Spelling Bee(yatch!)

The other day, whilst [while] walking down a supermarket aisle, I passed a couple having a quiet, yet heated conversation.

‘This should be interesting’, I thought, as I passed them….slowly.

“It’s e-a-t-E-n”, said the guy.

“Uh uh, no”, his other half said dismissively, “it’s e-a-t-A-n”.

“No baby, i’m telling you, it’s e-a-t-E-n”, he repeated with a slight chuckle in his voice.

This didn’t go down well with her.

Not well at all.

It was at this point she did that thing so many of my exes have done to me in the past when out in public; she raised her voice slightly in an attempt to embarrass her man in front of an audience….or, in this case, the slow, shuffling Brit who was taking far too much interest some nearby canned goods.

“Mmm-hmm, sure baby; whatever you say, but you is wrong![sic], she retorted, clearly convinced she wasn’t.

She was.

Besides, the correct spelling is ‘c-r-E-t-i-n’.

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Arguing The Toss

Today, during a meeting at work, one of my colleagues decided to share a top culinary tip with us. She’s a pretty smart cookie, so I was curious to know what mind blowing gastronomic trickery she was about to impart.

She smiled, opened her mouth and said:

“The best way to tell if your pasta is cooked properly is to throw it against the fridge and if it sticks, it’s cooked.”

Illogical

After a long pause and a few shared looks of concern for both her mental health and the quality of her spaghetti bolognese, I replied, “Or, you could, y’know, taste it”.

After a few nods of agreement at my introduction of sanity, and some repressed chuckles at the ludicrous nature of what she’d just spouted out of her mouth hole, she sat up in her chair and became very animated.

“I’m serious! It’s the best way to test if your pasta is cooked!”, she insisted.

She was wrong, of course.

“Ask anyone!”, she continued, “Google it!”.

This was a great suggestion because if it’s on the internet, it’s got to be true. Hey, did you know that a duck’s quack doesn’t echo?

So, as we argued the toss (see what I did there?), we decided to Google it and, lo and behold, there were a plethora of videos uploaded by NOT chefs showing that pasta, when thrown at a fridge or a window (or a flat screen TV, or a work colleague’s face) does, in fact, stick.

At this point we argued that under-cooked pasta will also stick because, y’know, starch.

She wasn’t having any of it.

So, as we all went back to our desks, still disputing the issue, she collared the first person we came across and pounced on him; “Hey, how do you test if pasta is cooked properly?”.

He paused for a moment, clearly not expecting to be asked this question today, and replied with, “You throw it at the ceiling and see if it sticks”.

“YES!!” she screamed, victoriously throwing her hands in the air, before turning to us with fingers pointing, “See, I told you! Ha!”.

So let me get this right, your only reliable and factual back up is someone who is clearly NOT Google, and also throws his pasta ON THE CEILING to check if it’s cooked? Not only does his kitchen probably resemble a cave full of stalactites, but he’s also an idiot.

Being half Italian myself, I know how to check if your pasta is cooked; you time it and you taste it; it’s simple really. Hurling your food at a kitchen appliance is not a sure fire way to check how cooked your meal is.

Plus, it’s fucking up my fridge magnets.

The chronicles of Squid-dick

I know, I know….I haven’t posted anything recently and I’m sorry. Although, weirdly, I’ve had more email subscriptions in the last few weeks than a Nigerian prince has in a year.

Hmm.

Anyway, not one to complain, I thought I’d share a conversation I literally overheard at work about 10 minutes ago.

The names have been changed to protect the innocent.1

Dumbelina – “Hey, Tarquin! What’s the name of the ramen place we’re going to later?”

Tarquin popped his head up from behind his computer, clearly preoccupied with something he was watching or masturbating to.

“What?”

“The ramen place.”, she continued.

Tarquin stopped for a beat and blinked twice; “What ramen place?”

“The one we’re going to at lunch.”

Tarquin paused again, desperately tring to cling to a conversation he was clearly not understanding.

“What about it?”, he replied, rapidly losing wood.

“What’s the name of it?”

“Oh…”, he said, finally getting a grasp of the conversation, now that he no longer had anything substantial to grasp, “…I think it’s called [insert the name of the ramen place here because I can’t remember it for the life of me!]”

“OK, thanks T-Dog2; I just wanted to have a look at the menu.”

“Uh huh”, he mumbled as he went back to whatever it was he was doing to himself.

There was a brief silence, punctuated only with the tapping of keys and the faint clicking of a mouse button.

“Ah, here it is”, muttered Thumbelina as she found the website.

> click <

Pause

> click <

A longer pause (Jesus, some people surf the internet slower than a sloth wearing a heavy backpack, trekking through deep snow, wearing flippers)

“What the hell is this?”, she half said to herself, but I suspected was intended for those around her (including me) to ask, ‘What’s that?’.

No-one did.

She continued clicking.

“Deep fried octopus balls??”

I choked on my coffee.

“Ha ha ha…er, excuse me; sorry!”, I said through caffeinated coughing.

Now having an audience, she attempted to engage me in conversation, “Right?? Octopus balls!”

“Ha, yeah right”, I said wryly as I continued checking Facebook – er, I mean continued working – realising I had a blog post happening right now….live! I smiled to myself as I wondered what she would say next. Would that be it? Would that be the only amusing thing she’d say about the menu from ‘that ramen place’?

Nope.

She continued down the list muttering the occasional ‘Oh’, and ‘Eeuw’ before exclaiming, “Ooh, french fries!”.

Maybe the ramen place is called McDonalds?

“Tarquin, they have french fries! Oh wow, they have french fries with gravy!”

Tarquin didn’t care. He was laid back in his chair, sweating, and smoking a cigarette.3

We’ve all been there

1 – Stupid
2 – OK, maybe I’m embellishing here a little bit.
3 – See 2

The Accidental Sexist

I was just on Facebook and one of those annoying links came up that challenged:

‘If You Know The Meaning Of These 16 Words, You Have A 150+ IQ’

OK, I’ll bite“, I thought to myself.

So I bit and clicked the link.

I got all 16 words correct (naturally) and was heralded a genius (obviously), which was nice.  But to be honest, it was pretty easy…any idiot could have done it.

Then I noticed the website name:

http://www.women.com

Uh oh.

Wait….did this website cause me to have a sexist thought?  It most certainly did.  For the tiniest of nanoseconds, my thought was ‘So, is it easier because it’s aimed at women?

That’s not a good thought to have.  It’s also not a great thought to share on a blog either!

Hmm, maybe my I.Q. isn’t as high as I thought.

I would like to say at this point that I’m not sexist.  If anything, the website was sexist by pandering to its readers, right?

Right?

>crickets<

Maybe this clickbait quiz was designed to have men go through what i’m going through and question their views on the better sex?

(Yes, I’m grovelling for forgiveness here).

But in all seriousness, I ‘m not a sexist guy; women are awesome.1  In fact, now I think about it, all my girlfriends have been female.

Every single one.

My wife’s a woman too.  I checked.

I’ve never considered women to be inferior to men (except for their inability to see the difference between DVD and BluRay picture quality which is SO annoying! Come on….look at the crispness of the image and how clear each pixel is when you….no, no I’m not going to get into this now), so was the website subtly imposing sexism on me?

Was I sexist by proxy?  Was it designed to make us men think about sexism?  Was the quiz actually difficult and I am, in fact, a monumental genius?

Whatever the case, I’m sleeping on the sofa tonight when my wife reads this.2

1 – Except a couple of my ex-girlfriends; they were a fucking nightmare!

2 – Not really.  My wife is not that type of person. She’s amazing! 3

3 – Yep, still grovelling.

Metrican Standoff

We have a pot luck1 at work today with an assortment of chips, dips and other fattening and delicious things.

One of my colleagues came over to me and said, “Hey, we have Enchiladas over here.  In England, do you call then Centimetreladas?”.

I laughed like a fucking drain.

usa-vs

1 For my English readers (or ‘friends and family’ as I like to call them).  A ‘Pot Luck’ is when Americans bring food to work either store bought or in a slow cooker (crock pot). In a nation that loves buffets, American workers have figured out a way to bring the buffet to the workplace.

-burp-

Is the pen REALLY mightier than the sword?

There are phrases out there in the world that people have tattooed on bodies, printed on clothing and plastered all over social media profiles to make them appear somehow more profound.

I’m talking about the sort of drivel designed to be inspirational or empowering, but actually results in me despising them more than a complete stranger should.

MP Knight

These are words of encouragement to let you know you’re special…a unique little snowflake.

Here are a couple of examples:

“Only God can judge me”

Hmm, I’m not sure I – and groups of people all over the world known as ‘Juries’ – fully agree with that one.

“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger”

What about arthritis?

Anyway, yesterday at the gym I saw a guy wearing a t shirt with this slogan emblazoned across the back of it.

“No weapon formed against me shall prosper”

So I shot him.

IJ Gun

Talking crap

I’ve just been for that first satisfying bowel movement of the day.  The one that usurps all others.

It was great.

But, unlike those I enjoy at weekends, this one was at the office.

A downside to curling out a fresh biscuit at work is that you’re not always the only baker in the bakery.  This visit was one of those times.

Now, a story like this isn’t unusual under normal circumstances, but this was far from normal.  As I entered the toilets [restroom/bathroom] I could hear that the occupant of the far cubicle [stall] was talking to someone.  He was on the phone.

I took the first cubicle because, well, no-one likes to poo within a foot of another person.  I don’t care if there’s a layer of wood between me and him; if I can see the shadow of his feet, I’m too close.

The toilets at work don’t have piped in music, nor are they located next to an airport runway so it was deathly quiet in there and therefore I could hear every word he was saying.

“I know”

“Yes, I heard you”

“Well, you hurt my feelings”

“Yes”

“Yes I know”

“OK”

There was a pause.

“I love you”

His call must have ended at that point because he then proceeded to wipe his arse.

Nice.

I finished my performance, flushed and then spent an unnecessarily long time washing and drying my hands.

Why?

Well, it could be because I believe in good personal hygiene, or it could be because I wanted to see if this guy had the bollocks to come out of his cubicle and reveal himself.

He didn’t.

I wouldn’t have either.

So, to respect his privacy and integrity, I left.

Then, out of respect for the guy, I didn’t hang around in the kitchen waiting to see who emerged.  I didn’t think it was right to make myself a coffee really slowly so I could check out if it was someone I knew (who may read my blog and somehow take this invasion of privacy personally).

After a few minutes he emerged.  Thankfully I didn’t know him.

It was just one of our security team; a massive bastard built like a brick shithouse.

This could be my last post.

picard phone loo