves. So they go out, and they seek a long-term partner. After much dating around, they decide that the only woman for whom they will sacrifice their precious time, is as brilliant as a neurosurgeon, and a dead ringer for Cindy Crawford. And until they find Cindy Crawford the Neurosurgeon, they will not settle for anyone else.

You are not Cindy Crawford the Neurosurgeon. Even though you probably have a much better personality than Ms. Crawford, you are probably shorter, fatter and uglier than the opulent Supermodel. Even though you aced your SATs back in '87, you probably do not have the requisite skills to successfully remove a brain tumor. Of course, just because you are uglier than a Supermodel, and stupider than a neurosurgeon, does not mean you are unattractive or unintelligent. In fact, you are probably far more attractive and intelligent than the short, fat, bald toad holding out for Dr. Crawford.

So why then, do attractive, intelligent women feel personally attacked when a man is uninterested? Why do they pine incessantly and needlessly over men who are clearly looking for Cindy Crawford, MD? Worse yet, why do they whine relentlessly, for hours on end, to anyone that will listen, overanalyzing the myriad of possible reasons as to why this person isn't calling? Finally, why are the victims of said logorrhea too cowardly to state the obvious, thus ending all speculation, while salving any wounded feelings with offers of warm baked goods: "He is not calling because he does not like you. Let's order pie."

Women are just as busy as men. They work, sleep, eat, exercise and relax. They do not have the time to add anything to their list of things to do. Yet unlike their male counterparts, they invest every spare moment wondering why he doesn't call. At first I thought it was the infamous biological clock ticking in. So I would ask, "Why the high drama? Is it because you want to have children and a family?" Certainly the obsession over finding a boyfriend made perfect sense if what these women really felt was a biological imperative to have children. And while a husband would not necessarily be required, he certainly would come in handy.

Moreover, it would explain why these women "absolutely refused to settle" for anything less than Brad Pitt the Billionaire Astrophysicist. Since cute smart genes equal cute smart children, it is understandable why a mother-to-be would only want to find the best looking, most successful, most intelligent man possible to father her progeny. And of course, if any of my friends desperately wanted children, I would be happy to commiserate, lend an ear, and advise as best as I could: "You are so right, all the Billionaire Astrophysicists who resemble Brad Pitt are married or gay. That is so unfair!" And "Of course you should not settle for Morris the nearsighted accountant who sends flowers and poems every week, because you'll only wind up producing nearsighted children who like math."

But each time I asked any of my friends if they wanted a family, the answer was a resounding "Hell no! I don't want kids!" These women were proud to admit that they were too focused on themselves to take care of anyone's children, especially their own. They used birth control religiously, and sarcastically referred to married friends and family as "breeders." So if this fanatical fixation on finding a "quality" boyfriend had nothing to do with children, what could it possibly be?

These women believe that if they date Brad Pitt the Billionaire Astrophysicist, they will magically transform into Cindy Crawford the Neurosurgeon. And as much as these women would like to believe they are beyond Cinderella, and beyond high school insecurities, they still believe the fairy tale, and they still buy into the cliques. At five years old, these women believed that if they had Prince Charming on their arm, they would magically transform into a Fairy Princess and live in a big castle. At sixteen years of age, these same women believed that dating the Varsity Quarterback would magically transform them into the head cheerleader, and get them into all the best parties. Now at thirty-six, these women believe that in dating Brad Pitt, they will magically transform into Cindy Crawford, live in a castle, and go to the best parties. Never mind that these women already have million dollar homes in the Gold Coast. Never mind that these women already get invited to the best parties. Never mind that they are the envy of the evil stepsisters, the catty mean girls, and their co-workers. They are still not Cindy Crawford, and it's all Brad Pitt's fault. If only he would call! If only he would give her a chance, he'd see what a beautiful, intelligent girl she was. Never mind that she doesn't look like a Supermodel yet. All he has to do is give her the magic slipper, his fraternity pin, the 3 carat princess cut flawless diamond, and he can transform her into the woman of her own dreams.

Unfortunately, Brad Pitt doesn't want to take the time to transform anyone. He wants his Supermodel pre-packaged and ready-made. Needless to say, there are very few Brad Pitts around, and the ones that do exist are usually dicks. They are more than happy to tell a woman she looks fat, old, and stupid. And because they look like Brad Pitt and are Astrophysicists making billions of dollars a year, they get away with it, and the women buy it.

As the years go by and the Brad Pitts grow even scarcer, suddenly the women pursuing them grow less picky. They decide that men don't actually have to look like Mr. Pitt, or have a Doctorate in Astrophysics. Rather, these women who would heretofore never settle for anyone less than Dr. Pitt, are now settling for someone who just acts like him; that is, like an arrogant bastard. Said man could be a repulsive, bankrupt, brainless toad, but somehow his horrible behavior magically transforms him into a handsome, wealthy, witty Prince. And these otherwise sophisticated women will sob uncontrollably, baffled by their own behavior, wondering what is it about that toad they find so attractive. They will spend countless hours, raving, ranting and analyzing to death why their toad refuses to call. Why their toad refuses to unleash the Prince within, and transform her into the Fairy Princess she deserves to be!

So these women, growing ever more hysterical, bitter and furious, spend their lives hunting and chasing the repulsive, the bankrupt and the brainless, all the while ignoring Morris the accountant, patiently waiting on the sidelines, magic slipper, fraternity pin, and 3 carat princess cut flawless diamond expectantly in hand.

I Am So Fat

I understand we have an obesity epidemic in this country. I understand overeating probably stems from abuse, stress, frustration and boredom. I understand there is an unrealistic media-generated image of what the perfect form should be, and that if you have babies you are never going to be the Supermodel you were pre-pregnancy.

And yet, I also understand folks are eating forty-ounce bags of Frito Scoops drenched in Funfetti Frosting. That cold weather provides the perfect excuse to lie in one's bed watching The Sanford and Son Marathon, slipping in and out of consciousness just long enough to ingest three pounds of jalapeno poppers washed down with sixty-four ounces of diet coke.

Everywhere you look, people are eating, and not just in restaurants and at dinner tables. We're talking in dressing rooms, on public transportation, while driving, while waiting in line at the Jewel, while sitting at a receptionist's desk, while yapping into their intolerable cellphones, and even while going to the bathroom. Walk onto any subway train or city bus, and you are immediately assailed by the unappetizing scent of KFC mingled with BO. Sit down to untangle a compex financial analysis, and it is inevitable your cubemate will sit down to a seven course "Grand Slam" breakfast. Yet these same folks wonder how they gained 30 pounds in three days, since they never eat and they're never hungry.

I am convinced that every single person that wanted to lose weight could do so by doing one thing and one thing only: Eating at a table. Forget Atkins, forget Weight Watchers, forget South Beach, forget anorexia. Eat whatever you like, whenever you like, but only eat sitting down, at an actual table, where food is usually served. It can be 7:00pm at a four star restaurant, 5:30pm at your dining table, 3:00am at a 24-hour diner, or 12:00pm in a prison mess hall, it does not matter, just sit at a table and eat whatever you like. Order appetizers, dinner and dessert. Supersize your meal. Drink the regular not the diet.

But you better make it good. Because the minute you get on your feet, or on the street, or in your car, or on the bus, or to your office, or on the couch, or into bed, you are absolutely forbidden from letting any food whatsoever even touch your lips. No gum. No candy. No mints. No double-decaf-skim-light-foam-venti-cap. Nothing. Ever.

Not only will this have the desired effect of shedding those unwanted pounds, it will instantly end the revolting food pollution infecting every single person within smelling distance of your Fritos, your Supersize Fries, and your Funfetti Frosting.