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Leftover pizza presents an interesting challenge for me. There are so many different factors and options that there’s no clear-cut obvious answer. Don’t finish Chinese food? Save it for later! Can’t finish a salad? Throw it out. But pizza is more challenging.
Probably the biggest obstacle leftover pizza presents is there doesn’t have to be leftover pizza. I might be full after two or three slices–but that doesn’t mean I have to stop eating. The only time I truly have to stop eating pizza is when there’s no more pizza left. My ability to continuously (and gluttonously) eat pizza is slightly short of being remarkable (probably because it’s disgusting to see a guy eat slice after slice of pizza for three hours). Back when I was a teenager Pizza Hut started to roll out all-you-can-eat pizza buffets. Now they’re all gone. Why? Because they all lost money when I came in through the door. A lot of money. Why, I think it’s safe to say I am solely responsible for Pizza Hut’s disappointing third quarter in 1996.
I like to eat–this is no surprise to anyone who knows me. I’ve often said eating if my favorite hobby–and pizza is perhaps . . . . .
One of my job duties as an after school babysitter/tutor is to provide snacks for the children. The logic is that by the time 3:00 rolls around, the little rugrats are jonesing for some nutrients. My job is to provide those nutrients in the form of salty, dry pretzels and sugar-filled Capri Suns.
(Side note: Capri Suns have become much easier to drink though out the years. When I was a kid it was nearly impossible to put straw through the pouch. Back then the plastic was made of some indestructible material that also could be used to protect the gold in Fort Knox. It took a tremendous amount of force to piece the pouch, which–if not aimed correctly–would often lead to bent straws. My mom would often to use a hole punch because the pouches would not welcome the penetrating straw. Heck, often the easiest way to drink a Capri Sun was to flip it over and stick the straw in the bottom [feel free to draw your own conclusion from this perverted metaphor]. Sure, you had to hold the drink because then it wouldn’t be able to stand up on its own–but at least you got your juice. . . . . .
The company Christmas party is coming up and we’re feeling the affects of a fleeting economy: we went from a catered affair to a potluck dinner. On top of that, my employer is requiring a $5 donation to attend the Christmas party. They told us they’re collecting the money for a charity to “help those less fortunate than us.” While I suppose technically, it’s a ‘good’ cause I’m still very uncomfortable with it. This isn’t just because I don’t believe in charity–I really don’t like the idea of being forced to donate. The loophole around this is probably that this isn’t a required event and attendance isn’t mandatory. But I know if I spend the afternoon in my office, it’ll be a bad PR move. What right do the party planners have to say there’s other people in more need of money than me? I have about $3 of disposable income every month–people should be collecting donations for me. I get paid jack squat. My rent goes up. The cost of food goes up. The cost of gas goes up. Why doesn’t someone pass the hat around for me?
One time I was having lunch with The Wife at Wienerschnitzel . . . . .
When life gets too busy or I have nothing to complain about, I just reach back and find something I wrote earlier but never posted (usually because it was uninteresting or poorly written…or maybe even both). This is one of those stories.
I don’t mean to be a troublemaker–things just sorta happen to me. I think the reason why is because I’m a fighter–I simply don’t lay down when unjust situations arise. I don’t wanna inflate my own ego here, but I believe strongly in my convictions and I’m never going to back down. Some might call it stubborn, but I prefer ‘determined’–it puts a positive spin on things.
The Girlfriend and I went to Jack in the Box because she was craving one of their fruit smoothies. “Should I buy the small one for $2.69 or the large for 3.39,” she asked after studying the menu.
“Go with the small,” I told her. She rarely finished drinks like that and it didn’t make sense to spend the extra 70 cents on something she wasn’t going to drink. We went through the drive-thru and ordered the smoothie. The cashier didn’t tell us a total–only to pull up to the window.
. . . . .
When The Girlfriend I went to San Diego last month, we stayed at a hotel that just open. And by just opened, I mean two days prior. The place was brand spanking new–so new that the address couldn’t be found on Mapquest.
There’s a difference between a national hotel chain opening up and a lavish grand opening on the Las Vegas strip. Instead of celebrities and glitzy, that San Diego hotel opened to empty rooms and hallways that reeked of glue. Las Vegas hotels work out all their kinks beforehand; smalltime San Diego hotels lock their guests outside at night because the door near the pool doesn’t work (thank goodness I managed to flag down an employee; otherwise, I would’ve had to spend the evening sleeping on a pool cot).
I’ve stayed at an Unidentified National Hotel Chain many times before and one of the reasons I do so is because the free breakfast they offer in the morning. I’m not talking a continental breakfast composed of generic cereal and day-old bagels. No, no–Unidentified National Hotel Chains have wonderful fresh, hot breakfasts. Eggs, waffles, bacon–a true, real breakfast with the quality of Denny’s–sans the smell of old people on the . . . . .
I am so over eating. It’s such a chore–and the process never stops. The typical human eats three meals a day–that’s three times a day you gotta figure out what to eat. Three times a day to cook. Three times a day to clean it. I feel like a stray cat–always on the look out for my next meal. And the worst part is this process never ends. We always hafta eat. There’s always going to be a next meal (unless you’re on death row: than it’s your last meal).
Maybe it’s ’cause I’m in a relationship now and eating for two. In the past, I never thought about my next meal. I always just waited until I was hungry and ate something like a box of cookies or bowl of cereal. Even when I cooked, it was much simpler (it’s not hard to grill up chicken and put it in a tortilla with cheese). When I was single, I didn’t have ‘meals’–I ate food. But now that I’m in a serious relationship with a girl I have two meals a day–it just requires more planning. No junk food. No fast-food. No pizza. We gotta have healthy meals–plates with green . . . . .
I think we as a society would be much improved with the return of “Yo Mama” jokes. Harmless and non-malicious, “Yo Mama” jokes always seem to bring out the best in creativity, one-liners, and delivery. Two people can continuously insult each other…yet walk away good friends because of the innocent nature of “Yo Mama” jokes. They’re fun to say, fun to hear, and really bring people together. I think instead of hiring mediators to solve disputes, two people should simply spend 20 minutes exchanging “Yo Mamas.” Whatever conflicts they have are sure to be resolved after comparing the girth or liberated sexuality of two mothers. Guaranteed.
My distain for salads is well-known–but I’m not completely adverse to them. In fact, El Pollo Loco has a salad I quite like. It has cheese and tortilla chips in it. If more salads resembled nachos I probably wouldn’t be so opposed to greens. But they don’t, I do, and doughnuts will always remain my top choice as appetizers.
I’ve been trying to eat a tad bit healthier lately–which means more salads and less French fries. So yesterday at El Pollo Loco I order one of those crazy salads with tortilla chips. I’ve been . . . . .
I’d love to open and own my own Hooters restaurant. Breasts and hot chiks have nothing to do with it–I think the they’re just pure moneymakers. A few years ago, I had some friends who were obsessed with Hooters–they would go two or three times a week. Occasionally, I would go with them…only to be appalled by the ‘restaurant.’ The food was extremely overpriced; nothing came with French fries. A hot dog was like six bucks–and that was just the wiener. Sodas were like three bucks. Fries, cheese, or any additional toppings would cost you even more. Plus, the restaurant had a shady tactic to squeeze even more money out of you. If you ordered a plate of wings, the waitress would ask you “Would you like ranch, blue cheese, or barbeque sauce with that?” What she didn’t tell you is that dipping sauces cost 75 cents each.
Not even factoring busy crowds or big drinkers, the restaurant made significant money based on the food alone. Everything was ungawdly expensive yet no better in quality than anything you’d find at Denny’s (even the infamous wings are fatty and tough). The cost of food was a fraction of the price Hooters . . . . .
Just to prove I’m not a racist, I hate white actors, too–I’ve hated Kevin Costner ever since I was a kid. I’m not sure when I realized it, but I’ve always felt the guy is a total fraud. In the early 90s, he was considered the best actor in Hollywood. But even as a kid, I could tell the guy was as wooden as my kitchen table. I never saw any emotion out of him–he went through all his films as if he was doped up on valium. Remember his ‘Cajun’ accent in “JFK?” How about when he was the only New Englander in “Thirteen Days” without an accent? “Dances with Wolves” sucked and he’s been overrated ever since then. I don’t even know why he’s considered a star. When was the last time one of his movies was a hit?
I don’t eat right–I know it. But it doesn’t take a genius to know that meals of pizza, burgers, tacos, and Capt’n Crunch isn’t the key to a healthy lifestyle. The thing is, I’m not what you call a broccoli and corn kinda guy. I’m a picky eater and given the choice, there’s no way I’m eating vegetables–not when . . . . .
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