That's right kids, I've moved on to another site that better spreads these stories, and all of the new ones I've had saved for a good number of years, out to the masses!
If you're still in need of your Kosher fix, head on over to:
iymcool.tumblr.com
There's also an official Facebook page for those who want to avoid Tumblr:
https://www.facebook.com/KeepingItKosher
Thank you all for the support, views, and comments (yep, even you negative nancies) over the years. I hope to see all of y'all at the new home of KIK!
It's been a while. I know. I'm an asshole. Whatever, it's my blog and y'all can suck it. I'm pissed at one of the biggest fast-food franchises in the world. So sit down, shut the hell up, and join me in collecting them all (all being the heads of the CEOs of this Godless corporation).
My friends are well aware that I have a deep, committed, and extremely unhealthy love with the Pokemon franchise. If you don't know what this is, then please, do us all a favor, and take your arbitrarily, angry ass, over to Wikipedia: The Best Game Series in the Known Universe
Now then, are we all caught up?
Good.
Anyways, for those that are still with us:
Fuck McDonalds. Now, why would an adult get mad over the apparent existence of a large, health destroying, fast-food franchise? I'm glad you asked. Recently, McDonalds and the Nintendo company began to release Pokemon themed toys into their Happy Meals. This was a complete and utter shock to me. At first notice I got in my truck, hauled ass to the nearest Mickey D's, burst into their little lobby/eatery, walked up to the very slow girl whom was named Shaniquatisha, and politely asked for a six piece McNugget Happy Meal with a green Pokemon toy. The toy I requested was this one:
I didn't get what I want. The young lady behind the counter gave me this:
THAT IS NEITHER GREEN NOR LOOKS LIKE THIS:
I later went to the same establishment to try again. The following is a text I sent to my friend Texter:
"Me: How dare they advertise those adorable Pokemon toys and then deny me the ones I want. Fuck them. I went there twice today, not once, but twice. On my lunch break I drove my uninsured piece of crap truck to save my poor little snivy from the smelly jaws of some pre-adolescent little demon seed.
They gave me zorua.
I was not pleased, but I let it slide.
For the rest of the day all I could think about was going back to get my snivy. After I got off I went back to that hell hole to get my dear prize and an oshawatt.
I walk in. I locate a manager. I ask him if I can buy the specific toys. He said yes. I had a picture of an oshawatt on mt phone. "May I have this one and a green lizard please?"
"Sure, one minute."
I waited with bated breath.
"I'm sorry sir, we only have these three left."
There was a pikachu, a reshiram, and a tepig.
Fuck no. I drove all this way...twice...to be treated like this?
I looked at my selection. Then I remembered from my first venture to this place today: a kid took his toy back because he wanted tepig.
I knew What had to be done.
I took tepig. I took the cutest of the three they had, not because it was on my list to collect, not because I liked the pokemon in the games, but because I knew, somewhere, at some point in the future, a child will want that specific toy. I want them to know the pain I felt, and still feel, when they realize that they won't be getting the toy they want. I want them to feel that rush of hope and adrenaline and then, at the pinnacle of their joy, have it all crash down around them when they are denied their dream.
I took etiquette in high school. I admit, it was just to get credit, however, I took it and made an A nonetheless. Hell, I even got a certificate for all of my effort. I think it’s sitting in a ball at the bottom of my closet. Regardless, I understand what are considered proper manners and what aren’t in society (despite my polite rejection of said manners for my own personal gain). People in Laredo though……..don’t.
“Band-Aids Aren’t Food”
Over Thanksgiving break from school this year I returned to Laredo for some semi-peace, semi-quiet, and a second showing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part One (which for the record, made me cry). The break started out as uneventful as they normally do: see the horses, watch America’s Next Top Model, eat like a pig, and play with my smaller pets.
Two nights before we were supposed to deliver me to San Antonio (remember that I don’t have a functioning car. Basically I have to rely on the kindness of others to drive my ass around when I feel like stepping out into the outdoors when the unnatural brightness of my laptop screen becomes to much for my corneas to bear) so that I could return to Belton for school.
After the movie my mom and Tex decided that at 10:30 at night they were hungry. So, where do you go late at night after eating a trough full of popcorn and butter? Why, the newly opened Indiana Highwayhouse, of course!
If you have never been to the Indiana Highwayhouse I urge you to go. Upon entering you’ll be greeted by seven or eight servers whose only job is to smile and remind you that at seventeen years old they are making more than you. You will then be seated at a booth or table whose top and the surrounding area is littered with peanut shells and other sources of “natural ambiance” that previous families and people have left as donations to the building as a sign of thanks for the meal. It’s lovely.
Now, the food isn’t all too terrible. I had a chicken Caesar salad (which was pretty standard) and about four of the homemade rolls with cinnamon butter provided by our seventeen year old server who probably, after observation, couldn’t spell menu more less figure out where ours were.
Halfway through the meal one of the younger servers cranks up some random country song and about ten or so of his other employed friends gathered in a line in front of our table and start doing a very rudimentary line dance. Now, I say there were eleven people in the line, I didn’t say that all of them were dancing. Only about three knew the dance, four wobbled their legs around and went "Yee-ha!" to appear “Texan”, and the other four just stood there and laughed at everyone else. It was really classy.
After the song and dance were finished the restaurant went back to it’s normal noisy self for all of about four and a half minutes. After that grace period was up I see a waitress run from the kitchen to the front host/hostess/waiting pool area and announce:
“Has anyone seen a band-aid?”
Now, I’m not the cleanest person in the world. My family works in a morgue, has 15 pets (over half of which are farm animals), and frequently travels to unclean areas of the planet. However, I do have some standards. One of them being: Don’t announce lost medical equipment in a crowded restaurant. Apparently this girl didn’t hold this standard very close to her heart. Normally though, medical whatnot and doo-hickeys don’t bother me while I’m eating, this though did for one good reason:
Grilled chicken, when covered in Caesar dressing, looks almost exactly like a shiny band-aid (I dare any of you to eat a chicken Caesar salad now and not think that. Go ahead, go for it. In fact, comment back after you’ve eaten one so I know you’ve done it.). At this eating establishment it probably even tasted like a band-aid. I wouldn’t know though. Why? Because band-aid eating isn’t one of my hobbies. Clipping toe-nails with my teeth? Yes, I’ve done that. When I had long hair I used to chew on it. Who hasn’t? Eating band-aids? No. That’s basically on par with sharing used condoms. It’s just not done for a lot of reasons.
The reactions at the table to this little announcement are very mixed:
Me: “Did she really just say they lost a band-aid in the kitchen? I think they did. Is my salad okay? Can I make a scene and get a free meal?”
Mom: “What? No, she didn’t say that. Besides, if she did, don’t make a scene. Don’t embarrass me or Tex. Eat your salad and don’t think about it.”
Tex: “Eh, it’s Laredo. What can you expect?”
I don’t think my mother and they boyfriend understood the gravity of the situation. People in Laredo don’t wash their hands. Imagine how they treat open sores. That, and, Tex had a steak. So unless he had an ethnically colored and politically correct band-aid in his steak, he didn’t care.
I am now convinced that if I die any time before I am 107 it will be because my salad contained some herpes/scab covered/plague ridden band-aid from some illegal chef in Laredo, Texas and not because I drank myself stupid to try and forget some of these events that drove me to start drinking to begin with. I mean, really, who would want to break a cycle like that?
It’s no secret that I exercise my ability and legal right to partake in the consumption of the occasional adult beverage.I’m 21, have friends, know what I like, and where to get my fix for cheap.However, I also understand that moderation is key and that drinking should never become a crutch for a mental or physical problem.Every now and then though I swear that alcohol drives me into people that just drive me straight back to drinking and the inevitability of attending an AA meeting in the future.
When I say I enjoy to drink with friends I generally mean I enjoy to drink with Texter.She is one of the few friends I have who will actually take me out and have a fun time with me and our friend “The Drink”.Now, before we move on, I must say that we do not get drunk.We get buzzed and then people watch.It’s a lot more fun.The night that this story is centered around though caused me to get a bit more buzzed than I would have liked.However, it wasn’t my fucking fault.
Generally when I’m low on cash and want to get a buzz I will contact Texter, or her me, and we will take a drive to the next town over and head to a very well known restaurant that we will call BananaFly’s for the sake of anonymity and to protect my ass from getting sued….since it’s obvious I’ll get in to some trouble already based on just the subject matter of this story (Hi mom!).
I digress.
Texter and I head to BananaFly’s since they’re famous for their 24/7 $2 drinks.This is basically a giant light bulb and we’re the sud-seeking moths to the flame.Once we get to the establishment (at about 9:00 p.m.) I excuse myself to use the restroom before we sit down (keep in mind that I have had NO ALCOHOL yet.This is key.)I go to the bathroom and then exit the stall to wash my hands.Once I begin the process of scrubbing my digits the following event takes place:
*IMPORTANT* I’m using the sink on the right.There’s a soap dispenser to my left, another sink, and then another soap dispenser.There’s also a paper towel dispenser to the wall on my right.The door to exit/escape is to my far left.Remember this map, it may help you. *IMPORTANT*
After I wet my hands I try and get some soap from the dispenser.As I push the tab I notice that there’s no soap.I’m a science major who helps out in the morgue back home.This doesn’t bother me.The man who just stumbled OUT OF THE URINAL to the sink to wash his hands though, sees this as a problem.
Slurry: Theres noh soaPH. (I’m not drunk while typing this.I’m just trying to type as close to phonetically as possible to make this situation seem as real to you as it was to me.)
Me: Uh….yeah.Just use a lot of water.You’ll be fine.
I then turn to get a paper towel.This obviously was a mistake.
Slurry: Hey……do you work out?
Me: No, I haven’t worked out a day in my life.
Slurry: I work out.
Me: That’s nice.
Slurry: Hey….let me see you muscles.Make a fist.
Me: …..
Slurry: LET ME SEE!
This kind, drunk, belligerent man then grabs my arm and puts it into a flexing position while lifting my sleeve.I’m slightly worried at this point but still retaining some control over myself.
Slurry: Nice……real nice.Check me out…
Slurry then proceeds to pose his own arm so his bicep pops out.Once I see his arm muscles I’ve decided that he can break me.
Slurry: Feel this.
Me: No, that’s all right.I can see you’re a lot stron-
Slurry: FEEL IT!
He then grabs my hand and places it on his muscle and tells me to squeeze.I am now slightly more mortified as to where this conversation is going.
Me: That’s…….that’s really impressive.
I try and move me hand off his arm.He won’t have any of that.
Slurry: How old are you?
Me: 21.
Slurry: You drunk?
Me: Nope, but I now plan to be.
Slurry: I’m drunk.Guess how old I am.
Me: Uhm…..
Slurry: GUESS!
Me: 27?30?
Slurry: I’m 40.
Me: Wow.
Slurry: I AM 40!I look good!I AM 40!
Me: That’s awesome…..
I somehow manage to get my hand off his now pulsing arm and try to scurry over to the door without getting any closer to the drunk body-builder.
This was a wrong move.
In one fluid motion, Slurry wheels around grabs me from behind, and puts me in a headlock.
Let me repeat myself:
I am now alone in a bathroom with a drunken, forty-year old, body-builder.I am now alone in a bathroom with a drunken, forty-year old, body builder, in a headlock.I’m going to get raped.
Slurry: HOW OLD AM I?
Me: FORTY?
Slurry: SAY IT!SAY HOW OLD I AM!
Me (basically sobbing): YOU’RE FORTY!
Slurry: I-AM-FORTY!
He yelled the last bit almost exactly how Lionidus in 300 yelled, “THIS-IS-SPARTA!”I’m very glad I used the bathroom before this interaction since by now, if I hadn’t, I would be standing in a puddle of a variety of bodily fluids.
Me: YOU’RE FORTY!
Slurry: SAY IT AGAIN!
Me: YOU’RE FORTY!
Slurry: Don’t forget it!
I am then released.The next few seconds are a blur, however, I remember leaving the bathroom before Slurry and galloping over to my table where Texter is sitting.When I sit down we have the following conversation:
Texter: What took you so long?
Me: I was almost raped in the bathroom.In fact, I might be pregnant.
Texter: What?What did you do?
Apparently everything is my fault and I can never be the victim.
Me: I didn’t do anything!I peed and then got manhandled by that guy in the Astros cap at the bar!
I then regale Texter with my adventure in the men’s room with my new friend/lover/pimp Slurry.Texter as first snickers and then looks over to Slurry, who is now back at the bar and making a scene.Her face goes from somewhat sympathetic enjoyment to my fear to almost pure terror.
Me: What?Finally feel bad for me?
Texter: No…I know that guy.
Me: ….
Texter: He’s the guy who always buys me drinks at O’Slappys (a bar she goes to with other friends).HE always tries to get me to go out with him!
Me: …..You lie.
Texter: I swear!
Me: …..I need a drink.
To this day (the event above happened about five or six months ago) I have yet to return to BananaFly’s with Texter.However, it may be time for another trip for three reasons:
$2 Drinks are always a reason to go out
I have a few more muscles and want to see if Slurry notices
I believe it’s time to finish up my trip that I began in “I’m an International Arms Dealer”.Now, most stories start slowly, have a bang in the middle, and end in a nice decline.This isn’t the case.This story started with me almost getting arrested in London, and now ends with me almost getting left in South Africa.
When we last left off, my mother, her boyfriend, and yours truly just barely escaped from getting arrested in London for transporting ammunition over international borders.After a brief stint of running around the city we decided to head off to Africa.
Once we landed we spent ten days hunting African wildlife in the plains of the Limpopo region.It sounds a lot more exotic then what it really was.I’m sure in everyone’s mind, at least everyone who has and will hear this story from my mother and her boyfriend, this sounds extremely dangerous and foreign.In reality, we landed at midnight, were whisked away in a private van, drove an hour and a half to a private reserve (with a gate), and stayed in a protected campground with space heaters, indoor plumbing, electricity, and a working kitchen.During mealtime we would go to a catered kitchen with housekeepers that waited on us hand and foot.
We were really roughing it.
Oddly enough though, nothing out of the ordinary happened on the trip.The only time I ever thought I was going die or be sold into sex/drug/militant soldier slavery was at the airport in South Africa on the day we were departing back for the States.
The South African airport in Johannesburg is like sitting on the border between Mexico and the United States (which I currently do when not in school).When you first enter the Johannesburg International Airport you are bombarded by people who want to saran wrap your luggage tighter than a dad wants to wrap up his daughter on prom night.Apparently the pick pocketing in the area is so bad that people offer to seal your bags to the point where even you can’t get into it.
We wrapped our bags.
After we checked in and sent our bags away we stepped over from the poor flooring, thieves, and alcoholics, to what can only be described as a mini-Mall of America.The other side of security is gorgeous!There are stores for nearly anything you could ever want: Suits, Food, Toys, Books, Liquor, Coffee, Candy, Liquor…the list goes on and on.Since we had a few hours before our flight back to Paris, or wherever the hell we were flying to in Europe to transfer back to the States, we decided to play tourist one more time and shop around.Our first stop was to grab some food, then some books, and then we stopped at this gorgeous cufflink store.
For those who don’t know, I love to dress up.I have a few suits and a small collection of ties and cufflinks that I inherited.I find dressing up fun and sexy.It’s not uncommon to see me roaming about campus in a three piece suit or a dress shirt and vest/tie.
I swear the above blurb is important to the story, albeit on a minor level.That, and, I love telling people that I like to dress up.
We spent a good amount of time in this little cufflink store looking at diamond, ruby, emerald, opal, pearl, stainless steel, and an assortment of other such links for your cuffs.I believe there were also some tie clasps and shoes there as well.However, that’s not important or worth mentioning aside from the fact that they were also quite nice and matched many a pair of cufflinks.I digress though…
As the time for our flight out of Africa neared we decided it was time to walk the length of the airport, a good long distance that felt like a mile, and head to our gate.It was late.We were tired.This is relevant to the events that take place in the next forty-five minutes or so.
After a few moments of waiting we board the Air France flight.Once myself, Tex, and my mother got situated into our seats and the stewardess announced we were about to taxi I hear this from the seat behind me, “Tex, do you have my jacket?No?Mikey, is my jacket up there with you?”
Me: “No, I don’t have it.It’s probably in one of the bags overhead.”
Mom: “I would have known if I had put it in one of the bags.I had it in my hand in the mall.”
Me: “Then it’s probably still out-“
Mom: “Do you know where I left it?It’s on the counter in that suit store.”
Me: “Oh….well…”
Mom: “I need that jacket.I’ve had it since medical school.Can you go get it?”
For those of you who have short attention spans and poor memory let me remind you that:
THE PLANE IS TAXIING.WE ARE LEAVING THE COUNTRY.IN A MATTER OF MOMENTS THE PLANE WILL BE AIRBORNE.
Apparently that doesn’t register with my mother.
Me: “I…..I don’t think I can get off the plane and back in time.I’d much rather you have a cold body then me being left in Africa and being sold into slavery or the drug trade.”
Mom: “Mikey…..I need that jacket.”
I weigh the options I mentioned in my head:
1)Let her suffer.She doesn’t care much for flying anyways so what does it matter?
2)Be a decent child and try and help her out since she pays for my school.
FUCK.
Three minutes later I’m at the front of the plane pleading with tired, French, flight attendant who obviously just wants to get back home and chain-smoke.After my arguments based on morality and kindness fail I say the first thing that comes into my head:
Me: “That jacket is the only thing my mother left to me before she died.On her deathbed she told me she wanted me to wear it on my first day of medical just like she had.”
I’m a terrible human being.
The flight attendant, who we’ll call Marlboro, raised an eyebrow and asked:
Marlboro: “Your dead mother left you her jacket?”
Me: “To wear on my first day of medical school.”
Marlboro: “….That’s not her who got on the plane with you?”
Me: “That’s my sister.”
Marlboro: “You have five minutes.”
Now, I’m well aware that I’m good at bullshitting.However, this moment in my life was a turning point:I now realized that I had the power to stop an airplane from leaving the ground.I should start a cult, you know, like L. Ron Hubbard.
Back to the tale:
The plane halts and the flight attendant leads me back to the front of the gate.As soon as we get to the check-in counter he looks at his watch and says, “Go.”
I have never hauled ass faster in my life.Now, in high school I did cross country running.My mother was running around a track since she did, and sometimes still does, marathons when she was pregnant with me.Running is in my genes.
After running the apparently mile back to the cuff link store I locate the jacket stuffed behind the counter.Why there wasn’t someone in the store at the time is beyond me.However, it didn’t matter.All I wanted to take was the jacket….and maybe a pair of ruby cufflinks. The jacket was easier to ruin out with though.
I return to the check-in counter covered in sweat, some tears (I really didn’t want to be left in Africa and turned into a drug mule.I’m far too pretty for that), possibly blood, and more than likely snot.Marlboro is staring at me and smells suspiciously like cigarette smoke.
Marlboro: “Did you find your mother’s jacket?”
All I do is wave it at him since I’m completely out of breath and covered in more stitches than a failed cutting attempt.
Marlboro: “Well good, do you need anything else or can we leave now? I’m tired and really didn’t have to let you off the plane to begin with.”
The only thing I could do was raise my eyebrow and then quietly walk back to the plane.I was about amused as he was at this point.
When I got back to my seat my mom just looks at me.
Mom: “So did you find my jacket?”
I hand/throw the jacket at her and look her in the eyes and say:
Me: “If anyone asks, we’re siblings and that’s the only thing my real mother left me in the will.”
I didn’t hear another word out of her until we hit the States.
