I’ll Tell You If You Stink Because I’m a Dick

So I used to work at this restaurant with a guy named Marcus, that’s what I think he called himself. As far as I remember everyone just referred to him as “Stinky” but not to his face mind you. Marcus had—insert echoed reverb voice—B.O. And it was bad, really bad. None of us could believe how this normal, academic looking white-bread character wasn’t aware of his complete and utter underarm funk. I’m not talking about the musky smell of a recently exercised male here. I’m talking about the smell from the depths of Satan’s ass that made you gag as he wafted away. He wore a white waiter’s shirt that must have been deathly allergic to cleaning chemicals and only held together by its own stubborn understains. Heaven forbid any of the poor wretches that he waited on. Who knows how many first dates he ruined? I won’t go into it too much more, but when he had left the scene of a conversation I swear you could still smell him a minute later. His odor was probably temporarily lost without him, like a puppy off its leash for the first time. If he came back before the minute was up it was like he lapped his smell on the track forging an uber-funk that was seal up my nostrils with window putty intolerable.
One morning, after we all agreed that Marcus needed to know, he was having a particularly bad (underarm) hair day or something. I volunteered myself for the mission. Well, everyone knows I can be a dick, and I didn’t care whether Stinky thought less of me for telling him. So I said, “Dude, did you take a shower this morning because you fucking stink?” Okay, I could have handled it better (story of my life) but I said it. He was shocked, startled, embarrassed and had not a clue that his smell was being ridiculed by every single employee at the joint–including, might I add, all the managers–none of whom wanted to say anything. So after the deed was done I felt better and mentioned what I had said to some of my co-workers and everyone was relieved.
The next week Marcus came up to me and said, “You know I asked everyone the next day if they thought I ever smell bad, and not one of them said I did; you’re a fucking dick.” While he was correct, I am a dick, I couldn’t believe that not one of my co-workers backed me up…not one. So the moral here, if there is one, is this: If I tell you that you stink, and you ask other people if you stink and they say no. You still stink and they’re just a bunch of cowards who would rather make fun of you behind your back and deal with the smell rather than hurt your feelings. All of which still makes me a dick.

I Don’t Speak English

So I was at Cafe Van Cleef on a ‘date’ recently with my lovely lady and I went to use the restroom. There was only one bathroom which men and women shared and I was next. A young blonde woman stood behind me in a line which consisted of me and her, and I made a joke–because that’s what I do. She looked at me and said in a perfect American accent, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak English.” Oh, okay I thought, she doesn’t speak English. I mean apart from those words that she just said in perfect English.
Then she moved closer to the bathroom door to read an article from a newspaper.
“You don’t speak English, but you read it, hunh.” I said. To which she responded with “Oh.” As in, I just got busted. Does this woman tell every stranger that says something to her that she doesn’t understand their language? I mean she seriously couldn’t have thought I was hitting on her.
“Next time why don’t you just pretend you’re deaf,” I said. Actually I didn’t say it, but I wanted to. The bathroom door opened and I went in and contemplated what that was all about. Then it hit me. What she actually meant to say was:

“I DON’T SPEAK to ENGLISH people.”

What a fucking bitch! What’s with the anti-English sentiment? I thought. I mean the Revolutionary War has been over for what, like 232 years. Of course she probably never learned that in school what with her inability to understand what her history teacher was on about.
I thought about peeing on the seat…just to spite her. Or dropping a massive poop in the toilet bowl and not flushing. “Oh, I’m sorry I don’t know how to use a toilet,” I would have said, as I handed over toilet rights to the non-English speaking lady. But I didn’t–you know why? Because I’m English. The English are polite and when we tell you we don’t understand you, we really mean it. Mainly because English people are lazy at learning other languages, but we speak American “real good.” Maybe I should have whipped out my most heinous exaggerated Southern drawl. “D’yawl Unduhstand me nahw then?”
And so as I walked past her I just gave her the frosty glare…you know the one. If you don’t, feel free to check out my pics and be prepared to be frosted over.
The woman then came and sat two stools away from me and continued her conversation with her friend…in perfect English!
How could this woman hate English people? I thought. I mean we gave America: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Harry Potter and Monty Python. Good God what more do you people want? But then I thought about it, and you know we also gave America: The Spice Girls, The Osbournes, Benny Hill and me. So, okay fair enough.

I Say Bucks Fizz, You Say Mimosa

While some people spend their Sunday mornings worshipping God’s glory, millions of others around the world (me included) revel in the magnificence of the tasty, alcoholic beverage known as the Mimosa. The recipe for the standard Mimosa is 80% champagne, 20% orange juice, and it’s best served cold in a champagne glass.
The best thing about the Mimosa is that it is totally acceptable to drink one or two with breakfast on a Sunday. Who am I to argue with my bartending peers who have deemed the Mimosa the perfect liquid accompaniment to Eggs Benedict or a tasty Spinach and Mushroom omelet? The quantities of the two ingredients of the Mimosa are of course completely flexible, depending on what you may need to accomplish with the rest of your Sunday.
And so to the mixing of the beverage in question—I prefer a pipette drop of OJ that barely affects the transparency of my sparkly beverage. I protected Michele (my special lady friend) by making sure that her beverage contained more Vitamin C and was a little more opaque in appearance. With our morning libations in hand, we made the grueling sojourn up the ten or eleven steps from our apartment to the newly refurnished deck on our roof and wallowed in the sun where we talked of all the great things we would do with our day. This lasted about twelve minutes, because, well frankly, we’re both paler than milk and not really used to the midday Oakland sun