You Need Jesus

So an Eastern Orthodox, an agnostic and a recovering Catholic are sitting in Union Square drinking coffee. No this isn't the beginning of an old joke, this is what happened the last time I was in New York City. One of my favorite things to do in concrete jungle where dreams are made of is just sit around and people watch. Coming from a small, rural town in central California made up of 87% Mexicans, you just don't see the diversity you get on a single city block of New York.

My friends and I were sitting on the steps of Union Square talking and watching New York City's finest in action and I'm not talking about police officers. There was a man in an all red pimp outfit wearing a Flavor Flav-style clock around his neck complete with a young lady in an outfit so scandalous it rivaled those of the Flavor of Love contestants, a handful of college kids with computer touch screens on their stomachs offering free demos of some game, several hot skaters practicing their ollies and kick-flips mere inches from my fingers and toes and the required break dancing battlers showing off their latest moves.

The king of New York City's finest though was an older gentleman in an outfit so ridiculous that words cannot begin to describe it but I'll try. His skirt consisted of what looked like dozens of multi-colored scarves all sewn together, that flowed like it should have been on the body of a model walking down a runway at Bryant Park instead of a homeless man in Union Square and his vest looked like he'd skinned a muppet back in the '70s and had been wearing the matted fur everyday since.

The best thing about this man wasn't even his couture outfit, it was what he was saying. "I'm gonna wear this in heaven. Why not wear it now?" Apparently the Lord is a Lady Gaga fan and there will be a dress code in heaven I was unaware of. He made his way back and forth from person to person spouting off his rantings about what he would do in heaven, arguing with the break dancers, collecting change from those so inclined and finally receiving a miniature Bible from some people handing out Bible tracts in the park. This is when the gentleman's attitude towards heaven seemed to turn.

"I'll cuss out Jesus Christ himself. Motherfucker! Let him come down. I'll cuss him out right in his face," he said while pointing his head towards the heavens. "If he's so tough let him strike me down with lightning right now." This is where I debated moving my friends back a step or two just in case the Lord almighty was paying attention and felt like having some fun. "Motherfucker, I'll cuss him out!" he continued rambling. Here's when we decided to leave the park and go have dinner. Before we even got up he proceeded to crumple up the Bible tract and throw it at my friend's feet.

Apparently he decided we needed Jesus more than he did. Well God bless. You don't see that in Soledad.

Dear Heifer An Open Letter to the Big-Boned and Lazy

As a native Californian who has been driving since the age of 15 I often use the drive-thrus whenever possible, drive-up ATMs being a regular stop of mine. It is here where I have, on several occasions, seen someone wait in line, park right in front of it and then proceed to get out of their vehicle to use the ATM. Case in point, the woman in the picture below.



Isn't the point of drive-thrus not to have to get out of your car in the first place? If you're going to exit your vehicle in order to use said "drive-thru" then you're not doing it right. In an effort to prevent such obscene abuses of drive-thrus from continuing I have drafted an open letter to the culprits.


Dear Heifer,
I write this open letter to you with love and respect. Stop being a lazy ass and walk once in a while.

First of all you may be asking, who am I to criticize you? I'll be the first to admit that I could absolutely stand to lose some 50+ lbs, I will never be the poster child for Skinny Bitches, Inc and that my love of fried foods and cheese has guaranteed that I will never be accused of looking anorexic. But while I am fat, I am still not as fat and lazy as you.

I come to you because it's acts like this that give the rest of society reason to believe that me and all of my large and in charge brethren are as lazy as you. I may get winded while climbing a flight or two of stairs but I do not take the elevator. I may find it more difficult than it should be to bend over and tie my shoes but I will never buy the kind with velcro straps. I may have trouble finding things that fit in American Eagle because their clothes are cut small but I will never leave the house in sweats. By your actions and the actions of those like you you have made most of society think that all overweight people are lazy and completely sedentary.

Now obviously I don't get up and move as much as I should otherwise I wouldn't be overweight in the first place. But you best believe that if my fat rolls ever prohibited me from reaching my arm out of the window to push the ATM buttons I would not only not use the drive-up ATM, I'd have walked to the bank in the first place.

When I dance I can shake a tail feather, drop it like it's hot and sweep the floor with it like nobody's business. If you ask a certain Canadian friend of mine, she'll tell you that with a little bit of alcohol in me I can give a lap dance so good that my bumps and grinds, shimmies and shakes, hip thrusts and head rolls would give any Pussycat Doll a run for her money. My point is, I may be fat but I can and do still move, which apparently is more than I can say for your kind.

I'm not writing this solely to judge you. I'm writing this as a plea to you. Stop making society think we are all Gilbert Grape's mom! If Dance Your Ass Off and the plethora of Beyoncé-inspired YouTube videos have taught us anything it's that we large people can bust a move. Now before you fully break into the Single Ladies dance, start off slow by parking your car and walking inside the bank. I may be drinking a frapuccino as I write this letter to you but I did not use the drive-thru. I parked my car 3 rows away from the door and walked in with my head and double chins held high.

If you are going to use the drive-thru ATM then use it properly. Drive up to it, reach your hand out like you do when you're reaching for your #3 super-sized extra value meal with diet Coke and stay inside the vehicle at all times.

Sincerely,
Your brother in borderline high blood pressure,
Aldo

Sex Toys R Us

So I'm eating with my new lunch time homies and as most topics of conversation in a proper work environment go, we were talking about sex. More specifically about sex toys. In between sandwich bites we started coming up with ideas for new sex toys. Although in reality I'm sure they've already been invented by somebody and are in the goody drawers of dozens if not hundreds of Americans all throughout the country.

That combined with a conversation I once overheard in a West Hollywood sex shop where two sales associates were rating how hard different vibrators got them off as casually as two housewives comparing cleaning products got me thinking. Whose job is it to come up with new sex toys anyway? Is there a design firm down in the San Fernando Valley, the porn capital of the US, whose sole purpose it is to create and test the titillating new designs?

What are their board meetings like? Is it a room full of grey-haired old white men sitting around a conference room table debating things like the pros and cons of jelly vs. glass, what the newest invention to hit those hard to reach places should be, or how they can keep costs down by sending the rabbits overseas to have the vibrating pearl beads attached by the minuscule hands of Asian day laborers?

Is the testing warehouse full of tired workers who have punched their time cards in and out of this place for the past 2 decades? Is the manager an old broad with a name tag that reads "Marge, 25,000 orgasms of service"? Are the workers even still interested in the products they create and test? I know after 3-4 years at my job I no longer cared as much about the little things that got through. Is that how it is at the Sex Toys R Us factory? Do Martha and Beverly swap stories on their way home about how they just faked the last 3 hours of work because let's face it, it's a short week and no one's really working anyway?

What are the benefit packages at this place like, besides the obvious, of course. Do they get paid vacations where the last thing on their mind is sex and really just want some time to let their vital organs recover? What kind of medical benefits do they get? I'd imagine several trips to the doctor would be required, if only for regular treatments of rashes, tears and the occasional electrocution.

I wonder what the recession has done to places like the Sex Toys R Us factory. Have they been subject to the same workforce reductions that the rest of the country is facing? When a normal workgroup consisted of 25 staff members are they now down to 10 and expected to produce the same amount of work? Do the remaining 10 now have to conduct multiple reviews at a time, possibly in groups of 3 with the odd man out taking notes?

So many unanswered questions came to me all because of this mindless lunchtime chat. Where are sex toys manufactured? And most importantly, are they hiring?

Don't Shit Where You Eat

So I'm in the bathroom minding my own business as all males from the age of 4 and on are trained to do. Girls go to the bathroom to socialize, guys go in for one of two reasons: mind your business, do your business, wash your hands and get out. On the floor of the next stall was a pair of black dress shoes with a plate of half-eaten pizza slices accompanying them.

Yes, somebody felt the need to take a plate of pizza with them into the bathroom stall. So I’m trying to mind my business while they’re doing their business and they pick up the plate take some bites and put the plate back down on the floor. Then I hear the noise of them doing their business some more.

First of all, how bad are your stomach problems that you have to eat while sitting on the john? Granted, after three days of doing the Master Cleanse diet I was able to time my bowel movements to within 60 minutes of food intake but 60 seconds just seems a bit ridiculous.

Second, we’re adults. This is no longer Jr. High where not getting an invitation to sit at anyone’s lunch table means your have to go find a payphone booth or bathroom stall to eat in like you’re DJ Tanner. If you’re that much of a loser that you don’t have friends to eat with then eating alone at your cubicle is perfectly acceptable. Why of all places would you choose the stall of a public bathroom where anyone can just walk in, judge you silently and go home to write a blog post about it?

I get that having a high-pressure job means sometimes having to skip lunch in order to attend pointless meetings where we all talk about what a great team we have and manage not to accomplish a single thing. Sometimes it means staying late one evening to finish the work you should have been doing while on Facebook all afternoon or coming in on a weekend because you work with people who take 8 full hours to complete the simplest of tasks and don’t get you your work until the end of the day on a Friday. But how fucking busy are you that you have to eat while on the shitter?

There is no job that is so important that you have to combine your meal breaks with your bathroom breaks. Just ask President Obama, even he gets a break to eat in an actual dining room.

Oh the Shame

So I'm reading Twilight as part of a book club and just to see what all the fuss was about. Never in my days have I ever read a book with such shame. Hiding it under my arm as I go to lunch, putting my water bottle in front of it while I'm reading at the table, the lengths I've gone to in order to hide what I'm reading are astounding. I even considered paper-bag covering it a la 5th grade but no one really gives paper bags anymore since we've all gone "green" and take in our reusable bags. 

What's worse is that I know they won't be having "the sex" in this book. Apparently if they do, Bella will die or become a vampire or realize she's with a moody douche, leave him and go get a spray tan or something. Halfway into it I remembered that it was written by a Mormon woman and aimed at 13 year old girls. This explained the plot and led me to the realization that when I finish this book I'll be left with literary blue balls. You teased me enough to keep me interested for nearly 500 pages but aren't going to give me the big finish. 

When You're There, You're Family

So the last time I was at Olive Garden I got drunk. Not your typical It's Wednesday evening let's have a couple of drinks after work so you get a nice buzz drunk. I'm talking ridiculous Let me tip the waiter boy $20 just because he's cute and it sounds nice drunk.  I managed not to make a complete ass of myself except for the dozen or so times I called the waiter "baby" and woke up the next morning feeling shameful. That was until I was reminded by my friend that when you're at Olive Garden, you're family. And my family is a bunch of drunks.

Squirrel Hari-Kari

So I'm speeding down the back roads singing along to Taylor Swift's "You Belong With Me" when two squirrels jump in front of my car and I have no room to swerve and avoid them. I guess they felt so strongly that Beyoncé deserved the award that they were willing to die for their cause. 

Now if only Kanye had had the balls to do the same thing. 

Some People Just Aren't That Bright

So I'm at the Starbucks drive-thru after having ordered and paid for my drink when the barista asks me, "Do you like coffee?"

Bitch, I'm here ain't I?

What had happa?

Shortly, I will tell you what had happa.