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Muscle Milk Tea Boba

August 26, 2013 Leave a comment

I was reluctantly at my favorite Boba place today trying to cool off from the heat. I say reluctantly because while I love this joint’s Rose milk tea boba, the ordering experience is excruciating.

Every time I visit, there’s always a new weird cashier. The last cashier had a lazy eye that watched me everywhere, no matter where I stood. I swear it had its own brain. Hopefully this time would be different. When it was my turn, I approached the most gargantuan ripped cashier I’d ever seen.

Me: I’ll have the rose milk tea. Medium.

Gigantic Boba Dude: One medium Rose milk tea. You want any Boba? Jello? Any add-ons?

Me: No, no Boba. Just milk tea.

GBD: You sure you don’t want any add-ons.

Me: I’m sure.

He rang me up

GBD: Ok, One Rose muscle milk tea. That’s $3.95

Me: What? Rose muscle milk tea? What’s that?

GBD: It’s a supplement, feeds your muscles. You should get it.

I scanned the menu, trying to locate this option.

Me: Where is that on the menu? I don’t even see that.

GBD: It’s my own special add-on. I only offer it to my Sigma Nu bros and scrawny guys who look like they need it.

He pointed to a beat-up faded Nike gym bag on the floor overflowing with half-filled bottles of body building supplements. One bottle intermittently glowed green. Rummaging through it, he pulled out a 30 lb dumbbell and began doing curls.

GBD: I’m gonna squeeze out a few while you’re checking out the menu.

Me: Uh, sure whatever.

GBD: I got everything. (grunt) Muscle Milk. (grunt) Krazee Juice. El Gigante. (grunt) Tiger’s Junk. Whatever you want.

He put the dumbbell down, wiped his brow and rested his arm on the register. His tight T-shirt’s short sleeve lifted to reveal a badly inked tattoo for the Chinese character “fire”.

GBD: Whew, only 29 more sets to go.

Me: Is the owner of this place ok with what you’re doing?

GBD: Oh, she’s totally cool with it.

He motioned to an elderly woman sitting in the back sleeping.  This all seemed shaky.

GBD: So any other add-ons?

Me: No, I don’t want any add-ons. No Muscle Milk. Tiger’s Junk, Go-Go Juice, Monkey Nads. Whatever. I don’t want it.

GBD: Monkey Nads? Never heard of it. Sounds good. How can I get some? Does it help with your pecs?

He began flexing his pecs in his chest, alternating between left and right. It was simultaneously grotesque and mesmerizing. I stared for several seconds and then snapped out of my hypnotic state.

Me: No, I, I just made it up. Y’know what, forget it. I’ll just go with a coffee. Gimme a small Iced Coffee.

GBD: No prob, Bro.

Good.  A simple iced coffee can’t be screwed up, I thought.

GBD: You want any add-ons? I got Monster, Rockstar, Bonk-No-More, Hyperfeine with 100x the caffeine of coffee. It makes 5 Hour Energy drink look like Ambien. How about Run-Forest-Run!? It gives you a 24 hour runner’s high. But if you add it, walk around with a pillow, the crash is short but a little intense.

I sighed and shook my head.

GBD: Ok, Ok. Got it, no add-ons, nada Compadre! Just coffee! Ok, I got special beans crapped out by an Indonesian Lemur. Super smooth!  How ‘bout it?

I turned around and headed for the door. He called out:

GBD: Hey Bro, I’m teaching a class at the gym. It’s exactly like the Insanity workout on TV but with lots of swearing and cussing. Called “Profanity”. Check it out!

10 Things Not to Sell at Garage Sales

August 18, 2013 4 comments

My Black Friday garage sale was not a success. Maybe because my 7AM door buster special was an actual busted door.

I am an expert at garage sales. Love finding that gem of a deal at prices as low as 99% off list. Recent example: Almost new baby swing chair for $10. Originally $100. SCORE!

But in my quest to find that treasure of a deal, I’ve come across a number of lame garage sales. Because of this, I present this list for Sellers:

  1. Don’t sell junk. Especially things that are broken. No one wants it, even the Salvation Army will laugh in your face and say, “We don’t want that crap”. Just trash it.
  2. If it’s tattered, don’t sell it. Applies to shirts, jackets, stuffed animals, blankets, etc. Does NOT apply to 18th century American flags.
  3. Underwear or lingerie. Enough said. Wait no, let me say more: Disgusting. Hell no. Think-again-Marketing-Genius.
  4. Board games with missing pieces. How can you play Monopoly without the top hat? Where is the card for Park Place? Where are the dice? Boo. Forced me to take down the pair of dice from my car rear-view mirror just so my kids could play the damn game.
  5. Overpriced items: You seriously think you can sell books because they are 50% off? Or a popcorn maker for $15 just because you paid $40? Hold on, let me call 911 because I’m about to die laughing.
  6. Used coffee mugs: Almost as bad as lingerie. Would someone really want to buy mugs with coffee stains on the inside and lipstick marks on the rim?  Sell it to blind people you say? Oh, that’s cold.
  7. Your collection of porn. Dude, families go to garage sales. I don’t want my kids rummaging through your back issues of Hot Librarians.
  8. McDonald’s Star Wars collectables: No one wants the movie tie-in toys you, an adult, collected by buying up all the Happy Meals. There’s a reason Happy Meals are for kids, Lord Vader.
  9. Half-used toiletries. Yes, I have seen open and used Head and Shoulder bottles being sold for $.50. Ratchets up the Eeeewwww factor.
  10. Your kid’s trophies. First, who wants a 2nd place regional Junior Ice Dancing trophy that has your kid’s name on it? Second, your kid won this and you’re selling it? And you wonder why she’s in therapy with Daddy issues? If you must throw it out, wait until she’s in college and then do it “by accident” when you were doing some “spring cleaning”.
  11. Old technology: Ladies respect an ambitious guy talking on a cell phone cutting a deal and looking busy. Ladies don’t respect a guy talking on a cell phone when it’s the size of a brick with a foot-long antennae sticking out of it. See Rule #1.

Number 11 was a bonus because after visiting garage sales all weekend, I’m in a giving mood.

Have a great weekend.

Slamming the Door Gently

August 16, 2013 Leave a comment

Dear Sweet Baby,

First off, I love you so much. You are a new addition to our family, and we cherish you.

Secondly, you can be a true pain in the a**.

I mean that.  Literally and figuratively.

Literally because the amount of time and energy you require is so overwhelming. Seriously, the only time I have a moment to myself to relax and escape all the insanity is when I go poop. Sometimes I stay on the toilet too long. Then my hemorrhoids flare up. Bad for Daddy.

Figuratively because your arrival has completely turned our lives and schedules upside-down. Everything revolves around you, the feeding, burping, soothing, changing of diapers, pumping, napping schedules… it’s endless. There is no more daddy, mommy, or sibling time. Just YouTime.

The stress grinds on Mama and Daddy and we fight. And you’ve even changed how we do that. Before I’d yell some final words at Mama, storm across the room, and slam the door.

BOOM!

Satisfying. Very satisfying.

Now, I can’t even do that. Because it’ll wake you from your nap.

So we argue in whispers and when I’m ready to make my Grand Exit, I grab and pull the door knob forcefully. But just-before-the-door hits the door jamb, I whirl around to stop it before it makes a loud noise. (Yeah, I can do that because I’m fast, and have manly athletic prowess.)

Yep. You’ve changed our lives.

As you grow up, never forget point #1. And when I’m old and decrepit, I’ll be sure to remind you of #2.

Love, Daddy

Growing Old Is Not So Great

August 15, 2013 Leave a comment

You know you’re getting old when you spend less time thinking about sex and more time thinking about carbs.

Oooooh… Tiramisu.

I was at the supermarket with my wife when she slapped me on the head. “Are you looking at that girl?!” she asked, pointing to an attractive PYT standing in the dessert section.

“No Babe, I was not staring at her. I was ogling the banana cream pie.”

“Oh.”

And marital bliss resumed.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but all of a sudden I turned old.  I went from looking in the mirror and thinking, Damn, I look good! to Damn, I look goowhere the heck did all these wrinkles come from!?!

Looking back, I now see the signs of aging.  I started putting on the pounds. Reader’s Digest large print edition suddenly made sense.  I began talking less/muttering more.  When channel surfing, I’d linger on Lawrence Welk reruns. I started celebrating good news by taking a nap instead of hitting Happy Hour: “Honey! I got the raise! Isn’t that great? I’m gonna go lie down for a bit.”

Subtle and slightly depressing signs.

Nonetheless, I’ve decided that it’s ok– a part of life. While I may not embrace aging, I’ll work with it. See where it takes me.

In the meantime, I’ve never ever considered a ménage-a-trois. But if it involves me, my wife, and a dessert, I’m totally there.

Maybe We Should Just Say “Yay!”

August 9, 2013 Leave a comment

My friend has Osteogenesis Imperfecta, aka ‘brittle bone disease’. Simple bumps for most people can have devastating consequences for him. Whenever we do the fist bump with exploding fist, his fist actually explodes.

After he stops screaming from the intense pain, we just look at each other and start cracking up.  He raises his mangled hand and fingers, and we start vigorously high-fiving.

Then he passes out.

Good times.

Suburban Graffiti

August 8, 2013 Leave a comment

Growing up in a suburb of Los Angeles, I never saw much of the city. Only when we drove by graffiti on the 10 freeway. Graffiti fascinated me. A mixture of art, communication, and bad-boy activity.

The illegal nature was especially intriguing given my overall good-boy upbringing. The closest I’d come to doing anything remotely illegal was holding onto an overdue library book when I was 11. A week past its due date, I fretted. Lost a lot of sleep calculating the fine and what it’d do to my good standing at the library.

If I had a chance to write graffiti here in the suburbs, I’d be sure to incorporate important messages in my art. Here’s a sampling:

  • On the walls of a Whole Foods store: “Trader Joe’s rules! You guys are paying 30% more! Suckas!
  • In the Marshall’s parking lot:  “Get some racks! I hate rummaging through shirts on the floor!”
  • In front of Costco: “Would it kill you to open until 9pm?”
  • In the Starbucks bathroom: “The music is too damn loud and too damn folksy!”
  • At the local Boy Scouts office:  “Hey B*tches! Girl Scouts 4 eva!”

Sometimes to make your point, you gotta use unconventional means.

My Baby’s an A**hole

August 5, 2013 3 comments

When my wife was 20 weeks pregnant, she loved to report the baby kicking. At first, I was thrilled to hear of the little guy moving around. Nice to know he’s doing ok. Wifie felt especially connected to the kid— she loved to feel his little limbs and body developing each day.

But after doing a little research, my excitement quickly morphed into concern and then deep worry. Began reading articles online talking about how babies that are active in the womb often turn out to be colicky and difficult. After reading this, I thought, “Great, my baby’s an a**hole.”

I’m sure of this because I come from a line of a**holes. I see it in myself, my dad, and my grandma. I call it the “Huang A**hole Gene”. I’m also positive those who preceded Grandma were a**holes as well. Probably spent the bulk of the day tilling the fertile soils of Taiwan and then coming home to spend evenings berating the spouse and kids. In short, a typical and productive day.

Grandma was a real gem. Though she loved her grandkids, it took little to piss her off. Doing something stupid like leaving straggling grains of rice in the bowl after a meal was sure to result in a scolding.  In her mind, the damn Japanese never left Taiwan, the war is still raging and food is being rationed. So don’t waste anything you spoiled American kids. But we were ok with her, because we knew she loved us in her own way. Plus Grandpa was super cool and spent a lot of time with us. Looking back, I realize it was mainly because he was terrified of Grandma.

So I worry that my baby’s an a**hole. He’s kicking and punching and treating Wifie’s kidneys like punching bags.  In the stillness of the night, I thought I heard the distant cries of a dog missing his master. Turns out to be my wife’s kidneys whimpering. I’ve contemplated disciplining him. Yes. I said discipline.  Because I believe good parenting starts early. Really early. Discipline-in-the-womb early. Gentle discipline, of course. But still discipline.

I wonder if it’s ok to put a little pressure on him, just to let him know who’s boss. You know, like gently squeeze my wife’s tummy to mash his face into her stomach. Or maybe do an ultrasound, have our doctor locate the baby’s head and then I tap him on his melon, just to put a check on his attitude. It’s kind of my way of saying, “Hey buddy, you think you’re the sh*t? Yeah, well, I’m waiting for you.”

I told my wife my plans. She just stared at me. “Are you insane?” she asked. “What kind of idiot would even think that?” “But I’m not gonna raise a kid who’s an a**hole.” I coolly reasoned. She retorted: “He’s just a baby!! He can’t help it! [KICK] You’re being ridiculous! [PUNCH] Ooh, that was a big one. [JAB, UPPER-CUT, ROUNDHOUSE] He’s really active. I have to lie down. Don’t be a**hole!” she said protectively grabbing her belly as she walked away.

I stood there impressed at the baby’s control of his mommy and the situation.

A**hole Baby: 1

Daddy: 0

Game on, Little Man. Game on.

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